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Lady Bentwood’s jaw actually drops, before she offers a slight smile.
“That had been part of my plan, but you and my father were better equipped to carry it out.”
“Your father and I agreed that the blackguard could rot in hell,” Bentwood admits, “but the ladies deserve rescue.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“They spoiled him rotten.”
“Male heir.”
Bentwood shrugs, as if that were the case for all young men destined to head up an aristocratic family.
“No one spoiled you, Bentwood.” Lady Bentwood turns to me. “His father yanked him from the nursery far too young. It was all rigid rules and schedules.” She lifts her nose, looking down it, imitating, “Play is not for Earls.”
“And it’s been your life’s purpose to upend that structure,” Bentwood teases, earning a blush.
“This cabin is rather small.”
He jars my thoughts. It’s miniscule.
“Meant for one officer, not three women,” Lady Bentwood explains to me. She needn’t have bothered.
“Well, Kat,” — he holds out his hand — “shall we give Lady Eleanor breathing room?”
Her hand in his, she stands.
“Mr. Cabbage awaits.”
Bentwood opens the door to a white-haired, portly gentleman standing on the threshold, prepared to knock.
“Lord Bentwood? Your Lordship?” He steps back and bows. He has a little plate of candied fruit in one hand. “I went to our cabin, for a last look around, ensured that all of my belongings had been shifted, and this was there for you.” He thrusts it forward, admitting with a rueful smile, “Specifically for you, there’s the card.” He points at a card with Lord Bentwood scrawled across its face.
“Must be Mr. Goddard, the cabbage eater,” Lady Bentwood whispers to me before we follow Bentwood into the passageway.
“Ladies,” the Earl asks, “do you care for a sweet, or shall we allow Mr. Goddard the pleasure?”
“Are you the Countess?” Mr. Goddard bows again. “Oh, how do you do? And are you, perhaps, her mother?” he asks me.
“No.” I’m offended, with no reason to be. “Please, enjoy the sweets.”
“Yes.” Lady Bentwood is attempting not to laugh. “I see there are some green ones, I bet you’ll like those best.”
“Would you like them?” Earnestly, he pushes the plate at the Countess.
She waves him off, smile wide. “Do, please, enjoy.”
“If you are quite certain?” Mr. Goddard asks again, a piece of the candy nearly in his mouth, plate held out to the others.
“No, thank you,” we all say.
“Well then, wilful waste makes woeful want.”
A beaming Mr. Goddard pops two pieces of candy into his mouth and turns to leave. The jovial Mr. Goddard pivots, shaking his head, tongue forcing soggy candy from his mouth, eyes bugging out, and tumbles, candy flying around him.
“He’s choking!” Lady Bentwood cries. “Do something, Bentwood!”
I waylay him even as Goddard spasms and flips, belly down. If my suspicions are correct, there’s nothing that can be done. The dinner party must have come to an end, for others are scrambling down the ladder. We shout for the doctor as Montague steps forward, only to gag and hurry for a doorway down the passageway. He hadn’t looked well at dinner, and this has taken him over the edge.
