"Miss Bellworth," he said as he stood close. "Such a lovely evening."
Would she be rude again? She might be rude with her eyes and expression, but etiquette commanded she respond. Who would have thought etiquette would be on his side?
"Yes," she said. Rosiness spread across her cheeks. She was embarrassed. "It is. Do you know the Binghams?"
"No, not really. I know very few people here." But she already knew that. "But it was kind of them to extend an invitation." At Lady Wenstropp's insistence, no doubt.
"Yet you know my father."
"A mutual acquaintance felt he might be supportive of our cause."
"Cause?" she said, her brows drawing together. There really wasn't any artifice in her. Everything she thought and felt was written on her face. Clearly she would make a useless negotiator, or even a card player.
"Care given to our injured soldiers."
"Oh." The frown disappeared. "A very noble cause."
"I am the commissioner for the fund that supports our wounded."
"I see. Well, I wish you great success in your ventures."
"I understand you have a cause of your own." Now he was ribbing her and her eyes narrowed.
"No, no cause. I, of course, involve myself with much charitable work. But I wouldn't go so far as to say I have a cause as such."
"Yes, of course." A good deflection. She wasn't entirely lacking in astuteness. "The problem with causes is that one gets so wrapped up in them. It can be hard to determine when to abandon them."
Anger flashed in her eyes, but she smiled sweetly. "I will keep that in mind if I should ever find a cause, which I'm afraid I haven't so far. Are you considering abandoning your cause, Lord Britheney?" There was challenge in her words, but he wasn't entirely sure where it was directed.
"If it proves fruitless, or if someone else can achieve better results."
"I shall keep that in mind."
The girl next to her stood mutely, watching the exchange. With a nod, he wished them a good evening and then moved away. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what had just happened. In a way, he'd tried to warn her off some misplaced notion based on a silly carnival fortune. According to her, she held no such beliefs, yet her brother said she believed it. But she didn't act like a girl who believed she'd just met her husband, so perhaps he would be spared from crazed ardor from a lunatic girl.
In the crowd, he spotted a man he knew and moved that way, collecting a glass of champagne on the way. The golden liquid was apparently back in fashion after being spurned as unpatriotic during the Napoleonic wars. Whatever his experiences during the war and his thoughts on the enemy, he didn't hold it against a sublime liquid. For whatever the French were, they knew their wines. Saying that, he'd much rather have a whiskey, but there wasn't any on offer.
Greeting the man he knew, he joined the group, only half paying attention to what was said. His attention was still on where he'd come from. The girl was trying hard not to glower, and refused to look in his direction.
All in all, it had gone as well as he'd hoped. Although he wasn't entirely sure why he objected so strongly. It wasn't as if he strictly objected to her as a person, or disagreed with the notion that he had to be married. It was simply that he flatly refused to be manipulated. Marriageable girls were manipulative. As a younger man, one had actually tried to get caught in a compromising situation with him in the hopes that he would be forced into marrying her. Well, she had not been alluring enough, or him stupid enough to get himself caught in that trap.
You wouldn't think it would be dangerous for him to go wandering off on his own at a party like this, but predators prowled, seeking an opportunity to bag a title with wealth attached. So, no, the advice given to young women not to wander off into dark corners applied to him as well. The crowd provided safety, and he hated that there were people out to manipulate and deceive him.
But he wasn't sure if Miss Bellworth was one of them. It was a cockamamie story of a fortune teller. It was clever and inventive, but it would take something more than that to pull the wool over his eyes. Still, she wasn't exactly playing out as he expected. Or maybe she was simply a consummate player, able to school her face and features into innocence not even he could see past. It could be that he was outmatched and the target in a much longer game. Looking at her, it was hard to believe, though.
Chapter 11
"I SWEAR HE LOOKS like a storybook prince," Rose Westbrook cooed as she sat with her teacup neatly in her lap. They were in Emily Partridge's drawing room. The gentle winter sun was shining straight into the large windows, making the room bright. It was nice with a bit of sun after so many days of dismal weather, but the conversation left quite a bit to be desired.
"Are they speaking of the same man?" a disbelieving Sylvia asked Ester. "A handsome face and they will forgive him anything? The man is downright rude and that is one of the better things about him."
"He is handsome."
"Not you too," Sylvia groaned.
"No, of course not. I am just saying that a handsome young lord is bound to cause some twitter, isn't he?"
"He's not that handsome."
Ester rolled her eyes. "I thought we weren't going to judge him completely on hearsay."
"Rose bleating about him looking like a fairy tale prince doesn't count. Besides, his rudeness was experienced firsthand."
"That is true. What time is it? We should probably head home. It will be dark soon."
"Yes, Mother will rip strips into me if I'm late for supper."
They said their goodbyes and headed out into the chilly air. Mary and Nellie appeared to escort them home, as if the two slight maids could protect them from any evil accosting them. Not that she mentioned that point to her parents. But the escorts were to ward against threat to reputation rather than something more substantial, and the slightest girl in the world would do for that.
The sun was sinking toward the rooflines and they had to hurry. It had been a busy day. They'd been to the bookstore, had lunch in a café and then visited Emily's house in the afternoon, but truthfully, she was getting tired of the endless gossip—which now seemed to revolve around Lord Britheney. Maybe it was simply the topic she found tiring.
They parted ways and Sylvia hurried home, feeling chased by the increasing chill. Her fingers were cold. It had been such a nice day that she had left her gloves at home, but she suffered for it now.
As she reached her street, a standing carriage drew her attention. She knew that logo and unease crawled up her spine. Lord Britheney's carriage. What was he doing there? Unease spread through her, because what was the likelihood of him visiting some other house on the street?
A knock on the door and she was let in by Wilson, who helped her divest her bonnet and shawl. There wasn't time to go refresh for supper, which her mother would probably admonish her about, but a quick look in the mirror assured her she didn't look awful.
"It seems we have a visitor."
What she had feared was just confirmed to her and she sighed. What in the world was he there for? Had he in some way felt that this revelation Andrew had bestowed on him was something he needed to take up with her parents? Was he claiming that she was harassing him? That was blatantly not true. It had always been him approaching her. She had never approached him in any capacity. And it was Andrew who had told him of the prophecy in the first place. But she had gone to Vauxhall, which was the only inappropriate thing she'd done, and inarguably she had paid for it. It may actually be the biggest regret she had.
And now he was here, and at this time of day, it would only mean that he was dining with them. Well, that was just wonderful. She'd had a very nice day where most of the time she hadn't had to think about him at all.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself to walk into the salon. No point putting it off, she supposed. In a way, she was quite glad she hadn't had time to dress for supper, because she didn't want anyone to think she was making an effort for this visitor.
W
ith a smile, she entered the salon.
"There you are," her mother said. "We were wondering what was keeping you."
Her smile didn't falter, but she could have strangled her mother, because she didn't really have an answer. "Time just got away from us. Mrs. Partridge sends her regards," she said as she kissed her mother on the cheek.
"You know Lord Britheney, of course. Didn't you say you were introduced at Lord Walling's ball the other week."
"Yes, of course," she said, finally turning to him with as gracious a smile as she could manage. "So wonderful to see you again. I didn't realize we were having visitors for supper."
"Oh, I'm sure I told you. It was organized last week," her mother said, and yet again, Sylvia had the urge to strangle her mother.
"No, I'm sure I would have remembered."
Standing, he kissed her outstretched hand as etiquette required. Well, he wasn't entirely lacking in basic manners. Taking her hand back at the earliest opportunity, she wiped the knuckles where his lips had touched, to clear away any lingering sensation of it.
"Likely would have been here sooner if she'd known," Andrew stated. Alright, she might not actually strangle her mother, but she had no qualms with Andrew, and she hoped her eyes conveyed the sentiment.
"Sit down, Sylvia. Supper isn't quite ready. Would you like some Elderflower cordial?"
Like a child, Sylvia added. Every point of this evening was harrowing. "No, I'm fine. Emily served the nicest tea. From Ceylon, I believe." What was she talking about? She needed to stop. "My fingers are quite frozen," she said and walked over to the fire, enjoying turning her back on them all for a while.
"Lord Britheney is investing in a railway," her mother said. "Isn't that marvelous? Your father has some experience with the conveyance of private land into public ownership."
"Technically it is the fund that I manage that is investing," Lord Britheney said.
It would be rude for her to keep her back turned, so she faced them, but refused to leave the warmth of the fire. Her mind was a jumble and she couldn't formulate a response. "That's wonderful," she said, which was always a safe option provided the right tone was used.
"To help injured soldiers," her mother said and she turned her attention back to the visitor. "But you are quite the war hero, I believe. Some of the credit for Napoleon's defeat goes to you, I believe." Like everyone else, her mother was certainly taken with him—or rather like the people who didn't know him well, it appeared. "Such a noble cause, isnt's it, Harold?"
"Yes," her father replied.
"Supper is ready to serve," Mr. Wilson said, appearing at the door.
"Oh, wonderful," Mrs. Bellworth said and stood. Sylvia's mother was being the gracious host tonight, which she did quite well, but it was not how she normally acted. "Sit over there," her mother urged, veering her away from her normal seat to sit opposite their guest. Because having him judge her was exactly how she wished to spend the evening. "How long have you been back in London now, Lord Britheney?"
"Not much longer than a month," he replied.
"Must be quite different from what you are used to—living in exotic lands."
The soup course was being served while Mother was interrogating their guest.
"It certainly is," he replied with a tight smile.
"All this way and forced to tackle the matrons of the ton," Andrew said.
"Andrew, hush," Mother chided. "But yes, you are here in time for the season. Will you be attending any of the events next week?"
"No, I am leaving London for some time."
"What a shame," Sylvia said and realized she'd said it out loud. "We will, of course, miss your company." Had she managed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice? Perhaps not entirely because her mother was giving her a harsh look. "I believe Lady Wenstropp is throwing a party."
"I should be back for it."
"Then we will have the pleasure of your company," Sylvia said to appease her mother more than anything.
Lord Britheney's eyes came to her and surveyed her. There was nothing she could read in his eyes, like dark, empty pools. He was very good at that, holding things so inside him that nothing could be seen on the outside. It was perhaps a skill of a soldier.
"Are you visiting your estate?"
"No, I am dealing with issues for the railway."
"Such work is never done," Father said. "But they are marvelous pieces of engineering. If done right, it will provide income for these injured soldiers for a long time. Quite a brilliant scheme."
"I'm glad you think so," Lord Britheney said. "That is the hope."
"And how do you know Lady Wenstropp?" Mrs. Bellworth asked.
"She was a friend of my late father, and also the owner of a crucial piece of land for the development of this railway."
It seemed his friendship with Lady Wenstopp had a distinct purpose.
"Your father was quite the character, wasn't he?" Sylvia asked.
"Yes," Lord Britheney said dryly. "As you say, a character."
Chapter 12
SUPPER WAS A TEDIOUS affair. Miss Bellworth's embarrassment at her mother constantly trying to draw attention to her accomplishments and charms was the only amusement on offer. The girl was trying to keep her composure when her mother was discreetly trying to promote her to him. Andrew was watching everything between them as if something unexpected would happen.
At the end of supper, they retreated to the drawing room and Felix envied the women's excuse of claiming a headache whenever they wished to. Although Sylvia Bellworth would probably get an earful if she tried now. Her mothers had designs, as mothers invariably did.
Her mother was urging her over to speak to him and Sylvia’s smile wasn't entirely genuine as she walked over.
"Lord Britheney," she said tightly as she came to stand with him by the fire. "A lovely evening. Thank you so much for coming."
It wasn't hard to guess that she was playing hostess somewhat unwillingly, but had been trained in the art of etiquette from birth, no doubt.
"It has, of course, been a pleasure." When pressed, he knew how to play the game. It wasn't perhaps natural, but flattery, pointless and inane conversation was at the heart of it. "The meal was exquisite. Are your parents aware of your expectations that we shall marry?" Alright, maybe there was only so much he could tolerate.
"I have no such expectation, and I think you are being silly for suggesting there are based on a stupid trick by a charlatan who takes people's money for a bit of entertainment."
"Ah," he said. "According to your brother, you believe it."
"Most days, my brother isn't fully convinced the world isn't flat. Rest assured, Lord Britheney. I'd sooner believe hell would freeze over."
Her eyes sparkled in the light of the fire. Soft curls surrounded her face. She was pretty. There was no denying that.
"Are you aware that you have a terrible reputation?" she asked, her head held high.
"Is that right? And what do they say?"
"The word horrid has been said. Cruel. Even atrocities."
"And this is what you believe of me?"
"No, I am simply saying that such things are said."
"Well, I can assure you that many of them are true."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise and her mouth opened slightly.
"There are no innocents in war, Miss Bellworth. I have been both the greatest ally and the worst foe, depending on the perspective. Some charges laid against me are my fathers. I am, after all, my father's son."
He could be accused of wishing to put her off any silly notions she had, but he also spoke the truth. There were no innocents in war. It was a question how inhumane you would allow yourself to be, and it was a question each soldier had to ask himself, balanced with how effective he wished to be. His purpose had been finding ways of defeating the enemy.
"Well, this is a divertive conversation," she said. "You seem to be quite the dark horse people say you are."
"I have never purported to be o
therwise."
"Would you like me to refresh your drink?"
"No, this is quite sufficient. I don't intend to stay long. I have a day of travel ahead of me tomorrow."
"That is such a shame," she said, no hint of sorrow on her features. No, Miss Sylvia Bellworth was not embracing this prediction a fortune teller had given her. Perhaps because they were not well matched in the slightest. Then again, he wasn't necessarily seeking a match—more a woman who would be quite happy to have as little dealings with him as possible.
That was not the kind of family Sylvia Bellworth came from. It wasn't hard to see the affection between the Bellworths. While Sylvia and Andrew still conducted their legacy rivalry from childhood, the fact that the brother protected the sister was inescapable—even if she didn't quite see it.
Sylvia Bellworth was someone everyone protected. Etiquette and social structure were designed to protect her innocence. Against people like his father—against him. And the world as she perceived it was likely full of wonder and kindness, whereas he had witnessed the deepest depravities of the human soul.
But here was a family that loved and cared for each other, and that was something he didn't have a great deal of experience with. It increased his esteem for Mr. Bellworth in managing to create such an environment for his family. It was the kind of family that as a child, he had wished for.
"And where are you heading tomorrow if I may ask?"
"Nor east."
"I have not seen that part of the country, I have to admit. Your father's country house is in Somerset, is it not?"
"Yes. And now that we have discussed the depravities of my reputation, perhaps I should inquire as to your own."
"There is nothing wrong with my reputation."
"Except you slink off to Vauxhall Gardens late in the evening, it seems."
Her mouth tightened and her eye narrowed. There really wasn't an emotion she didn't display to its fullest extent.
"I assure you, it is not a habit. I was only curious. Some would say that's a fault. I am sure if you look hard enough, I have a multitude of faults. I never claim otherwise."
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