Page 17 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

B eatrice walked all the way to the chapel, letting herself into the small churchyard through the creaking gate.

Breathless, though not from the walk, she hurried to the mossy bench that sat beneath the yew tree.

The sturdy, ancient trunk hid her from the manor, allowing her a moment to catch her breath.

Why did he look at my lips like that? Why did he come so close to me?

She could still feel his fingertips beneath her chin, and how gently—tender, almost—he had raised her head up.

“He feels guilty, that is all,” she whispered to no one, the wind whispering through the nearby rowan trees. “He feels guilty because of Lord Mancefield’s bad behavior. He is sorry because that beast will return to society and tell tales about him.”

Anyone passing by might have thought she was quite mad, talking to herself, but having spent so much of her life on her own, sometimes it was the only way to process her thoughts.

“I have done nothing to ruin his reputation,” she continued, holding her head in her hands. “I will not let him suggest otherwise.”

He is letting me stay…

Her heart soared and sank, remembering the caveat of ‘for now.’ How was she supposed to feel settled at Wycliffe again, if her position was not permanent?

And if he was not planning to marry her off, then what was his plan?

Would he sell the house instead? Auction his secondary title?

Petition the Royal Court to give it to someone else?

“I could be of so much use to him if he would just… open his eyes,” she muttered. “If, for a moment, he could set aside his opinions about what a woman should and should not do, he would never have to worry about this estate again.”

If I behave, if I show my worth, maybe I can get him to appoint me as steward…

It was not the tactic she had begun with, but a tactician was nothing if they could not change their plans at a moment’s notice. If she could win him over with sweetness and obedience, then it would be worth the frustration of having to be someone she was not in his presence.

“He will have to return to Grayling eventually,” she murmured. “If I can put on a performance until then, perhaps…”

The squeak of the gate snapped her head up, her heart jumping. Had Vincent followed her?

A concerning prickle of disappointment bristled through her, unsettling her mind. She did not want Vincent to follow her. That was precisely why she had left the manor, was it not?

“Are you well, Lady Wycliffe?” Edmund asked, frowning.

Beatrice nodded, putting on a pleasant smile. “I am, Your Grace. I just needed some fresh air.”

“Lord Mancefield is definitely gone from here,” Edmund said, approaching. “He will end up killing that poor stallion or being thrown himself.”

Beatrice laughed tightly. “I hope it is not the horse that suffers.”

“I confess, I have never seen Vincent act like that,” Edmund said, a curious glint in his eyes. “I know he has a temper at times, but… he does not leap to the defense of just anyone.”

Beatrice kicked at a tuft of weeds with the toe of her boot. “He felt responsible, Your Grace. It is nothing more than that.”

“Perhaps.” Edmund paused. “May I escort you back to the manor?”

Beatrice shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I will stay here with my husband for a while longer.”

Edmund squinted in confusion, his eyes widening a second later as a soft “oh, I see,” left his mouth. “Well then, I shall leave you to it.”

He turned to leave, halting after a few steps to turn back.

“He means well, Lady Wycliffe. I know it does not always seem like it, but he does. He will do the right thing, though it may take some time and persuasion for him to figure out what that is. Be patient with him. I, for one, will speak on your behalf.” He gestured toward the manor.

“After all you have endured, you have earned your right to peace and safety. He will see that; I know it.”

“I said this to Duncan, and I shall say it to you,” Beatrice replied, not unkindly or spitefully, but with gentle honesty.

“The Vincent you know is not the one I know. I doubt there is anything that could compel him to let me have this manor. But… I will heed your words, and I will try to be patient. Indeed, I will try to put some faith in him.”

Edmund smiled. “I hope you find yourself surprised by the outcome.”

With a polite nod of his head, he made his way out of the small churchyard, taking the driveway back to the house. Leaving Beatrice more confused than when she had entered the churchyard, for now she had a great deal more to unpick.

Over the course of the following day, news spread throughout the manor of Lord Mancefield’s disgraceful behavior toward their mistress.

Every room Beatrice entered was filled with sympathetic looks and requests to know how she was feeling, some of the men asking if there was anything they could do to seek vengeance on her behalf. Some of the women, too.

Though she insisted that she was fine and that nothing needed to be done about it, there was a nugget of good to be found within that awful encounter: she had never felt more beloved or more like she belonged.

“You could send him a case of expensive wine,” Margaret said, seated in the corner of Beatrice’s bedchamber, repairing some of Beatrice’s dresses. “But, really, the bottles would be filled with aged vinegar! Imagine if he served it at a dinner party; the embarrassment would be a thing to behold!”

Beatrice chuckled at her lady’s maid. “I fear I have become a bad influence on you, Margie. I should never have told you of all my vengeful exploits.”

“Of course you should,” Margie protested. “I have already helped two of my friends punish some pesky men in the village.”

Drawing a brush through her long brown hair, Beatrice paused for a moment. “How so?”

“We used the fish under the floorboards trick, and the one where you unpick the back seam of their trousers just enough so they won’t notice until they bend or sit, then the entire thing comes apart!” Margie cackled with delight, the sound infectious.

“Did everyone see?” Beatrice asked, grinning.

Margie nodded. “It happened in the market square on market day! It couldn’t have been done better. He went running to his mother, begging her to sew them back up!”

“You must use this power carefully,” Beatrice said, laughing as she imagined the chaotic scene. “You must never let anyone know, with any certainty, that it was you. But they should have enough suspicion that they will never cross you.”

Margie jiggled happily in her seat, her cheeks rosy with glee. “I’ll be cautious, my lady. I’ve learned from the very best, after all.”

Just then, Beatrice heard footsteps thudding down the hallway outside her chambers, moving with the quick stride of someone who was either in a hurry or was not pleased about something.

“Oh dear,” she said, smiling. “Someone is in trouble.”

Perhaps, the valet had not steamed Vincent’s collars the way he liked or another vague letter had arrived from the lawyers in Oxford.

Indeed, after their first correspondence informing Vincent of his inheritance, the lawyers at Philbert his face as red as a beetroot.

“I have a dinner party to attend!” he barked, gesturing at himself. “ All of my shirts are like this! Would you care to explain yourself?”

Beatrice stared, wide-eyed, unable to draw her gaze away.

From his boots to his waist, all was as it should be, until the exposed ridges of a muscular abdomen marked the problem.

The hem of his shirt stopped just below his chest, not cut but carefully sewn, so it looked as if the garment had been shrunk to fit a child.

“And all my waistcoats are too small, so they will not cover this silly trick of yours!” he ranted on, demonstrating as he fruitlessly attempted to fasten the buttons of his waistcoat. Those that did not ping back open strained instead, revealing ovals of that smooth, hard stomach.

It was a startling sight, though not the least bit unpleasant. Rather, it would not have been unpleasant to behold if she had understood why his clothes were as they were. And why it seemed he was accusing her of meddling with those garments.

From the corner of the room, she heard Margie clear her throat.

Oh Margie, what have you done?

“May we have the room,” Beatrice said hurriedly, flashing a pointed look at her lady’s maid.

Margie set the dresses down at once, jumping to her feet. It was evident that she was responsible for the shrinking of Vincent’s clothes, but she clearly had not considered how Vincent might respond to the sabotage. It would cost Margie her employment, and Beatrice could not allow that.

“I will call you in when we are done,” Beatrice said to the maid, catching hold of her hand as she passed, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Do not worry.”

The maid gave a small, frightened nod, and rushed out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Do you want me to send you away?” Vincent snapped, as soon as the maid was gone. “Are you trying to get me to undo my decision to let you stay? Why on earth would you do this? What is wrong with you?”

Beatrice rose from her chair, taking a moment to look Vincent up and down. After all, if she was going to take the blame for this, she at least deserved the reward of storing this vision of him in her memory forever.

Against her better judgment, laughter bubbled up the back of her throat, spilling out into the room.

It was not merely the shrunken shirt but the way he was standing, as if he did not know how he had ended up like that.

He stood stiffly, like a marionette waiting for someone to tug his strings, his face so aghast that it was impossible not to laugh.

“Do not dare!” he shouted. “This is not at all amusing! I am supposed to meet several of my associates for dinner this evening, and I have nothing to wear!”

“It could be a… new fashion,” she wheezed, unable to stop the laughter. “You should… trim the waistcoat too. Give your stomach an opportunity… to breathe! Goodness, the physicians would have to… pay you, for so many ladies would… bump their heads fainting!”

Vincent stormed toward her, breathing hard as he halted half a step away, his eyes flashing with fury. “I thought we had a truce, Beatrice!”

That name again… It had made her brain stop working when he had said it the first time, in the entrance hall after Lord Mancefield’s departure. Indeed, she had thought she had misheard for a moment, or that it had been an accident.

Yet, there it was again: her name, her actual name, spoken from his lips.

“I thought this was the beginning of some civility between us,” he continued, oblivious to her astonishment. “Why, Beatrice? Why would you do this to my clothes?”

I cannot let Margie take the punishment for this, even if it has shattered our fragile truce.

She took a moment to gather herself, letting her laughter fade. “It was done before you said that I could stay,” she lied. “I was angry and I… took that out on your clothes. I should have told you but, in truth, I forgot.”

He grabbed the sides of his waistcoat, pulling them as far across his bare stomach as they would go, as if remembering that he was not appropriately dressed.

“And my good shoes?”

She grimaced. “I believe they were donated.”

She did not know for sure, but if they were not where Vincent could find them, they were likely far away by now.

“I thought they were your old ones,” she added. “They did not appear to be new and had not been shined in some time.”

Vincent looked like he might explode, the heaving rise and fall of his chest making it harder for him to maintain his decency.

“I rescind our agreement.” His eyes flashed, his expression cold.

“I will not bring another suitor to this house, but I will take you to a ball. There, you will find a suitor, and you will never interfere in my life or my business again.”

“It was a mistake,” Beatrice urged, her hopes slipping, shrinking like the size of his clothes. “Please, Vincent, believe me when I say it will not happen again.”

But there was no leniency in his eyes, just simmering anger. “You are right; it will not happen again, because once you have found a suitor, a husband, you will be gone from here. I gave you a chance and you squandered it with petty games.”

He left abruptly, his words hanging heavily in the air.

She, too, had thought they were beginning anew, with an understanding in place.

For it all to come undone because of someone else’s actions made her heart sink, yet it would not change the choice that she had made.

She would protect Margie, for she would rather lose her home than her maid, who had been more of a friend these past months.

“My lady?” Margie’s quiet voice drifted into the room, the maid peeking around the door.

Beatrice put on a smile. “All is well, Margie.” She paused. “But, please, please, never do anything like that again.”

“I won’t, my lady. I was just… trying to help, after what happened yesterday and all. I… I didn’t think.” Margie gulped loudly, on the brink of tears. “But all is truly well?”

“Of course,” Beatrice replied. “There is no harm done.”

The maid clearly felt bad enough; she did not need to hear that what she had done to Vincent’s clothes would undoubtedly mean the end of Beatrice’s tenure at Wycliffe. The end of peace and security and independence as Beatrice knew it.