Jane blinked, startled. “My lady?”
“The Earl of Ravensby,” Charlotte said with venom. “He has just arrived. His carriage is gaudy enough to blind half the county, and of course he means to strut about here as if Westford Castle were his own.”
Margaret frowned. “Is he here to see William?”
Charlotte bent, smoothing her sister’s hair with a fond hand, though her smile did not reach her eyes. “Yes, dearest. To see William. But mark me, Miss Ansley”—her voice lowered, the words meant only for the governess—“Ravensby is a man who makes sport of women. Guard yourself. He will try, if given the chance.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “Sport of women? Do you mean games?”
Charlotte straightened, letting out a brittle laugh. “Games, yes. But not the kind for you, darling. Now—show me how much you know of Hastings. How did William trick the Saxon line?”
* * *
The household was bustling with preparations for the evening meal when Beaufort, who had arrived shortly after Ravensby, caught William just outside the dining hall.
“Why is he here?” the Viscount asked, his tone low and cold. “You told me that life was behind you.”
William drew a breath, schooling his face to calm. “He is married now. He wrote to me asking to reconcile. Said he wished to see the place again, and to share in the hunting season. I thought—perhaps—he was not the man he was before. We all deserve a second chance.”
Beaufort’s eyes narrowed. “Men like Ravensby do not change. You know it as well as I.”
William’s mouth hardened. “It is my house, Nicholas. And he is my guest.”
The Viscount gave a slight shake of his head, as if the matter were not worth further words. “Then God grant you’re right.”
* * *
The dining hall was set for formality, its long table laid in perfect order, with vases of fresh flowers and silver candelabra spaced at precise intervals. A fire snapped in the grate, casting shadows over the polished wood floors. William took his place at thehead of the table; Charlotte sat beside Beaufort and opposite Ravensby, her smile thin, her look sharp enough to cut.
At first the talk was easy—William speaking briefly of the campaigns in Spain, Beaufort asking after details of battles not posted in the gazettes. But it was not long before Ravensby let out a theatrical sigh.
“God’s teeth, Blackmeer,” he drawled, swirling his wine, “I thought a ducal seat in September would promise lively company. Instead, I find myself stared through like a miscreant at confession.” His gaze flicked pointedly toward Charlotte.
She arched a brow, her voice sugar-sweet. “Perhaps you mistake Westford Castle for a gaming hell, my lord. The company here is not obliged to amuse you.”
William’s hand tightened on his knife, though he said nothing.
Ravensby chuckled, undeterred. “Ah, I see the lady has claws. Beaufort, you should have warned me—Westford’s eldest daughter does not smile kindly upon her guests.”
“I smile where it is deserved,” Charlotte returned evenly.
Beaufort leaned forward, his tone mild but firm. “Better to discuss battles fought than ladies’ tempers, Ravensby. Blackmeer has seen more of war than most men dare imagine. Spain, the Pyrenees, France… I daresay his experience would make even you fall silent.”
William gave a short nod, though he felt the heat of Ravensby’s gaze.
“Indeed,” Ravensby said lightly. “All glory, no doubt. Muskets and drums and all the rest. But I confess, I find the entertainments of London rather more… diverting.”
The tension about the table tightened another notch. Servants moved quietly, clearing one course and setting another, as if oblivious to the barbs flying across the linen-draped mahogany.
At last Ravensby leaned back, grinning. “And what of your lovely mother, William? The Duchess. Will she not grace us with her presence this hunting season?”
Silence fell, thick as fog. William’s fork stilled. Charlotte’s eyes flashed.
“She is staying in the south with friends,” she said coolly, before William could answer. “You know how the Duchess is.”
For the first time that evening, Ravensby’s composure faltered. His mouth thinned, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face before he drowned it in another swallow of wine.
The rest of the meal limped on in stilted politeness, conversation never straying far from more domestic matters of horses, harvests, or tenants. Yet beneath the gleam of silver and crystal, the air was heavy, sour with tension.
