I had taken an immediate liking to Lady Hollingsworth’s second son upon meeting him at Gairloch two months prior. Quick to laugh and chivalrous to a fault, Damien had been more than one lady’s champion at different occasions during the house party, including mine. However, listening to him scold and rebuke Miss Remmington, I doubted the cheeky girl would ever be able to count him among her defenders.
I couldn’t fault the meal or the setting, even if the attitude of some of our dinner companions left something to be desired. The room absolutely sparkled with candlelight; the china, crystal, and silverware glistened on a tablecloth of pristine white under the glow of a chandelier and candelabras, which spanned the length of the buffet, the sideboard, and the fireplace mantel. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, holding back the chill of the autumn evening and lending the spice of cedarwood to the heady scent of the wine and the rich aroma of the food.
I was relieved to see Alana hungrily consume dainty spoonfuls of her split pea soup. However, observing my sister as I was, I also couldn’t help but notice Gage, who was seated to her left, and the way he seemed to be noting my every movement. It was not overtly done. Gage would never have been so gauche as to stare openly at a person across the dinner table. All the same, I knew where his focus lay, and it was disconcerting.
The fact that Michael periodically sent anxious looks in my direction only made matters worse. Did he regret our not being able to finish our conversation in the drawing room? And just what exactly had he been about to confide?
I could not stop my mind from going over the clues that had been dropped in my hearing. As far as I could tell, everything still pointed to Philip’s supposition that his aunt’s displeasure with Michael and Caroline’s engagement had to do with Michael’s refusal to petition the Court of Chancery for the title. But, then, why the sadness in Michael’s eyes? William had been missing for almost a decade. Was Michael only now beginning to accept that his brother would never return, that he was, in fact, dead?
And why was Lady Hollingsworth so intent on antagonizing the Dalmays? Surely such a display of disdain was not the way to win them over to her way of thinking.
After three courses, I was no closer to uncovering what was going on than I was before, and infinitely more aggravated.
“Lady Darby does not seem to be enjoying herself. Perhaps we should pursue a different topic of conversation,” I was jolted from my introspection to hear Lord Damien say.
“Why ever shouldn’t she be?” Miss Remmington insisted. “We’re merely discussing the merits of city life compared to country life. I daresay she’s experienced both.”
“Yes, but the last few weeks she spent in London were not the happiest.”
I stiffened at his oblique reference to Sir Anthony’s death and the subsequent charges brought against me for unnatural behavior.
Miss Remmington forked a bite of delicate, flaky cod and swirled it in its mustard cream sauce. “Well, I’m not the one who brought up such an insensitive subject. You are.”
“Yes, but you are the one who caused it by mentioning London at all.” Damien’s brow was lowered in a ferocious frown. “She was bound to think of it.”
“Please,” I interrupted before their argument could become even louder and more embarrassing, for me, if no one else. “Lord Damien, it’s quite all right.” I shifted my gaze to Miss Remmington, who was watching me curiously. “I do miss London sometimes,” I admitted. “Especially the museums,” I added with a tiny smile. “But, by and large, I find I prefer the country. The air and light are so much better, you see.” I did not add the fact that there was also less society, and people’s sharp tongues and penetrating stares, to contend with, though from the sharpening of Miss Remmington’s eyes I was certain she was aware of this.
However, she did not question me on it. “I had forgotten that Laura said you were an artist.”
“And quite a good one,” Damien declared, determined not to be left out of the conversation. “Mother says her portraits will soon be all the rage. Everyone will want to be painted by the notorious Lady Darby.” Damien’s eyes widened and a blush reddened his cheeks as he belatedly realized what he had said. “Well, that is . . .”
“Really? The notorious Lady Darby?” Miss Remmington pressed, a smirk stretching her face.
I felt a tightness in my chest at his words, but held no rancor toward the young man, for I knew he was only repeating something his mother had said. And in an attempt to show up the vexing Miss Remmington he had uttered the epithet without thinking.
Miss Remmington, on the other hand, was taking advantage of the opportunity to cause trouble by plaguing Damien for his faux pas. I knew her type, unfortunately. She thrived on conflict. The bigger the reaction she got out of you, the more it pleased her. And the more likely she was to continue goading you. The swiftest way to beat her at her own game was to refuse to engage, be it with anger or discomfiture.