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Beatrice’s hand was not released until the child led her to her place at the end of the table. Coogan pulled out her chair, another footman lay her serviette on her lap, another filled her glass with wine.
“Brosnyn has taken charge of the wine cellar, Your Grace,” Conlon informed her as she took a sip of the lovely hock.
“Thanks to Mr. Conlon’s guidance, of course, ma’am,” Brosnyn countered. Beatrice decided then and there he was the under butler and gritted her teeth against saying so to Osborn.
Oh, no. She would not be silenced.
“You make a formidable pair. Mr. Conlon, we shall discuss the appointment of Mr. Brosnyn as your second-in-command,” she said, to the delight of both, and only then did she look at the duke. “Osborn,” she said, hearing the distance in her tones.
“Madam.” He rose. Was he leaving? Because of her? Because of what had happened earlier? Because she had taken another decision without consulting him? He moved down the table and collected her plate. “We are dining French style, if I may tempt you with what Mrs. Porter has so lavishly laid on?”
“You may.” She took another sip of wine. “If it is your pleasure.”
Charlotte paused in preparing Ursella’s plate. “Oh, it is the Alpha’s pleasure to serve his—”
“Partridge?” Osborn cut across their sister-in-law and kept his attention fully on her. He quizzed Beatrice on her preferences as he indicated each serving dish laid out from one end of the table to the other. Did she care for the stewed mushrooms or the parsnips? A spoonful of each? Will he serve up any of the sauces? Jelly or cream? There was yet trout to be had, done in a gelatin mold if she wished? He did not pass a dish that he did not inquire to her desires, and by the time he had worked his way back to her, he lay before her a bountiful plate tailored according to her tastes.
Ben took it upon himself to revitalize the conversation. “The wine was part of our mother’s dowry,” he said.
“Despite our sort not being great imbibers of wine or spirits. Nor was it a typical inclusion for an English lass,” Charlotte supplied. “And yet, of course, the German ancestry was well established on the distaff side. The name was, if I recall, Adelbern, which is not unexpected, considering.”
“I did not know that,” Ben said, and he smiled at his wife as though she had hung the moon.
“Mum knows everything and everything that happens,” Tarben sighed.
“Even before it happens,” Bernadette grumbled.
Ursella as ever was quiet, but Beatrice caught her nodding in agreement at her potatoes.
“His Highness would value such intelligence,” Beatrice said. The partridge was delicious, as were the accompaniments. She found the peas, when topped with one of the jellies, to be especially tasty.
“Oh, Georgie knows what he’d get in me.” Charlotte smiled her thanks at the footman who topped up her glass. “As I have mentioned, we grew up in Court, Beezy. It was a raucous rearing, to be sure, and not one I would recommend.”
“There was much that occurred that was not good for the young,” Ben admitted.
“Candlesticks as far as the eye could see,” Charlotte added.
“How glad I am that your children are here with us now.” She eyed Osborn down the length of the table. He had not contributed to the reminiscences, nor did he call a halt to them. He nodded to a footman to remove his plate and stood to take up the bottle himself and see to her glass.
“Yes,” Ben replied. “We were let run wild”—a chorus of shouts from the children betrayed their approval—“and while it was not for the best, we were amongst our peers and have made friendships for life. Lowell was often among us, as were the Bates brothers.”
“And Lady Coleman, the new Duchess of Lowell’s bosom friend,” Charlotte added. “Jemima is a clandestine couturier, although there are some in society who have begun to discern her hand in the fashions many are sporting. She is a favorite of Georgie’s.”
Beatrice wondered if that was protection enough against brewing scandal. It did amaze her, the loyalties Georgie held dear. “What was His Highness like as a child?”
“Much as you see him now,” Charlotte said. Beatrice nodded to Morag, who bustled the children from the table and into the care of their footmaid nursemen. “Mercurial, crafty, fashionable, vain. But also intelligent, far-sighted, loyal, and not without playfulness.”
“As regards vanity, I would like the footmen outfitted in Osborn livery.” She regarded the duke over her wine glass, and something about his lowered lids tickled her stockings. “At the soonest possible eventuality. Is Lady Coleman able to help?”
“Oh, well able. She is swift and not one to quail at a challenge.” Charlotte snorted with laughter as Ben shushed her. Was it a quote from Shakespeare, as Osborn was prone to spout?
“I shall see to it,” Osborn said, to her utter incredulity. “Are you sated, Madam?” he inquired, silencing Charlotte and making Ben squeak. They looked at each other, incredulous.
“Does he speak with intent, or is he quite oblivious?” she heard Charlotte whisper to her husband.
“Thank you, Osborn, I have had enough to eat.” Beatrice rose, if only to defuse the surge of jealousy that swept over her, watching Charlotte and Ben giggle and whisper. “We may repair to the, oh, what shall we call the family reception room? That is so unwieldy.”
“Let us call it the den,” Charlotte proposed, earning a glare from Osborn. “Ben and I must tend to the children this eve as they will not have their Aunt Beezy for storytelling.” She tugged Ben up from his seat. “I believe your time may be best spent in the company of your husband, in your own room.”
