“I’m not. How absurd. Evelina, how could you be so unfeeling? Ruining this man’s life.”
“I’ll pretend you did not say that. Beatrice is my friend, and I would not promote a connection if I thought it unwise.” Evelina crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “What exactly happened between you two?”
“We were casualties of a broken romance.”
Silence. Silence so loud Richard could hear his brother’s interest. Evelina’s, too, their curious pulses thumping like rabbit feet on hollow ground.
Oh hell, they’d thought… “Notours! Martin and Selena.” He shoved to his feet, and his brother and Evelina melted back toward one another like water poured into a cup, shoulders bumping, hands twining, and gazes locking in complete understanding.
There was nothing to understand.
Except maybe what had Beatrice leaping from her seat, holding her cards flat against her chest with a wide grin as Peterson leaned back, enjoying the sight of her.
“I hope they’re happy together,” Richard grumbled. “Now tell me the itinerary for the next fortnight, so I can do my best to witness your joy and avoid the harpy at the same time.”
“Absolutely not.” Evelina kicked his ankle.
“Just enjoy yourself.” John said. “Evie, I need to speak with Richard for a moment. Estate business.” He guided Richard back toward the shadowed end of the room where he scowled at the assembled guests for a moment. “Do not tell Evelina, but I need you to do what you do best.”
“Annoy Beatrice? Easy. All I have to do is breathe.”
“No. Be jolly. Bring people together. This entire event has only just begun, and I’m already seeing fissures.”
“What do you mean?”
“My guests and Evelina’s guests are not exactly compatible.”
“Ah.” John was a marquess. He’d invited friends and acquaintances from parliament and the London social season. But Evelina was a country gentleman’s daughter, had married a man without title or wealth the first time around. She’d invited farmers and artists and tradesmen. “A felicitous union may be possible between you two but not between your acquaintances.”
“See there.” John pointed to the group by the books. “That’s Chesterton and his brother and their wives. Old friends of the family. But there”—he nodded at the card table—“those are Evie’s friends. The two groups have segregated themselves, and I’m afraid if they remain so, Evie will take it as an omen. Or some ill feeling will arise between the groups, and…” He shrugged.
“You cannot have that.”
“Precisely. Can you do what you do best? Be jolly and likable and make everyone feel comfortable and welcome? No hiding behind bushes from now on.”
More laughter rumbled from the card table, shared by Beatrice and Mr. Peterson again. Richard did not have to look to recognize her laugh, and Peterson’s had, somehow, become quickly burned into his memory. They soundedhorriblelaughing together. Discordant.
“I’ll help you, John. You know I will.” Richard clapped his brother on the back and made for the group situated by the bookshelves. He hesitated. These were not his people. Bastard that he was, they tolerated him, and only because his father and now the present marquess accepted him so fully. Taking a breath that broadened his smile, he parted the space between Lord Chesterton and his wife with his shoulder.
“Good evening, my lord, my lady.”
“Oh…” Chesterton’s fuzzy gray eyebrows bounced up and down. “You’re the old marquess’s basssss… boy.”
He’d been about to saybastard. Richard pretended he’d not heard the drawn-outs. “I do not mean to interrupt your conversation, but the gentleman at the card table… Peterson?” He paused as the group’s attention wandered across the room, landed on the man with a cheroot in his mouth, cheroots for fingers, and attention for one Miss Beatrice Bell. “He was wondering what the best wine for a spring evening was, and I told him only you would know for sure. My father always said you had exquisite taste. Would you condescend to make a recommendation?”
Chesterton’s lips parted in a grin. “Indeed, I would. You have your father’s charm, my boy, even if you are a by-blow.” He patted Richard’s arm as he wandered toward the card table. His wife and the others followed close behind, moving past Richard as if he were a ghost.
Good. Richard had nothing left to give them. He paused in the doorway only to make sure the little trick hadn’t erupted in a fight, but Peterson seemed entirely pleased that Chesterton had singled him out.
Beatrice, however, seemed unamused. She’d put her cards face down on the table and leaned back in her chair. She was looking right at Richard, her expression pronouncing one word as loudly as if she spoke it:Retreating?
Yes, maybe he was. Only for tonight.
He trudged up the stairs and found his bedchamber. He peeled the clothes off his body in slow, heavy movements, but finally he could climb into his bed in only his smalls and lie on his back like a starfish. His hand hit the table beside his bed, the book always there atop it, and he picked it up, held it above his face as he opened it.
El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha.She’d always simply called itDon Quixote. Had called the author, the Cervantes fellow, a genius. But Richard couldn’t even read the damn thing. Well, not most of it. There were three words on the title page in the top right corner, written in faded ink, he could read well enough.
Beatrice Bell’s book.
