Wes sat up a little straighter. “Indeed, Lady Sophronia, I meant no offense—”
She cackled with laughter. “No, of course not! You can’t keep your eyes off her. I may be old but I’m not blind. She’s a pretty girl . . .” She paused, her head tilted thoughtfully to one side, and gave a small shrug. “Not a girl, I suppose, but certainly young enough to be foolish about some things. Well, I’ll tell you this: her husband—a good lad, James, but no head for money, and a man without money is hardly worth marrying—was Wessex’s third cousin. Their great-great-grandfather was my uncle, and a duller person you never met. He was a Calvinist and as a consequence never spent a farthing on anything frivolous in his life. What a waste!” She shook her head, looking piqued. “He left his children provided for, but James . . . The men in that branch of the family are handsome as anything, but idiots, all of them, each in his own way. Thank goodness Wessex inherited some sense with his title, or we’d all be living on turnips and roasted squirrels. Have you ever eaten a squirrel?”
“Er.” Wes blinked at the diversion. “No. A crocodile once, on the banks of the Nile. But James . . .?” For once he had no interest in talking about his travels.
Sophronia seemed pleased. “Crocodile! How exotic.” She gave him a triumphant smile. “I knew you were not a dull person. I have no patience for dullards. You must tell me more about Egypt, and your visit to Russia. I always longed to see Sergei’s homeland. A Cossack shot him before we could marry. Such a cowardly thing to do. A proper duel with swords would have been at least romantic and exciting.”
“Of course,” he said, trying once more to get the conversation on more interesting topics. “I take it Wessex was close to his third cousin?”
“What? Oh no, he barely knew the boy.” She frowned. “Such a pity. James’s grandmother was my bosom friend. We had such times together! But she had a weak heart, as did all her family; they died young, every one of them I can remember. Naturally Wessex would look after James’s widow, but Viola was the one who insisted on a position.”
“She seems part of the family.” He watched as the woman in question spoke quietly to Lady Serena, who smiled warmly in return and clasped her hand for a moment. “Quite warmly received.”
Sophronia scoffed. “She knows how to make herself useful! I do admire that in a person, you know; people who know how to do things are wonderful to have around.”
“Then it seems a very fortunate thing for all, that she’s here.”
“Indeed,” said Sophronia. “As for how long she’ll stay . . .” She raised her shoulders. “Well, necessity will guide that, I suppose.”
Wes tried to look only politely curious. “Necessity?”
Sophronia glanced around furtively, and lowered her voice. “Oh yes, she has very good cause to stay for now. Later? Who can say. But she’ll likely not see reason, not where he’s concerned.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, shall we go in to dinner?” Lady Serena blushed and smiled prettily as she made her announcement. At her side, Mrs. Cavendish gave a tiny nod of approval, and even the butler looked proud.
Wes mustered a smile and helped Lady Sophronia to her feet. She waved him away and summoned Lady Bridget, who hurried over, and they began a quiet but animated conversation.
He strolled off, wondering what she’d meant. Who was he? Why was Mrs Cavendish only in her post because of him, and why was she unreasonable about him? All in all, Lady Sophronia had only inspired more questions than she’d answered.
Well. Perhaps he was unreasonable for being so interested. If he wanted to know more about the lady, he ought to own his interest honestly and speak to the woman. He was nothing but a gossipy bore if he pried into her history from afar and never made an effort to know her. And if he became less interested as a result of that effort, then he neither deserved or needed to know every detail of her past.
He would just have to keep reminding himself of that every time she smiled at him.
Chapter 5
For the first few days of the party, Viola felt confidently in control. Serena was doing an admirable job as hostess, Bridget’s ideas for entertainments stayed within the bounds of propriety, and even Sophronia was behaving herself. Every day she reported to the dowager duchess that all was well.
By the third day, the novelty of the deep snow began to wear off. Alexandra snapped at Serena, who told her to go sulk in her room if she couldn’t be civil. Lord Newton and Mr. Jones got into a testy argument about sleigh racing. One of Serena’s dearest friends, Miss Kate Lacy, arrived at last after being delayed by the storm, but so did a mysterious young man called Conte Luigi Mascapone. Viola knew he was not on the guest list and despaired of what to do with him, but Lady Sophronia clasped him in her arms, declared he was the grandson of a dear friend of hers, and invited him on the spot to stay for the party. Viola could do nothing but send the housekeeper to prepare a room for him.
Lord Winterton seemed to be either hiding from the young people, which Viola could somewhat understand, or fascinated by Kingstag; more than once she bumped into him in some unusual part of the house. He claimed to be lost, which was reasonable, but she was beginning to wonder how such a world traveler had such a poor sense of direction.
The last straw was catching Bridget doing something suspicious in the library on the fourth day.
Viola didn’t actually know what Bridget was doing. She went to inquire how the play was progressing—by then she was in desperate search of anything to occupy the rest of the guests, and Bridget had holed up in the library promising to have a new act ready before dinner for people to rehearse. But when she opened the door, Bridget was not at the desk, writing diligently on her play. She was standing in front of an open French window, letting powdery snow blow into the room.
“Bridget!”
With a startled motion the girl slammed the door. The glass shuddered so hard Viola feared it would break.
“What are you doing?” Viola hurried across the room. Snow was blowing against the glass, and the wind blew loudly against the castle walls, throwing up white powder that sparkled in the weak winter sun.
“Getting some fresh air.” Bridget widened her eyes innocently and went back to the desk. She dropped into the chair and bent over her papers, scribbling away.
Suspicious, Viola scanned the terrace outside. She could see no one, but were there footsteps in the snow leading from the door around the corner? It was hard to tell in the glittering breeze. “Was someone here on the terrace?”
“In all this snow?” Bridget scoffed. “Who would traipse through it?”
“That isn’t an outright denial.”
Bridget made a face, her pen still skimming across the page. “I suppose if you think someone might decide to wander through the snow to chat through an open window, there’s nothing I can do to dissuade you. Go out and search, if you like.”
Viola was certain the girl was lying, but there was nothing she could do. She turned the lock on the French window just in case, and went back to the desk. “How is the play coming along? Everyone is quite anxious to have more scenes to rehearse.”
“It’s bloody brilliant,” said Bridget with satisfaction. “Original and ridiculous and everything a farce should be. Read this.” She pushed some pages across the table.