Chapter Seventeen #2
The assembled crowd roared at this story—even Malcolm found himself laughing. Beatrice was gasping for air, tears running down her face.
Beatrice’s reign of terror continued, although Malcolm had to admire her dexterity and tact in dealing with all parties.
She asked each person to do something that was technically embarrassing and certainly the opposite of what the assembled crowd expected from them but nevertheless allowed them to highlight a good quality about themselves that others might not readily recognize.
She asked Mr. Barstow, for instance, to sing “Home, Sweet Home” and thus the party had the privilege of discovering that he had a lovely singing voice.
If Malcolm had to guess, he had been too bashful to sing before the company previously.
She had Philip howl like a wolf, which showed off his uncanny ability—a gift all his life—to do something manifestly ridiculous while maintaining his dignity.
She demanded that Mr. Marburry do an impression of a famous actor on the London stage that Malcolm himself had obviously never seen perform, but everyone else seemed to find extraordinarily accurate.
George was made to try to touch his nose to his tongue, which he attempted with a becoming alacrity.
She was even kinder to the ladies. Lady Daisy, who even Malcolm had gathered was generally found dull, was asked to recite an original verse—and it was discovered that she was actually quite clever with words.
Miss Jones, the only girl amongst George’s heiresses who could be considered plain, was asked to recite a famous passage in either Latin or Greek, and did both, highlighting her unusual learning.
Pretty but unremarkable Miss Marburry was told to dance a jig, which she did with impressive grace.
Tilly was told to spin around until she was dizzy—a procedure which revealed a very dainty ankle he was sure that George and the other gentlemen could not ignore.
After nearly an hour, everyone else had won back their forfeits besides Malcolm and Miss Wallington—and it was clear that Beatrice, for some reason he could not fathom, was saving him for last.
She turned to Miss Wallington, picking up the silk handkerchief that the girl had given as her forfeit.
“A lovely item,” Beatrice said. “And Miss Wallington, I grow tired of making my own sex perform to have their property returned to them. I do think it is a much more fitting punishment for a gentleman. Which is why I am going to have one of the gentlemen here do the work for you.”
Dear God, Malcolm thought, what was his sister going to do?
He knew when Beatrice had a plot—and he sniffed one out now.
“What gentleman would like the honor of retrieving this handkerchief and delivering it back to Miss Wallington?”
She held the handkerchief aloft in the direction of the gentlemen.
And it was, immediately, awkward. The gentlemen who were not George knew the purpose of this house party and didn’t want to interfere with his courtship.
But as the silence stretched on, it became embarrassing for Miss Wallington, especially since George did not rise.
Finally, Severn stood and approached Beatrice. His fingers had just grasped the silk of the handkerchief when George lurched forward, his step not exactly smooth on account of both his foot and the rapidity with which he charged across the room.
“Let me, brother,” George said.
And then he snatched the handkerchief away from Severn.
Severn held up his hands in surrender and walked back to his seat.
George walked over to Gertrude, went down on one knee, and held it out to her. “For you, my lady.”
She took it with an ecstatic smile.
Malcolm chanced a glance at Tilly. Her face had gone ashen.
It wasn’t as if George had necessarily stated his preference for Gertrude over Tilly. But it certainly suggested that Gertrude meant something to him, especially given that he hadn’t even wanted Severn touching the handkerchief that belonged to her.
He looked at Scarlett and saw on her face bald concern for her sister.
“Very gallant,” Beatrice said dryly from the center of the room.
“Now, my last victim—my brother, Malcolm. He is, I must say, the most mysterious gentleman amongst us. And while gentlemen may like to remain mysterious for their own purposes, that is not convenient for us ladies. So, won’t you tell us, dear brother, a truth about yourself? ”
Was it illegal to murder one’s own sister in England? Malcolm knew it was, but right now he did not see why the class of sisters deserved protection under the law.
“Specifically,” she continued. “I’d like you to inform us who you regard as the most handsome woman in the room.”
No, he did not just want to murder his sister. He was going to do so.
He could tell the truth, of course.
Miss Scarlett Perkins.
Scarlett.
With her auburn locks, her flushed face, and her honeyed gaze.
But that would potentially be too honest. He didn’t want to even begin to suggest that there was anything between them, when too much had passed that could never be discovered. If his foolishness led to her disgrace, or to her having to agree to a marriage with him, he would never forgive himself.
He could try for a diplomatic answer. Someone safe. Like Mrs. Salisbury.
And yet he sensed that such a ploy would be received poorly. He was meant to choose amongst the young ladies. If he took it too seriously, one way or another, he would suggest he had something to hide.
He looked out at the group, knowing that each moment he waited, he made the situation worse.
And then, by instinct, he found Scarlett’s eye.
Good in a crisis, he had called her the other day to Mr. Larchman.
Well, here was another crisis.
Her eyes were wide and shining, but with unmistakable purpose, she glanced at Tilly.
When he glanced at Tilly, and then back at Scarlett with raised brows, she gave an unmistakable, tiny nod.
He knew what she wanted. And she was right, he realized. She was the perfect choice.
“Miss Tilly Perkins,” he said, with a wide smile. “Of course.”
Tilly blushed and beamed at his praise. Scarlett looked relieved.
And Beatrice had the shrewd, displeased look on her face that she only got when she had been thwarted.