Page 7 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER SIX

“ T hat is ‘Lady Wycliffe’ to you,” Beatrice retorted, blinking so rapidly that Vincent feared for the condition of her eyes. “And I might ask you the very same question. What do you think you are doing, rummaging around in my personal reading room at such an hour? Indeed, ever?”

Vincent Wilds faltered, realizing as his surprise faded how the situation must have looked to her, for she lacked the context of how he came to be at Wycliffe Manor that evening.

But she need not speak to me in such an inappropriate tone.

His annoyance flared afresh, bolstered by the sharp glare in her blinking eyes.

Beautiful eyes, in truth; the color of fresh honey, golden brown in one moment, veering a little more toward green in the next.

The sort of bewitching eyes that one would expect from society’s most infamous ‘Sorceress.’ Yet, he did not appreciate them scowling at him after what he had just endured.

“Did invading my home and smacking into me rob you of your ability to speak?” she challenged breathlessly, her fists still raised. “I asked you a question, Wilds.”

His eyes flared, his mouth agape at the insult of her.

“That is ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Grayling’ to you, Miss Johnson,” he said curtly, wondering how he had ever tolerated her being friends with his sisters.

“And I did not smack into you or invade your home. I did not know you were there. You should have moved out of the way when you saw the door open.”

“I thought there was a thief, Wilds,” she persisted. “I am the mistress of this household. It is my duty to defend it from intruders.”

He stared at her as if she really had taken leave of her senses. “Why? Are you alone here? Have you no servants?” He tilted his head to one side. “That would certainly explain a few things.”

“You are trying my patience, Wilds,” she remarked, stoking the fury of his frustrations. “What are you doing here? If I have to ask you again, I will punch you, even if I break a knuckle.”

He had never met anyone, man or woman, more infuriating than Beatrice.

Every time they encountered one another, even when he had vowed to be civil, it unraveled into chaos.

He could not explain it, but she had a knack for irritating him, her every behavior and speech a challenge to the rules that kept society afloat.

Rules that he followed strictly, for without rules, there was no society at all, just disorder and anarchy.

Imagine every woman in society being like this…

He shuddered at the thought, for though she was exceptionally beautiful, he knew it was that beauty that had allowed her to get away with her antics for so long.

Even now, he suspected that the authorities were not marching upon her door because no one could truly believe that an uncommonly beautiful woman could be a cold-hearted killer.

“You leave me no choice.” Beatrice drew back her arm, her hand still curled into a fist.

Groaning at her rudeness, Vincent put up his hands, ready to catch her wrist if she attempted to strike him.

“I came because I was summoned,” he said gruffly.

“I arrived in an ordinary fashion, by carriage, and knocked upon the door. When no one greeted me and I found the door locked, I sought to come around to the back of the manor, but the gates to the gardens were also locked, forcing me to seek alternative means of entry.”

He pointed his thumb behind him. “That window was the only one open, so I climbed through. It was not an intrusion; it was a lack of options. And when I have light to see by, I mean to put back all of the things that I knocked over, trying to find the wretched door in the dark.”

“If you have smashed anything or ruined anything, there shall be trouble,” she warned, those incredible eyes flashing with fury.

“And I suggest you find a dictionary in my library, search for the word ‘intrusion,’ and educate yourself on its meaning. You did intrude, you are an intruder, and I should like you to leave my residence at once. I did not summon you.”

Vincent clung onto his last thread of patience and courtesy. “I did not say you did.”

As an earl and a gentleman, he had every right to chastise her for her impoliteness, but her shallow breathing and somewhat wild-eyed stare stayed his tongue.

He had scared her with his indelicate entry into the manor; he could see that plainly, so he would allow her a morsel of leniency. But only for now.

“You said you were summoned,” she replied sternly. “If I did not summon you, then you should not be here. There is no one else with the authority to summon you, and you are the very last person I would ever want here.”

“Enough, Miss Johnson,” he snapped, his irritation bringing him a few steps closer, until there was barely a gap between them. “Indeed, that is quite enough. I startled you, I admit that, but you will watch your tongue now that you have seen there is no threat.”

Beatrice mustered a harsh laugh, showing no fear as she glared up at him. “Yet, I do still see a threat before me. A threat to my peace and quiet. You have already disturbed the entertainment that I took great pains to organize. By now, I will have missed the entire first performance.”

“What?” He blinked, confused.

“Puppets.”

“What?” he repeated, wondering if they were speaking the same language.

A surprised gasp severed the tangled conversation, Vincent’s attention snapping toward a figure in the hallway, who had just skidded to a halt. Beatrice’s attention was quick to follow, her shoulders relaxing as if the cavalry had just arrived.

“Mr. Bolam,” she said with a radiant smile. Another of her enchantments, undoubtedly. “We appear to have an intruder. I was just asking him to leave, but perhaps you would be kind enough to hurl him out of the front door instead. I do not quite have the same arm strength as you.”

The man approached cautiously, a lantern in his hand. He raised it up as he came closer, the apricot light shining in Vincent’s eyes.

Mr. Bolam assessed Vincent, pursing his lips. “And who are you?”

If one more person addresses me inappropriately, I shall explode.

“I am Vincent Wilds, the Earl of Grayling,” he replied tersely. “And, contrary to the apparent belief of this household, I am expected. The letter came to me a week ago, from Philbert & Sons of Oxford.”

The older man’s expression changed in an instant, transforming from tense suspicion to wide-eyed shock. “My lord, please accept my apologies!” he gushed. “I am Mr. Bolam, the butler of this house. I am so very sorry that I didn’t recognize you.”

“You have never met me,” Vincent pointed out. “How could you have recognized me? Still, someone could have been at the door to greet me upon my arrival.”

He noticed the shift in Beatrice too, the confidence slipping from her face, replaced with confusion.

Evidently, she had some manner of rapport with the butler of the household and had expected him to do her bidding.

She was floundering, and Vincent would have been lying if he had said he did not feel a little satisfaction at the sight.

“Clearly, I am missing something,” Beatrice said tightly. “Who are Philbert & Sons? Why would they have cause to summon you , of all people? Mr. Bolam, what is the meaning of this?”

The butler smiled apologetically at Beatrice. “Forgive me, my lady. I meant to inform you, but I did not know when Lord Grayling might arrive, as I received no word.”

Vincent thought he detected a note of blame from the older man, and he could not permit that. “I sent a letter, Mr. Bolam. I do not arrive at places unannounced. If it was not received, it must have been lost.”

“Will someone tell me what is going on?” Beatrice urged, a wildness in her honeyed eyes.

The butler bowed his head. “My lady, this gentleman is the heir to Wycliffe Manor.”

Beatrice’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Her gaze flitted between Vincent and Mr. Bolam, unblinking, while her hand flew to her chest. She took a small step backward, the sound of her ragged breathing catching Vincent’s attention.

Is she going to faint? He had not thought it would be such a shock. He had assumed that she would have been informed, yet it was plain to see that she knew nothing about this.

“Is this a jest?” she rasped. “Some trickery? Some means to torment me?”

Vincent sighed. “I am merely here to assess the situation, and to stay until this matter is resolved.” He looked to the butler, his tone sharp as he asked, “A guest chamber, if you would be so kind?”

“Of course, my lord.” Mr. Bolam bowed his head, backing off up the hallway, to the entrance hall. “I will get you situated and then I will have the footmen bring in your luggage. Did you arrive by carriage?”

“I did,” Vincent replied, pleased that, at last, he seemed to have the right level of respect.

“Very good, my lord.” The butler gestured upward. “If you would follow me.”

Before Vincent could move a muscle, Beatrice’s hand clamped around his wrist, her face a mask of blazing, somewhat alarming fury. He had been on the receiving end of her glares and curt remarks before, but this was something rather more chilling, her expression verging on madness.

“This house is not yours,” she hissed. “You need to leave. Mr. Bolam, do not give him a bedchamber.”

The butler faltered, evidently torn. “My lady, I… cannot argue with the law. He is the heir. I read it in the letter myself.”

“But he is not the Viscount,” she shot back. “The title is not yet his. An heir is just that.”

Vincent prized her fingers away from his wrist with as much care as he could muster.

“I am tired, Miss Johnson. We shall speak of this in the morning. You return to your entertainment, I shall retire to my chambers, and let us see if we cannot be more civil tomorrow.” He glanced at the butler. “Mr. Bolam, my rooms.”

“Of course, my lord,” the butler replied, continuing his progress toward the foyer. “This way.”

Vincent followed at his own pace, stifling a yawn as he headed up a sweeping staircase.

But as he turned right on the landing, a curious compulsion made him look down, over the elegant wooden banister.

Beatrice sat on the bottom step of the staircase, her back to him, her shoulders curved, her head held in her hands.

A trick to lower my guard, he reasoned, an odd prickle catching him in the chest. A feeling of… pity, or something like it. It is manipulation, nothing more. Others may fall for it, but I will not.

Concentrating on the butler ahead of him, he did not look back again. Indeed, he would do well not to think about her either: not those honeyed eyes or that glossy, half-wild dark hair or her bitten-red lips or the radiance of her alabaster skin. It was all sorcery, and he would not be enchanted.

He had come here for one purpose and one alone: to receive his unexpected inheritance. Once he had done so, then he would decide what to do with the widow of the late viscount, and not a moment before.