The Notorious Bridegroom. Kit Donner
Further contemplation was interrupted when, under half-closed lids, he watched Keegan, Isabella, and Sansouche stroll into the library. Isabella immediately disengaged herself from her cousin and glided across the room to sit by Bryce’s side, leaning very close to him, the deep cut of her ruby-red gown displaying her assets.
“Bryce, mon cher, you should have heard the charming story Alain told about his trip across the Channel. It was very dangerous. They nearly capsized twice and were shot at by the English! Is that not exciting?”
The subject of the countess’s discourse stood near the fireplace. “My cousin believes my journey more amusing than it truly was. Londringham, I have not had an opportunity to extend to you my appreciation that you permit me to stay here with my cousin.”
Bryce noticed the Frenchman’s smile did not reach all the corners of his face, but he acknowledged Sansouche with a slight nod.
Bloody hell, where is my port? He smiled grimly to himself—though his thirst was more for revenge, he’d have to settle for libation. Nothing would satisfy him but a Frenchwoman’s head on a plate or a pretty green-eyed vixen in his bed. No sense in letting that thought distract him. He was amazed how often he did think of Mrs. Grundy, even with Isabella practically sitting on his lap.
Thankfully, he noted the footman had arrived with the sought-after port.
“Shall we have a game of cards, anyone?” Isabella’s suggestion caused everyone to turn to her. “We need four players and there are exactly four people in the room. Whist? Bridge? Alain, yes?”
“Your servant, madam,” he responded.
The countess next turned to Bryce, who had stood and walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of port. “And you, my lord? Shall we count you in?”
Bryce stared into his port as if the opaque color could tell him something. When he realized they were waiting expectantly, he looked up and smiled apologetically. “Cards? I think not.” His response brooked no opposition.
“Captain, would you…?” Isabella looked across the room to Keegan, who studied several leather-bound books on the wall-length bookcases.
He took a long swallow before replying, “Not interested in games with any Frenchies.”
The countess raised her chin perceptibly. “You Irish are beneath the lowest servants. You are so vulgar and unimaginative, no culture, no fashion. Whatever do you have in your dreadful little country?” She shared a chuckle with her cousin.
The captain strode over to the settee. Bryce recognized his friend’s dark expression, which had frightened many a lazy sailor and loosened a few tongues. Keegan rested a hand on the arm of the settee and leaned down mere inches from her face. “The Irish, mum, enjoy the finest stout, the fastest horseflesh, and the rarest women, none of which I am sure the frog-eating Frenchmen have ever seen.”
Keegan’s insolent answer stunned the woman into what Bryce knew was a rare speechlessness. The captain sauntered back over to the bookcase and drained his glass with one swallow.
Bryce watched as Isabella’s face turned red with anger, her blue eyes small slits of spitting venom. He would have to remind his friend to curb his tongue around the countess. They mixed together like Whigs and Tories.
In obvious exasperation with the Irishman, Isabella spilled her drink on the front of her dress and jumped up, sputtering. Sansouche appeared at her side immediately.
“Ma chérie, it is truly insignificant. Calm yourself and let us see if your maid might be able to save it.” He soothed and calmed her while escorting her to the door.
At their absence, Keegan smacked his hands together. “What delightful events conspired to rid us of her presence.”
Before he could continue, they heard it. Click. Followed by a smooth rolling. The wall behind Bryce’s desk disappeared and Red Tattoo, Bryce’s valet, walked into the room. A ruddy face to match his red hair and a thin scar along the side of his face and neck, Red looked more like a smuggler than a valet, especially given his filthy appearance. “Ready for my report, my lord. I waited for the French witch and her cousin to leave and thought the air clear.”
After locking the library room door Bryce gestured to a nearby chair. “Yes, I am most anxious to learn of your progress.”
“It’s like this. I went to that place, Storrington, you sent me to and had me a look around. Spoke to the neighbors, even the boy’s family at a place called Susetta Fields. Sounds French to me.”
Bryce waved him on. “Yes, and do they know where their missing brother is?”
“No, their lips were closed tighter than a nun’s legs. I told them as how the boy owed me money from a card game, and I was meaning to see he came through with it. The one brother blathered on about being his brother’s keeper and such. Couldn’t follow it much. One of the other fellows offered to show me his garden of rutabagas, but before I could find out more, the older one threw me out!” Indignation showed plainly on his face.
“So his family either does not know where young Mandeley is or they are not saying,” Bryce said.
“That’s the way I’d tell it, my lord.”
“And the girl?”
“Sorry, no luck there. No one in Winchelsea remembered a girl like that. There are some what say she may have only been here for the Mop Fair and got a job elsewhere.”
Bryce rubbed his brow and responded thoughtfully, “Yes, hired at the Mop Fair. I had thought—no matter. But I believe she is still around here. We should be able to determine from the locals who hired her. Can you continue that business?”
Red Tattoo smiled. “I shall deliver her and that Mandeley fellow to you on a silver tray.”
Bryce grinned. Red Tattoo, his friend and valet, had overwhelming confidence in his own abilities, most of which was justified. Often were the times that Bryce was glad to have Red watch out for him.
Keegan told Bryce with a wry smile, “This woman must mean something to you.”
Shrugging indifferently, he replied, “Perhaps. I think she might lead to fairly interesting answers.”
Another long day passed quietly, too quietly. Patience sat in the servants’ hall alone finishing her dinner, thinking about events of earlier in the day. She had seen the earl only once in the morning after his return from an early-morning ride when he stopped to talk with Mr. Gibbs at the front door. From an open window, she had studied him unnoticed, objectively, she thought, belying the fast pace of her heart.
His thick brown hair touched his collar. He wore no coat, and his white sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned, strong forearms. His hands rested casually on his hips. She remembered those strong hands that had warmed her skin. She shook her head. It simply wouldn’t do to remember that night, she admonished herself.
He had a lean, hard look about him, and seemed as if he were never truly at rest, with a compelling countenance warmed by the sun, no doubt attracting many women.
Not that it mattered to Patience, of course. She imagined how disappointed all of his conquests would be when they learned he was a traitor to his country.
When he’d headed back toward the stables, she could not keep her eyes off his formidable, muscled form, outlined in revealing buffed breeches. He strode with an easy assurance and yet lightly, almost as if he knew someone watched him. She’d suppressed a shiver that swirled up her spine, and returned to the required task of mixing white vitriol and sugar for boot polish.
As usual her thoughts were not far from the man who had drawn her and her brother into this little drama of his.
Patience left the servants’ hall and climbed the stairs to the kitchen, which she found empty. Dinner long over, the clock would soon strike ten. The earl and his friends enjoyed libations in the drawing room. Melenroy reclined in her worn seat