“I shall have to recover.” The dowager ruined this determined statement with another bout of coughing, and Viola refilled her teacup without waiting for permission. “There is no way Serena can maintain order. Even if these two gentlemen arrived as the very souls of dignity and propriety, Sophronia would corrupt them into the biggest scoundrels in England within a week. I shall be out of this bed by morning if I must be carried on a litter to do it.”
Viola took one look at the dowager duchess, pale and weak and still feverish, and knew there was no way she would be recovered by the morning. “You mustn’t risk your health, ma’am.” She took a deep breath and girded herself. “I shall do everything I can to assist Lady Serena, and I’m sure we can manage between the two of us.”
“Are you?” The dowager held up one hand to forestall a protest Viola wasn’t making. “I know my daughters. Bridget, in particular, can be . . . willful.”
Viola knew that all too well. This play of Bridget’s was beginning to worry her; despite asking twice, she had yet to see a single page of it, and Bridget’s odd requests were growing alarming. A ghost? Feathers? She said a silent prayer that she wasn’t about to make a promise she couldn’t keep, which might well lead to the duchess dismissing her from her post, and gave a decisive nod. “Of course. I’m very fond of Lady Bridget, and I’m confident I can guide her.”
“Well,” said the dowager, her voice heavy with doubt, “perhaps . . .”
“There’s little choice, I fear,” Viola added. “The roads will soon be impassable.” She’d checked on the snowfall right before bringing the dowager’s tray. The snow was four inches deep and still falling heavily. John the footman reported that Hugh, the head gardener, was predicting a great deal of snow, based on his observations of the squirrels at Kingstag Castle. Hugh claimed he could predict the weather by the animals’ behavior. Viola wasn’t convinced of that, but given the way her luck had run the last few years, this storm would be an epic blizzard that brought all of Dorset to a standstill.
The house was full of young ladies and gentlemen, with more expected, who would grow bored and restive if trapped inside for days on end.
Not one but two additional handsome gentlemen had arrived on the scene, soon to be trapped in that same house.
The duke, who could deal with the visiting gentlemen, was away and not expected to return soon.
The duchess, who could organize activities to keep the young ladies occupied, was also away.
The dowager duchess, who could maintain order and decorum by sheer force of will, was confined to bed for several more days at least.
Lady Serena, nominally the hostess in her mother’s stead, could hardly be expected to supervise the friends who had been invited to cheer her after her recent heartbreak.
And that meant Lady Sophronia, who loved chaos and scandal more than she loved breath, would be in charge.
Viola recognized that she was the only person at Kingstag with any hope of preventing both chaos and scandal. She had expected that the duchess’s absence would offer her a bit of a reprieve from work, when she might have some time for herself. With no small amount of regret, she realized that instead of enjoying some cozy afternoons by the fire with a good book or writing letters, she would be keeping a keen eye on Lady Bridget’s play rehearsals, as well as on all the guests, especially the young ladies. Her heart sank at the futility of that endeavor. Perhaps she ought to keep her eyes on the gentlemen . . .
Then she blushed, thinking of keeping an eye on Lord Winterton. That wouldn’t be a hardship. Keeping her eyes off him would be harder. But he didn’t look like the sort to cause trouble with young ladies barely half his age—if anything, Viola thought the young ladies would be causing trouble over him.
Lord Newton, though, had gazed at Bridget with such interest, and Viola sighed.
“With luck the snow will be gone in a few days, and the gentlemen can be on their way—presuming His Grace hasn’t returned by then, that is. In the meantime, I’m sure there will be no trouble. I shall keep a keen eye on the whole party.”
The dowager still looked doubtful, but also relieved. “If you are confident you can maintain order, then I see no cause for alarm.”
“I can,” she promised the duchess with more confidence than she felt. “I give my word.”
* * *
A servant directed Wes to a large formal drawing room before dinner. He hadn’t seen Justin since shortly after they arrived, but he heard his nephew’s laugh as he approached the drawing room doors. Since he hadn’t heard Justin sound that happy in months, Wes’s step quickened in a mixture of interest and alarm.What could have pleased him so much?
The sight that met his eyes was both wonderful and confounding. Justin wore a blindfold and was seated on a chair in the midst of several young ladies. He wore a wide grin. A handful of other people stood about the room, some watching the spectacle with amusement, some with disapproval. Wes’s main concern was his nephew; what on earth—?
“Good evening, Lord Winterton,” said a woman beside him, and he instantly forgot all about Justin.
He bowed. “Good evening to you, Mrs. Cavendish.”
She smiled. Tonight she wore a stylish green dress that matched her eyes and displayed her figure beautifully, and he felt a stir of dangerous interest as he looked down at her. “Some of the ladies begged Lord Newton to play a game with them.”
“He appears to be enjoying it.” Justin said something, too quietly for Wes to hear, but a burst of laughter from the group indicated his nephew was in excellent humor tonight. “Very much,” he added wryly.
“The aim of every hostess.” She said it lightly, but Wes caught a note of something else in her voice. Tension? Alarm? Good God, what had Justin done? They’d only been here an hour. “May I present you to the other guests?”
“That would be very kind of you.” He offered her his arm, partly out of manners, but mostly out of eagerness to draw her a little closer. She blinked as if startled—and then laid her hand on his sleeve. Even that slight pressure sent a shock wave through him. Wes inhaled deeply, and almost went light-headed on the scent of her: rosemary and lemon. It made him think of Italy, and the hot Tuscan sun above the villa where he’d spent a glorious four months several years ago. He let her lead him across the room.
By the time he made the acquaintance of Lady Serena, the ostensible hostess; Viscount Gosling and Mr. Jones, two visiting gentlemen; Lady Jane Rutledge, a neighbor; and a brother and sister called Penworth who were apparently Cavendish cousins, Wes felt distinctly old. Mrs. Cavendish might be near his age, and Lady Sophronia, an elderly relation, was far older, but everyone else was much more Justin’s peer.
That could be taken in two ways. First, advantageously, as it seemed they had stumbled into the exact sort of party that might bring out Justin’s more polished side and encourage him to behave in a more appropriate manner.
But second, it also meant far more temptation for his rash and headstrong nephew, and therefore greater risk that Justin would forget himself and do something stupid. Wes felt every one of the eleven years he had on Justin.
“I apologize again for intruding on the party,” he told his companion, watching as the young people continued their game.