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Lord Northington was not there to greet them when they disembarked from the landau, but they were told he would arrive soon to welcome his guests.
The ancient butler moved with slow grace as he showed them to their rooms, and Celia learned that they were the first to arrive. Apparently Mrs. Pemberton and her niece had been delayed.
Exchanging a potent glance with her cousin, Celia was shown to her chamber first, a lovely room on the second floor with green silk-striped wallpaper and billowing drapes over windows with a view of the surrounding valley. A massive, ornately carved bed dominated the chamber, and thick carpets lay upon the floor. Freshly cut flowers spilled from a crystal vase atop a baroque table, stalks of lavender vying with roses for color and fragrance, lush blooms a vivid touch to grace the chamber.
“Oh my,” she said softly, and saw Jacqueline’s self-satisfied smile.
“You are being welcomed, petite.”
“So it seems.”
“My lady, this way please,” Jacqueline was told, and she and Caro were led by the servant down the long hall to another flight of stairs.
Jacqueline was given a room on the courtyard side of the house, right next to Carolyn’s bedchamber, but above Celia’s chamber. It didn’t escape Celia’s notice that they were separated by distance though still in the same house. Whose bedchamber lay just beyond hers? She’d wager a solid gold guinea it belonged to Northington!
By dinner that evening, Mrs. Pemberton and her niece had arrived, as well as Sir John. Footmen served dishes to the guests continental style, and Jacqueline remarked how civilized it was to find a host acquainted with the elegant nuances of hospitality.
“So many,” she said with a sigh, “simply place the food in the middle of the table or rely upon guests to pass it to one another. By the time it reaches one, it can be quite cold. It is so much more gracious to send footmen round with the dishes.”
Lord Northington, seated at the far end of the table behind a bank of flickering candle stands, cocked a dark brow, his smile somewhat mocking, Celia thought. She could barely see him down the length of the table, but was far too aware of his presence. He’d dominated the dining room since the moment he’d entered, with no apologies for his absence or tardiness.
“Dinner requires some formality,” he replied smoothly to Jacqueline on his left, “but here in the country I lean toward more simple customs. I rise early and may be gone by the time breakfast is served, so it will be informal, the sideboard set for your convenience. Renfroe will see to your needs.”
Aware of Sir John’s attention on her, Celia turned to her side. He had been seated next to her instead of beside Lord Northington—a surprise.
“It is very good to see you again, sir,” she said politely, and he grinned.
“Unexpected, I imagine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Indicating the others at the table with a careless wave of one hand, he explained, “I imagine you weren’t expecting a crowd.”
“I hardly think a half-dozen people qualify as a crowd, Sir John.”
“That depends on your perspective, I assume.” Harvey lifted his wineglass. He hadn’t touched his food, she noticed, but drank several glasses of port instead. “Have you ever considered how easily things come to some people?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Celia drew back. It was obvious Sir John had imbibed more wine than necessary and he seemed surly beneath his urbane facade.
Shrugging, he turned his attention to the half-empty glass, twirling it between his fingers. She regarded him closely as he seemed about to say something, then obviously decided against it. He glanced up at her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Light glinted on his blond hair and in his hazel eyes as he said softly, “I have never been comfortable with losing.”
“What have you lost, sir?” She took a sip of sherry to give the impression of nonchalance, even though Harvey was beginning to annoy her. It wasn’t only bad manners to be a surly drunk, it caused an uneasy suspicion to form.
“One cannot lose what one never possessed, I suppose. Yet I have managed it. ‘She’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d: She’s a woman, therefore to be won.’ As you may have guessed, I’m cup-shot and quite incoherent.”
“Shakespeare is rarely incoherent.”
“You are familiar with the play—”
“Henry VI, first act.” Celia paused. Harvey seemed more sad than drunk, but another emotion seethed beneath his surface that made her uneasy. She leaned forward to say softly, “May I suggest that you partake of your excellent meal? It should make you feel much better.”
“You mean, dilute the port.” His smile was a bit wry and self-mocking. “You’re right, of course. If I make an ass of myself Northington will not be pleased.”
“I’m certain he would forgive you.”
“He always does, curse him.”
Perplexed, Celia was relieved when the meal finally ended and Sir John maneuvered a path toward Miss Olivia Freestone. She was young, dark-haired and very sweet in an innocent way. And she seemed quite flattered by the attentions of Sir John, though intimidated by her aunt’s stern presence. Mrs. Pemberton kept a close eye on her niece, as if afraid she would be abducted.
