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“Such prevarication is not my idea of gentlemanly behavior,” the squire’s son said with a lifted nose.
“Indeed no,” said Mrs. Cleever.
“I imagine it was you who coerced poor Miss Stapleton into your schemes,” young Bellingham scoffed.
“The blame is mine.” No good would come of admitting she had agreed. Poor Theo. He physically ached to think that his actions would hurt her.
“Scandalous,” muttered Mrs. Cleever. “Unprincipled.”
“It would appear that some of you are more concerned that you were not first with the news, rather than applauding this young man’s brave deeds.” The squire sent his wife and her crony a frown. “I should not like to think my actions to protect my family should be so readily dismissed simply because one has a desire to gossip.”
“Sir Giles!” Mrs. Cleever exclaimed.
“Husband, that is not necessary—”
Daniel grasped the side of the table and awkwardly pushed to his feet. The conversation stilled, and he glanced around the table, forcing himself to meet each pair of eyes. “I beg your pardon, but it appears that my presence here is not conducive to harmony. I would ask that you would please excuse me. I plan to quit the neighborhood very soon and take Miss Mannering back to London. I am deeply sorry that my actions have led to distress and upset, but I hope I may be forgiven, given that it was made from an impulse to save my niece from unnecessary grief and speculation.”
Musgrave rose too. “Thank you, ma’am, for a delicious meal. I must take my leave also. Good night.”
A half hour later they were back in Mannering’s cold rooms, the small fire Musgrave had lit doing little to take the chill off the air.
“Balfour, please, accept my apologies. I did not mean—”
“Enough. It is done. Something I should have done long ago.”
“But—”
“No more, please.” Daniel held up a weary hand, his heart too sore, his mind too full of regrets and uncertainties, leaving him no capacity for conversation beyond desultory nothings, comments about the weather, the road, the upcoming trip.
Daniel knew he would need to speak to Theo on the morrow, to somehow warn her and explain what had happened. But while the thought of seeing her would normally boost his spirits, this was one interview which filled him with dread.
Theo paused on the stairs, her ears pricked for the conversation emanating from the drawing room. A restless night had led to a strange sleep that had only been broken by the sound of a horse cantering away, followed not long after by a carriage’s arrival. Hettie’s disclosure that the departure was Miss Mannering, who had gone for her morning ride, was not unusual. But to have a carriage pull up at such an hour had prompted her dismissal of the maid and determination to learn what had brought its occupants here so early.
She pushed open the drawing room door and was met with five faces: three Bellinghams, Mama, and the general. Oh dear. Whatever this was must be extremely serious, but at least this interview could be conducted without her sister’s presence. She curtsied, offered her greetings, then shifted Maisie to take the seat next to her grandfather as he gestured for her to do.
“Theodosia,” he said now, “we have been visited so early this morning by people who wish to know the truth of your conduct.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it true, Miss Stapleton, that you knew Captain Balfour was indeed staying here?” Lady Bellingham asked.
Theo’s stomach clenched and she glanced at her mother, who seemed on the verge of tears. Theo sank lower in her chair. How best to proceed? Admit in part, or in all? “May I enquire what has happened?”
“At our dinner last night, Captain Balfour admitted his true identity!” Lady Bellingham sniffed. “You can no doubt imagine my upset when I learned that you had known all this time.”
“He said that you knew.” Frederick spit the words. “Did you help hide him here, knowing full well who he was?”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to hide someone without knowing who they were,” she murmured.
“Have you lost all sense of propriety?” demanded Frederick. “I cannot believe—”
“That is enough,” his father said, voice sharp as a knife.
“Indeed,” growled Grandfather. “Who are you to preach to my granddaughter about propriety?”
“Sir, I really must protest—”
“That’s enough, Elvira,” the squire said. “Let the girl speak.”
