The earl laughed, rich and deep. “Do not fret over that, Bea, so few young gentlemen are overburdened with sense. Van Doren is quite the outlier in that area.”
And so the dinner went on as it always did when Van Doren was at table. He’d brought a proverbial bucket of water, determined to drown all their happy ideas.
He would not do it, though. They would set off for Town on the morrow and then he would see that there was no end of gallant gentlemen with romance in their hearts, willing to scale the heights of Beatrice Bennington’s affections.
She must only be sure not to fall in love against her will.
Chapter Two
Matthew was atophis horse, going at a walk through the dark wood, the only lights coming from either end of the path. As he moved forward, they dimmed behind him from Westmont House and became brighter from Faversham Hall ahead.
If the trees had been interested in his feelings at that moment, or cared how he’d fared at dinner, they would have been quite distressed.
“Beowulf? Robinhood? As gallant as Sir Gawain?” he said, fuming at the night. “And then, the earl just laughed it all off, as if it were only an amusing bit of nonsense!”
That was the root of the problem. There was nobody to check those girls.
Falling in love against one’s will? What did that mean? It was absurd.
When one wished to consider asking a lady the momentous question, one would carefully examine the lady’s attributes and how they might complement one’s own. Was there suitability on both sides? Was the lady temperate? Was she equipped to run a smooth household and preside over a table as a gracious hostess?
Only after careful consideration of these serious questions and so many more could one go forward with such a step. As for love, well, that would be expected to grow over time. Or if not love, then a friendship would take root if the couple was suited.
That was the reality of life, not Hans, the invention of Miss Mayton’s bizarre imagination. Would he never be able to convince Beatrice that Hans-the-dead-Swedish-count had never existed? Thatnoneof those doomed lotharios had ever existed?
“I’d like to throw Hans over a cliff myself. This situation is intolerable,” he said.
The oaks did not answer his threat against Hans, and so he went on. “We are all headed for disaster, and yet I am the only one that can see it.”
As he assured himself that he viewed the situation clear-eyed, while the entire family, including the earl, did not…a niggling idea began itching to be looked at.
What if Beatrice were to find some close approximation to the hero of her imagination? Not that one actually existed, he was sure of that, but might not a gentleman pretend at it?
Beatrice’s grandmother had amassed a fortune and passed it on to the girls. Her dowry was such, twenty thousand, he believed, that it might inspire a gentleman to deploy such a ruse.
That would be a far more serious disaster than Beatrice merely receiving her comeuppance and finding her ideas so far removed from reality.
She might wed such a man, and then discover later that she never knew him at all. She would be devastated and would have likely found herself in an unhappy marriage.
Who would be there to counsel against it? Miss Mayton would be just as taken in by such flummery, as would Beatrice’s four sisters. The earl already expected a fool for a son-in-law, so he was not likely to intervene.
It must be him. He must interfere. None of them appreciated the care he took of them or how much he inconvenienced himself. It was an entirely thankless job, but he understood his duty as a friend to the house.
That rogue, that playactor, whoever he may turn out to be, must be stopped.
*
The earl’s butlerstretched his legs under the table and heard the familiar creak in his right knee. The final evening in Westmont House had been a long one. Finally, Lord Van Doren had been got on his way home and the family had retired.
Tattleton sat at the head of the servants’ table and presided over their traditional biscuits and ale before sending the staff off to their own beds. He was of the opinion that a large glass of ale was helpful in encouraging sleep, and they would certainly all need it for the coming days.
Many of the servants had been sent off to ready the London house, led by the intrepid Mrs. Huffson. There was no telling what sort of discombobulation Lord Darden was living in. That young gentleman and his valet would camp in a tent and not notice the lack of comforts. The house must be put in order and readied to receive the earl.
Just now, he surveyed those staff who would travel with the family. Brown, the earl’s valet. The lady’s maids—Fleur, Maggie, and Lynette. Mr. James, the cook, and two of the footmen, Benny and Johnny.
“Miss Mayton says that Lord Van Doren was his usual wet rag at the dining table,” Fleur said. “The viscount seems to despise Hans, though nobody can understand why. The poor count is dead at the foot of an Alpine mountain—adieu, bon monsieur.”
“Adieu,” Benny said in a rather scathing tone. “Everybody knowsyouwould have married Hans if it had beenyouwandering round that Alpine meadow.”
