“Lady Blythe has made the decision to ignore my humble beginnings. Now she merely corrects me on the proper fork while instructing me to retrieve you from the country. Lady Anabeth awaits.”
He smiled at Estwood. “She’ll be waiting a little longer.” A vision of Beatrice, strolling through the garden of the vicarage, profile lit against the morning sun, lingered before his eyes. The thick twist of golden hair snugged up to her right cheek, tied with a ribbon to match her eyes.
Why doesn’t she wear her hair up?
“Lady Blythe will be displeased. At any rate, I can only stay two nights. A business matter has arisen, one I must see to personally. Waterstone.” The name echoed with dislike.
Mr. Waterstone, related to an earl and a consummate self-important gentleman, had been forced to deal with Estwood on occasion because Estwood had powerful friends, the Duke of Granby among them. “Waterstone? Don’t tell me you’re helping him.”
“I’m not assisting him out of the kindness of my heart but at the request of Granby.” Estwood’s already pale eyes took on the sheen of ice, a thoughtful look crossing over his harsh features. “Every courtesy Waterstone has afforded me I plan to return. It is the very least I can do.”
Ellis would not wish to be Waterstone in this circumstance.
“So, you attended services in that little village over the hill. Chilton?” Estwood asked.
“Chiddon. Vicar Farthing hopes I’ll become his patron. He wishes to leave the country and preside over a more prestigious post.”
“Doesn’t he already have a patron? Someone must have sent him here.”
“The Duke of Castlemare, I suspect. Farthing must have done something awful to have been sent to Chiddon, though I find the village and its inhabitants lovely. Castlemare’s duchess seems lax in offering him support, so he has focused his efforts on me.”
Another image of Beatrice, chin lifted, mouth greedily devouring his, sent a tendril of arousal curling around his thighs.
“Castlemare’s duchess. Impossible. I just saw her in London at the theater and—” Estwood stopped. “Oh, you meanBeatrice Howard. I’d nearly forgotten about her, as has most of London. There was quite a game for a while, guessing where Castlemare had sent her before he died. I wouldn’t have thought a remote part of Hampshire. I was hoping for Russia. She’d be indistinguishable from all the other bits of ice and snow.”
Ellis’s fingers tightened on the glass he held. “Castlemare sent her to Chiddonbeforehe died?”
“You can’t possibly think she’s here of her own accord.” Estwood sent him a curious look. “Chiddon must be a particular form of hell for a woman like Beatrice.”
“Vicar Farthing claims she came to mourn Castlemare’s death in private and decided not to return to London.” And Beatrice had never said otherwise. Ellis had known that couldn’t possibly be the truth, or at least, not all of it.
“Mourn Castlemare? No one misses that prick. He and Beatrice detested each other and lived apart. I forgot how much you missed while you were in Rome sculpting babies—”
“Cherubs,” Ellis corrected, though to be fair, most of his cherubs had looked like chubby birds. He could never get the legs right. “Lady Blythe didn’t mention anything about Castlemare to me. I confess, I didn’t even know he was dead until I arrived in Chiddon.”
“Foxwood claimed his daughter was prostrate with grief over Castlemare’s death, which everyone knew wasn’t the case because she left London well before her husband died. Castlemare made no bones about his disappointment in Beatrice’s failure to produce an heir. He sent her to his country estate, but later, rumors swirled that Beatrice was not in residence. The Foxwoods stayed tight lipped, as did Castlemare’s brother who inherited after he died. But Castlemare’s mistress wasn’t so discreet. Apparently, there was some sort of accident.”
“An accident?”
“One in which Beatrice was horribly disfigured.” Estwood sat back. “That was why Castlemare really sent her away. Why no one has seen her in years. I must say, if that is the case, there is no one more deserving of tragedy than Beatrice Howard. I’ve never met a more malicious creature in all my life.”
“Then you haven’t spent enough time in society,” Ellis replied.
“Her attempts to make Andromeda Barrington a pariah speak for themselves. You’ll find no one in London who has a kind word for Beatrice. Nor is her presence longed for. The Foxwoods behave as if they no longer have a daughter.”
“I never cared overmuch for Lord and Lady Foxwood,” Ellis said. He cared less for them now.
“But you were always drawn to Beatrice. Not sure why. She is a collection of things you find abhorrent. Granted, she is beautiful, or at least she was.” Estwood looked at Ellis for confirmation.
“I hate to disappoint you, but the Duchess of Castlemare is still stunning. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.” Ellis sipped his drink and thought about the kiss he’d shared with Beatrice. The way she’d angled her body so that her right side was protected. The hair gathered along one shoulder with a ribbon. Her fear of carriages, which he’d witnessed first-hand. “I see no evidence of any accident.”
“Something about a carriage overturning, but that was according to Castlemare’s mistress. Foxwood denies any such thing ever occurred, though no one asks after Beatrice any longer.” Estwood paused. “But if you say she is still lovely—”
“She is.” He cut Estwood off.
“Then the words of Castlemare’s mistress were only out of spite. You wouldn’t consider bedding Beatrice otherwise. Don’t bother denying it.”
“I won’t.” Ellis strolled to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “As you say, I’ve always been drawn to her. I find seducing a widow to be a pleasant diversion while I’m in the country. There is a lack of amusement in Chiddon. I must make my own.”
