“Didn’t I hear you once mention to Lady Killory that indulgence in spirits is the sign of a weak mind?” Mr. Harris inquired.
But Whit answered them all with wit and humor. “I’m here for the very reasons you mentioned, Mr. Waterson. I required an excuse to get away from the simpering women at staid house parties, not to mention the simpering women in the House of Lords. And you’d have made the comment too, Mr. Harris, if it’d been you the lady was breathing sherry on. Best way to get rid of her.”
And soon enough, the conversation had gone from an interrogation, to a rollicking round of reminiscing about the late Lord Thurston and how his son might live up to the old man yet.
Mirabelle tried to make herself smaller in her chair. If she could only get through the meal without being noticed, without being called on to speak, she’d still have to suffer the shame of having Whit see her uncle and his friends in their limited dining glory, but she wouldn’t have to actually—
“Quit slouching girl!” her uncle snapped.
Blast.
“Ugly enough as it is,” he added. “No need to bring bad posture into the bargain.”
Damn.
“Leave off the girl, Eppersly,” someone said, she wasn’t about to look up to discover who. “Not so bad looking I wouldn’t have a go at her!”
Oh. Bloody. Hell.
She couldn’t look at Whit. She couldn’t have faced him now if her life depended on it. Was he laughing? She couldn’t hear him laughing, but she could hardly make anything out over the cacophony of snorting her uncle called a laugh. Was Whit angry? Offended? Shocked? She wished she had the nerve to find out.
“What say you, Thurston?” one of the guests called. “You ever had a piece of—”
She threw herself into a vicious fit of coughing. The force of it scratched her throat and made her eyes water, but she didn’t care. If the man finished that question, she wouldn’t die of humiliation on the spot, but she’d want to.
The baron grunted and snapped greasy fingers at a footman. “You. You there.”
“Simmons, sir.”
“Did I ask for your name?” he demanded, before jabbing a finger at Mirabelle. “Idiot. Just pound the chit’s back for Christ’s sake.”
“Pound the…?”
“Go on, man!”
Mirabelle took a gulping breath and held the footman off with a hand and a wan smile. “That won’t be necessary, Simmons, thank you.”
Simmons looked to the baron for confirmation. The baron gave one disinterested shrug and went back to his meal.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled, and fled. It was possible she’d be berated for the early departure tomorrow, but it was equally possible her uncle had already imbibed enough to not care, or forget entirely. And she was certain she couldn’t spend another second in that room. She raced to her own room, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
She had no idea how long she simply stood where she was, shaking and panting raggedly. Was that it, then? Would she be ruined because of one careless comment? When she felt her knees begin to buckle, she snapped herself back, forcing aside panic for reason. The guest had indicated that, given the chance, he would have a go at her, not that he ever had. It was a small but significant difference. One comment was cruel and mortifying, the other could irrevocably ruin her name. As it was, her reputation was merely scratched a bit. As was her pride. And her heart—Whit might not have laughed at the jest, but he hadn’t defended her either.
“Well bugger him,” she snapped to no one and refused to feel the least guilty for using such a vulgar invective. She’d heard her uncle use it a hundred times. “Bugger all of them.”
As soon as was humanly possible, she’d begin searching for the proof of her uncle’s innocence as a counterfeiter. As soon as she had it, Whit could leave. If she was still welcome at Haldon after that, she’d simply tuck this party away as a tremendously embarrassing memory. If not…well…
“Bugger it,” was the best she could come up with.
It was another two hours before she gained the courage to again leave her bedroom. The others wouldn’t be in bed yet, but there was always the question of whether they had managed to move themselves into her uncle’s study or if they had drunk so much so quickly that they found it inconvenient to leave the dining room. She hoped for the latter. Her uncle sometimes fell asleep in whichever chair he was currently occupying and if the chair happened to be in the study, it would mean putting off the snooping she had planned in that room for a later night. As she was immensely anxious about snooping in her uncle’s sanctuary, she found the idea of delaying it distinctly unappealing. Better to get it over and done with than to worry about it for another day.
She followed the sound of braying laughter to the dining room door. That was it then, she decided. Her uncle would either sleep there or have a pair of unfortunate footmen haul him to his room. But he wouldn’t be back in his study this night.
She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back again, curiosity getting the better of her.