One More Kiss (13 page)

Jess thought, more than once, that the marquis’s short stature was the key to his success, though he was not stupid enough to share the thought with anyone else.

As they collected the balls to ready them for the next round, Brent came over to where Jess was standing at the drinks table.

“The countess tells me that you invited yourself to this gathering.”

That was blunt, if true. Brent spoke softly but there was an edge of steel in his voice.

“Yes, sir,” Jess said, feeling as though he’d been called before a tribunal of one. He could hear Destry and Belmont laughing over something and wished he were with them.

“If you are hoping to ensnare one of my daughters, I will tell you right now that I will have none of it. They are well-brought-up young ladies and know nothing of wastrels like you.”

Jess pursed his lips. He straightened but did not bow to this man, who was, after all, his social inferior. “The countess knows why I am here and she also knows that I would do nothing to annoy her, which includes dangling after any young woman not yet out.”

Brent gave him a curt nod and, without another word, shoved his cue into the rack and left the room.

“Poor loser, eh?” Destry asked as he rose up and down on the balls of his feet.

“I think he has another appointment,” Belmont said, saluting the two with his glass.

“An appointment?” Destry asked, then smiled. “Ah, with a lady.” He thought a moment more. “With the countess.”

Even though Belmont did not confirm it, he did not deny it, either. Jess became even more certain that Brent and the countess must be having an affair.

It was bad enough to have a corner on Brent’s ill will, but now he was sure that the countess would be watching his every move. Not that it mattered, Jess reminded
himself. He was here to win the land from Crenshaw. No other reason.

As for distracting Beatrice Brent from Crenshaw, he would have to tread carefully there. It might be a mistake to flirt with a woman who was too young to understand the game.

Chapter Eleven
 

A
S THEIR MAID
was combing out her hair, always her last preparation for bed, Beatrice judged it just the right time for a little gossip.

“Darwell, tell us what you know about the marquis Destry, would you? Please.” Beatrice added the last word as a gesture of goodwill.

Darwell paused a moment. “I do not gossip, miss.”

“Of course not, Darwell, I am not asking for gossip.” Belatedly Beatrice decided that what she wanted was information and that was not gossip, was it?

“I would like to know more about him. Papa could only tell us that he is to inherit the Bendas dukedom someday. Surely there is more to him than that, just as there is more to us than that we will inherit money when Papa dies.”

Darwell finished with her and patted her shoulder. She changed seats with her sister and Darwell began
the same routine with Ceci as Beatrice settled on the bed and braided her hair.

“His parents spent most of their time in London and I would often see his nursemaid in the park. He was ever a sickly baby. He grew out of that phase, but his nurse fretted constantly that he was not growing as he should. Finally she told me that they were going north to the family seat in the hope that the bracing Northumberland air would be good for him.”

Darwell shook her head and continued to brush Cecilia’s hair. Beatrice looked at her sister’s reflection in the mirror. Cecilia shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you know the Earl of Belmont?” Beatrice asked.

Darwell brightened at the change of subject. “Not well, but I do know he never misses a trick. He is just the man to go to if you have a puzzle to be solved. I think he could even solve a murder, if the need arose.”

“A murder?” Her hair half braided, Beatrice sat up on her knees, absolutely fascinated.

“That is not all imagination on my part, miss. His valet says that the earl has a theory that Napoleon did not die of a stomach ailment but was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Cecilia said, incredulous.

“I am going to ask him about it.” Beatrice was intrigued. “Lord Belmont is a fascinating man.”

When she caught the speculative look in Darwell’s eyes, she added, “Though being old and poor makes him less than appealing for anything more than the most ladylike flirtation.”

That made Cecilia laugh, and even Darwell’s lips twitched in a half smile.

“Bitsy, what in the world is a ‘ladylike flirtation’?”

Beatrice thought it over. “When one makes it perfectly
clear that one is enjoying a gentleman’s company.”

“But that’s the way one should treat every gentleman. Is that not right, Darwell?”

Their maid considered the question carefully. “Not always. There are some gentlemen it is wise to avoid altogether.”

Beatrice frowned. “Like Lord Jessup Pennistan?”

Darwell’s expression changed from thoughtfulness to one that hinted at deeply repressed anger. “Not Lord Jessup, miss. He is one of the finest gentlemen in the world. Let no one ever convince you otherwise. I know it. I have seen his goodness.”

The two waited for Darwell to go on. Cecilia’s eyes were wide with surprise at the maid’s vehemence as much as her words. Beatrice began to ask for details but Darwell raised her hand holding the brush.

“I will say no more. When I am no longer in service to you, you will both appreciate the fact that I am not a gossip.” She lowered the brush and inspected Cecilia. “Your hair is finished, miss. Now go to bed. I will clean the brushes, put your clothes away, and see you in the morning. Your riding habits will be out and ready before breakfast, which will be served beginning at nine o’clock.”

When she left the room Cecilia and Beatrice looked at each other.
What was that about, do you think?
Cecilia asked, her eyes narrowed in speculation.

I have no idea
, Beatrice thought, even as she tried to guess.

Bitsy, I am not even sure I want to know
.

Beatrice widened her eyes.
I do. I truly do
.

Finally Cecilia spoke aloud. “Just be careful who you choose to ask about it.”

Beatrice nodded.

“You know, Bitsy, it’s an inconvenient blessing that she doesn’t gossip. For we are much too open around her.”

“But I will find someone who’s willing to tell me everything they know,” Beatrice said.

“Of course,” Cecilia agreed.

“Not the countess. She is too close to Papa and, besides, she would wonder at our curiosity about a man Papa has ordered us to avoid.”

Each climbed into her own small but elegantly canopied bed.

“Did you have the servants move the beds closer together?” Beatrice asked.

“Yes, it was only a matter of moving the table that was between the beds. This way we can whisper as long into the night as we wish without waking Darwell.”

“Wonderful,” Beatrice replied. “But Darwell is our maid, not our governess.”

“I know, Bitsy, but I can’t help but feel that she would report to Papa, or at least the countess, if we did anything of which she did not approve.”

“I think you may be right.” They were both silent a moment, Beatrice listening for Darwell. “Can you hear her?” she whispered.

“No,” Ceci whispered back. “I do think she has gone to bed.”

Beatrice nodded and hurried on in a hushed tone. “Who can we ask? Katherine Wilson might have overheard
her mother and her friends discussing the matter.”

Ceci’s nod lacked conviction.

“Ceci, you know how Mama loved to share tea and news with her friends. That’s how we found out about any number of things she would just as soon have kept from us.”

“I am sure Katherine has had the same experience,” Cecilia agreed, “but I am much less sure she would share anything with us.”

Beatrice thought Cecilia might be right. Katherine Wilson was trying so hard, too hard, to be perfectly well behaved. She and Cecilia had that in common. Still, their new friendship might make it possible for them to share confidences.

“Mrs. Kendrick.
She
would be one to tell all she knows, and welcome all we know.” Though Beatrice wondered what they could possibly have to share that was likely to be as intriguing as Lord Jess’s story.

Ceci responded with a low “hmmm” and Beatrice was sure her sister had not heard a word.

Sighing softly to herself, she turned on her side, wound her leg around the bed linens as she was wont to do, and followed her sister’s example. It took her several moments to relax. She was distracted by the memory of Darwell’s final words to them—she and Cecilia would be riding in the morning. Beatrice fell asleep trying to devise a way to excuse herself from an exercise that she abhorred and her twin loved.

C
ECILIA SMOOTHED HER
dark green habit and raised her face to the sky, risking freckles to be one with nature
for just a minute. What was that bit of Wordsworth that Bitsy so favored?
“All that we behold is full of blessings.”
Today was such a day.

The storm of the previous night had made for a clear sky and it was the perfect morning for a ride. She looked around for her sister and saw that she had not moved from the head of the trail.

“Oh, do come on, Bitsy. That horse is the most placid animal, but surely she can move faster than that. She can eat later.” Cecilia’s much livelier mount jiggled his bridle in agreement. She soothed him with a hand to his neck and watched her sister.

“I do not care to ride in the wood. It’s too easy for a horse to stumble.”

“Calling this a wood is like calling your horse a champion.” Cecilia considered the copse of trees. There was a wood beyond and a river which she hoped to reach sometime before noon.

“You go on ahead, Ceci. I’ll catch up, or maybe you can stop and collect me on the way back.”

“Why did you even come? You could have read or spent time in the gallery.”

“I keep thinking that if I ride more I will grow to like it better.”

“Like it? I would be pleased if you didn’t look like you were facing a death sentence every time you mounted.”

“It could be a death sentence for someone my size. I’m too small to have any control at all.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when the sound of hooves moving at an alarming rate caught Cecilia’s attention. She shifted her horse closer to Beatrice and the sweet slug that was her mount for the day
as a man on a great black horse came over the first rise beyond the stables and went thundering by them.

The red scarf around his neck announced the rider as Marquis Destry, but he was moving so fast there was no time to exchange greetings. In fact he did not even acknowledge their presence.

“You see, Bitsy, size has nothing to do with the ability to control a horse. Or enjoy a rousing gallop.” Despite Destry’s lack of manners, Cecilia could not resist making the point.

“Go join him, Ceci. Please. I will go back to the stable soon and the groom can accompany you.”

Cecilia desperately wanted to ride off, but she could not leave her sister alone. She rode back to the groom who was waiting just out of hearing distance.

“My sister has remembered an invitation she does not wish to be late for. Would you escort her back to the stable? She is not sure of the way.” With a look of complete understanding, the groom nodded and followed her back to where Beatrice was waiting.

“Dearest,” she began, and explained the lie to her sister. Beatrice did not even attempt to disagree. Cecilia thought she saw some relief on her sister’s face, but that might have been her imagination.

Cecilia headed out at a sedate walk, moving into a more satisfying canter as Beatrice and the groom vanished from sight.

When she was into the deeper wood, she slowed her horse. Determined to avoid Marquis Destry so she could enjoy the flora and fauna, Cecilia watched the ground and moved away from the trail he’d left. She identified the trees as she rode and delighted in the ferns that grew at the edge of the path.

If she could choose to be a plant she thought it would be a fern, with elegant fronds that opened themselves to the gentle sun that filtered through the trees, which sheltered them from the harshest of weather. Her father would be an oak, she was sure, and Beatrice a violet. Small and delicate, but with its roots digging in everywhere to make itself known and felt.

Lord Destry would be a thistle or some other irritating plant.

Her meditation was cut short by the sound of water. She returned to the well-traveled trail, heading toward the gurgle of water over rock, and found something bigger than a stream but smaller than a river.

There was a ford across it but she was not about to attempt that alone, though her horse showed no hesitation. He lowered his silky neck to drink and she used a nearby rock to aid in her dismount. She dipped her handkerchief into the water, wiped her face, and then found a comfortable seat on the rock, or as comfortable as one could be on a rock. From her new vantage point she surveyed the plants that lined the bank.

Hoofbeats from across the stream drew her horse’s attention before she even noticed them herself. Lord Destry appeared on the other side of the ford and moved through it with confidence.