Page 21 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)
Chapter Twenty-One
S ebastian awoke late the next morning, head clouded and muzzy, mouth parched by the heat of the sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Jenny’s virtuous departure had saved him only from the pleasant sort of sleepless night. He had still to lie awake listening out for Cassandra’s return, to mutter all sorts of curses he would never dare speak to his wayward sister’s face, and to stare at the ceiling and attempt to soothe his racing heart with thoughts of Jenny.
Of course, those thoughts only brought with them a far more interesting sort of torment.
The household appeared to be in a state of extreme business, but Sebastian had no time to stop and investigate what catastrophe was impending now.
He had his own disaster to face. He intended to confess everything to Beeston without further delay.
The sort of man Jennifer Cartwright deserved was not someone who hid from the consequences of his own actions. For Jenny’s sake, as well as to satisfy his own sense of honour, it was time to make a clean breast of it.
In Lord Beeston’s chambers he found only Mr Plum, fussing about with the contents of the dressing table.
“His lordship has condescended to pass the morning in the first drawing room,” sniffed Plum, sounding as though he considered Whitby Manor’s finest receiving room rather less comfortable than, say, a French prison barge.
“Do you know what, Plum,” began Sebastian, taking a menacing step towards him. The valet dropped the handkerchiefs he was folding and took a step back.
“Captain Whitby?”
Sebastian thought of Jenny, and how she would want him to behave, and his pugnacious hands relaxed. “Nothing. A pleasant morning to you.”
There was no footman at the drawing room door. Another sign of how his ancestral home had diminished in his absence. Sebastian strode in, surprised to find Beeston was not alone.
Georgiana was sitting at the pianoforte. She was not playing it, but had rather turned about on the stool and was leaning towards Beeston with a keen expression on her face. Beeston’s armchair faced away from the door, so Sebastian could not guess what he was saying, nor why it should command his sister’s attention. All he could see was the polished wooden cane resting against the arm, and the corner of Lord Beeston’s unworn boot beside it.
“Georgie!” he barked, deliberately using the pet name that set her firmly in place as the baby of the family. “I see you’ve finished playing. I must have a word with Lord Beeston.” The sight of her and Beeston speaking together filled him with a disquiet he could not name. Besides, the things he had to say to Beeston were not for her ears.
Georgiana pressed her lips together, not quite hiding a smile, and relaxed back on the piano stool as though she had no intention at all of moving. “Good morning, Sebastian. I trust you slept well.”
He had not, in fact, and he knew it was perfectly obvious. No doubt Georgiana thought he had been up late reacquainting himself with Appleby’s taverns. He breezed past her, greeting Lord Beeston with a bow. Beeston’s response was a curt nod in the direction of the lawn beyond the patio doors.
“Your father’s ideas of economy are truly remarkable,” said Beeston darkly.
Sebastian followed his gaze to see, to his horror, all the trappings of a lavish garden party being rolled out. A striped sun canopy was half-raised upon the lawn. Trestle tables were spread with crisp white cloths and laden with piles of delectable refreshments. It all looked extraordinarily expensive.
An expletive left his lips that made Georgiana gasp.
“Excuse me,” he said, cutting Beeston a sharp bow, and ran through the double doors in the direction of the waving silver-topped cane which marked his father.
Halfway across the patio, he nearly barrelled into a slip of a woman in a wide straw bonnet who was busy arranging the piled oranges. She caught his arm to steady herself and lifted her face, offering him a beaming smile from beneath the enormous bonnet. “Captain Whitby!”
He blinked. “Miss Isobel Balfour?” Halfway through his hasty bow, he remembered that was not right. Isobel’s brother was now a duke. “Beg pardon. Lady Isobel.”
Isobel covered her grin with a lace-gloved hand. “Nearly there,” she said, encouragingly. Sebastian stared at her in confusion.
“I go by Mrs Lucius now,” she explained patiently. “Since I am married to your brother.”
“Dash it all, so you are!” He recovered himself enough to embrace her, sweeping her up into a brotherly hug just the way he would Georgiana, Evie or Cass. “Another sister! A man can never have too many.”
“Gracious, Sebastian, you’re supposed to be wishing me joy, not squeezing the life from me,” she protested, with a fond smile. “I’m glad to see you’re as well as ever.” The same wild creature as ever, she meant, but he did not mind it from the woman who had such an improving effect on his brother. “Lucius and I arrived early this morning. We had some hopes of curbing the scale of the garden party, but…” She gestured helplessly to the laden tables and resumed the task Sebastian had interrupted, of arranging the plates of piled oranges. “Your father insists it was all long since ordered and paid for.”
Sebastian set his jaw. “Let’s see what I can do,” he said, rolling up his sleeves as he marched down the lawn.
Jenny had several hours to while away in the servants’ quarters before the carter could drive her to the coaching inn from which she would leave for Shepton Mallet. Since she did not much like feeling like a spare part as she sat in the kitchen with busy servants bustling around her, she donned an apron and assisted the maids in carrying out the platters of food – such food! It seemed Mr and Mrs Whitby intended to feed the whole town to bursting point – while she waited for the cart to be ready to convey her to town, where she would catch the mail coach.
As she brought out a plate of cream buns, Sebastian crossed the veranda ahead of her, his stride quick and angry. She could not keep her eyes from following him across the lawn, admiring the broad shape of his shoulders, the strength and agility of his form. A quiver of heat uncoiled deep in her stomach.
“The buns belong over here,” said Mrs Lucius Whitby, catching her attention with a wave and a smile. Jenny flushed, realising that it must have been obvious whom she was admiring. To Sebastian’s sister-in-law, she must have seemed a very impertinent servant. Mrs Lucius made no mention of it, however, and simply took the plate from Jenny’s hands to set it in place. “There. That all looks quite lovely, does it not? Please tell Mrs Teasley to keep the rest of the food indoors until the sun canopy is ready.”
Jenny bobbed a quick curtsey and was about to make her way back to the kitchens when she heard a name that turned her blood to ice.
“Miss Cartwright?” The housekeeper came out onto the patio, shaking her head as she spoke to one of the maids. “There must be some mistake. I know of no Miss Cartwright in the house.” She greeted Sebastian’s sister-in-law with a smile of real warmth. “Mrs Lucius, do any of your servants go by the name of Cartwright?”
Jenny backed away step by step. Running would only call attention, but staying felt unbearably risky. She felt frozen, like a rabbit before a farmer’s shotgun.
“Cartwright? I’m afraid not,” said Mrs Lucius. “We brought only my maid, whom you already know. Lord Beeston?” she called, turning to address the earl where he sat just inside the wide double doors. “Do you happen to know a person named Cartwright?”
Jenny risked a glance at Lord Beeston’s face and immediately regretted it. His eyes were fixed on her, full of dark amusement. He made a show of stroking his chin.
“Cartwright,” he said. “Let me think…”
Jenny turned on her heel and rushed back to the kitchens, ducking aside to avoid the tall, lithe form of Miss Cassandra Whitby, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, into the house.
Sebastian would be glad. His sister had returned safely from her nocturnal adventures, whatever they were.
But Jenny had no thoughts to spare for Cassandra’s secrets. She had her own to protect. She hurtled into the welcome gloom of the servants’ quarters as though someone might seize her by the collar and jerk her back into the sunlight at any moment.
At the kitchen door she paused, forcing herself to take a deep breath and straighten out her skirts.
Only a few more hours and she would be on the mail coach, on her way to Shepton Mallet, and Helen, and the chance to turn one-and-twenty in peace.
She set her shoulders and entered the kitchen, where Mrs Thomas was taking a leisurely breakfast. The old nurse did not share Jenny’s compunction about sitting down while the maids scurried to and fro.
Jenny delivered Mrs Lucius’s message to the cook and sat down beside Mrs Thomas, deciding that her own desire to be helpful was significantly outweighed by her desire not to be discovered. She took up a bread roll. A little food was just what she needed to steady her nerves.
“There you are at last, Miss Cartwright!”
Jenny dropped her butter knife.
Advancing towards her, a smile breaking over his red-cheeked face, was Mr Gage, her sister’s husband.
Sebastian had about as much luck finding out where Cassandra had spent the night as he did persuading his father to call off the garden party. That is to say, none at all. Cassandra had reappeared only to sashay off into the house without a word of explanation, and Horace Whitby…
Horace remained his usual, infuriating self.
“It’s tradition !” Horace Whitby protested, still waving his arms about to orchestrate the correct layout of the seating. “Whitby Manor has hosted a party to celebrate the end of the Appleby Fencing Tourney for – for –”
“At least five years,” Lucius supplied, stacking up barrels of fine wine in exactly the way a responsible older brother shouldn’t.
“Centuries!” Mr Whitby blustered. “Give or take a few years along the way.”
“To hell with the fencing tourney!” Sebastian exclaimed. “What about Lord Beeston?”
“He will enjoy the party as much as anyone else does.”
“I doubt it, since it was paid for with his money.”
“Now, don’t be ridiculous. Lord Beeston’s money was swallowed up by that dratted land purchase that went awry. This was all put together with the little sum we borrowed from Lady Lewis last year.”
“That isn’t how it works, Father.” Sebastian’s shoulders sagged. He’d always known his father was not a sensible man, but only now was he confronted by the full breath-taking power of Horace’s financial mismanagement. “Lucius, tell him!”
Lucius paused at his work, sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Welcome home, Sebastian. You missed quite a bit while you were at sea. I’ve already told him, cursed him, broken from the family, taken up a trade, and been disinherited. It is your turn to have a go. Though I advise you to save your breath.”
Mr Whitby smiled as though Lucius hadn’t spoken, and tapped the side of his nose. “I have reason to suspect Lord Beeston will be lenient in calling in his debt.”
“Have you met him?” Sebastian growled. “He considers leniency a moral failing.”
“Your sister is taking care of it.”
Sebastian went cold. “You’re out of your mind.”
“ Sebastian .” Lucius set a firm grip on his arm and steered him away from their father before something – or someone – got broken. “It’s no good, old chap. Father is obsessed with the idea of one of us marrying well enough to save him from himself.” Lucius gave a heavy sigh. “He tried it with Evie and Lord Henry. That did not come to anything. Next, he tried it with myself and Isobel.”
“Well, you did marry Isobel,” Sebastian pointed out.
“Yes,” said Lucius, with a grin, “and my business ventures will support us both in tolerable comfort.”
Sebastian let out a dry laugh. “Father cannot have been happy when you found yourself an honest trade.”
“Not as unhappy as he was to discover the thoroughly unremarkable size of Isobel’s dowry – or that I would not let him touch a penny of it.” Despite his gloomy words, Lucius had never looked happier or healthier. His nose was sunburned, his form filled out with hard-earned muscle, and he was gazing up at the heavily-bonneted lady on the veranda with unashamed adoration.
“Congratulations, by the way,” said Sebastian, digging his elbow into Lucius’s ribs. “On the business. And the lady, I suppose.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “I suppose that makes me the only gentleman left. The honour of the family name rests on my shoulders!”
“That must be a nasty shock to your system,” said Lucius, throwing his arm around Sebastian’s shoulders and giving him a shake. “I’d advise you to forget about it.” His tone turned abruptly serious. “Truly, brother, forget it all. Concentrate on your own future. Your career is going well, is it not? To mangle a naval metaphor, don’t go down with Father’s sinking ship.”
Sebastian could not form a reply. He was too distracted by the sight of Jenny, wearing her brown workday dress and a maid’s apron, running from the patio as fast as she could.
His first thought was to go after her, but then he remembered that she was still, as far as anybody knew, a servant.
Something had frightened her, however, and he determined to discover what it was. He shrugged Lucius off and jogged up the steps to the patio. Isobel and the housekeeper were debating the merits of the different kinds of fruit on the refreshment table. Behind them, in the drawing room, Lord Beeston had summoned Plum to help him upstairs. He had a hand on Mr Plum’s shoulder. The other gripped his cane, and though his fingers were white at the knuckles, he crossed the room in this manner with the ghost of the grace he had possessed before his injury.
Had Beeston said something to upset Jenny? Sebastian started towards him. Better to have it all out now, in any case, rather than let things fester any longer. The money, the party, the deception, the engagement… He could not say he relished the prospect of getting it all out into the open, but he had a duty to uphold by speaking the truth. “Beeston,” he began.
“ Sebastian !” Mrs Whitby hurried through, carrying a hat from which several large feathers were waving and bobbing and threatening to knock the ornaments from the shelves. “You must go upstairs and dress! Our guests arrive within the hour!” She noticed Lord Beeston and let out a squawk of surprise which she endeavoured, unconvincingly, to turn into a cry of delight. “Lord Beeston! I do hope you’ll be joining us?”
Beeston gave Plum the signal to halt. “Something you need to discuss with me, Whitby?” His eyes passed expressionlessly over Sebastian’s face, leaving a chill behind them.
Sebastian tucked his arms behind his back and looked Beeston in the eye. “It concerns Miss Cartwright.”
“Oh, at last!” exclaimed Isobel, overhearing them from the terrace. “Sebastian, the housekeeper has been searching all over for this ‘Miss Cartwright.’ There’s a relative of hers downstairs who needs to see her most urgently. Do you know her?”
“What a coincidence,” said Beeston, still impassive. “I was going to ask you the very same question.”
“A relative?” Sebastian repeated, alarmed. Had Mr Smythe at last discovered that Jenny was hiding at Whitby Manor? What exactly did he intend to do by finding her downstairs in the servant’s quarters?
Nothing good, no doubt.
“I should be off, if I were you,” said Beeston. His mouth had gone up at one corner. It might have been a smile, but a snarl seemed more likely.
Sebastian made a hasty bow and scrambled past his mother to the servants’ staircase.
“ Sebastian !” she cried. “That is not the way to your dressing room! Oh, that boy!”