Page 27 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

“Oh, sit down, you wearisome child,” the dowager said with a sigh.

“I offer your sister no insult. I only wish for your venture to succeed. If you stop to listen to what I am saying, you will realise I admire women with gumption. More to the point, I admire women with gumption and patience enough to give those who have none the benefit of their support. Like that poor creature quivering beside you on the settee,” she said, giving Clara a rather exasperated look that suggested that whilst her gumption was not in question, she was not one of those with patience.

Clara, already horrified by the entire encounter, seemed to diminish before their eyes. The dowager sighed.

“I may not have the gentle touch,” she said wryly, but I have social clout, money, and an outspoken nature. In short, you need me, like it or not.”

Izzy still looked aggrieved, but Bea listened to the dowager and watched her closely.

The way she spoke might be abrupt and harsh, for that was in her nature, but she was entirely sincere.

She wished to help the women of Little Valentine, and they would be fools to turn that offer down.

“You must allow us time to discuss this matter in private, your grace, but I believe we would be agreeable to considering your proposal to be our patroness—”

“Bea!” Izzy exclaimed, eyes wide with astonishment.

Bea glared at her, imploring her to hold her tongue.

“Or at least, one of our patronesses. I see no reason why my sister ought to be deposed of her place, especially as this club was her vision, and would not exist without her. However, having a countess, no matter how newly minted, and the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney among our ranks, well, that would certainly be something to celebrate.”

The dowager considered Bea for a long moment and then gave a satisfied bark of laughter. “Well, you ain’t so featherbrained as I feared. Good for you. I accept.”

“Wait,” Bea said in alarm, for she had asked for time to discuss the possibility of her becoming their patron, but the dowager was in no mood to listen.

Glancing at Anne, Bea found the woman smiling wryly, but she gave a nod of agreement.

Turning next to Izzy, she found her sister looking at her with unabashed admiration.

“Well done, Bea,” she whispered.

Bea let out a breath before turning to Clara.

“Clara?”

“If you think I’m going to be the one to tell her no, you are very much mistaken,” Clara hissed, looking as if the very suggestion would have her bolting from the room.

“Well, it seems as if we are all in agreement,” Bea said, turning back to the dowager, who was occupied in overseeing the tea tray that had just arrived.

“Of course you are, unless you’re all dicked in the nob,” the dowager said calmly. “Now, Howard, hand those biscuits around, though heaven alone knows why it took you so long. Had to bake some, did he?”

“No, your grace, but they were still in the oven,” the butler replied.

“Ha! Did it on purpose, the old goat. He thinks I don’t know his scheming ways, but I’m up to his weight,” she said with satisfaction. “You, gel, pour the tea.”

“M-Me?” Clara squeaked, so appalled Bea feared she might actually swoon.

“Yes, you. It will do you good. Mine first. I like it black with three lumps of sugar.”

Clara looked desperately at Izzy, who patted her arm soothingly. “Close your eyes and imagine she’s your Aunt Edna,” she suggested.

This suggestion, which Bea at first thought rather unkind, had a surprising effect on Clara who calmed visibly and poured the dowager a cup of tea, whilst neither swooning nor breaking china, though the cup rattled alarmingly against the saucer as she handed it over.

Everyone held their breath as the dowager took her first sip.

“Tolerable,” she announced, which Clara seemed to take as a great compliment, for she prepared the rest of the tea with relative calm.

Bea took her cup from Clara with a word of thanks, watching with fascination as the old lady inhaled rather than ate five of the Ratafia biscuits with barely a breath between them.

“Delicious,” she said gleefully, wiping her fingers on a fine white napkin, before picking up her teacup once more. “Now, tell me. When is the next meeting?”

“On the twenty-first of the month,” Anne said, choosing a biscuit for herself and taking a bite, chewing with a critical expression. Bea assumed she was comparing them to the ones Mrs Fairway made.

“Excellent, and what is our raison d’etre for the month?”

“Well,” Bea said hesitantly. “We thought a musical event might be a good way to entice more ladies to attend.”

“It’s not a terrible idea,” the dowager admitted, considering this as she selected another biscuit.

Bea wondered how she had kept her figure all these years when she had such a sweet tooth, for there appeared hardly an ounce of fat upon her spare frame. “I’m so glad you approve,” she said, entertained by the old lady.

“I believe I do. I second the suggestion and, furthermore, I will introduce my granddaughter to the gathering as one of your newest members. She is an exceptional musician and will guarantee attendance is high. Mind, she could make a racket like bashing two rocks together and it would still be a crush,” she said with a cynical smile.

“Such is the nature of society. Her father would turn in his grave at the idea of her joining such a club, which is a delightful bonus. Her brother will probably want to murder me too.”

There was such a quantity of spiteful glee in this comment that Bea could not help but glance at Anne, who looked amused but hardly surprised.

“Your granddaughter?” Izzy asked, intrigued. “Is she here?”

“Not yet. I expect her at any moment, however. Her cousin Aubrey is escorting her here. A ramshackle fellow, but devoted. I don’t doubt some disaster has befallen them along the road with him in charge, so it does not surprise me they are delayed,” she said, apparently unperturbed by visions of broken axles and runaway horses despite her description of Cousin Aubrey.

“The roads are always rather difficult to navigate around here, even in dry weather,” Bea offered. “Should someone perhaps ride out and discover if—”

The dowager waved this notion away with disgust. “Lord, no. Young people get themselves into scrapes all the time. Don’t learn a thing if their elders and betters are forever hauling them out again, though.

Aubrey needs to grow up, and that girl could do with a bit of backbone. Do them both a world of good.”

“It sounds as if you wish a disaster on them,” Izzy said with something like horrified amusement, clearly intrigued by the old woman.

“Not a disaster,” the dowager replied with a sniff. “I ain’t cruel. No broken bones or ruined reputations, but a little scrape will give them heart. Especially when they arrive full of themselves and tell me all about it.”

She appeared to be looking forward to this eventuality, and Bea relaxed, reassured that she really was a fond grandmama and aunt, only a somewhat unconventional one.

“Who else is playing? You, I imagine?” she asked, regarding Bea with interest.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bea agreed. “Izzy is the better musician, but I sing tolerably well.”

“Bea sings like an angel, whereas I sound like a strangled cat,” Izzy said cheerfully while Clara winced.

“Ha! Why don’t that surprise me?” the dowager said with satisfaction before turning back to Bea. “You’re not looking in such prime twig this morning, missy. What’s wrong, swallow a bad oyster?”

Bea flushed and elbowed Izzy, who was sniggering audibly. “No, ma’am.”

“Ah. Your beau, then. Gone off, has he? Found a lady with less morals and more willing ways, perhaps?”

“Certainly not!” Bea exclaimed, mortified that she should speak in such a way, but then she registered the dowager’s words in light of her recent behaviour and blushed harder still, for she’d been willing enough in Stonehaven’s arms last night, had she not?

“Hmmm. There’s something,” the old lady said, giving her such a look Bea wondered if any of her ancestors had been burned at the stake. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I assure you, there is not,” Bea replied, a statement that might have borne more weight if her voice had been steadier. However, she was relieved to note that the appropriate time for a call had been endured, and they were free to bid her a good day.

Anne, who had apparently also been counting the minutes, spoke before Bea could.

“We have taken up too much of your valuable time, your grace. Thank you so much for your hospitality, which was delightful.”

The dowager snorted, apparently disbelieving, but she did not contradict Anne, instead she asked slyly, “Going to tell Mrs Fairway that Alfonse has improved her recipe, are you?”

“Not even under oath,” Anne replied coolly.

The old lady responded with a loud cackle of laughter. “Don’t blame you. Not sure I’d have the nerve either.”

Bea strongly doubted this but was too relieved to be given leave to go to say so.

The four of them executed neat curtseys and made their way out of the room.

The butler furnished them with their gloves and bonnets, and they had just emerged into the sunlight when a huge black stallion burst through the gates and cantered up to the front door.

Clara let out a little squeal of alarm, and scurried to hide behind Anne, who with her lavish bonnet offered the greatest coverage.

Whatever she was hiding from, she need not have bothered, for the rider didn’t even glance their way, merely tossed the reins to a footman who hurried to take them.

The man, who might have been a handsome fellow if not for the furious scowl that thinned his hard mouth into something closer to a sneer, then ran up the stairs into the house with a face like thunder.

“That’s him!” Clara hissed, tugging at Bea’s arm and practically dragging her back down the driveway.

“Him?” Bea repeated in confusion.

“The. Man,” Clara said, sounding the words out as if Bea was a halfwit.

“Oh? Oh!” Bea exclaimed, realising the significance of her alarm. “The man on the big black horse, the one you shouted at?”

Clara nodded, though she did not stop, towing Bea down the path like a small tug towing a warship.

“Wait. What?” Izzy demanded, instantly diverted. “Clara? Shouted at— that man?”

Her expression was incredulous, for which Bea did not blame her.

If she were honest, she had taken Clara’s description of the event, in which she had bravely faced the man who had almost run her and her little pup down, with a pinch of salt.

But even if Clara had said half of what she had purported to have said to the man she had just seen, Bea was mightily impressed, for he looked rather terrifying.

“Do you think he’s the ramshackle cousin, Aubrey?” Clara asked in a whisper, as she hurried them through the grand gates and out onto the road.

“No,” Anne replied grimly. “I don’t.”

Deciding it might be better to leave Clara in ignorance of the identity of the man she had so roundly insulted, Bea took her arm. “Come along, love. Let’s get you home before your aunt realises you’ve gone out.”

Having no argument to make with this, Clara picked up her pace once more, and they escorted her back to Willow House.