“Now then, let us not tease Van Doren more or he’ll not even stay for dinner,” the earl said. “We would not wish that, as we have a special treat for afterwards. Miss Mayton is going to read the conclusion of our story of the one-eyed duke and his governess. Gracious, I’m on tenterhooks about it.”
Matthew could not say he was also on tenterhooks about it. As a usual thing, he would not care to hear any more of that drivel. However, this particular night, he welcomed anything that would get them all off the subject of his outrageous behavior at Darden’s masque.
A harried footman entered and said, “My lord, the buffet has been set up.”
The earl nodded and rose. “Shall we go in, then? We shall be like an army on the move, foraging the forest and taking sustenance where we can find it.”
Matthew did not think soldiers could expect a spread laid out on silver platters on a sideboard were they to be out foraging in a forest, but then he did not say so. The less attention he drew upon himself this night, the better.
He had hoped his mistake at Darden’s masque would not be known widely, but apparently it was. Had Conbatten heard of it? What would he do about it?
Beatrice’s ball was on the morrow and of course the fellow would turn up. Would Conbatten seek him out and say something of it then?
Or worse, would he say something to Beatrice? Something that had nothing to do with Viscount Van Doren and everything to do with the rest of her life? Something that could not be undone and would set the course of her life in what he knew to be the wrong direction.
If only he had handled things better.
He had not the first idea how that would have been, but certainly he had overlooked some sensible thing he might have done.
As it was, he’d only made a fool of himself and accomplished nothing but gossip.
*
Beatrice adored herfather, but she had been bursting with frustration when he’d stopped her sisters from teasing Van Doren. He’d not been forced to explain why he’d tried to warn off the duke and it remained as much a mystery as ever.
They’d gone into dinner, or the buffet as it was, and things had gone along merrily enough, though both she and Van Doren were rather quiet throughout.
Her sisters were delighted with the buffet and Viola got up no end of times to take a little more of this or that from the sideboard as if the fun were in the getting up.
Beatrice hoped Viola did not get a stomachache, as she had on their trip to Town when she’d been too enthusiastic about the ham slices.
There was much talk of the ball, and then Matthew said, “The roses look very well. I am surprised they were delivered so early, though.”
“Goodness, I hadn’t even noticed,” the earl said. “Mrs. Huffson always has so many flowers about the place that I do not even see them anymore.”
“There are vases upon vases of red roses,” Matthew said. “Certainly, they must be for the ball.”
“Yes, I suppose they must,” the earl said.
“Actually,” Miss Mayton said, “those arrived today from an admirer. We do not know who, as it was unsigned.”
“All of them from the same fellow?” the earl asked. “And then he does not even sign the note? That’s a lot of money spent to forgo claiming credit for it. Young gentlemen really are so amusing.”
Van Doren did not look as amused. He looked dark as thunder.
“I did not think to trouble you over it, Earl, for just that reason,” Miss Mayton said. “I imagine that whoever the gentleman is who has been so generous will reveal himself at Beatrice’s ball.Thenwe can see what we think of it.”
“Indeed,” the earl said. “Well, my girl, whoever your admirer is, he is certainly well-heeled.”
“You know I do not care for any of that, Papa,” Beatrice said. It seemed the most appropriate thing to say, though what she would really say if she were to speak her thoughts was—The flowers are from the tortured gentleman, and it no longer matters who he is.
“Ah, but as your father,” the earl said, “I do care for the practical side of things. Bring who you like to my notice, as long as he can care for you in a suitable manner. No penniless poets, if you please.”
“Oh Papa!” Juliet cried. “You must not hold it against a poet to be penniless! I would happily live in a garret if my true love was a poet.”
The earl laughed heartily. “I can assure you, Juliet, that if you lived in a garret, it would not be happily. You are far too fond of your comforts.”
“But it would be enough if he were a real poet,” Juliet said. “I am a poetess and so we would live gloriously on words.”
