Chapter 5

Lady Addiscombe re-appeared in the drawing room no more than ten minutes after she had left it.

Judging by the high color in her cheeks and the flames shooting from her eyes—and also the fact that Andrew wasn't currently standing out front of Wych House with his bags piled around his feet—he was apparently not going to be tossed out of the house.

He could not decide if he was glad or disappointed.

The mood at the dinner table was stilted, all the guests unable to ignore the dark cloud hovering over Lady Addiscombe's head. Not until almost the end of the meal—and the impending prospect of getting away from the unpleasant woman—did the atmosphere begin to lighten and the guests start to converse without restraint.

Andrew enjoyed the half-hour of port and cigars after dinner. Especially interesting to him was listening to Needham describe—at the behest of Shaftsbury and Chatham—his initial steps to revivify the estate the Earl of Addiscombe had spent the prior twenty-years decimating. As the owner of a criminally neglected estate—a great deal of which was Andrew's doing—he appreciated Needham's pragmatic approach and had taken more than a few pointers from the businessman turned landed gentleman.

He had been dreading returning to the drawing room, where he assumed the morose shadow cast by the countess would be casting the entire assemblage into gloom and doom.

Fortunately, Lady Addiscombe had eschewed the promised entertainment. She did not retire quietly or gracefully, of course, but made her displeasure at the prospect of games and amateur musical performances known— loudly —before rudely rejecting her companion's offer to accompany her back to her chamber.

"Oh, do stop clinging, Martin. I am far too fatigued to entertain you tonight" the countess snapped before leaving the room.

Andrew considered doing the very same thing—albeit far less noticeably—but one look at Sylvester's hopeful face decided him against it.

Only by claiming mental fatigue from the journey did he manage to avoid being roped into either whist, chess or—God forbid—the noisy game of Casino taking place at a table full of boisterous youngsters.

Instead, he sat in a comfortable wingchair with a book he'd found tucked under the chair cushion.

Chatham, blast him, had almost choked on his tongue when Andrew had claimed that he preferred to read. His cousin knew that Andrew had not voluntarily opened a book since he'd left school to join the army. Unless one counted betting books or stud books.

He lazily examined the other guests as he pretended to read, his gaze flickering over a trio of men who were talking quite loudly about a new tariff agreement currently in the works—business acquaintances of Needham's—to where Shaftsbury appeared to be playing chess with an elderly squire from a neighboring village.

Shaftsbury leaned forward, lightly touched the pieces on the board and then moved his knight. "I believe that is checkmate, Sir John."

His opponent gave a good-natured chuckle. "I fear I am not giving you much of a challenge, my lord. Will you allow me another chance to retrieve my dignity?"

The marquess smiled. "Of course—if you do not mind setting up the board."

Who would have believed that a blind man could play chess?

There was a cluster of three older ladies talking quietly in front of the fireplace, all of them industriously engaged in needlework. Andrew thought they might be the spouses of the three businessmen.

His eyes moved on, flickering over a lone female sitting beside a brace of candles.

And then returning to her again.

It was the Countess of Addiscombe's dogsbody, the same woman who'd slammed into him in the corridor before dinner. She had been something of a shrew, hectoring Andrew even though she had been the one who'd not looked where she was going.

She was not the sort of female Andrew usually noticed. That is to say she was neither pretty nor ugly but just…there. He probably would not have taken any notice of her right now if not for the fact that she was the only person in the room who was alone. Other than Andrew, of course.

She must be some poor Bellamy relation who had the unfortunate luck to be tapped as the countess's companion. He couldn't recall the woman's name at the moment but had a nagging feeling that he'd seen her before.

The most interesting thing about her, as far as he could tell, was her ability to occupy a room without anyone else noticing her.

But he noticed. And he wasn't sure why. Perhaps because he, too, was an outcast—a leper who'd not yet been captured, contained, and transported to isolation. While the Bellamy siblings and their spouses had been amiable enough, they were obviously in no rush to associate with him.

The other guests were either of the merchant class or the sort of bourgeois gentry who would have read about Andrew's antics over the years and been disgusted. As a result, there was an invisible barrier around him that kept anyone except his cousin—and, unfortunately, Kathryn—from coming too near.

He lost interest in the colorless companion and turned his gaze to Chatham, who was currently paired with his wife in a game of whist against Lord and Lady Needham.

Andrew's lips twitched. He didn't need to ask to know how that was going. Needham would be fortunate to leave the room tonight still in possession of his shirt. Andrew had had his arse kicked by the duke and duchess times beyond counting in the months that he'd been forced to cohabitate with them. He would almost prefer a night in the stocks to sitting across the table from the formidable, merciless duo.

Not that life at Chatham Park was any great hardship. With over two hundred rooms he could have arranged his life so that he had only encountered his cousin and his wife at meals, if he so chose.

Avoiding Kathryn, however, had not been so easy. Andrew suspected that he would not have been able to escape her if there had been a thousand rooms.

His gaze slid to his tormentrix. The green-eyed vixen was sitting across from one of Needham's secretaries, a morose-looking young man whose name escaped him, and the two were playing chess.

Andrew would not have believed that Kathryn could sit still for long enough to concentrate on such a complex game.

Not that he was one to talk. Chess had been the game of choice among many officers during the war and Andrew had been forced to play at a superior's request on more than one occasion. He had never voluntarily played the game and was awful at it.

Kathryn's eyes slid from the board up to Andrew, as if she felt his stare. For once, she did not poke out her tongue or blow him a kiss. She did not taunt him in any way, but merely gave him a cool look—although he could not decide what her expression said—before turning to glare at the chessboard as if it had personally insulted her.

Why was she playing the game if she hated it?

Needham's secretary said something, and Kathryn laughed, her sophisticated carefree expression once again firmly in place.

But the moment the secretary turned back to the board her smile faded. What was it that seemed to be repressing Kathryn's seemingly irrepressible spirits?

Perhaps it was being in proximity to her mother?

Andrew decided that could certainly do it.

Lady Addiscombe was perplexing. With her handsome features and shapely body, the countess should have been a desirable woman. Instead, just looking at her was enough to give Andrew a bowel weakening sensation he'd not experienced since riding into battle. The woman combined the worst characteristics of both a Cit and aristocrat to create something entirely new and twice as noxious.

The way she had publicly harangued Lady Needham earlier had made Andrew's own face heat in sympathy.

And then, during dinner, she had not once, but twice, sent her companion to fetch something from her chambers. What could she have possibly required so desperately? Twice.

He looked up from his thoughts and straight into Lady Shaftsbury's cerulean eyes.

The marchioness held his gaze for a moment and then turned her attention back to the people clustered around her, which included Viscount Bellamy, the little blonde girl, whom he'd discovered was Needham's natural daughter, twin girls from one of the neighboring estates, and Bellamy's young school chums whose names he'd already forgotten.

Lucy—that was Needham's daughter's name—was perhaps thirteen and chattered ten to the dozen while casting yearning looks at Addiscombe's heir. Clearly the lass was smitten.

Andrew prophesied that Needham would have a problem with that in a few years. Lady Addiscombe might have allowed a mere daughter to marry an ironmonger, but she would draw a hard line at allowing her heir to take an illegitimate bride.

He turned away and encountered the dark brown eyes of the Countess of Addiscombe's companion.

Rather than look away like the mouse she resembled, she held his gaze, her own pulsing with censure, just as it had in the corridor when she had plowed into him.

So, she was yet another woman who knew of his scandalous, wicked deeds.

Or at least she thought she did.

Andrew snorted at her censorious look and was amused when she recoiled, her face flushing.

He glanced at the longcase clock in the corner—barely fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he'd looked.

Christ. He could not leave just yet; he had to hang on for at least an hour more.

It was…purgatory.

His gaze slid to where the oldest Bellamy child—the newly minted Countess of Crewe—sat surrounded by the small menagerie she'd brought with her.

Evidently her marriage had been a revelation to almost everyone. Not even her mother had been told. Judging by Lady Addiscombe's horrified scowl at the dinner table she had not been pleased to discover her daughter had married the Earl of Crewe, despite the fact that Crewe was well larded.

Aurelia Bellamy—now Lady Crewe—was a lovely, lithe woman with intelligent eyes and the slightly startled expression of a newly married young lady.

Interestingly, Crewe also looked a bit startled, even though he must be forty and had been wed twice before. If Andrew had been forced to wager, he would have bet that Crewe, a hardened rake, was truly smitten with his new wife.

More remarkable than their sudden marriage was the identity of two of the three guests they had brought along.

The presence of Lady Celsa, who was Crewe's daughter and heir—the Crewe earldom could pass to a female—was not unusual. But the appearance of Crewe's natural son, Captain Guustin Walker—a man who bore an extraordinary resemblance to his father—had caused a stunned silence in the drawing room. Most dumbfounding of all, the young man's mother, Mrs. Nora Walker was also among their party.

Who, in the name of all that was holy, brought not only their husband's bastard to their family Christmas house party, but also the mother of that son? Just… who did that sort of thing?

The Bellamy women, evidently.

Andrew couldn't help the grin that twisted his lips as he furtively regarded the merry bunch. Honestly, he felt as though he was the normal one among this collection of people.

To their credit, Crewe, his wife, son, and Mrs. Walker were laughing and obviously enjoying themselves in a game of whist that pitted the women against the men.

Crewe's ex-paramour—at least Shelton assumed she was a former lover—for all he knew there might be a very interesting erotic arrangement between Crewe, his wife, and Mrs. Walker—was a truly lovely woman who had some sort of debilitating disease that had curled her hands into gnarled fists. She could only play cards by utilizing a wooden card holder that her son had designed for her.

Andrew looked down at his own hands, which were shapely and elegant—or so every lover he'd ever had had told him—and felt a sharp stab of shame. His hands were perfect and yet he'd done very little good with them in his life. At least not since the War ended.

A just God would have turned Andrew's hands into gnarled stumps and spared Mrs. Walker, who was obviously an affectionate mother and had raised a son who appeared dutiful and loving.

And yet it was Andrew who sat there in a body that functioned just fine, with a cousin determined to forgive him and forgive him and forgive him, no matter what an utter monster Andrew had been for the past eleven years.

What had he ever done to deserve any of it?

People do not always get what they deserve, do they? a voice taunted.

No, evidently not.

Andrew looked at Chatham. His cousin was currently grinning at his wife, the pair of them having just finished drubbing Lord and Lady Needham—who looked as though they had just been savaged by a storm—and was struck with a painful stab of guilt at how horribly he had treated the other man for years and years.

And still Sylvester had forgiven him. Not only that, but his cousin loved him and had taken great pains to show his love over the past months.

Suddenly, the room felt small and claustrophobic.

It was bloody hard to breathe.

Andrew pushed to his feet, shoved the book back beneath the seat cushion, and made his way to the door, not caring what anyone thought about his hasty departure. Not that he believed anyone would notice. The people around him were far too happy to pay attention to him.

***

Stacia surreptitiously studied the other denizens of the large room. Was it odd to be surrounded by people and yet feel utterly alone?

She supposed it was not so unusual given that she was an outsider at a family Christmas. Not that the Bellamy siblings and their spouses had been anything but kind to her today, treating her the same as they did any other guest.

Doubtless their treatment would change after seeing how Lady Addiscombe ordered her around like a feudal serf.

Stacia sighed. She tried not to care about such things. Besides, the woman might treat her badly, but she treated her own children even worse. As much of an outcast as she might be, the Bellamy siblings were still warmer to her than they were to their own mother.

Of course Lady Addiscombe had a hide like an old goat and did not notice how little her children liked to be around her. Or if she did notice, she didn't care.

Stacia wasn't sure why the countess had even made the journey to Wych House as she seemed as unhappy as she was in Bath.

In any event, the countess had gone up to her chambers, claiming exhaustion from her journey. When Stacia had risen to accompany her, she'd given her an irritated look. "Oh, do stop clinging, Martin. I am far too fatigued to entertain you tonight."

Those around them who'd heard the sharp comment had looked embarrassed.

Stacia was grateful they had not seen the countess's lips moving with her soundless message, I told you to stay here! reminding her that she was to spy on her hosts.

She swallowed down her distaste. After all, she didn't have to report everything she learned, did she?

Buoyed by that thought, she resolved to enjoy her brief liberty from servitude. She'd brought her basket of needlework down earlier so at least she could appear occupied.

A quick survey of the room showed that only Stacia and Lord Shelton sat alone.

While she was engaged with her embroidery Lord Shelton had a book in his lap. It took her only a few minutes to discern he was not reading it. Instead, he stared at the other denizens of the room with a brooding expression that made him look like a sulky angel.

A gorgeous sulky angel.

Over and over again her eyes were drawn to him.

It was almost two years since she'd last seen him. The years had robbed Stacia of the only attraction she had ever possessed—the dewiness of youth—while they had, unjustly, served to make Shelton even more desirable.

The lines around his eyes gave him a depth he had lacked the last time Stacia had seen him. Or at least it afforded him the trappings of depth while Stacia merely looked like a spinster rapidly spiraling toward maiden aunthood.

Yet another of the hundreds of ways in which the world was so cruel toward women.

Stacia wasn't the only one who stared at the brooding lord. Even though he was not paying attention to anyone, the young girls playing Casino, and even the older married women gossiping and working on their cross-stitching, constantly stole glances at the handsome lord.

As much as Stacia hated to agree with her employer on any matter, Lady Addiscombe was correct when she said Lord Shelton was nothing but trouble for any woman—rich or poor, young or old, married or spinster.

She wondered how Sarah Creighton—Shelton's most notorious, if not most recent, victim—was faring in exile. Stacia had not heard another word about the other woman after she'd married a nameless farmer. Sarah would have given birth to Shelton's baby long ago. Was it a boy or a girl? Did her husband accept the child? Did Sarah think of Shelton and yearn for him still, even though she knew the truth about his character?

You still do, why shouldn't she?

Perhaps when the holiday was over, Stacia would write to Sarah. Maybe they could resume their acquaintance now that both of them were essentially outcasts from their former society.

And maybe you can ask her what happened when Sarah disappeared with the handsome lord for one entire night…

Stacia could not deny that she had long felt a burning curiosity to know what had transpired between the pair.

Why don't you ask Lord Shelton?

Stacia snorted at the thought.

Lord Shelton suddenly turned her way, his eyes landing on her directly rather than skittering dismissively over her.

Almost as if he were privy to her thoughts.

Rather than modestly lower her gaze as a good girl should, she stared at him as she'd done the time she confronted him.

He returned her gaze for a moment and then gave a huff of amusement and turned away.

Stacia bristled. How dare he treat her so dismissively?

And why should he be allowed to feel at home in the drawing room of a family he had shamed with his abhorrent behavior?

You had your chance to get rid of him. Instead, you chose to alienate your employer.

Stacia chewed on her lip, not wanting to think about the confrontation waiting for her when the countess eventually decided to strike.

It had been foolish to oppose her demand earlier in Lord Needham's library.

But you could not bear the thought of being the cause of Shelton's banishment.

Stacia hated that the accusation was true. She was so pathetic! Still yearning for him after all these years.

Lord Shelton suddenly stood, shoved the book he'd been holding beneath the seat cushion, and made for the door.

Just where was he off to in such a hurry?

Stacia was still pondering her relentless attraction for the biggest cad in England when Lady Kathryn Bellamy, who'd finished playing chess and was idly observing the raucous Casino game, strolled in a leisurely way toward the door, leaving without saying anything.

Could Lady Kathryn and Lord Shelton be having some sort of assignation?

Stacia hated to think that was the case. Lord Needham had essentially vouched for the man's character.

It is your duty to make sure the girl is not in danger of being compromised .

Stacia hesitated only a second before setting aside her basket and heading for the door, which opened just as she reached it.

She waited for three maids, all laden with heavy trays, to enter before slipping out of the room and asking the footman. "I don't suppose you know where Lord Shelton went? Er, I have a message for him."

"He asked where he could have a cigar and I directed him to the conservatory. It is just down the main staircase and then follow the corridor that leads west. You cannot miss it."

"Thank you," Stacia said, her mind whirring as she hurried off. If they were having an assignation, just what would she say or do?