Page 9 of A Gifted Earl

Lady Hardenwell drew herself up and spoke forcefully.

“That is, as I am sure you are aware, all entirely unsuitable. We must have our maid closer than that, and really, for Venetia to be suitably prepared to go out in society, we will need better rooms, with at least one private sitting room. Who decided that we should be placed in those rooms?”

This time, Ames actually looked embarrassed.

“Lord Hardenwell, my Lady.”

In that instant, Venetia discovered that it was perfectly possible to dislike her uncle more than she already had.

“I see. Then I will have to take the matter up with him. Is he in residence?”

Ames shook his head.

“I’m sorry, my Lady, but no. And…” his voice dropped to a whisper, and he leant forward, “…I did attempt to advise on the inappropriateness… but my advice was… not accepted.”

Her mother’s lips formed a thin line.

“Thank you, Ames, for trying. Where is my brother-in-law, if not here, might I ask?”

“He and his wife have gone to Hard Abbey. I believe that they will be gone for a week, or perhaps two. Lord Jasper is still in residence, and currently in charge of the house.”

The tone of Ames’ voice made it clear that he disapproved of Lord Jasper, and especially of giving him any authority. At his words, however, Venetia saw an expression cross her mother’s face – an expression which she knew all too well. It was the expression which indicated that her mother had a plan, and that the subject of that plan was, not to put too fine a point on it, doomed.

“Is he now? Well, I shall just have to speak to him about the matter, shan’t I? Where might I find him now?”

Ames again, rather startlingly, allowed his feelings on the matter to appear on his face for a moment.

“Lord Jasper is still abed, my Lady – he was out rather late last night, as is his habit.”

The glint in her mother’s eye intensified.

“Then I must ask you to get his valet to rouse him. We – and our luggage – will wait in the parlour until he comes down. You can assure him that I will make quite the scene – even going as far as coming up and dragging him from his bed – if he doesn’t have the courtesy to come down and speak to me appropriately. I will not have myself, or my daughter, treated so shabbily.”

At that, there was a fleeting gleam in Ames’ eyes which thoroughly matched the one that had been in her mother’s, moments before. He bowed.

“Of course, my Lady. I’ll have some tea sent in to you, while you wait.”

With that, he turned and went, directing a footman to show them to the parlour – not that they needed to be shown the way, it was simply the principle of the thing, the carrying out of proper behaviour.

The parlour had barely changed – there were some different paintings on the wall, and a new carpet on the floor, but otherwise it was just the same. Another wave of memories assaulted Venetia, and she pushed those thoughts aside. They settled on the couch, and two footmen carried in their trunks behind them.

“Where should we put these, and the rest, my Lady?”

“Here, for now – once I resolve the matter of our rooms, I will ring for you.”

She pointed to the corner of the room, and they, after exchanging a glance and shrug, set the trunks down, and went back out to collect the rest from the carriage. Not long after, a maid came in with a tea tray – a maid that they recognised, thankfully.

“Just set it down here, thank you Rosie.”

The maid did so, eyeing the luggage, then, with an almost conspiratorial grin, she curtsied and slipped back out of the room. Venetia was beginning to suspect that the staff did not like her cousin, at all.

The tea was excellent, and the lemon biscuits that accompanied it were a delight – a delight which Venetia thought indicated that the Cook had also stayed on. She indulged in eating too many of them while they waited. A wait which extended, and extended. She turned to her mother.

“Perhaps you’re going to have to follow through on your threat…”

That was the moment, of course, that the door opened to admit Lord Jasper Chater. They rose.

He resembled his father, and, to some extent, Venetia’s own father, reminding Venetia of a painting she’d seen of her father as a young man. His dark hair was in mild disarray – intentionally, she thought – but his attire was immaculate. He must have a very good valet. His expression on seeing them, and the pile of luggage in the corner, was telling. He looked utterly annoyed, and then, as his eyes came to rest on Venetia’s face, on her scar to be precise, a sneer twisted his lips. He bowed, rather mockingly.