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Chapter Fifteen
Bertram had been in his office, answering correspondence and thinking that he might have to get back to the barracks soon when there was a knock at the door.
“The Countess of Perrin is here to see you, Your Grace,” his footman announced.
Bertram frowned. “What does she want?”
“She didn’t say, Your Grace.”
Bertram’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Of course she didn’t. Forgive my ornery question. Would you see her to the drawing room, please? I shall join her shortly.”
The footman bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned smartly and left the room while Bertram sighed tiredly. He and the Countess of Perrin had a complicated relationship at the best of times. She had a strong will and an even stronger belief that they should be together.
Aside from his one moment of madness—when he was running away from his visceral reaction to Miss Strange—he had neverseriouslyentertained the notion of subjecting George to her idiosyncrasies. In fact, he shuddered at the thought of subjectinghimselfto them. Throwing down his quill, he sprung to his feet with a huff and marched down the corridor to the drawing room, bracing himself for whatever he would find.
The Countess was seated regally in the armchair by the window, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap around a fan decorated in Chinese red and gold. Her straw-colored hair was neatly piled atop her head, with tiny tendrils cradling her face matching the brightness of her yellow gown. The sun shone through the window, enveloping her in a halo of light.
She chose her seat well.
“Lady Perrin. How lovely to see you.”
She turned towards him, her lips painted a blushing red, and smiled. “Your Grace. How lovely to see you as well. I feel as if you’ve been avoiding me.”
Bertram cocked his head to the side in some surprise. “Why would you think so?”
“Well, I have heard that you’ve been at home for almost a week and have not bothered to call upon me.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I was not aware that it was a requirement.”
“Oh, Bertie, why must you make it sound like such a chore?”
Bertram’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.
Bertie?
“Er, forgive me. I did not mean to be rude.”
She got to her feet. “I’ll forgive you, this time, if…” she flicked him a coy glance and he waited patiently to see what she would say, “you tell me what’s to do about somebody trying to do away with you.”
Bertram stiffened in surprise. “How did you know about that?”
“Oh you know how people talk.” She waved a white-gloved hand dismissively, although her cheeks reddened slightly.
“People? What people?”
Lady Perrin shrugged. “Well, I for one heard it from my lady’s maid so I really cannot say.”
“Perhaps you should ascertain the veracity of such allegations before you repeat them.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended. He did not want to confirm her suspicions with a strong reaction.
She reared back, eyes widening in affront. “Well…I never. I simply wanted to express my concern.” She tossed her head in annoyance.
“Of course. And I apologize for being abrupt.” Much as he wanted her to leave, he had no intention of stirring up trouble by being overtly rude.
She sashayed over to him, “So you mean to tell me that none of these tales about your so-called encounter with an assassin are true?”
“Of course not.”
