Page 10 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER NINE
“ M y goodness, Bea,” Teresa chirped, clapping her hands together. “I have said it once and I shall say it a thousand times: you have a gift for parties.”
Beatrice wafted a hand, blushing. “It is nothing. Just a simple celebration of the end of summer.”
In truth, it had taken her three days to organize, after sending her invitations.
She had draped the main drawing room with gauzy fabric in jeweled tones, strung with paper lanterns that looked as if they were suspended in mid-air.
Lemon trees had been brought in from the greenhouse, while vast bouquets of sunflowers added warmth to the room, and a quartet played soft music to accompany the late afternoon ambiance.
Outside, the same performers from the other night had returned to entertain the children with puppets, and would perform their shadow puppets again once evening fell. At least, that was the plan, though the weather was threatening to ruin the entertainments.
“Heavens!” a voice cried. “Did I lose my way in the hall and journey to the Mediterranean?”
Beatrice whipped around, shrieking with delight as she set eyes upon one of her dearest friends. Once upon a time, he had been her only friend, until she had begun to widen her net.
“Freddie!” she cheered, running to him.
“Trixie!” he cheered in reply, opening out his arms.
She flew into his embrace, not caring what anyone thought of the propriety of such a thing.
He was like a brother to her, and she would not be ashamed of her kinship with him.
Besides, it hardly mattered what she did when she was among her dearest friends and family; they would not judge her the way that society did.
“Where have you been ?” she demanded to know, punching him lightly in the chest. “I wrote to you at least six times and heard nothing from you. I thought you might have joined society in shunning me.”
Frederick Sutton was the second son of the Marquess of Merricold, and had been the first person to speak to her when she was abandoned at her first ball at fifteen.
She remembered being close to tears, afraid and alone, cowering beneath the glares of the other guests who clearly thought she was some waif who had snuck in.
Then, he had appeared, handing her some lemonade and a salmon puff, telling her to pay no attention to anyone.
Seated beside her, he had created stories about the ladies and gentlemen in the crowd until she had forgotten her fear, laughing so hard she had hurt a rib.
“I had to go to Scotland,” he explained, smiling. “My brother wanted to see if the hunting really is better up in the Highlands, so we spent most of the summer there. Naturally, he shot nothing. I managed to hunt two stags and an abundance of pheasant.”
Beatrice pulled a face. “Poor beasts.”
“Ah yes, I forgot your aversion to hunting.” He chuckled. “Surprising, really, considering you are the huntress of husbands and rather successful in claiming your trophies, or so I hear.”
“Freddie, no! Do not say that!” She smacked him in the arm. “I can bear society saying terrible things about me, but I cannot bear it from my friends.”
His expression softened, his hand lifting to cup her face for a moment. “That was poor taste, I admit. Accept my humblest apologies.”
“Very well,” she replied, smiling. “But do not do it again.”
“I swear it,” he replied, lowering his voice as he added, “I really was sorry to hear that it happened again. I thought of you when I received the news, and I am sorry I did not visit to offer my condolences. I wanted to, but I suspected you would not be welcoming visitors.”
Beatrice met his sympathetic gaze. “Thank you, Freddie.”
At that moment, the gentlemen of the party—Duncan and Cyrus—appeared, eager to be introduced to Frederick.
They did not move in the same circles, and as Beatrice only saw Frederick at gatherings, she had not seen him as often as she used to.
As such, her friends’ husbands had not had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.
“I shall leave you to it,” Beatrice said with a wink, slipping away to rejoin her friends and cousin who were seated by the terrace doors, enjoying glasses of punch while they kept an eye on the children.
Prudence beamed as Beatrice sat down on the sea of cushions. “You must have more parties here, Bea. And I must be invited to all of them.”
“I should like that very much,” Beatrice replied, sighing. “Alas, I do not think it will be possible. Your brother is trying to get rid of me.”
Valeria frowned, turning to face her cousin. “What do you mean?”
“Yes, what do you mean?” Teresa nodded, her mouth set in a worried line.
In a hushed voice, Beatrice explained what had occurred the other day, with the sudden and ungainly arrival of Vincent, and the letter of inheritance that he had spoken of.
“He has said, quite specifically, that I am to marry again,” she concluded, waiting for the raucous laughter that would surely follow, for it was the most ridiculous of suggestions.
Instead, her cousin and her friends stared at her with the worst possible look in their eyes: pity.
It did not seem as if any of them had known about the inheritance, yet there was no great surprise from them either.
Perhaps, they had known, deep down, that her sanctuary could not last. Why not, when, deep down, she had known it too?
“Naturally, I am not going to do that,” Beatrice continued, grinning to hide her discomfort. “I have a plan. I always have a plan.”
Prudence’s gaze flitted toward the lawn. “Does my brother know I am here?”
“Not unless you told him,” Beatrice said.
The color drained from Prudence’s face. “Oh no. I am going to be in so much trouble when he sees me here!” She hesitated. “I am not supposed to be anywhere near you, Bea. I only came because I thought he was in London on business.”
“We can tell him we were only passing on our way to Valeria’s residence,” Teresa jumped in, looking a little uneasy herself.
So, I am to have no friends because Vincent has said so?
Beatrice put a hand to her chest, struggling to ease the tightness that was spreading from one shoulder to the other.
She had spent her childhood alone; she did not want to have to spend her adulthood alone, too, because of the say-so of one man.
“What is the plan?” Valeria asked, resting a gentle hand upon Beatrice’s forearm. As if she knew of the turmoil twisting around in her cousin’s head.
Prudence brightened. “Yes, do tell us!”
Although she could not quite trust Prudence to keep a secret, Beatrice was glad to have the attention of her friends again.
And Prudence had a keen mind for japes and trickery; her suggestions might be valuable, and if Vincent scolded her for being there, she might well keep this secret out of spite.
“I have not yet decided,” Beatrice said, sipping her punch to wet her dry throat. “I am all ideas, at present. All I am sure of is that I mean to make Vincent leave this house and never set foot here again, bequeathing it entirely to me.”
Frederick had appeared on the periphery of the women’s circle, an amused twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Up to mischief again, Trixie?”
“Necessary mischief, and it is in my nickname,” Beatrice replied with a wink. “So, what do you all think? If you were trying to get rid of a pest, how would you do it? Give me all of your ideas, the wilder the better.”
Teresa raised a hand. “You could hide a fish in his bed, like you did with Mr. Forsythe. Oh, or sew all of his clothes so they are all far too small, like you did with Lord Pollock!”
“If you put lemon juice in ink, I hear it disappears!” Prudence offered. “You could replace the ink in his inkwells. Vincent will be beside himself, or he will think he has gone mad, signing documents and writing correspondence that simply does not exist.”
Beatrice rather liked that notion, particularly for the signing of whatever document would give Wycliffe to him.
If there was no signature, there could be no confirmation of him being the Viscount of Wycliffe.
The trouble was, she did not think it would actually work.
If nothing else, Vincent would notice, long before his writing disappeared, that his correspondence smelled a lot like lemons.
“It must be more dramatic than that,” she said, taking inspiration from the performers on the lawn.
“A séance, perhaps. Things moving by themselves. Ghosts and ghouls around every corner, haunting this quiet little manor of mine. Failing that, I could give everything away, then renovate the entire house in terrible taste, and spend all of the estate’s money. ”
Frederick laughed. “I prefer the first idea. You are quite mad to come up with such notions, but I like it. It is perfectly you.”
“I have to admit,” Valeria said shyly, “I would like to see the outcome of that.”
Teresa nodded eagerly. “It would be like a novel in real life! A Gothic tale of vengeful ghosts!”
“I would happily perform the part of the ghost,” Prudence volunteered. “Although, my brother might notice my absence from Grayling House, and I doubt I could stay hidden from him here.”
She seemed crestfallen by the idea of not being permitted to frighten the life out of her older brother, bringing a chuckle to Beatrice’s lips.
Try as Vincent might, he would never break the friendships she had formed with his sisters; she just needed to be reminded of that sometimes, when her vulnerabilities got the better of her.
“You could try talking to him,” Duncan interjected, wandering over with Cyrus in tow. “He is not unreasonable, Beatrice.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes at Valeria’s husband.
“With respect, Duncan, he is not the same with you as he is with me. I cannot reason with him, for he has already decided that everything that comes out of my mouth is nonsense. That it is beneath him to listen to me. He is mean, judgmental, arrogant, and has already made it clear that my opinion means nothing.”
Prudence and Teresa fell silent, casting unsettled glances at one another.
They were in a tricky situation, for though they adored Beatrice, Vincent was their brother; they could not very well choose sides, nor could they agree with Beatrice’s assessment of him.
Even if, perhaps, they knew some of it was true.
“You have not helped yourself by antagonizing him,” Duncan pointed out, not unkindly.
Taking a pointed sip of her punch, Beatrice leveled a cool gaze at Valeria’s husband. “He may be your friend, and I respect that you feel compelled to defend him, but unless you have been where I am, please do not put the blame on me.”
She sighed, aware she was directing her anger at the wrong person. “You are not the one who is about to lose your home. Indeed, perhaps you could speak to Vincent on my behalf, if you are so certain it will work? A returned favor for me pushing you and Valery together.”
Duncan scratched the side of his jaw, grimacing a little.
“Exactly,” Beatrice said wearily. “You know he will not listen.”
A stilted, pensive sort of silence fell across the group, while the quartet played their beautiful music. The mood of the party had dampened along with the weather, the gray clouds beginning to spit, and Beatrice did not know how to fix it.
Vincent may come back at any moment.
He had ridden off to Oxford first thing that morning, so he had not been there when the guests arrived. She hoped he might decide to stay there in Oxford for a while, to give her more time to come up with her liberation plan, but he had a nasty habit of turning up unannounced.
“A game, I think,” Valeria said, clapping her hands together. “A treasure hunt, perhaps, while we search for a way to help my dear cousin here? Indeed, I find there is nothing like a game to aid one’s mind in thought.”
Beatrice flashed her cousin a grateful smile. “I think a treasure hunt sounds wonderful.”
Agreement rippled through the small party, the cheery mood slowly restoring itself.
“First, I shall help fetch the children inside,” Valeria said, looking across the lawn to where the two nannies were gathering up Valeria and Teresa’s children. “Then, I shall pick a room to begin what I like to call ‘Blind Man’s Hunt.’”
Beatrice beamed, remembering the game well. “Oh, dear cousin, that is perfect to liven us up again!”
“What on earth is Blind Man’s Hunt?” Frederick asked, sipping his drink.
Beatrice flashed him one of her most wicked grins. “You shall soon find out.”