Welles, how kind of you and the rest of the Beautiful Barringtons,” she arched one plucked eyebrow, “to grace my little party.” Lady Masterson dropped his hand and executed a perfect curtsy before the duchess. “Your Grace, I’m so pleased you could come. Lady Andromeda.”
The duchess took her arm and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Georgina, the name is likely to stick if you keep referring to us as the Beautiful Barringtons, and you know how little I care for notoriety.”
“Your Grace, every single Barrington is a sight to behold, even Theodosia who lives beneath the eaves.”
“Or Leo?” Margaret heard Welles say under his breath.
The only sign Lady Masterson heard him was a slight tightening of the smile on her lips.
The duchess laughed. “There are some who grow concerned I’ve locked Theo in her room as some sort of punishment. I need no more gossip directed at us.” She gave a discreet nod in Welles’s direction.
“Better a nickname extolling your family’s beauty than the alternative. I speak from experience. I’ve several nicknames myself.” Lady Masterson smiled. “Though I won’t repeat them.”
“Oh, do tell, Lady Masterson,” Welles said.
Lady Masterson swatted him affectionately with her fan.
Margaret watched the interplay between the three. It was clear Lady Masterson was a friend of the family from the affectionate way the duchess spoke to her. But what of the beautiful widow’s relationship with Welles?
Jealously pricked her, unexpected and sharp.
“You must be Miss Lainscott.” Lady Masterson turned and greeted her.
Margaret bobbed. “Lady Masterson. Your gardens are lovely.”
“How kind of you to come to my party.” She leaned closer and Margaret was enveloped in a cloud of something floral. “And kinder still for not bringing your aunt.”
“The pleasure is mine.” It was impossible not to like Lady Masterson.
After conversing with the duchess and Romy for a few more minutes, Lady Masterson looked up at a pair coming up the lawn. Her expression became coldly polite before she excused herself to greet them.
The gentleman was tall and gaunt, almost stork like. Thick salt and pepper hair was combed back from a broad forehead and he sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The lady clutching his arm reminded Margaret unpleasantly of her aunt. She had the same judgmental look in her eyes as she scanned the lawn full of guests. The moment she spotted Lady Masterson, her lips curled in a sneer.
“What a sour pair,” the duchess said under her breath. “Why did she invite them? More importantly, why attend?”
“A perverse sense of self-punishment perhaps? The new Lord Masterson doesn’t care for his uncle’s widow and makes no effort to hide it,” Welles said.
“No, he does not.” The duchess’s lips pursed into a grimace. “He should be grateful Georgina’s dowry saved the earldom for him. Otherwise he’d have nothing but a debt-ridden title.”
“Yes, but he didn’t get everything,” Welles said with a tic of his lips. “For instance, this estate. What he can never have, displayed so beautifully under the guise of a party. I think perhaps that was Georgina’s purpose all along.”
The duchess didn’t take her eyes off the new Lord Masterson. “Do not expect him to attend my upcoming ball. He won’t receive an invitation.”
Welles nodded in the direction of one large, striped tent where servants were entering and leaving with flutes of champagne. “If you ladies will excuse me, I believe I’ll see if Georgina is serving anything other than champagne.”
He took his leave without another glance at Margaret.
She watched his broad-shouldered form disappear in the direction of the tent, missing his presence immediately.
Lifting her chin, Margaret reminded herself sternly she wasn’t at the garden party for Welles. And his relationship with Lady Masterson, no matter what it may be, was none of her affair. Margaret was here to entice Lord Carstairs. She’d been up half the night concocting various anecdotes on hunting based on the book she’d filched from Lord Dobson’s study and her observances of what little grouse hunting her father had done. At least she wouldn’t have to fabricate Walter Lainscott’s two dogs, Andy and Jake.
“Come, Miss Lainscott.” The duchess touched her arm. “Let us see and be seen.”
Romy linked her arm with Margaret’s as they followed in the duchess’s wake. Welles’s sister was especially lovely today in a shimmering gown the color of charred toast which she’d cleverly stitched with irregular folds to resemble the bark of a tree. Her sleeves, in contrast to Margaret’s, were tailored to fit her slender arms with strategically placed fabric leaves, acorns, and even