Page 13 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T rixie? He calls her ‘Trixie’?

The nickname stuck like a fishbone in Vincent’s mind as he shed the layers of the day, donning the loose shirt he slept in.

He knew nothing of this Frederick fellow, but he supposed he should not have been surprised that Beatrice had such an inappropriate friendship. Everything she did was inappropriate.

You were the one who held her against you…

He shook off the thought like an insect.

He had held her like that because he was a gentleman who valued chivalry.

He could not have simply let her fall, where she might have hurt herself on the hard parquet.

And he had only held on as long as he did to ensure that she was steady on her feet again. What other reason could there be?

But I did not announce myself. I snuck in like a common thief. I behaved poorly.

He remembered the look on Duncan’s face, the threat in Cyrus’ eyes, the disappointment in Valeria’s, and the fear upon the faces of Teresa and Prudence. His attitude had been beneath him, because of her … Beatrice, getting under his skin yet again.

“You are well acquainted with society gentlemen, are you not?” Vincent asked his valet, deciding that he ought to turn his attention to productive pursuits before the name ‘Trixie’ poisoned his brain entirely.

Bartlett seemed pleased by the question. “Yes, my lord. Valets know valets and, in turn, we know plenty about society’s gentlemen.” He paused. “Is this to do with the matter of the Viscountess marrying again?”

Vincent frowned. He did not remember mentioning Beatrice specifically when he had asked if a thrice-wed bride would be unmarriageable.

Of course he knows who I was referring to. How many young ladies with three dead husbands can there be?

He gathered himself, annoyed that Beatrice continued to knock his concentration off-kilter.

“I have been considering some potential candidates,” he said, moving to the basin to wash his face.

“I should like your opinion. If you know nothing of a gentleman, I should like you to find out information about him.”

He poured fresh, cold water from a delicately patterned jug, into the ceramic basin. The first splash against his tired face was exactly the jolt he needed to get his mind clear again.

“Of course, my lord,” Bartlett replied, a strange note of hesitancy in his voice.

“But, if I may, I have taken the liberty of speaking to the staff here, and to some of the tenants of this estate’s lands.

It would appear that the Viscountess is rather beloved.

I have not heard a bad word said about her, and the accounts are in impeccable order.

Truly, impeccable. I have rarely seen such shrewd financial understanding. ”

Face dripping, Vincent turned to stare at his valet. “What does that have to do with anything, Bartlett? I want her gone. She could be the greatest accountant in the world, and I would still want her gone.”

What was it about Beatrice that made everyone fawn over her?

She was extraordinarily beautiful, yes, but there were many pretty women in society who were awful people.

And while he would not have said that Beatrice was ‘awful,’ she was unruly, half-wild, and a flouter of every rule and expectation. What was there to admire in that?

Is it because she has a gift for parties?

He could not deny that the drawing room had looked tremendous, and he had not forgotten the grand ball at Darnley Castle.

Society still gushed about it, forever begging Teresa to host another.

She might have, if Beatrice had not been exiled from society for the past year-and-a-half.

“I mention it only because she could make an excellent steward,” the valet said nervously, fidgeting with his cuffs.

“You would not have to worry about this estate when you have Grayling to oversee, yet you would reap the rewards of the income she is generating. She would have her home, you would have one less thing to think about…”

“She is a woman,” Vincent muttered, grabbing a small square of linen to dry his face.

“She cannot be a steward of an estate. It is not how things are done. Moreover, if she has any association with me, if it appears as if I am sheltering her or protecting her, it will reflect poorly on me. I cannot afford to lose business because of her reputation.”

The valet dipped his chin to his chest. “As you prefer, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “But society has a short memory. If she is hidden away here, taking care of things, people will soon forget her and her reputation.”

“My goodness, Bartlett! Has she paid you to defend her? Has she enchanted you? Bewitched you?” Vincent exclaimed, his patience fraying. “Why does no one else see that she is nothing but trouble?”

Bartlett cringed. “Apologies, my lord.”

“Yes, well, take your apologies and leave,” Vincent muttered. “And while you are gone, send an invitation to Lord Mancefield. I should like him to join us for a meeting in two days’ time.”

The valet hesitated, irking Vincent all the more. “What manner of meeting, my lord, so that I know what to write?”

“A meeting with Miss Johnson,” Vincent replied. “He needs a wife, Miss Johnson needs a husband. I believe him to be a decent, reasonable gentleman. That will be the appropriate solution.” He lowered his voice, shaking his head. “A steward, indeed.”

Bartlett raised his head. “Will that be all, my lord?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The valet departed quickly, while Vincent cupped his hands into the basin of cold water and splashed his face again…

and again and again, willing the chill to rid his mind of all thoughts of Beatrice.

But it seemed it would be as difficult to remove her from his mind as it would be to remove her from his newly inherited manor.

Vincent had just slipped into bed, pulling up the covers, aware that he was about to have a restless night, when a shuddering scream obliterated the peace and quiet.

He scrambled out of the blankets, his heart hammering as he ran for the door, not considering his state of undress as he hurried down the hallway.

The scream came again, spurring him onward. He raced along the landing and down the stairs, taking them two at a time, his long nightshirt flapping, running until he skidded to a halt, breathless, outside the library door.

Low murmurs and strange moans thrummed from within, an anguished cry prompting him to burst through the door, into the room.

At a circular reading table, filled with flickering candles, sat Beatrice. Her eyes were closed, her mouth moving, speaking a language he did not recognize. Opposite her was her maid, Margaret, reflecting the posture of her mistress, her eyes also closed, her palms face-up on the table.

Eerie whispers rippled around the library, growing louder at Vincent’s entrance, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The whispers were not coming from Beatrice or Margaret, and it was not the wind outside.

He was about to ask what on earth was going on, when the curtains on the far side of the room suddenly billowed, blowing outward as if they had caught a strong gust. A moment later, two books flew out of one of the bookcases, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

“The spirits are displeased,” Beatrice gasped, trembling in her chair.

Vincent stared at her, unimpressed. Was this supposed to unnerve him?

Was she trying to reveal to him that she was, in fact, some manner of witch?

A sorceress who communed with the dead? He moved closer, until he could see the titles of the books that had landed on the floor: Marriage: A Compendium, and a thick, dusty tome that had no title, but bore a strange, dark symbol on the front of the maroon leather.

“A grim creature has entered our circle,” Beatrice continued, unable to hide the hint of a smirk. “A vampire, come to suck the joy from life. A ghoul with the scent of… boiled cabbage. The scent of wickedness.”

Bristling with simmering fury that he had been torn from his bed for these foolish games, Vincent marched to the curtains and pulled them back, revealing the scheme.

Two maids hid behind the drapes, responsible for the billowing.

And he soon found another maid behind the bookcases, who had evidently pushed the books out at the right moment.

“Get out before I decide to cease your employment for this silly trick,” Vincent growled.

The maids did not need to be told twice, scurrying out of the library as if they feared he might chase them. The lady’s maid, Margaret, was the only one who stayed where she was, loyal to her mistress.

“Did you fail to hear me?” Vincent snapped at the woman.

From across the table, Beatrice smiled at the maid. “Go on, Margie. I will be quite all right. I have the spirits to protect me.”

The maid hesitated a moment longer, before scraping back her chair in a rather pointed fashion and departing the library at a slower pace. Unafraid of the threat from Vincent, or so it seemed.

When she has their loyalty, she really has their loyalty. It continued to puzzle Vincent, how Beatrice could be the way she was, and still gain the love and admiration of those around her.

“Is this amusing to you?” he said coolly, averting his gaze as he noticed her attire for the first time.

Not only had she lured him to the library with those chilling screams, playing stupid games, she had also neglected to dress appropriately. She wore her nightdress, her housecoat open and slipping down her shoulders, not covering her flimsy attire at all.

And her hair… It hung loose in silky, wavy tendrils, the color of rich mahogany. He imagined he caught the scent of lavender from those glossy locks, his fingertips suddenly itching with the desire to touch, to see if her hair was as soft as it appeared.

This charade might be false, but her sorcery is not. She was trying to bewitch him, even now. Well, it will not work on me.

“I was curious about something I read,” she said innocently. “I am not amused, I am learning.”

“I thought I was clear about your games coming to an end, Miss Johnson,” he said gruffly. “Whatever this is, it will not alter your fate. You will leave this house; the only question is whether that will be sooner or later. These tricks and performances will have no effect.”

Beatrice leaned forward, blowing out some of the candles. “Have you forgotten your beloved propriety, Wilds?”

“Pardon?”

She smiled, her honeyed eyes alight in the glow of the last candles. “Is it appropriate to burst into a room where you know a lady is present in naught but your nightclothes?”

“I—” He glanced down, his throat tightening as he remembered.

“You what?” she prompted, biting her lip, making him lose all sense of why he was there for a moment.

He shook his head. “I thought someone was being attacked, Miss Johnson. My intentions were good. You simply wished to be troublesome.” He puffed out a breath, hoping she could not see the warmth flooding into his cheeks. “It ends now. I mean it, Miss Johnson.”

“Very well,” she replied, though he did not believe a word.

“Tomorrow, I will refresh my efforts to get you married as quickly as possible,” he said.

“Then, I will return to where I belong, for my sister is also in need of a husband. She has shown she cannot be trusted, coming here without my permission. The sooner she is also in the care of a husband, the better.”

Beatrice got to her feet, her eyes fierce in the amber glow of the candles, her expression darker than he had ever seen it.

“Neither I nor dearest Prudence are objects to be given away. We are not possessions. If you push her, you will lose her.” She took a slow breath. “If you push me, you will regret it.”

“We shall see about that,” he replied, as he turned on his heel and left.

Not because he did not have any quarrel left in him, but because he could not trust his gaze not to stray if he stayed in that room with her a moment longer.

He would not be one of her bewitched souls, enchanted against his will.