One More Kiss (15 page)

Over tea and brandy the countess invited them to try to converse like Mrs. Malaprop, whose defining characteristic was her hilarious tendency to confuse similar-sounding words. It was amusing, especially when Lord Crenshaw suggested it was an effort for Mr. Brent to fend off the “gallons” who wished to court his daughters. But the best of all was when Lord Belmont insisted he was not under the “affluence” of wine or brandy.

Cecilia thought she could do something with “pity”
and “pretty” but decided not to call attention to herself.

Neither the marquis nor Lord Jess joined in this game. They were deep in conversation with Mrs. Kendrick and missed all but the last bit when the laughter over Lord Belmont’s phrase drew their attention.

“What did we miss?” Destry called out as he joined them.

“It will be our secret for ‘old’ time,” Beatrice told him, and they all laughed again with Destry none the wiser.

As she fell asleep that night Cecilia decided that it would be easy enough to avoid Lord Destry the next day by the simple expedient of not riding.

F
ORGOING HER MORNING
ride was an excellent strategy for avoiding the marquis, but what Cecilia had failed to take into account was how bored she would be without the exercise. She was also constrained by the need to avoid places where he might be found. That meant she spent an inordinate amount of time with her sister doing things Bitsy loved but Cecilia found monumentally dull.

“This is ridiculous, Ceci,” Beatrice insisted as they explored the library after spending an hour in the chapel examining the stained-glass windows. “You are so good at seeing to the heart of the matter. Would it not be easier to apologize than to be looking over your shoulder every minute?”

“You think I should apologize?”

“No! What you have to do is stop avoiding him or
soon he will notice and that will make it even more uncomfortable.”

Why must Beatrice be right so often?

B
EATRICE FELT NOBLE
for insisting that Ceci stop being foolish. She’d rather liked having her sister for company all day. They had explored the library and found a folio of drawings of flowers and shrubs of Kent which both of them had enjoyed examining. Cecilia even forgot about hiding from the marquis for long enough to ask a footman to carry the folio onto the patio so they could examine it in better light.

In the end Cecilia was no more relaxed than she had been the day before and Beatrice knew she had to convince her twin to speak to the marquis.

They were both distracted from their concerns when Darwell was late and they needed to help each other dress for dinner.

The maid finally came into the room looking less composed than usual and Beatrice looked at her sister.
Has she been crying?

Ceci gave her a nod of agreement.
Do not ask. Pretend everything is normal
.

Darwell tried to act as if nothing was amiss, but her distraction was obvious. They were ready to put on their dresses when she came to her senses and, without apology, announced: “No, no, those are not the right gowns for this evening. There is a theme to tonight’s dinner and you both will look perfect in these.”

For Cecilia she drew out an off-white dress with black lace around the flounces. It was a very sophisticated dress for an ingénue, but according to Darwell
perfectly acceptable for a private country party. Beatrice’s dress was even more dramatic, a white gown with a Greek key trim on the skirt made with a fine braid, deftly woven.

Darwell misbuttoned Beatrice’s dress twice and finally Cecilia could not stand it anymore. “Darwell, please, tell us what is wrong. You seem upset.”

“Not at all, miss,” she said, stiffening.

“Nonsense,” Cecilia said with unexpected sharpness. “We can be as discreet with your confidences as you are with ours. Has someone offended you?”

“It’s nothing, Miss Cecilia.”

Cecilia waited, and Beatrice turned to look at Darwell even though her dress was not yet entirely done up.

Darwell closed her eyes. “Lord Jess’s valet.”

“All right,” Beatrice encouraged, “what about him?”

“This is ridiculous. I am a grown woman. I am near fifty years old. I will discuss it no further.”

Cecilia did not think she needed to. She looked at her sister, who nodded agreement.

Beatrice handed Darwell a comb. “Very well, as long as you can assure us that the valet is not insulting or, God forbid, assaulting you.”

Cecilia added, “You must know we would not …” She paused and began again. “None of us, including Papa and the countess, would tolerate any abuse of someone so close to us.”

Gathering her dignity once again, Darwell curtsied. “No, Miss Brent. Callan has done nothing to offend or insult me. He never would.”

Having only half the story did nothing to alleviate the constraint among them, but Darwell was in fine
form once again and did a masterful job of styling their hair to suit their dresses.

Tonight the countess did not come for them. Darwell told them that a footman would escort them to the library, where the group would congregate. They had been there earlier in the day, but they were grateful for the guidance. It was too easy to lose one’s way in such an enormous building.

All the way down the stairs and around the main floor the two discussed Darwell. Surely it was a love affair that had their maid so flustered. Very romantic, they agreed, and Beatrice decided she would try to wheedle information about Callan from Lord Jess.

Before they reached the door to the library Beatrice halted their progress. “Tell me how you are going to handle the marquis.”

“I will forget about it, if he does.”

With a nod of acceptance, if not outright agreement, Beatrice gestured to the footman to open the door.

Beatrice slowed as she entered the room. It was so poorly lit that it had a completely different atmosphere than it had had earlier in the day. At that time the room had been filled with light from the windows at each end, with candles lit for close reading.

Now the curtains were drawn, even though it was still light out, and the only light came from the chandelier overhead.

At Beatrice’s “Are we in the right salon?” the footman nodded. She and Cecilia went fully into the room where another servant offered them a glass of sherry. They both declined the spirits, and Beatrice looked around the room, hoping they were not the first guests to arrive.

Thank goodness Lord Crenshaw was there. He hurried over to them with a conspiratorial expression.

“This is a bit of a mystery, is it not?”

“Yes, indeed,” Beatrice agreed.

“The countess is famous for her creativity,” Crenshaw went on. “And I think we are about to experience it firsthand.”

Mrs. Wilson and her daughter came in right behind them. Mrs. Wilson stopped short on the threshold. “This cannot be right!”

“Come in, come in,” Crenshaw said, as though he knew exactly what was in store for them and could not wait to share it.

“Why is the room so dark?” Miss Wilson asked. Was that a tinge of fear Beatrice heard in her voice? Really, the girl was much too easily frightened.

“Lord Crenshaw tells me it is part of the grand scheme for the evening,” Beatrice reassured her.

The other ladies seemed inclined to stay in a group around the baron, so Beatrice stayed with them even though she knew what would happen. Mrs. Wilson would prattle on for hours about her life, about people and places her audience had never heard of or met.

“The vicar verily invites himself to dinner,” Mrs. Wilson started, “and then annoys everyone with his bodily noises. My husband insists it is a compliment, but I would prefer even a poorly worded thank-you letter.”

Beatrice was not sure how he managed it, but Lord Crenshaw turned from the other ladies and took her arm, and in a moment they had escaped the group and were seated on the sofa on the other side of the room.

“How did you do that?” Beatrice asked.

“Do what, my dear?” he answered with a half smile.

“Manage to remove us from Mrs. Wilson so deftly and without insult? I must learn such tactics before we go to London.”

“I could teach you that and so much more if you would like.”

Beatrice answered with a cautious nod, suddenly feeling discomfited by his tone if not his words.

Crenshaw laughed and patted her hand. “Lord Jess is the rake, Miss Beatrice. Not I. I mean to instruct you in any number of social niceties that can spare you boredom and embarrassment during your time among the ton.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Beatrice said, relaxing more, though now
she
was distracted. The mere mention of Lord Jess’s name made her wonder where he was. “I am sure there is more to learn than dance steps before we are ready for the London social world.”

The marquis came into the room and Beatrice watched as he approached Mrs. Wilson, her daughter, and Cecilia.

C
ECILIA WAS ACTUALLY
happy to see Lord Destry. The truth was she would have been happy to see anyone who would rescue her from Mrs. Wilson’s pointless chatter. Mrs. Wilson stepped back to make room for the newcomer but did not break off her story.

Destry smiled and nodded in all the right places, and Cecilia wondered if he was registering a word the woman was saying. Was that the secret to enduring this inanity?

“My husband insists that some estate emergency is keeping him away from the house party.”

“I can completely understand your husband’s wish to stay home, alone,” Destry answered, proving that he was listening after all. Cecilia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“I wish you would tell me why, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson said, her aggrieved air even more pronounced.

Destry glanced at Cecilia and she added, “Please do, sir,” as though she were desperate for an explanation of the inner workings of the masculine mind.

His words were addressed to Mrs. Wilson, but he did not look away from Cecilia as he said them.

“Because the quiet of nature is so appealing after the chaos of family life.”

Cecilia smiled at the private joke and decided the man liked to tease everyone and not just her. It was a peculiar sort of relief to know she had not been singled out.

The word “chaos” was all the invitation Mrs. Wilson needed to launch into a discussion of the various illnesses and inconveniences of her household staff. Really, it was enough to put one off marriage entirely.

“Good evening, Miss Brent. Destry.” Lord Jess appeared beside her, dressed all in black. The small pearl-and-diamond stickpin that decorated his cravat was the only relief from the effect of midnight.

“I imagine that your valet must have discovered the theme for this evening as well,” Cecilia said by way of welcome.

“Something to do with night or darkness?” Destry guessed, then added, “Why wasn’t my valet given the information?”

“I have no idea, but Darwell was insistent that we wear these particular gowns.”

“Leonie Darwell is your lady’s maid?” Lord Jess asked. His surprise was tinged with something else she could not name.

He knew Darwell well enough to know her Christian name, Cecilia noticed. She took a step back, wondering if she had stumbled onto an ill-advised topic of conversation. “Yes, she is,” she began, then paused and began again. “That is, the countess arranged for her to care for us for the Season.”

It struck Cecilia that this was the perfect opening to find out how well Darwell knew Lord Jess’s valet. “Darwell seems to know your valet very well. His name is Callan?”

“Yes, Callan.” He considered the statement and then laughed and addressed Lord Destry. “That explains how he knew what the theme was. Darwell passed it on to him.”

He looked down at his coat as though noticing it for the first time. “He has been excessively meticulous with my appearance the last day or two. I accused him of trying to impress someone. If it is Darwell then I congratulate his good taste.”

That wasn’t much help. The
tendre
was news to Lord Jess. There would be no information from him after all.

“As for you, Miss Brent, Darwell is a loyal and talented maid. You and your sister could not have chosen better.”

It sounded as though he knew Darwell better than his own valet. What in the world did Lord Jess and Darwell have in common? Not that she dared ask.

Without an immediate response from her the silence grew awkward with the unasked question hanging in the air between them. How fortunate that he could not read her expressions the way Beatrice could.

Cecilia was spared the onslaught of complete embarrassment by the countess’s entrance.
Finally
.

Chapter Thirteen
 

T
HE COUNTESS DID
not have to break a glass to draw their attention this time. Destry noted that even Mrs. Wilson stopped talking mid-sentence. The countess was dressed in a black gown, but it could never be taken for a mourning outfit. Diamond-like crystals glittered in the light from every inch of the fabric.

Two footmen followed her, carrying large, well-shaded flambeaux. Their presence and the uneven light from the torches added to the guests’ mood of cautious uncertainty.