Page 9 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER EIGHT
S he is insufferable!
Vincent glared at his reflection in the mirror as his valet helped him into his riding jacket. The grounds of Wycliffe were not extensive like those of the Grayling Estate, but he had seen pleasant enough countryside on his journey to the manor that would suffice.
“Bartlett, I have a question,” he said, fastening the buttons of the jacket.
The valet raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently for him to speak again.
“If a woman has been married three times, but is still… a maiden,” Vincent began, his throat tightening as he reached that awkward topic, “would that make her unmarriageable?”
The valet snorted.
“It is a serious question, Bartlett,” Vincent said gruffly.
Bartlett schooled his expression back into one of placid duty. “Unless she was obscenely wealthy, I fear she would struggle. Surely, if I may, that is an impossibility, though? Married thrice but still a maiden.” He paused, smiling. “Ah, is it a riddle?”
“No, it is not.” Vincent took one last look at his reflection and departed the room, desperate to clear his head of the mess he had been thrown into.
Why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be this estate?
The letter from the lawyers in Oxford had been a complete surprise.
For a moment, he had thought it was some sort of joke, created by one of his friends.
Duncan, perhaps. But his friends had insisted they knew nothing about it, prompting him to dig out the family history: a tome he had not looked at in an age.
After some searching, he had found the distant relation to Sebastian Hartley, checking and checking again until he understood that he was the only living male left in that tangled bloodline.
Beatrice’s apparent withdrawal from society had been a gift to him, for he had not had to worry about her influencing his youngest sister, Prudence. He had not had to brace himself for any unexpected encounters with the unruly creature.
And now, I must live in the same manor with her until all of this is resolved.
He groaned at the thought of who knew how many weeks ahead of him, until everything could be signed and confirmed, and the time for any other claims had passed.
He had seen no other possible heirs, but where there was an empty title and property, they had a way of creeping out of the woodwork.
He halted as he reached the top of the staircase, his hope of a peaceful escape to the stables shattered by the sight below.
“What are you doing?” he asked, continuing his descent.
Beatrice turned, her hand filled with a fan of letters. “Sending for the cavalry.”
“Pardon?”
“It is the end of summer,” she said, with a look in her eyes that he did not care for. “I thought I might host a garden party. Indeed, if you are quite determined to oust me from my charming home, I thought it best to make the most of it.”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“With respect, Wilds,” she replied, with no respect at all, “and with tedious repetition, you are not yet the Viscount of Wycliffe. Until you are, I shall proceed as I please, as the Viscountess of this estate. Besides, it is to your benefit.”
“How could it possibly be to my benefit?” he remarked, his heart beating a little faster at the thought of a gathering.
He hated such events, and would have avoided them entirely if it were not part of his duty as a member of high society.
“If I am to find a fourth husband quickly and be out of your sight sooner rather than later, then I must be around eligible gentlemen,” she explained, in a calm tone that unnerved him.
“I cannot very well attend a true society event, considering the circumstances, so I must have my own. I have asked my friends to invite any fearless scoundrels that they know.”
Vincent clenched his jaw, seeing the logic in what she said, but not trusting it one bit.
She had scoffed at the notion of marrying again at breakfast, and no one changed their mind so swiftly.
She was up to something and, judging by her history of creative punishment for gentlemen who crossed her, he did not like what it might mean for him.
“I have looked at the accounts; there is no money for a garden party,” he said stiffly.
“ I have looked at the accounts,” she replied, “and there is plenty for the modest affair I mean to host. Who knows, perhaps you will find a bride at the very same party. Is there anyone you admire? I could send them a letter if you like?”
He puffed out a frustrated breath, refusing to bite.
“Very well, spend what you want.” He moved past her, opening the front door.
“But be aware of this, Miss Johnson: whatever you spend is what I shall expect back when you marry again. Indeed, whatever you spend before you depart this manor will be returned to me in the future, though I shall be lenient and not demand interest.”
“In that case, I best find myself a duke who enjoys taking risks with his life,” she countered with a sly smile, as she pushed past him, heading out of the manor ahead of him.
He stopped on the porch, confused. “Where are you going?”
She fanned the letters at him. “To send these.”
“You cannot walk alone to the village!” he protested, wondering if Beatrice had an obedient bone in her body. “Leave them with the butler, as is proper.”
She waved his remark away, walking onward as she called back, “Now that there is an intruder in the house, they cannot be trusted in anyone else’s hands but mine!”
Vincent watched her stride down the driveway, torn between the lengthy ride he had been looking forward to and the gentlemanly duty of ensuring a lady did not walk alone. Etiquette was important to him. Expectation was important to him.
Muttering under his breath, he waited until she had vanished from sight, then took off after her. He would follow at a discreet distance, unnoticed, to make sure no harm came to her. If he did not, he would not have a moment’s peace until she returned safely.
Insufferable, stubborn woman…
Does he honestly think I do not know he is there? Beatrice smiled to herself as she picked her way down the steep path that would deposit her at the boundary of Mill Hill. A charming village she had walked to often over the past four months, where she was known and not judged.
She had been aware of Vincent following her since she left the estate, amused by his attempts to hide every time she looked back over her shoulder. Why he had not merely insisted on escorting her, when that would have been far simpler, was beyond her.
These gentlemen have their pride, I suppose.
She pressed on, pretending she was unaware of his presence, until she got to the post office.
The postmaster greeted her cheerily. “Good morning to you, Lady Wycliffe.” His eyes widened at the quantity of letters in her hand. “Goodness, you have been busy.”
“Invitations,” she said, by way of explanation. “Mr. Lowton, might you tell me if there is a gentleman outside?”
The postmaster squinted toward the windows. “Why… yes, I believe there is. A tall fellow in a riding jacket?” He paused. “Is he a danger to you?”
“Oh no, he is harmless. I just wanted to be sure.” She smiled, glancing at the door at the back of the post office.
She knew it led out into a yard and, from there, she could escape through another door. She would be halfway back to Wycliffe Manor before Vincent even realized she was gone.
No… I must keep him sweet for a while, or my plan will not work. I need to lull him into a false sense of confidence first, to uproot him later.
“May I use that door for a moment? I will be back soon,” she said, gesturing to the would-be escape.
The postmaster smiled. “Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
Glancing back, Beatrice snuck through the rear door and out into the fresh air, slipping out of the yard door to the outside world.
She tiptoed along behind the row of shops and houses, until she rejoined the main street.
Making sure she had not been seen by her ‘secret’ escort, she ducked into the bakery, inhaling the delicious aromas of freshly baked bread and sugary fruit tarts.
Ten minutes later, holding a small box of delicacies, she snuck back into the post office and passed a gift across to the postmaster.
“For your kindness and your hard work,” she said with a wink.
The postmaster stared, open-mouthed, at the glistening raspberry tart. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, sounding genuinely shocked. “Raspberry is my favorite.”
“I had a feeling it might be.” Grinning, she headed back out, a bell tinkling above the door to mark her exit.
Up ahead, just around the corner of the post office, she noticed the sliver of a riding jacket sleeve. Vincent had gotten lazy in his hiding, perhaps bored by the wait, or wondering where on earth she had disappeared to.
On tiptoe, she approached, leaping forward at the last minute. “Name yourself, thief!”
Vincent jumped, his eyes flashing as he saw who it was. “Miss Johnson!” he barked. “Some decorum, please.”
“Alas, I have none.” She opened up the bakery box and took out a strawberry tart, holding it out to him. “I thought you might be hungry after your lengthy walk. They are exceptionally good. I was going to give you the blackberry one, as it is my least favorite, but I am feeling generous.”
His brow furrowed as he stared at the tart, no doubt fearing it was poisoned or something. “How did you get a tart in the post office?”
“Why would I get a tart from the post office? I got it from the bakery.”
His frown deepened. “But I was outside. You did not leave the post office.”
“How about you stop trying to figure out the mysteries of me and just enjoy your tart,” she said with a smirk, putting the treat into his hand. “Now, shall we return to Wycliffe the same way, with you trying to follow me without my notice? Or shall we be civil and walk together?”
He did not answer, still staring warily at the vivid red tart, bursting with juicy strawberries and syrupy sugar, the pastry rich and buttery.
“It will not kill you,” she said, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “For that, you would have to marry me.”
Stifling a chuckle at the horrified look upon his face—for if she did not force levity into her situation, it would destroy her—she began walking, leaving it up to him to decide if he would join her at her side or some thirty paces behind her.