Chapter 10 #2
“Good afternoon,” was all Mr. Hawke had to say. He was gripping his glass with white knuckles, glaring at Mrs. Fitzgerald while she lectured Sybella on her new duties. He didn’t so much as meet my eye or offer a nod. Perhaps he needed an etiquette lesson as well.
“I must say, the three of you look as if you’re plotting to conquer the world,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Am I too late to offer my advice on which territories to start with?”
Mr. Marceaux chuckled. “We were simply fighting over which of us would claim the first dance with you at the next ball.”
Lord Cranford took a small sip of his sherry. “We were merely discussing the charity.”
“Yes, the charity,” Mr. Hawke seethed, setting his untouched drink down with a clank. “Thank goodness that salad forks and lace napkins are all it takes to save the poor.”
“You disapprove of teaching proper manners to the poor, Mr. Hawke?” I asked.
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Teaching children to hold a fork properly does little good if they’re struggling to put food on it.”
“Oh, come now, Hawke,” Mr. Marceaux drawled. “Don’t be such a wet blanket. Let old Mrs. Fitzgerald have her fun, and we’ll have ours, eh?”
“Old Mrs. Fitzgerald?” Lord Cranford said. “She’s two years my junior. What does that make me?”
“Why, ancient, of course.” Mr. Marceaux flashed a devil-may-care grin.
“Now, now, Mr. Marceaux,” I said. “We are allies in this war, aren’t we? Save those fatal shots for the enemy.”
The baron held up a hand. “I have the armor of a Phloeodes diabolicus for such insults, Miss Weston. It takes far more to wound me.”
“Like a bullet to the leg?” Mr. Marceaux teased. “Or was it two?”
Lord Cranford stiffened.
I turned to the baron, surprised. “A bullet? I knew you had been an officer in the war, but I had no idea you’d been wounded.”
How had I missed it? His limp was not from advancing age—the man was only forty-two. I silently berated myself for not realizing sooner. Surely Mrs. Sweete had. I should have asked her.
The baron kept his eyes trained on his drink, as though he preferred such details remain unspoken.
“Cranford knew he was a bore at dinner parties,” Mr. Marceaux continued, “so in order to spice up his conversation, he went and got himself shot while protecting another officer at the Battle of Maida.” Mr. Marceaux leaned toward me with a conspiring whisper.
“It’s his only good story, of course. The rest are about bugs. ”
The baron refused to look up, and Mr. Hawke cleared his throat.
“How heroic you are, Lord Cranford,” I said, breaking the awkward silence. “I elect you commander over our regiment against the horrors of charities. The commanders wear the best hats, you see.”
“It was Maida, you say?” Mr. Hawke stepped between me and Mr. Marceaux. “July 1806, in Calabria of southern Italy. 5,236 British troops led by John Stuart secured British influence in the Mediterranean, with Colonel James Kempt’s Advanced Guard on the British right flank and—”
He paused, looking up to see the three of us staring back at him. He rubbed the back of his neck and quickly added, “That is, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are correct,” the baron said, clearly impressed. “Your knowledge on the subject is quite keen, Mr. Hawke.”
“The two of you make quite the pair,” Mr. Marceaux drawled. “Cranford dissects insects, and Hawke dissects history. I cannot decide which topic is more insufferable.”
I blinked. Mr. Marceaux’s tone was light as always, but he had been unusually cruel with his comments this afternoon. A quick glance at the two men told me they picked up on it as well. It seemed Mr. Marceaux had enjoyed one too many glasses of champagne.
I tucked the thought away and turned to Mr. Marceaux, ready to employ my strategy that, hopefully, would result in an invitation from Mr. Hawke to view his estate.
“I enjoyed seeing your horse last week,” I said. “A beautiful creature.”
Mr. Marceaux winked. “It is a Selle Francais after all, ma chère.”
“And Lord Cranford’s stallion!” I turned my smile to the baron. “He is so gentle despite his great size.”
“Advanced age has mellowed him,” the baron said. “He hardly even notices the Gasterophilus intestinalis anymore.”
“The what?”
“Botflies,” the baron said fondly. “They lay their eggs on a horse’s legs, and when the horse licks the irritated area, the larvae enter the mouth and travel through the stomach and—”
“Dégueulasse!” Mr. Marceaux sputtered. “That’s enough of that, Cranford. There is a lady present.”
I laughed, then faced my true target. “Speaking of horses, do you own any, Mr. Hawke?” I already knew he had an entire stable, but no man liked to be seen lacking in front of others of his gender.
On cue, Mr. Hawke stood a little taller. “I own quite a few horses. Would you like to come see them sometime, Miss Weston?”
Bullseye. “That may be possible.”
Mr. Hawke glowered at Mrs. Fitzgerald from across the room. “I promise I’ll arrange for something more enjoyable than this farce of a charity.”
Just like that, I had my private invitation. The taste of victory had already sweetened my tongue, and I was about to excuse myself with elegant timing and grace—when the enemy returned.
“What are you planning, Mr. Hawke? An outing?” Sybella materialized like an unwanted specter. She placed her hand on Mr. Hawke’s arm, and I winced at the familiarity.
“Why, erm, yes,” Mr. Hawke said. “I invited Miss Weston to come view my stable.”
“How delightful! I love horses.” Sybella clapped her hands together with childlike enthusiasm. She turned to the two other gentlemen. “Are you both invited as well?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Marceaux said, holding up his glass to Mr. Hawke. “It seems the baron and I are to be lamentably excluded from this petit excursion.”
Sybella clucked her tongue. “Oh, Hel. How many times do I have to remind you that making plans in front of others without inviting them is considered rude?” She smiled at the men. “Please forgive my friend. She can be a bit forgetful when it comes to manners. Isn’t that endearing?”
Mr. Hawke raised his hand. “I’m the one who was rude. I extended the invitation, not Miss Weston.”
“Then you can remedy it,” Sybella said, “by inviting the rest of us along too.”
“That’s not necessary,” Lord Cranford said quickly.
“No, no. I think it’s becoming more necessary with every passing second,” Mr. Marceaux said, amusement brightening his voice. “We’re all eager to see your mysterious estate.”
Mr. Hawke glanced between the four of us. “Perhaps… you all can come by next week.”
“How about tomorrow?” Sybella cast a discreet glare my way. “I’m not available next week. I have to help Mrs. Fitzgerald with her charity.”
I closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than to grab one of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s oyster forks like a weapon and use it to silence Sybella once and for all.
“Tomorrow it is.” Mr. Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “You all are welcome, of course.”
Mr. Marceaux raised his glass. “Fantastique!”
“You are always thinking of others, Sybella,” I said with a tight smile. “Persistently so, in fact.”
“Why, thank you, Hel.” She placed a hand on her heart. “Helping the poor is my greatest passion. Right after horses, of course. Oh! You’ll let me share your chaperone, won’t you, Hel? My mother has so many visits to make tomorrow, she couldn’t possibly attend.”
I inwardly grimaced. “I’ll ask her.”
“Ask her? Simply tell her!” Sybella turned to Mr. Marceaux. “Have you donated yet to the endowment fund, Mr. Marceaux? If you haven’t, I could make the introduction. After all, I am Mrs. Fitzgerald’s tutor for the girls benefiting from this charity. It’s the least I can do to help.”
Mr. Hawke muttered something under his breath.
“Oui. You are generous beyond your years, Miss Pratt.”
Mr. Marceaux held out his arm to her. She accepted it and tossed me a victorious look over her shoulder. I fumed. She had stolen not only my private invitation, but also the attention of one of my candidates.
As they walked away, Lord Cranford said, “Thank you for the invitation, Hawke. My apologies if it was pressed. I’d be willing to withdraw my acceptance if you’d like.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Hawke said. “You’re more than welcome.”
“We need our commander, don’t we?” I said.
The baron’s shoulders seemed to loosen. “If you’ll both excuse me. I must go and…” His mouth opened and closed as he attempted to form an excuse. But when none rose to his lips, he simply turned and walked away.
I watched him go, curious how a baron came to be so shy, until I realized I was standing alone with Mr. Hawke.
“Forgive me, Miss Weston,” he said. “I didn’t intend to invite so many people. But perhaps I can make amends.”
“Amends?”
He ran a hand through his hair, offering his crooked smile. “There is something I’d like to show you—apart from the stables. Could you and Mrs. Sweete arrive an hour early tomorrow? Before the others come?”
A warm sensation, sweet and unexpected, unfurled within me. It was dangerously close to triumph.
“I shall consult my schedule,” I said coolly. “If I can manage it, you will receive word.”
His eyes lingered on mine. “I’d like that very much, Miss Weston.”
The way he said my name—how warm and inviting it sounded on his lips—made my heart lurch.
“Tomorrow then,” I said, a little breathless.
“Tomorrow.”
He nodded, and I curtsied, like any proper lady would. Yet, as Mr. Hawke and I parted ways, I was certain he had no notion of how furiously my heart was pounding inside my chest.
What would it be like to hear him call me Helena instead? I wondered. It was an oddly appealing prospect. And the thought of a proposal within the week was just as enticing.
I smiled to myself. Perhaps this Trojan Horse wasn’t so absurd after all.