Page 23 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

C assie and Kendrick were both either extraordinarily stubborn or extraordinarily stupid. Sebastian had offered every excuse he could think of to force them apart, and neither had taken the bait. If he didn’t know better, he might start to think they actually enjoyed arguing with each other…

But none of that mattered now. Cass would have to fend for herself. All Sebastian’s attention had been arrested by the sight of Mr and Mrs Smythe chatting to Lord Beeston as they admired the view from the patio.

He gave his sister a covert look of apology and broke into a run, pushing past the merrymakers standing in his way, taking the steps two at a time until he skidded to a halt dramatically in front of Jenny’s aunt and uncle.

“Mr Smythe!” he cried, trying to recover his composure enough to make it look as though he were not utterly horrified to see him. “Welcome to Whitby Manor! I trust I find you well?”

Lord Beeston was reclining in his armchair with his cane laid across his knees. He watched Sebastian with an air of distinct amusement and made absolutely no move to assist.

“Mrs Smythe,” said Sebastian, turning to Jenny’s Aunt Fanny with a bow. “To, uh, to what do we owe the honour of your…”

“We have come to give Lord Beeston news of Miss Cartwright,” said Aunt Fanny, who was sitting on the very edge of her chair as though she was afraid it would spoil her stiff lace gown.

Sebastian’s smile stayed in place, but he was quite sure his eyes must be full of horror. “Have you?” He looked to Lord Beeston, who simply caressed the end of his cane and returned him a bland smile. “Have you, really? And how…” He stopped to quell the cough rising in his dry throat. “How is Miss Cartwright?”

“You will be pleased to hear that we expect her to make a full recovery,” said Mr Smythe. He turned towards Sebastian and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “She has borne her illness with… fortitude .”

Sebastian sucked in a deep breath. “That’s wonderful!” He could barely bring himself to glance at Lord Beeston.

“Wonderful,” repeated Lord Beeston, and gave a yawn. “Smythe, I think you were just about to tell me when and where I should call upon my dear fiancée?”

He’s enjoying this , Sebastian realised. He gritted his teeth, a muscle beginning to twitch in his jaw from the effort of smiling. At least, he supposed, Beeston’s amusement was better than the alternative: blind rage.

“Oh!” said Mrs Smythe, jumping as though struck with a pin. “Oh, you must not visit yet, my lord.”

“It’s quite impossible,” said her husband smoothly. “Dear Jenny is adamant that she wishes to look her very best on the day she finally meets you.”

“Hmm.” Beeston flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the end of his cane. “I thought you told me she was eager to be wed.”

“Very eager!” said Mrs Smythe. “She can barely contain her eagerness!”

“And yet,” interjected Mr Smythe, “she must.”

Beeston frowned. “She’s not vain , is she?”

“Not a bit of it!”

“She has the humility of a saint!”

“Hmm. What do you think, Whitby?” Beeston’s dark eyes skewered Sebastian.

Sebastian’s throat worked. It was like trying to swallow sandpaper. “I can’t say, my lord.”

“It all seems most irregular.” Beeston shook his head. “I am no longer convinced this match is in my best interests.”

Mr Smythe glared in Sebastian’s direction. “Go on, Captain Whitby. Give your friend your best advice.”

“I…” Where was Jenny? Safe in the kitchens, he hoped. “I think you had better not decide until you meet the lady,” he said, holding his hands stiffly behind his back.

“Until I meet her,” Beeston repeated. He made it sound like a threat.

“The lady can explain herself to you face to face,” said Sebastian, desperately clawing his way back to solid ground.

“Ah!” said Beeston, a cruel gleam in his eyes. “Do you think she still wishes to marry me, Whitby?”

Sebastian was saved from making a response by the effusions of Mrs Smythe. “She will assure you as much,” said Mrs Smythe, “the very moment she is well enough to receive you.”

“And if she does not, it don’t much signify,” said her husband sagely. “The girl will do as I tell her, and I tell her she’s to wed.”

That was too much. Sebastian whirled on Mr Smythe, his tongue lashing before his brain could reel it in. “I don’t like the way you speak of your niece, Mr Smythe.”

“Whitby,” Beeston warned him.

“She’s my ward,” Mr Smythe pointed out. “I’ll speak of her however I choose, and order her how I will. What does it matter to you, sir?”

“It ought to matter to any man of decency,” said Sebastian. The familiar bright rage boiled up in his chest. It was almost a relief to give in to it. “It matters a great deal when a heartless wretch of a fellow speaks of a living, breathing person living under his protection as though she has no more value than a sack of potatoes!”

“ Whitby !” Beeston snapped, just harshly enough to startle Sebastian’s head above the rising tide of rage. He lifted his cane and poked it sharply in the direction of the garden. Sebastian became aware of a series of shouts, whistles and a high-pitched wailing that had no place at all in a civilised garden party. Some sort of commotion was unfolding in the midst of the garden party. Mrs Whitby came running full pelt across the lawn, both arms aloft.

“ Help !” she cried. “Sebastian! Come here at once! Cassandra is murdering Mr. Dudley!”

True enough, the crowd parted enough to give them all clear view of Cassie with a fencing foil in hand, hair streaming in the wind as she clashed blades again and again with one of Appleby’s most respectable gentlemen.

It was probably for the best. The last thing Sebastian needed was to lose his temper and box Mr Smythe’s ears. He closed his eyes a moment and took a deep breath.

“Do excuse me,” he said, cutting the Smythes a curt bow. “My sister appears to be fighting a duel. Damned if I know what I’m supposed to do about it.”

There seemed to be a fencing match taking place in the middle of the garden party. Jenny could not get a decent view, as Mr Plum had a deathlike grip on her elbow, and was marching her into the house as though she were a common criminal. Mr Gage, meanwhile, had taken her by the other arm, but due to the effects of the fruit punch, he was more hindrance than support.

“Now that’s a party!” he exclaimed, lifting his glass in the direction of Cassandra Whitby as she disarmed a red-faced fellow in an expensive-looking suit. “This is high society and no mistake, eh, Miss Cartwright! We’d never think of fencing over tea and cake in Shepton Mallet.”

“Mr Plum,” said Jenny, trying without success to wrest her hand from his grip, “I demand that you release me at once! Lord Beeston is perfectly aware of who I am. He made arrangements for me to leave Whitby Manor.”

“Did he also make arrangements for you to seduce Captain Whitby?” asked Mr Plum, with a nasty grin.

“Why, you uncivilised, impolite, shameless…” Jenny did not have a great repertoire of insults. She was sure Sebastian could have come up with a fitting end to that sentence. She, however, had to resort to simply glaring at him. “Mr Gage, will you please tell this man to unhand me at once?”

“What was that?” Mr Gage blinked at Mr Plum blearily as though seeing him for the first time. “Where is he taking us?”

“To Lord Beeston,” said Mr Plum.

“No, that’s not right.” Mr Gage shook his head muzzily as he allowed Mr Plum to drag Jenny along, and himself to be dragged in her wake. “She’s not marrying Lord Beeston. Said so herself.”

“And if that’s the case, I’m sure his lordship and Mr Smythe will have no difficulty in confirming it,” said Mr Plum. They had left the garden party, the duel, and its attendant shouts and cheers behind them and were ascending the steps to the patio.

Jenny had had more than enough of being manhandled. She raised her foot and stamped on Mr Plum’s boot as hard as he could.

It probably did not hurt him much, but it surprised him enough to let her go.

“Come along, Mr Gage,” she said breathlessly, taking hold of her brother-in-law’s hefty arm. “Let’s order your cart out from the stables and be on our way. You are taking me back to Shepton Mallet.” She assessed his sobriety levels and added, “I’ll drive.”

Mr Gage did not budge. “Mr Smythe is here?”

“And doubtless very concerned for Miss Cartwright’s safety,” added Mr Plum. Jenny wished she had stomped him harder.

“Mr Gage,” she said. “Please. Take me to Helen.”

He shook his head. “Mr Smythe is your guardian.”

“Only for the next two and a half weeks!”

“Come along, Miss Cartwright,” said Mr Gage, taking her by the hand. “I am duty-bound to deliver you safely back to your uncle.”

For a moment, Jenny thought she might burst into tears.

To her amazement, no hot lump rose in her throat. Her eyes did not sting and burn with impending teardrops.

A icy calm settled over her instead.

She really was not the same Jennifer Cartwright who had hidden, trembling, in a wooden chest rather than tell her uncle she did not wish to be married. She was not sure who she had become instead, but she was certain of one thing.

Uncle Fitz was never going to make her feel small again.

“Very well,” she said, smiling with such brightness that Mr Plum actually flinched back from her, uncertainty clouding the malicious glint in his eyes. “Please escort me to my uncle.”