and, without apology, announced: “No, no, those are not the right gowns for this evening. There is a theme to tonight’s dinner and you both will look perfect in these.”
For Cecilia she drew out an off-white dress with black lace around the flounces. It was a very sophisticated dress for an ingénue, but according to Darwell perfectly acceptable for a private country party. Beatrice’s dress was even more dramatic, a white gown with a Greek key trim on the skirt made with a fine braid, deftly woven.
Darwell misbuttoned Beatrice’s dress twice and finally Cecilia could not stand it anymore. “Darwell, please, tell us what is wrong. You seem upset.”
“Not at all, miss,” she said, stiffening.
“Nonsense,” Cecilia said with unexpected sharpness. “We can be as discreet with your confidences as you are with ours. Has someone offended you?”
“It’s nothing, Miss Cecilia.”
Cecilia waited, and Beatrice turned to look at Darwell even though her dress was not yet entirely done up.
Darwell closed her eyes. “Lord Jess’s valet.”
“All right,” Beatrice encouraged, “what about him?”
“This is ridiculous. I am a grown woman. I am near fifty years old. I will discuss it no further.”
Cecilia did not think she needed to. She looked at her sister, who nodded agreement.
Beatrice handed Darwell a comb. “Very well, as long as you can assure us that the valet is not insulting or, God forbid, assaulting you.”
Cecilia added, “You must know we would not …” She paused and began again. “None of us, including Papa and the countess, would tolerate any abuse of someone so close to us.”
Gathering her dignity once again, Darwell curtsied. “No, Miss Brent. Callan has done nothing to offend or insult me. He never would.”
Having only half the story did nothing to alleviate the constraint among them, but Darwell was in fine form once again and did a masterful job of styling their hair to suit their dresses.
Tonight the countess did not come for them. Darwell told them that a footman would escort them to the library, where the group would congregate. They had been there earlier in the day, but they were grateful for the guidance. It was too easy to lose one’s way in such an enormous building.
All the way down the stairs and around the main floor the two discussed Darwell. Surely it was a love affair that had their maid so flustered. Very romantic, they agreed, and Beatrice decided she would try to wheedle information about Callan from Lord Jess.
Before they reached the door to the library Beatrice halted their progress. “Tell me how you are going to handle the marquis.”
“I will forget about it, if he does.”
With a nod of acceptance, if not outright agreement, Beatrice gestured to the footman to open the door.
Beatrice slowed as she entered the room. It was so poorly lit that it had a completely different atmosphere than it had had earlier in the day. At that time the room had been filled with light from the windows at each end, with candles lit for close reading.
Now the curtains were drawn, even though it was still light out, and the only light came from the chandelier overhead.
At Beatrice’s “Are we in the right salon?” the footman nodded. She and Cecilia went fully into the room where another servant offered them a glass of sherry. They both declined the spirits, and Beatrice looked around the room, hoping they were not the first guests to arrive.
Thank goodness Lord Crenshaw was there. He hurried over to them with a conspiratorial expression.
“This is a bit of a mystery, is it not?”
“Yes, indeed,” Beatrice agreed.
“The countess is famous for her creativity,” Crenshaw went on. “And I think we are about to experience it firsthand.”
Mrs. Wilson and her daughter came in right behind them. Mrs. Wilson stopped short on the threshold. “This cannot be right!”
“Come in, come in,” Crenshaw said, as though he knew exactly what was in store for them and could not wait to share it.
“Why is the room so dark?” Miss Wilson asked. Was that a tinge of fear Beatrice heard in her voice? Really, the girl was much too easily frightened.
“Lord Crenshaw tells me it is part of the grand scheme for the evening,” Beatrice reassured her.
The other ladies seemed inclined to stay in a group around the baron, so Beatrice stayed with them even though she knew what would happen. Mrs. Wilson would prattle on for hours about her life, about people and places her audience had never heard of or met.
“The vicar verily invites himself to