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“When isn’t he riled up?” Samantha smoothed down her dress, annoyed by the trembling in her hands. “Put his lordship in the main drawing room and serve up tea. And please try to keep Felicity away. If Lord Beath asks for her, then she can come down. If not, best to keep her out of the line of fire.”
“Aye, my lady.”
Samantha crossed to the mirror over the sideboard by the door. Her whey-faced complexion, combined with shadowed eyes, was not an inspiring sight. She smoothed down an errant curl and tugged her collar and sleeves into starched alignment. Thankfully, her dress was beyond reproach—a lavender gown with few embellishments. The old poop would probably still wish her to go about in full widow’s weeds, but even the highest stickler couldn’t expect her to wear black crepe two years after Roger’s death.
After waiting a few moments to make sure her grandfather-in-law was properly settled, Samantha made her way downstairs. She paused outside the drawing room, pinned a smile on her face, and then opened the door and went in.
“Lord Beath, you’ve caught us a bit by surprise. If I’d known you were coming, I would have met you at the door.”
The baron, standing by the fireplace with his back to her, glanced over his shoulder. As she expected, a frown dominated his jowly, aging features.
“That is why one has servants, Samantha, although I see you still have only a maid to answer the door instead of a proper footman. And as for catching you by surprise, I certainly do not need your permission to stop by and see my granddaughter, however unexpected.”
Samantha mentally sighed. Barely in the room and she’d already offended him. Of course, her very existence had offended him from the moment they’d met.
“We are always happy to see you, sir. Won’t you have a seat? Mrs. Johnson will bring up tea directly, unless you would prefer a sherry or a port.”
He waved an impatient hand. “Refreshment is unnecessary. I don’t intend to stay any longer than I have to.”
That pronouncement, which should have been welcome, instead set off shivers of foreboding. The old man was fashed about something, and more so than the usual.
Lord Beath was tall and portly, with a touch of gout that usually had him walking with a cane. Despite his size, he carried himself with innate dignity, his posture ramrod straight despite his advanced years. Although at first glance his broad and jowly features suggested amiability, his cold blue gaze was sharp and disapproving. That gaze now swept over her with ruthless assessment.
As he took a seat in front of the low sofa table, Samantha cracked open the door to tell the worried maid in the hall to cancel the tea service. Then she settled into the wingback chair opposite him and arranged her skirts, taking a moment to prepare for the coming discussion.
“Do you wish me to fetch Felicity, sir?”
The old man glowered. “Women in your position do not fetch anyone, Samantha. Again, that is a task for servants—proper servants, not a girl who can barely gabble out two coherent words.”
It would never occur to Beath that his unpleasant behavior might be the reason that Sally was nervous. To him, servants were a lower order of species, only worth noticing when they offended him.
“A liveried footman is an expense I cannot afford,” she calmly replied.
“If you and Felicity would move to the estate and take up residence at the dower house, I would provide you with staff. You would be well cared for, and in proper style.”
They’d be all but invisible, is what they would be. Tucked away in the old dower house in the back garden, their daily movements closely monitored by a man who actively disliked them. For Felicity, especially, it would be a prison.
And Samantha would rather die than live under Beath’s thumb.
“Thank you, sir, but Felicity benefits greatly from Dr. Blackmore’s care. As well, I must be present to oversee the foundation, which would be difficult to do from your estate.”
He made a disgusted noise. “That demmed foundation. Never understood why Roger wanted the blasted thing in the first place.”
“Which is why Roger made arrangements for me to manage it should anything happen,” she replied, keeping her voice level. “He did not wish to burden you.”
“No person of taste shouldburdenhimself with such an enterprise,” he snapped. “For the heir to one of the most distinguished baronies in the country to waste his precious time on vagrants and brats was beyond understanding. If only Roger had done what I told him, he’d still be—”
He pressed his lips together as he struggled to master his emotions. Samantha knew that Beath genuinely grieved. At the same time, he also harbored an unreasoning anger, with part of him blaming poor Roger for his own death.
“That blasted place got him killed,” he finally said.
Roger’s workhadgotten him killed, though not for the reasons his grandfather imagined. When she’d tried to present him with those reasons after the murder, the old man had refused to listen.
“I assume you did not visit today to speak about the foundation,” she said.
“You assume correctly.”
She forced a smile. “Then to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, sir?”
