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Lady Bronwen stared as if he’d just spat on Prince Anarawd ap Rhodri’s grave.
The orchestra struck up with the prelude to a waltz, so he turned towards Miss Pritchard, noted the sheen to her bodice and hastily continued to the delicate Miss Brecken. “Would you do me the honour?”
“Oh… Oh… Oh, my good lord.”
Miss Pritchard elbowed her in the ribs. “It’s Your Grace, you simpleton.”
Her hands fluttered to her flushed cheeks but Rhys gently smiled and held out his arm. “Shall we?”
“Uncle? Are you…hiding?”
“Not at all, Mari. I’m just inspecting the leaves for aphids.”
“Oh, I see.” His niece lifted a branch and together with Lady Gwen, joined him beneath the prodigious orange tree overwintering in the ballroom corner. “Well, we can’t find Miss Beaujeu anywhere. Miss Pritchard requested sewing assistance with a tear in her bodice and so Lady Gwen offered to chaperone me.” She tapped a white slipper. “Yet Miss Beaujeu has still not returned.”
“Have you tried the ladies’ retiring room?”
“Of course.” His niece rolled her eyes. “The maid said they left separately.”
“And that was some while ago,” added Gwen.
Rhys frowned. “I’m sure–”
“What if Miss Pritchard has murdered her? Or Lady Bronwen has locked her in the attic? She’s the first governess I’ve ever liked, and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her.”
“Why would they–”
“Their ancestors are all murderous warriors and princes, and they do not perceive Miss Beaujeu as one of them. So, of course, they would, Uncle. Now, go find her.” A fan sharply prodded his guts.
Her debutante Season preparation was proceeding apace then.
And surely a duke should not have to tolerate such prodding from a fifteen-year-old girl?
But he stepped from the vegetation, straightened his tailcoat and surveyed the ballroom.
Hugh had embraced the challenge of a dance with the moist Miss Pritchard; her father was trifling with a marble nymph; Lady Bronwen was jabbering with Sir Flirtalot – not his name, obviously; while a flushed Miss Craddock, and her mother, flanked a nervous Captain Brecken.
Rhys strode over to Elen who was poking at a wilted petal in the flower arrangements. “Have you seen Miss Beaujeu? Mari can’t find her.”
With eyes closing in sufferance, she sighed. “And for the last half-hour, I have sought to find you, to little avail.” She lifted her lids and glared. “Answer me honestly, did you ask that governess all of my questions at the interview?”
“Yes,” he lied.
“Hmm. Well, have you considered that Miss Beaujeu might have abandoned Mari for a liaison of her own? She is French after all.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m informed by Lady Bronwen that the governess was seen strolling to the gardens with Lord Gwilym! Bold as you like. We can only be glad she hasn’t tried to tempt you to the gardens. We cannot allow that type of… Rhys? Rhys!”
But he was striding across the ballroom floor, the gawping dancers losing their step, ladies recoiling and gentlemen shifting their eyes downwards lest his formidable scowl be directed upon them.
Lord Gwilym was a libidinous rake, an arch rogue who had doubtless contrived his admittance on the petticoat tails of his respectable sister. But he was well known in the Bangor fleshpots for brutishness and Rhys was going to bloody pummel him, then clout his physog to a pulp.
A governess such as Miss Beaujeu would never have encountered such a despicable, lying rogue before, leading a schoolroom existence with her charges.
For all her confidence, she would have no knowledge of how to handle such a perverse brute and if Lord Gwilym accosted her, tried to kiss her, or worse…
At Rhys’ approach, a footman hastily thrust the ballroom doors wide, and he strode through to the rear terrace, twinkling lights shimmering upon a few meandering couples, the frigid air persuading most rakes and coquettes to the hallway niches.
