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“You nearly hit Miss Chandler with that runaway ball,” West said sternly.
Betsy hung her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Chandler. I didn’t mean to. Moresby was teasing me and he made me lose my temper and I hit the ball hard as I could, but I was so angry that I smashed it in the wrong direction completely.”
“If that ball had struck my darling girl it could have broken her nose. Or worse,” Mrs. Chandler wailed, wringing her hands.
“I’m awfully sorry, Miss Chandler. I didn’t mean it.”
“Well!” Mrs. Chandler harrumphed. “I was led to believe, and indeed I have witnessed firsthand,that the English nobility are restrained and refined. Not here. Such goings-on! Dried beetles and runaway cricket balls. And not a teapot or crumpet to be seen.”
“Here’s the tea now,” said West with relief, as several footmen arrived bearing the tea things.
“No thank you, Your Grace.” Mrs. Chandler grabbed her daughter’s hand. “We’re leaving. I’ve just remembered we have another engagement.”
“Try one of these cherry tarts,” pleaded Belinda. “We promise that everything will be ever so calm and refined from this moment forth.”
A footman swept up the glass from the window while another pulled the curtains over the jagged hole.
Miss Chandler glanced at the pastry longingly, but her mother caught her by the hand and led her toward the door.
“I’ll meet you for tea in a restaurant, shall I?” he asked. A public outing would be a more easily controlled situation. A date was arranged. West made his bows and escorted them to the door.
Then he assembled his sisters in the parlor.
He marched up and down the row of mutinous young ladies. “What the deuce was that all about? Are you trying to drive my fiancée away just because she’s American?”
“What was that crashing noise?” asked Blanche, entering the room.
“Bets smashed her cricket ball through the window and it almost hit Miss Chandler,” Birdie said excitedly.
“But West dove for the ball and caught it mere inches from her nose,” said Bernadette.
“Oh, Bets,” Blanche groaned.
“And where were you?” West asked Blanche. “You don’t look ill to me.”
Blanche gave him a demure look. “I’m feeling better now, thank you for inquiring.”
“I’ll ask again,” West growled. “What in the blazes was all that?”
“It’s not our fault, brother dear,” said Birdie sweetly. “Now that we have no musicale to prepare for, we’re all out of sorts.”
“The blasted musicale. We’re back to that, are we? A lot of bored gossips sitting in chairs watching you torture the pianoforte and murder the harp. The last I heard you weren’t...” He’d been going to say that they hadn’t been much good. “You weren’t quite soloist material.”
“Miss Beaton helped me master Mozart’s Sonata no. 11,” said Blanche, “and I was going to play Bach for Lord Laxton.”
“Who will never set foot in this house.”
“Why not? What has he done?”
“He’s not an honorable gentleman and you must put him from your mind and forget all about him. Best to marry Flanders. You know exactly what you’re getting there. A good, trustworthy fellow.”
“I don’t think of Lord Flanders that way. He’s like a brother to me. I know far too much about him. He was always tugging on my plaits and sticking his tongue out at me.”
“And you don’t know the first thing aboutLaxton. Please trust me on this. It’s for your own good.” West hated the words the second they left his lips. He’d sounded like his father. “I do wish I could tell you why but there are—”
“You don’t know the first thing about Miss Chandler,” Blanche cried.
“It’s true,” said Bernadette. “You heard her mother. They have political ambitions. Do you want to ally yourself with them? Their family could have dark hidden secrets.”
