Page 5 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

The pugs did not run off, unfortunately. Or freeze to death.

One of them, Achilles possibly, spent the better part of the evening meal chewing on Maria’s slipper beneath the dining room table while she kicked at it. The other pug sat in Lady Piedmont’s lap, barking at the footmen as they served while she fed the animal from her fingers.

Then there was the drool.

Not only from the two atrocious, ill-mannered pugs, but Lord Piedmont. He kept nodding off, head on his chest, moisture darkening the edge of his coat. Eventually, his entire body had sagged forward so much he’d nearly drowned in the creamy broth Mrs. Killigrew had prepared for the soup course.

Mrs. Lawrence made nothing but pretty compliments, gracious and mild-mannered. Entirely virtuous and mildly pious, even praying over her food.

No one can be that sweet.

It became apparent to Maria, halfway through the meal, that for all her demure behavior, Mrs. Lawrence had a habit of turning in such a way that her bosom was put on display for Balwyn.

As a woman possessing an admirable bosom herself, Maria knew how to attract attention to such assets without seeming to.

The modest cut of Mrs. Lawrence’s gown was no match for the size of her bosom, purposefully.

There was also the soft, dulcet tone of voice, so soft Balwyn was forced to lean closer to hear her.

Recently out of mourning. Once courted by Balwyn. A ‘sister’ to Lady Piedmont.

Little wonder Balwyn had apologized the moment he’d stepped through the door. Even now he was sending her apologetic looks over the dry, overly seasoned lamb prepared by Mrs. Killigrew.

‘I’m sorry’ he mouthed to her when Mrs. Lawrence turned away.

Balwyn loved her, which was nearly enough for her to overlook his harridan of a sister, who was, in a word, terrible.

While the pugs were a nice touch, the appearance of Mrs. Lawrence was true feather in Lady Piedmont’s cap.

Or, rather, a turban, such as the one atop her head.

Adorned with a peacock feather which taunted Maria with every tilt of the austere woman’s head.

Alicia, as expected, ignored everyone at the table, including her father. She was far too busy drawing something in a notebook tucked away beneath the table. Probably another unflattering portrait of Maria.

The pug in Lady Piedmont’s hands licked at the tablecloth before drawing his tongue over the edge of her plate.

Maria glanced away from the sight, determined to not so much as flinch, and found that the reserved Mrs. Lawrence had pushed her chair closer to Balwyn, nearly forcing herself into his lap as she related some amusing story.

Ugh.

Maria took another generous swallow of the wine, which was excellent, thanking the fates Mrs. Killigrew hadn’t spoiled the bottle as she had the meal, and speared another piece of lamb.

Her temporary cook’s talents in the kitchen had been greatly exaggerated by Mr. Jacobson, if this meal was any indication, though Maria no longer wondered why he’d been so eager to volunteer her services. Owen had settled Mrs. Killigrew earlier and assured Maria the cook seemed knowledgeable.

She planned to visit Mrs. Killigrew after breakfast tomorrow and find out what the bloody hell was happening in the kitchens. Her only hope was that the poor food might induce Lady Piedmont to return to London as soon as possible.

Wishful thinking.

Maria glanced to the window, just able to make out the dusting of snow covering everything in her garden. The weather alternated between flurries of white flakes and freezing rain, neither of which would make the roads passable. Ice coated the branches of the trees.

None of her guests would be leaving anytime soon.

The obnoxious pug put his dirty little paws on the table while Lady Piedmont fed him another bite of lamb.

Disgusting.

“At least Achilles approves of the lamb, Lady Talbot,” Balwyn’s sister intoned, making it clear she did not. “I eagerly anticipate Christmas dinner.”

“A splendid meal.” Balwyn sent Maria a look of encouragement. “Which would be more enjoyable if you would put Achilles down, sister. As I have asked you to do no less than four times. A dog does not belong at the table.”

Lady Piedmont flushed at the rebuke. “As you wish.” She released the dog to the floor, where the little beast promptly attacked one of the footmen, Daniels. “He tends to choke if he is not fed from my fingers, doesn’t he Piedmont?”

A snore was her husband’s response.

Poor Daniels held the tray aloft as best he could, legs wobbling as Achilles continued to assault him. Roasted potatoes slid from the platter to the floor.

Owen slipped on one, his foot accidentally connecting with Archimedes, who had fallen on the spilled potatoes with gusto. Maria’s butler landed on his backside in a highly undignified fashion.

“Owen!” Maria sat up, regarding him with concern.

“Apologies, my lady.” Owen came to his feet and brushed off his trousers. “I slipped.”

“Get away from him.” Lady Piedmont wailed at Owen. “How dare you. Poor Archimedes. Mama is here.” Clutching the pug in her arms protectively, she glared at Maria.

Maria swallowed the remainder of her wine.

Johns immediately refilled her glass.

Lord Piedmont suddenly made an odd gulping sound and slumped deeper into his chair.

A brilliant conversationalist, he was not.

He fell forward, elbow smacking the edge of his fork, which launched a piece of the lamb into the air and across the table.

The small bit of meat landed with a plop in Maria’s glass of wine, sending a splatter of red droplets across the tablecloth.

She stared at the mess. She had hosted many events. Dinner parties. Balls. Charity auctions. Teas. But nothing at all had prepared her for this holiday celebration.

Balwyn made a sound.

“Do not laugh,” she whispered to him, trying to avoid looking at the lamb as it settled in the bottom of her wine glass.

“I’ll do my best.” He bit his lip. Waving over Daniels, who had finished picking up the spilled potatoes, he said, “Please bring Lady Talbot a fresh glass.”

Daniels dipped his head, lips tight, trying not to burst into a fit of giggles.

“Rosemary…” Balwyn took her hand and brought her fingers to his lips in a blatant show of affection. “Doesn’t go well with such a fine vintage.” He lowered his voice so only Maria could hear. “Though the Bordeaux might soften up the lamb.”

Maria giggled. “I don’t suppose they put lamb in the wine at Windhaven. I should have taken your advice,” she said quietly.

“You wanted to do something lovely. For me.” His voice was soft. “Entirely unnecessary, but I appreciate the effort.” Balwyn’s eyes on her were warm and filled with affection.

Lady Piedmont’s lips knotted, gaze darting between the two of them.

“Wilma recently returned from a trip to Paris,” she announced from her seat, Achilles once more curled in her arms. At Balwyn’s pointed look, she sighed and put the pug on the floor.

“One of your favorite haunts, brother. Something you two share.”

Maria, mollified by Balwyn’s attention, sat back in her chair. She vowed that no matter how horrible, what came out of Lady Piedmont’s stony lips would not cause her the least distress.

“Did you enjoy your visit to Paris?” he inquired politely.

Mrs. Lawrence took a delicate sip of wine. “I did, my lord. You know how much I admire Notre Dame. The architecture is nothing short of breathtaking. I must confess, at times I don’t even pray when I’m inside, only admire.”

“Such a virtuous nature,” Lady Piedmont nodded. “Not everyone,” her eyes drew over Maria, “shares such devotion.”

“Do you visit Paris often, Mrs. Lawrence?” Maria asked, ignoring Lady Piedmont.

“Not as often as I’d like,” she said in her musical voice.

“I blame Lord Balwyn for my obsession with the city. He escorted me about on my first visit years ago.” A delicate laugh flowed out of her.

“And encouraged my love of macarons. Did you know they were originally brought to France by a group of nuns?”

Good lord. She is annoyingly perfect.

“I did not.” Maria wanted to ask what Balwyn had been doing with Mrs. Lawrence in Paris eating macarons but decided not to fall into the trap set for her by Lady Piedmont. “How interesting.”

“Café Dumont,” Mrs. Lawrence sighed in rapture.

“Makes the most delicious pastries, does it not, my lord? A splendid place to sip tea or hot chocolate while indulging…yourself.” She pressed a palm to her lips.

“Oh, dear, how that sounded. Indulging in architecture, of course.” Mrs. Lawrence turned back to Maria. “A café near Notre Dame.”

How cozy.

“Wilma has always adored a decent flying buttress,” Balwyn noted before he and Mrs. Lawrence burst into laughter. “Or a stone rib.”

Lady Piedmont shot Maria one of her annoyingly triumphant looks. “It is nice to have things in common, isn’t it, Lady Talbot? Architecture is a hobby of Balwyn’s, which I’m sure you know.”

Maria had not known. Nor did she have any idea what a flying buttress happened to be.

The table was quickly cleared of plates as Owen returned with dessert. A cake of some sort. Lumpy. Thick with icing. Her butler cut into the oddly shaped mass easily, which was a relief. Also, nothing smelled charred. A good sign, given the condition of the lamb.

Owen carefully placed a slice before each of them.

Johns appeared with an assortment of cheeses, along with sliced apples and pears, placing the bounty in the center of the table. Much like the wine, it would be difficult for Mrs. Killigrew to ruin a wedge of Cheshire. Or an apple.

“This cake has an interesting taste. Very…flavorful.” Mrs. Lawrence took another bite and chewed slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so…unusual.”