She led him to a room at the very back of the hall. It was separated from the other guests by a storage room and two linen closets, but it was the best the house had to offer, its amenities disdained by the other guests only because they found the extra walk disagreeable. She opened the door and stepped inside, pleased to find the worst of the mildew smell had aired out.
“The doors there lead to a private balcony.” One that she was relatively certain wouldn’t collapse under his weight. “There’s a bureau there for your things.” She’d made certain all the drawers opened first. “We’re having some difficulties with the bell pulls, I’m afraid. If you need something”—Get it yourself, she thought—“you’ll have to hunt up a maid or footman.”
“Mirabelle—” He reached for her, but she sidestepped his grasp and opened the door.
“Dinner is served at half past eight,” she informed him, and left with the fondest wish that he’d remain in his room for the remainder of the party. Or at least until dinner.
Eighteen
Mirabelle spent the remainder of the day alternating between putting fires out in the kitchen—mostly figuratively speaking, but with one small literal exception—and answering an endless line of summons from her uncle.
“Fetch me the case of port from the cellar. I don’t want those thieving excuses for footmen going anywhere near it alone.”
“Mr. Hartsinger likes fresh linen in his room. See it’s done before he arrives.”
“Change your gown. You’re a disgrace.”
“Why aren’t you welcoming my guests, girl? Think I brought you home to sit on your fat arse all day?”
The fact that the baron felt qualified to be the judge of anyone else’s physical appearance had never failed to astonish her. He was the single most corpulent individual of her acquaintance. The man was, in a word, round—not oblong, not a bit thicker ’round the middle and tapered at the ends. No, when his arms were at his sides, he made a nearly perfect circle, with only the slight protrusions that were his head and feet to throw off the illusion.
The head itself—and that was how she thought of it, as “the head”—was large and rapidly becoming hairless, and his nose was smashed flat against his face so that he looked like a ball with beady blue eyes and very fat lips. His feet were short and so small that she always had the impression—and the hope—they might give out under his weight and send him toppling over at any moment.
Sadly, that much desired event had yet to occur, and Mirabelle could only console herself with the knowledge that her obnoxious and inconveniently well-coordinated uncle kept her busy enough to leave little time for worrying over the additional guest in the house.
Mostly.
It helped that all the guests appeared to be occupied in their rooms at present—unpacking, she supposed, or writing missives to wives and sweethearts, informing them of their safe arrival. Mirabelle suspected there’d be a wife or two disappointed with the news.
But there would be no separating Whit from the others at dinner—not that she couldn’t try. She sent a maid with an offer to have his meal brought to his room and when that failed, she sent maids with the offer to bring meals to every other member of the house. Only Mr. Cunningham agreed to the arrangement.
So in a matter of hours, Mirabelle found herself sitting at the dinner table with some of the most disgusting human beings in En gland…and Whit.
Dinners at Baron Eppersly’s house were casual affairs. Very, very casual affairs.
So casual, in fact, that one might even go so far as to call them slovenly. Mirabelle personally felt they resembled nothing quite so much as a voracious pack of slobbering hyenas scrambling over dead prey. She’d never actually seen a hyena, mind you, but she’d read of them in books, and she rather thought the group fit the description.
Beyond the revolting sight of grown men eating without the slightest regard to etiquette—for heaven’s sake, why did her uncle insist on the good silver if he was determined to use his fingers as fork, spoon, and knife?—Mirabelle also dreaded the start of dinner because it appeared to be a silent signal for the men to begin drinking in earnest.
The wine flowed in, and manners flowed out with equal measure. Guests who hadn’t paid her the slightest bit of attention earlier suddenly found her to be a fascinating topic of conversation. Or so it had always been in the past.
They left her alone for the first hour that night. The addition of Lord Thurston to their ranks seemed to be enough to keep them occupied. Initially, they plied him with questions full of suspicion.
“What brings you to our humble gathering?” Mr. Hartsinger asked.
“Surprised you found the time—between your mama’s fine house parties and your seat in the House of Lords,” Mr. Waterson commented.