Page 28 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

A melia glanced around her table at her guests and allowed herself a silent moment of triumph. Her dinner, thus far, had gone off without a hitch. She looked forward to discussing the evening with her husband later.

But not yet. One course to go.

“I congratulate you on your chef,” Lady Frommer, the dowager duchess of Glastonbury, seated to her left said. “I could have dined on his sauces alone.”

“Simply delicious,” Lady Culver, the viscountess, across from Lady Frommer agreed.

Amelia preened.

Six delectable courses of seven served, all perfectly prepared, and accordingly well-received.

She sipped at her claret and ticked them off in her mind.

Course one, a luscious soup a la Julienne ; course two, poached turbot and salmon with rich accompanying sauces; course three, the roast meats of lamb and duck; course four, small delectables comprised of sweetbread fricassee and pigeon en croute ; course five, the savory vegetables Amelia most adored—cauliflower au gratin , braised celery with herbs, and stewed mushrooms.

The last, course six, consisted of a salad of wintergreens, jellied calf’s foot—of which Amelia had chosen not to partake—and pickled walnuts.

Conversation around the table quieted as immaculate, liveried footmen, one of whom Amelia did not recognize, cleared away the last of the dishes. She smiled at the man encouragingly. He would be either George or James, one of two recently hired footmen, both ex-soldiers, though neither served under her husband.

The servants bustled out and two more entered—Geoffrey, carrying a silver tray laden with champagne flutes, followed by Andrew, hefting two icy bottles of champagne.

Trays of jellies and blancmange , fruit tarts and pastries, and plum pudding followed.

The ladies oohed over the elaborately dished sweets as they were placed before them.

Across the table from her, her handsome husband was deep in conversation with Lord Selbie, the marquis, to his left, and her father, as the highest-ranking guest in attendance, to his right.

She knew, of course, the seating arrangement broke with custom. She’d taken a risk, there.

The highest-ranking lady in attendance, Lady Frommer, the dowager duchess, should have been seated beside her husband, while her father and Lord Selbie should have been near her, but that would have defeated the purpose of the evening—to bring Chase and important party members together in a social setting.

Amelia found she did not particularly care for Lord Selbie. She suspected a few moments in her company and the feeling would be mutual.

On second thought, probably not. Lord Selbie seemed more interested in hearing himself talk than in wasting time noting anyone else’s opinion. The man was too pompous and outspoken by half.

She chided herself, not for the first time. Lord Selbie was a guest whom she had invited, for pity’s sake.

The good news was, the men seemed pleased with the seating arrangements. Amelia had caught snippets of their exchanges. Most centered around the military.

Poor Lady Selbie sat quietly beside Amelia’s father, diagonally across from her husband the marquis. The petite, unprepossessing woman had said very little during the night other than to murmur her appreciation of the foods served and to ask after her husband’s enjoyment of same.

A twinge of guilt assailed Amelia for not attending to the woman. In her defense, Amelia would practically have to shout if she were to engage Lady Selbie, and she doubted Chase or her father would appreciate her efforts.

With the desserts served and the champagne poured, the din in the room quieted. Perhaps now she could draw out the marchioness. She opened her mouth only to be forestalled by Lady Frommer.

“Lady Culver, I heard a small tale concerning you.”

She addressed Amelia, but as she and the viscountess bore the same name, Lady Frommer’s question drew both of their attention, as well as Lord Culver’s, seated beside her.

“What is that, Lady Frommer?” Amelia probed.

“Is it true you raise dogs?”

By some miracle of timing, the lady’s question rang out in the room, clear as a crystal bell. Amelia noted her father’s head shift in her direction, as had most everyone’s in the room.

She set her fork down and glanced across the table at her husband, who watched her with an unreadable expression. “ Er …I do not so much raise dogs as rescue them. On occasion,” she hastened to add.

Her father jerked his head in Chase’s direction as if to ascertain her husband’s reaction.

Chase, in fact, said nothing.

Amelia fixed her attention on Lady Frommer and reached for her champagne. She took a hasty sip. “Who mentioned dogs in connection with me?”

“Lady Barclay. Claims she took one off your hands. Said you’d done a good job training it. Good disposition and all that.”

“Flora,” Amelia murmured, fondly. “Yes, such a sweet little thing. I thought she’d be good company for Lady Barclay’s ailing grandchild.” She thought she heard a snort coming from the other end of the table.

“Dogs are good for hunting, and for keeping out riffraff. This whole business of coddling them seems like a sign of the times,” Lord Selbie said.

Deciding his comment was not meant for her, Amelia chose to ignore it.

“Little Jessica has suffered much since her accident,” Lady Frommer mused, seemingly unaware of Lord Selbie’s acerbic comments. “Lady Barclay tells me her spirits are much improved since the arrival of…Flora, did you say?”

“Yes.”

Another snort. “Naming dogs after people, now? This is rich.” Lord Selbie’s laugh was not pleasant.

Amelia wondered if he’d had over-imbibed. Perhaps she ought to have stuck with six courses instead of seven. Just as well the evening neared its end.

“Evidently this Flora follows Jessica everywhere she goes,” Lady Frommer told her.

Amelia lowered her voice in hopes Lord Selbie might lose interest in the goings on at her end of the table if he had to strain to hear, not to mention she had hoped to gain her father’s approval with this evening’s success. Now she’d be lucky not to earn a withering set-down by the man who sired her.

She refused to contemplate what Chase must be thinking. He had, after all, told her not to bring the dogs to his home.

“I am not surprised to hear having a canine companion has had an elevating effect on poor Jessica. I have read numerous accounts of dogs, and cats for that matter, being successfully employed to help those with both physical and mental difficulties to live more fulfilling lives.”

A hush settled over the room. All eyes fixed on her, and she replayed what she’d said. Horror splashed through her. She’d openly referred to one of the journal articles the Ladies’ Literary Society had read on a topic which would, of a certainty, not be one considered by polite society bettering for females.

Equally dismaying, Lord Selbie had not lost interest. He regarded her with a glittering intensity. “Oh, well, now I’ve heard it all. A cat used to heal madness? What’s next? In addition to lining up at soup kitchens, the vermin cluttering the streets since the war all sign up to receive a blanket and a dog?”

Amelia felt her face grow hot. She dared not look toward her husband’s end of the table. She searched her mind for a way to change the subject.

“Fascinating,” Lady Frommer said, her tone banal—purposely so, if Amelia hazarded to guess. The gray-haired lady flicked Selbie a dismissive glance, then returned her attention to Amelia. “Have you more hounds from the same litter?”

Amelia found herself ridiculously on the verge of tears. As long as she lived she would remember the woman’s kindness. She decided to no longer bother lowering her voice. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes, we have three. A girl and two boys. Rose, Fergus and Roddy.”

“Wherever did you find them?” Lady Culver asked.

Amelia blanched. She had ventured into the stews to retrieve them. Then Lady Selbie’s voice rose above the din, saving her from having to reply. “Did you say Flora, Rose, Fergus, and Roddy?”

Renewed dread washed through her. When had she and her puppies become the evening’s focus?

As if pressing through quicksand, she turned to face Lady Selbie. She pointedly avoided looking at the men. Still, from the corner of her eye, she saw both her husband and her father watching her.

“Yes,” she replied, pleased that her voice sounded normal. “There’s also an Edward, although he now resides in the country estate of my close friend, Mrs. Nancy Floyd.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you take the names from”—the marchioness ducked her head as if unsure—“ Waverle y?”

“By George, Lady Selbie, you’ve pegged it,” Chase answered, his tone conversational. “My wife, indeed, named her little band of rascals after the characters in the novel.”

“I adored Waverley,” Lady Selbie said, her shy gaze swinging between Chase and Amelia.

Amelia sent the woman an encouraging smile. Chase’s seemingly unconcerned demeanor had greatly eased her mind.

Lord Selbie tossed his serviette on the table. “We can lay the blame for your lapse on that Scottish blood you inherited from your mother’s side, no doubt. Written by an obvious Jacobite sympathizer, from what I’ve heard. If you ask me they should have banned the book as incendiary. I’m sure Fallsgate agrees.” He sniffed and gave Chase an arch look.

The underlying challenge seemed clear, at least to Amelia. Side with Lord Selbie—and her father, evidently—and chastise Amelia for having read such drivel, or disagree with the marquis, and lose him as a potential ally.

Amelia held her breath. She’d put Chase in an untenable position. He needed Lord Selbie’s support, but to publicly mock not only Amelia but also Lady Selbie in such an unchivalrous manner would go against the fiber of his being.

Her father chose that moment to speak up. “I don’t see the gravity here, Selbie. Waverley is a work of fiction, one which Prinny quite enjoyed. Once the prince regent touted it a must-read, who could blame the ladies for their interest?”

Gratitude for her father’s well-timed input filled her. He had stepped in to save the day for Chase. It was the second time tonight he had surprised her.

Earlier, as he escorted her from the drawing room to the dining hall, he asked her how she fared. Specifically, he wondered if Chase treated her with kindness and patience, or if he was too hard on her. Something in his eyes told her he felt true concern for her.

When she happily reported she found her husband to be more than tolerant of her eccentricities, she’d expected him to express gladness at the news. Instead, he seemed vexed, not pleased, and his next words only added to her confusion. “I only ever wanted what was best for you, Amelia.”

Chase’s resounding voice dragged her from her reverie. “Interesting about the prince regent, Lord Fallsgate. I hadn’t heard that. I, too enjoyed the book.” He lounged back in his chair as if prepared to expound on the subject for hours. “I found the author’s depiction of military actions and strategies stimulating. Too, the internal struggle of the hero, Edward ,” he put in, stressing the name, and thus, his familiarity with the novel, “provoked much thought, as, I assume the anonymous author intended.”

His heavy-lidded, non-blinking gaze slid to Selbie’s.

A charged silence filled the room as the marquis’s face turned a dull shade of red.

Amelia saw her father roll his eyes. He gazed at the ceiling in a depressingly familiar fashion.

She had to act. She leapt to her feet practically upending her chair. “Would the ladies care to join me in the drawing room for coffee?”

The women present did not hesitate. With murmurs of assent, they rose from their seats, with the men following suit to stand in stoic silence as Amelia ushered Lady Frommer, Lady Selbie, and Lady Culver from the dining hall.

Chase resumed his seat and gestured for the footmen to distribute the after-dinner drinks.

Across the table, he met his uncle’s twinkling, if sympathetic, gaze. The look said Chase had stepped in it now.

But then, if he could, Chase would tell his uncle nothing he said or did would inspire Lord Selbie to back legislation in support of the battle-scarred veterans dotting the streets and alleyways of London. His conversation tonight with the marquis had confirmed that much.

As the night wore on, Selbie, too, seemed to recognize they held diametrically opposed views. Whereas Chase saw the bulk of veterans as good men, who had sacrificed all for their country, only to return as heroes on the one hand, and rejected and shamed vermin on the other, Selbie saw the men in a much different light.

In a word, he saw them as chattel.

The rank-and-file soldiers lucky enough to come home, hale and hardy and able to resume day-to-day activities as if nothing had changed for them, were moderately tolerable to Selbie. Those who had lost a limb, or who had been somehow been altered on the inside, and now found themselves unable to lead consistent, productive lives were casualties of war and a problem beneath his notice.

Certainly he did not feel the Crown owed them anything other than the pay they had received for doing their civic duties.

Where Fallsgate landed on the topic was anyone’s guess. He tended to play his cards close, much as Amelia did when she did not want her feelings known, although Chase was learning to see through her mask of polite civility.

Regarding Selbie, Chase had accepted the truth of the matter an hour earlier. He would have to look elsewhere for support. Nothing beyond a simple case of un-likeminded peers.

Then, in the manner of a bully who knows he has the superior strength, Selbie flexed his muscles. His obnoxious behavior before the ladies exited the dining hall was an obvious attempt to educate Chase as to his place in the grand scheme of things. He had made a fatal mistake when he used Amelia as the means to do it. No one treated his wife with such blatant disrespect, especially not under Chase’s roof.

“A fine meal, m’boy, and vastly entertaining.” His uncle lifted his crystal glass of port in a silent toast.

Chase returned the gesture with a sardonic grin.

The two men drank.

“I have to admit, I was surprised to receive the invitation,” Lord Selbie said. “Curiosity to meet the newly ennobled Iron Lion of Barrosa compelled me to accept.” He slanted Chase a chilly glance. “I can say, it’s been an illuminating evening.”

Chase returned his stare. “Has it? On behalf of myself and my wife, allow me to thank you and Lady Selbie for deigning to make the trip out of London to join us for my wife’s debut as a hostess.”

“Ah, yes. Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Culver.” Selbie shifted his focus to Fallsgate. His lips twitched. “Fallsgate, you must be proud your daughter made such an advantageous match…” He paused, and added, “After everything.”

The not-so-subtle reference to Amelia’s broken engagements, as well as Selbie’s obvious belief she could have looked much higher than Chase for a husband had she not managed to run off two candidates, caught Chase off-guard for the first time all evening.

This wasn’t about Chase after all. Selbie had something against Fallsgate.

The marquis went on, “She’s the spitting image of your wife at her age. Apparently, much the same temperament, as well.”

The earl went utterly still. Only a muscle in his hard jaw ticked. When he spoke, his voice was lethally soft. “My wife was a consummate lady, as is my daughter, of whom, as a matter of fact, I am very proud.”

“Of course.”

“As for her choice of husbands, I could not be more pleased.”

Selbie arched a brow.

“A decorated officer, a man of integrity, whose acclaim drew the attention of the Crown and earned him a title in his own right, a future viscount, who dotes on my daughter. What more could a father desire?”

“What more indeed?” Selbie, who’d opted for brandy, downed the remainder of his snifter in one toss, then pulled an ornately carved gold timepiece from his waistcoat. “Lady Selbie and I must be off. The hour grows late and there is the matter of the ride back to London.”

Chase pushed back from the table and rose. “Let us rejoin the ladies.”