quite beautifully.” Beatrice left her sister and made her way to where Miss Wilson sat near Lord Crenshaw.
“Come, Lord Jess,” the countess urged. “We would all like a lesson in billiards or perhaps on the finer points of vingt-et-un.”
Everyone looked about for Jess Pennistan. Beatrice knew exactly where he was, standing near the door, something stronger than tea in his hand, watching the gathering but not really a part of it.
Lord Jess came forward, a lazy smile in place as he bowed to his hostess. “As you wish, my lady. I was thinking of challenging everyone to race rabbits. I am sure I can come up with an appropriate prize.”
The company laughed.
“Even better, my lord,” the countess said, “perhaps playing in twos would mean less of a drain on the rabbit population.”
“Perhaps two teams only. Men against women?” He looked at the ladies with an expression that implied they were not up to the challenge.
“You’re on, my lord,” Mrs. Kendrick called out in such a strong voice that her dog barked at the upset. She calmed her pet and then added, “Of course, no lady or gentleman should be required to participate.”
“Soon we will have enough rules to rival those that overwhelm a bill in Parliament,” Crenshaw grumbled.
“In which case I want to assure you that rain or shine we will not lack for entertainment,” the countess said. “Now, please, enjoy your tea and each other.”
The gathering dissolved into smaller conversational groups and Miss Wilson turned to Beatrice.
“But what will I do about the lecture?” she all but wailed. She looked from Lord Crenshaw to Beatrice as if she had no skills or talents whatsoever.
“You will play your favorite piano piece and tell us about the composer,” Beatrice suggested.
“An excellent idea, Miss Beatrice. You are brilliant.” Lord Crenshaw beamed his approval and Beatrice shrugged, uncomfortable with the extravagant praise.
“I could do that quite easily.” Miss Wilson’s voice was no longer panicked, her whole demeanor much more relaxed.
“Or you could make a game of it,” Beatrice suggested, “and play pieces and ask who the composer is. That puts the burden on the audience and not on you.”
Miss Wilson glanced at Lord Crenshaw, who nodded thoughtfully. “A clever suggestion, but you do not want to tax your audience. Or embarrass them.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right, but it would be a great game.”
“Well, you could play a piece, then talk about the composer a little. After that you could ask the others to name the composer, making it a game of sorts.”
“Miss Brent, does that brain of yours ever stop working?” Lord Crenshaw asked. Beatrice was sure he meant that as a compliment but she could not quite control the blush of embarrassment.
“Now, now, dear girl,” Crenshaw said, taking her arm, “do not be upset. It is not at all what I intended.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with some relief, and withdrew her arm from his. “I do think that Lord Belmont is waiting to speak to you,” she added, for the earl was bearing down on them with an eye on Crenshaw.
“Miss Wilson.” Beatrice drew her aside. “Let’s collect Cecilia and discuss what pieces you should consider playing.”
“Please do call me Katherine,” Miss Wilson urged. “I would so value you as a friend.”
Beatrice smiled and returned the compliment. This was going to be as much fun as she had hoped it would be.
* * *
JESS WATCHED BEATRICE Brent tend to both her sister and Miss Wilson.
“And what are your further observations on the Brent sisters, Jess?”
Destry had stepped up onto the hearth, which brought his height close enough to Jess’s ear that their conversation would be between them alone.
Jess didn’t hesitate. “It looks as though Crenshaw is trying to curry favor. And Miss Brent seems politely interested. I cannot decide if that is a good or a bad sign. Is she just being coy or is she angling for a closer connection?”
“So that’s the direction of your thoughts.” Destry took a quick look at the three young women.
“I am wondering if I should undermine his possible courtship.”
“Ever the defender.”
“Not a hardship when defense means a flirtation with someone as tantalizing as Beatrice Brent.”
“Tantalizing? Oho, so you are interested.”
Jess wished he had chosen a less revealing term. But it was true, Beatrice Brent was as tantalizing as champagne.
“No,” he said with his best blank expression, trying to climb out of the hole he had dug for himself. “She has no need of my help in any form. Look at her. Miss