Page 39 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“ T his is a celebration of your victory, Beatrice!” Rebecca Barnet cried, raising a glass of champagne. “There is no need to look so glum.”

Beatrice had been pleasantly surprised when Lionel’s sister had shown up to the party that Valeria had insisted on throwing in her honor.

It seemed like an eternity since they had spent the summer in one another’s company: Beatrice, Teresa, and Rebecca.

Indeed, that charmed summer when Duncan and Valeria had fallen in love, but even that felt like it belonged to another life.

Anthony Everard, a good friend of Cyrus and a more recent friend of Beatrice’s, nodded eagerly. “I shall drink to that! Goodness, when I first met you, Beatrice, I did not think you were capable of looking glum. Quite the most ferocious, exciting young lady I had ever met.”

“A lot has changed,” Beatrice replied drily, putting on the wicked smile she knew they all expected. “And yet, not so much. Why, just the other day, I was trying to conjure up a scheme to ensure that Lord Grayling never forgets the trouble he caused me.”

“That is more like it, Beatrice!” Anthony cheered, while Cyrus rolled his eyes.

It remained a mystery how Cyrus and Anthony had ever come to be such dear friends, one so quiet and reserved, the other always the loudest and merriest in any room. Then again, the same could be said of Beatrice and Teresa.

Perhaps, when two people were too similar, that was where problems arose.

“But why would you seek revenge?” Teresa asked, her tone somewhat anxious. “My brother has given you what you wanted. Admittedly, he took his time about it and did cause you a great deal of upset, which I was very cross about, but surely Wycliffe Manor makes up for it?”

Beatrice cast a gentler smile toward her good friend, understanding that the poor girl was partially torn between a friend and a sibling. “That was what I concluded,” she assured. “Indeed, this is better than any creative revenge, just being here with all of you, celebrating my triumph.”

The words echoed hollow in Beatrice’s chest, for though she should have been leaping for joy, thrilled that she had won her home back, she simply could not feel a lick of delight.

Whenever she tried, the night of the kiss came careening back into her head—not that it had ever left—and knocked her spirits down again.

Teresa exhaled in obvious relief. “I really am pleased that everything worked out.”

“I know you are, dearest Tess,” Beatrice replied, taking a sip of her champagne to hide her sad smile.

“Although, I cannot deny it would have been satisfying to put some old meat in his luggage or to enact my grand scheme of ‘inviting’ every eligible lady in Christendom to his manor for a ‘private gathering.’ The uproar would have been delicious.”

Teresa giggled into her palm. “Goodness, I know he is my brother, but even I should have liked to witness that!”

“The night is still young,” Anthony interjected. “We could all work together to write the invitations; we would have them done in no time at all.”

It was Cyrus and Anthony’s other friend, Silas Rowland, who swooped in with the voice of reason.

“The newly reinstated Lady Wycliffe has decided to be forgiving and generous; we should not tempt her back into trouble. Lord Grayling might have vacated her home, but what do you expect he would do if she executed a trick like that?”

“Ah,” Anthony said. “I had not thought of that.”

There were only three guests who did not seem so eager to join in with the conversation, all three staring at Beatrice as if she had taken ill with something deadly. Valeria, Duncan, and Frederick: their concern so intense that it radiated palpably through the drawing room of Thornhill Grange.

Beatrice did her best to ignore their worried looks. “In truth, the person I feel the sorriest for, who might be deserving of revenge, is Prudence. What a cruelty to send the poor thing to the north, instead of to Bath or London. It is as good as preventing her from engaging with society.”

Only Valeria knew the details of what had happened in the theater room, and why Vincent’s abrupt departure had been such a painful shock.

And she had no doubt that Valeria had told Duncan, who was already on bad terms with Vincent.

As for Frederick, Beatrice did not quite understand why he seemed so concerned; he should have been the one cheering the loudest.

“It has been three days,” Teresa agreed, “and she has already written to me twice. I doubt she is even in the north yet.”

Rebecca sipped her champagne in thought.

“A delay in resuming one’s place in society is not such a bad thing.

I debuted and then took two years away from society, and it has not done me any harm.

Yes, I will be competing with slightly younger women, but I like to think that my gentleman, whoever he is, will be waiting regardless. ”

“That is because you are inconceivably wealthy,” Anthony pointed out, gaining a sharp look from Cyrus.

“And Prudence is not impoverished,” Rebecca countered. “She is the sister of one of the wealthiest men in England. Our circumstances are extremely similar, which is how I know that she will be perfectly fine.”

Just then, Frederick finally spoke. “You are happy, Trixie, are you not?” He paused. “When Valeria and Duncan invited us here, I thought you would be leaping and howling with joy. Yet, if I may, you do not seem like yourself.”

“It is the stress of it all,” Beatrice insisted, forcing one of her best smiles. “I feel as if I have been to battle, and though I have won, I have still been fighting for weeks. Does that make sense?”

She did not want one of her dearest friends to worry about her.

She did not want any of her friends to worry about her.

Her grief would pass in due time, her heart finding a way to heal, and then she would be the same Beatrice they all knew and cherished again.

Until that point, she would just have to perform it until she felt it.

But playing a role was nothing new to her.

Frederick seemed to relax. “It does. You have suffered so much that it likely does not even feel real yet, that Wycliffe is more or less yours.”

“Yes, I suspect that is part of it,” Beatrice agreed. “Naturally, I would prefer if it was actually mine, but I think I ought to quit while I am ahead. My talents for persuasion are not quite powerful enough to petition the Royal Court and win, but maybe they will be, one day.”

Anthony leaned forward in his spot on the settee. “If something were to happen to Lord Grayling, would the manor be yours entirely?”

“Anthony!” Cyrus barked.

Anthony’s eyes widened, his hands shooting up in a gesture of innocence that spilled a few drops of champagne onto the rug. “What? It was just a question.”

“It is unlikely,” Duncan replied, as he began to make his way around the room, refilling everyone’s glasses. “It is more likely that Wycliffe would be reclaimed by the Royal Court and sold to the highest bidder along with the title, or the lawyers would auction it as a residence only.”

Cyrus nodded. “Or, as she said, she could petition for it. But her case for that would be easier if Vincent agreed to it and petitioned with her. It would bear more weight.”

“Yes, well, unless someone saw a pig flying on their way here, I doubt I would ever convince him,” Beatrice replied, mustering a laugh.

“He and I parted ways in much the same way as we were thrown together: with curt words and one of us not being able to get away from the other fast enough. Although, at least he left through the door this time, instead of sneaking through the window.”

Her friends and acquaintances chuckled, all but Valeria and Duncan, who no doubt heard the truth in her little joke.

And Frederick, too, seemed to realize that there was something amiss in her words.

She should have known she would not be able to fool any of those three; she had known them all for far too long to be able to hoodwink them into believing she was fine.

“Bea, could you join me for a moment?” Valeria asked, her voice thick with a sadness that Beatrice hoped the others did not hear. “I have a surprise for you in the kitchens, and I want you to see it before everyone else.”

Beatrice frowned, not fooled either. “Is it Lord Mancefield’s stallion? Apple slices carved to resemble rabbits? Oh, is it those strawberry tarts I love so much? Some French cognac, perhaps?”

“Cognac would be marvelous!” Anthony cried, setting another round of chuckles loose among the guests.

Valeria tilted her head toward the drawing room door. “It would not be a surprise if I revealed it.”

“If you would all excuse me a moment,” Beatrice said, putting on another smile that she did not feel.

“I have the most certain feeling that it is Lord Mancefield’s stallion.

So, if I should return leading a horse, do not be alarmed.

With any luck, it shall have Lord Mancefield himself strapped to it, so I may have some revenge after all.

Everyone delivering a lash to his buttocks with a whip, followed by him journeying home in the bumpiest of carriages ought to suffice. ”

Easy laughter rippled through her friends, those who remained raising a glass to her and cheering her name as she ventured out with Valeria.

“Is there really a surprise?” Beatrice asked as she walked the tapestried halls with Valeria, watched by the painted eyes of Duncan’s long-dead ancestors, trapped in their portrait frames.

Valeria cleared her throat. “There is.”

“But that is not the only reason you wanted me alone?”

Valeria shook her head. “I thought you might need a moment to gather yourself.” She paused.

“If I had known everything, I would not have insisted on having this party for you. I cannot bear to watch you sit there, pretending everything is perfectly fine, when I know it is not. Do you want me to send everyone away? I can feign a sickness, or I can send Charlotte in to distract everyone.”

“I would not have you wake your daughter for my sake,” Beatrice replied with a more genuine smile. “And no, I do not need you to send everyone away. This is good for me. It is good to be away from Wycliffe for an evening, surrounded by people I adore.”

Valeria sighed, stopping in the hallway. “But is it not too soon? You have not had time to rampage through every emotion you deserve to feel. Once you are past the anger part, I suspect you will be ready for parties.”

“That is the funniest thing, Valery: I am not angry,” Beatrice insisted, her heart aching in her chest. “I am… crushed. There is nothing left in here,” she tapped her chest, “to allow for anger. It is just pieces of sadness and confusion and embarrassment and love that have nowhere to go. If anything, I am angry with myself for believing that I could be loved.”

“You are loved,” Valeria urged, her voice cracking.

Beatrice smiled sadly. “You know the love I mean.”

Valeria nodded. “I do.” A great sigh escaped her chest. “So, you did love him then?”

“I did and I do and will for the foreseeable,” Beatrice replied, leaning up against a tapestry of a unicorn battling a lion, as her knees began to feel weak.

“I cannot help it. If I could be angry, it would help me to forget him, but all there is is his kiss and his embrace and the silly arguments and the moment he began to soften toward me. It was after the Huxtable ball, on the stairs, when he stood so close and told me I looked beautiful, and his eyes… shone with this warmth I had not seen before.”

Valeria grabbed Beatrice, pulling her into a fierce hug. “Oh, Cousin… I am so sorry.” Her voice hitched. “If it is of any consolation, I think he is the greatest gooseberry to ever wander this earth.”

“It helps a little,” Beatrice lied, smiling against her cousin’s shoulder.

Valeria squeezed her tighter. “What could have made him leave like that? Why would he be so… lovely, then take it all away?”

“If you discover the answer, I should like to know,” Beatrice said, pulling back. “Would you like to know the worst part?”

“There is worse than what has already happened?” Valeria gasped, stricken.

A soft chuckle escaped Beatrice’s lips. “No, the worst part is that I began to think that I would quite like to marry him.” Tears stung her eyes, one leaking onto her cheek. “If he had proposed, I would not have hesitated.”

“But, you said?—”

“He changed my mind,” Beatrice murmured, hurrying to brush the tear from her cheek. “Still, the outcome is the same. I will not marry again now.”

Valeria pulled her close again, holding her so tightly that Beatrice could not breathe, and did not want to. Instead, she held her cousin back in kind, and let the tears fall.

Never had anything felt less like a victory.