"Why, what
would
I mean?" Francesca asked, turning to look at Irene with an innocent expression.
"I did not do it because of any sort of
feeling
for the man," Irene pointed out.
"Oh, no. Of course not," Francesca said agreeably.
Irene drew breath to comment on Francesca's answer, which she felt was meant to imply the exact opposite of what she said, but at that point it struck her that to protest the other woman's words would only serve to make her look foolish. So, not without some degree of frustration, she swallowed her response.
But she could not so easily cut off her own speculations about her actions. Why had she been so quick to defend Lord Radbourne? One would think that she would have sided with a woman who disliked the man, for she herself had decided that he was a thorough boor. Certainly his childhood must have been tilled with a great deal of pain and sorrow, and the man doubtless carried scars from those years. It made her shudder to think of any child being subjected to the sort of life he had led. But those facts did not change his personality. They did not make him better or kinder or less obnoxious.
True, Teresa had been rude and insensitive in her remarks, but Francesca had responded to the woman as most ladies would, with a chilly disdain. Why had Irene felt compelled to charge into battle with her?
It was her nature, she told herself. She simply could not sit idly by while Lady Teresa made such hurtful, arrogant remarks. She would have done the same if the remarks had been directed at anyone else. She was, she hoped, not so unfair as to allow comments that hurt someone to pass just because she disliked the man.
And yet ... somehow she could not dismiss what had happened and what she had said quite that easily. Her thoughts kept circling back to the matter all through the next tedious hour in the music room, as Lady Odelia told the vicar's wife a seemingly interminable story about a woman whom she and her sister had known forty years earlier. Odelia paused now and then to urge Francesca to play a tune upon the piano, but then she returned to her tale, raising her voice to be heard above Francesca's soft playing.
Francesca obediently remained seated at the piano, running quietly through her repertoire of music, though she rolled her eyes comically at Irene from time to time. Teresa sat in a chair at some remove from Irene and occupied herself by staring daggers at Irene, and Lady Claire took up her place beside Irene on the narrow sofa, fretting quietly about Irene's having methodically sliced Lady Teresa's pretensions into ribbons at the supper table.
The men did not join them after the postprandial cigars and port. Irene could scarcely blame them. Doubtless they had experienced such excruciating evenings before.
When enough time had passed to satisfy the requirements of civility, Irene spoke up, pleading tiredness from the journey as an excuse to retire early. Francesca, she noticed, was quick to agree that she was ready for bed. Lady Odelia waved them off with a few caustic comments about the lack of hardiness in young women today, and Irene and Francesca wasted no time in escaping the room.
They spent a much more enjoyable hour in Francesca's room, talking, but when they heard sounds of the group breaking up downstairs, Irene slipped down the hall to her own room. She went to stand by the window again and looked out into the dark garden below. It was difficult to see anything, for there was only a quarter moon, barely illuminating the shapes of trees and shrubs. But Irene gazed out anyway, thinking about the evening more than looking at the view.
Then, at the edge of her vision, a light appeared, catching her attention, and she leaned closer to the glass, intrigued. The light was from a lantern, she realized, bobbing with the steps of a man. She cupped her hands around her eyes to cut out the glare of the light inside her room and narrowed her eyes. Who was walking about the garden at this time of night?
The man bent to open the latch of a gate, raising the lantern to see, and the light fell on his face. It was Gideon.
Irene straightened, her curiosity engaged. She watched as Lord Radbourne walked through the garden until he disappeared from her sight in the trees at the far end. Then, beyond the stand of trees, she caught sight of the bobbing light again. A moment later it was gone.
What, she wondered, was Lord Radbourne doing tramping about the grounds so late? It certainly did not seem as if he were out on a casual stroll or smoking a late-night cigar before he turned in. His stride had been purposeful, and he had taken a lantern to light the way. Nor had he stayed in the garden. The last time she had seen the light, it had surely been some distance away.
She supposed he could have been headed toward the tavern in the village; it seemed a likely enough place for a man to go, especially after a difficult evening with his relatives. And while it might be too common a place for many gentlemen to relax, it could very well suit someone who felt uncomfortable in his gentleman's role.
However, the village and the tavern were in the opposite direction from that which Gideon had taken, and, moreover, it seemed a rather long way to walk. Surely he would have taken a horse. But he had not been headed toward the stables, either.
What was he about, and where was he going? What lay in that direction besides fields and woods and the occasional cottage? Was he meeting someone? She could think of little reason to meet someone at this time of night. It seemed rather late for any sort of activity ... unless, of course, he was meeting a woman. Could it be that he was heading for a romantic rendezvous?
Nonsense, she chided herself. No doubt there were a number of other logical reasons why a man might be setting out into the countryside—alone—at nearly midnight. The fact that she could not think of any of them did not mean they did not exist.
Besides, even if he
was
sneaking off for a tryst, it was no concern of hers. Irene could not imagine why she was even wasting her time thinking about it. And there was certainly no reason for that suspicion to cause such a painful little twist in her heart.
The next day Francesca and Irene began their campaign to improve Gideon's marriage prospects. There was, Lady Odelia had assured them, no time to waste. The prospective brides had been invited and were expected to arrive in a little over a week.
Irene and Francesca met in the dining room after breakfast was over. Gideon, however, was late by almost thirty minutes. Perhaps, Irene thought with some annoyance, the man had overslept this morning after his midnight tryst. The more she had thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Lord Radbourne had been sneaking away to meet a woman. He was clearly a sensual man; she had felt the power of his kiss, after all. And there would be a number of willing women around, she felt sure, given his looks, wealth and position.
It was only to be expected, she decided, and though of course it did not matter in any way to her, she could not help but feel irritated at this further example of typical male behavior. Gideon was about to court a wife, yet at the same time he was carrying on an affair with a mistress. Or perhaps not an affair with a mistress, just indulging in an even more meaningless encounter with some woman. Irene knew, of course, that she was jumping to conclusions, but that fact did not prevent her from feeling annoyed.
She wondered who the woman was—the wife or daughter of one of the tenants? It would have to be someone who lived close by. Perhaps there was a willing widow in the vicinity, happy to ease her loneliness with the handsome lord ... or could it be one of the housemaids? Irene cast her mind over the ones she had met, wondering which of them might be pretty enough to catch Gideon's eye.
She considered how she might find out where Gideon had gone and whether he had met someone, and then in the next moment realized how foolish her thoughts were. What did it matter if he was meeting a woman? It was no concern of hers. She would do much better to control her imagination and her curiosity, and concentrate on the task at hand: getting Gideon married. Let his future wife worry about the rest of it.
Gideon arrived finally, looking rushed and irritated. Irene made a point of glancing at the clock on the mantel. He followed her gaze, and his lips twitched with obvious annoyance.
"Yes, I am late, Lady Irene," he said grouchily. "I am afraid I allowed some trifling little business matters to interfere with my main duty in life—learning to pretend to be a gentleman."
"You are forgiven," Francesca returned placidly. "However, you have no need to pretend. You already
are
a gentleman by virtue of your birth."
"Yes, you simply need to learn to act like one," Irene added caustically.
"And I am to learn manners from you?" Radbourne asked, raising one straight black brow.
"Oh, Irene
knows
her manners," Francesca replied before Irene could speak, casting a droll glance in her direction.
"She simply does not always choose to
apply
them." She paused, then added, "As, no doubt, you will choose, also."
Gideon allowed a smile to creep in. "Lady Haughston, I would say that you have put us both in our place."
Francesca nodded, giving her little smile, as of a secret shared, to remove any ill will from the situation. Irene, for the first time in her life, felt a curious envy of Francesca's winning manner. She looked at Lord Radbourne, who had come into the room with such irritation and resistance and yet who now seemed relaxed, almost malleable. He was smiling at Francesca, and Irene felt an unaccustomed twist of resentment inside her, a feeling so uncommon that it jolted her. Surely she did not— No, this could not be
jealousy.
She turned quickly away, taking refuge in the task before them. "If you would be so good as to take a seat here, Lord Radbourne?"
He moved over to where she stood beside the table and looked down. There, spread out before his chair, was an elaborate setting of glasses and eating utensils, grouped around a folded white damask linen napkin in the center.
"Ah, I see," he said, with a derisive twist of his mouth. "The infamous cutlery."
"'Tis easy enough to learn," Irene began.
"Oh, my lady, I'm not so sure about that," he commented, dropping into the chair in front of the table. "Some of us are intolerably slow learners."
"I am sure that you are not," she retorted flatly. "And your first lesson is this—You must not sit down at the table whilst ladies remain standing. A gentleman waits to sit until the ladies have been seated."
"In fact, let us start before that," Francesca told him.
"When you go in to supper, you must offer your arm to a lady."
"Any lady?"
"Oh, no. There is an order, of course. Yesterday evening was an informal setting, merely family and a few close friends. But at a more formal dinner, you would, as host, offer your arm to the highest-ranking female, which would in the case of last night's group be your grandmother. Both she and Lady Teresa are dowager countesses, of course, but by virtue of your grandmother's age, she would be higher. And, after all, Lady Pansy is the daughter of a duke." She shot a mischievous look at Irene as she went on. "Which, as we all know, outranks the daughter of the second son of a baronet."
Irene colored a little at Francesca's reference to the evening before and stole a glance at Gideon. A smile twitched at his lips, and he looked at her, sketching a bow in her direction. She felt her blush deepen, but she could not keep from smiling back at him, and she was warmed by his look.
"Do not mention it to Lady Odelia, of course," Francesca went on with a glint of amusement in her eyes, "but even though she, too, is the daughter of a duke, her married title is only baroness. So she is behind the others in precedence."
"Strangely, her precedence would actually be higher if she had married below the rank of baron," Irene put in. "For then she would retain the rank she is owed as daughter of a duke, which is right after the wife of the eldest son of the duke, but before the wives of the younger sons of the duke."
Gideon looked at her, his brows drawing together. "Are you seriously suggesting that I remember such a thing?"
"It is not important at the moment," Francesca added quickly. "And, of course, in the future it will be something that you can rely on your wife to remember."
"Ah, yes," he replied drily. "One of the many benefits of marrying an aristocrat."
"Right now, let us proceed to the meal. You escort the lady in. Irene, you be the lady." Francesca waved Gideon toward Irene. When the two of them stood stock still, gazing at her, Francesca nodded impatiently. "Go ahead, you must practice. Offer her your arm."
Gideon turned and walked to Irene, holding out his arm, bent at the elbow.
"Very good. Nice form," Francesca said encouragingly.
Irene put her hand on his arm, and the two of them walked over to the table.
"She will be seated in order of precedence, as well," Francesca went on. "But of course, at a formal dinner, there will be dinner cards, so there will be no confusion. Ordinarily she would sit here." Francesca pointed to the spot in question. "But as I have had the servants lay out the table settings here, for now just seat her next to you. Pull out her chair and then, as she sits, gently push it in a little."
Francesca gave him a nod of encouragement, and suppressing a sigh, Gideon pulled out the chair. Irene started to sit down, but Gideon slid the chair forward quickly, catching the backs of her knees, and she sat down with a graceless thump. Irene twisted to look up at him scathingly, and he returned her glare with a bland look.
"You might try it a little less energetically," Francesca offered.
"I am sorry, my lady," Gideon told Francesca.
"I believe I am the one to whom you should apologize," Irene reminded him, annoyed.
He smiled a little to himself as he sat down, saying, "Ah, but what would be the enjoyment in that?"
Irene arched one eyebrow, her eyes beginning to spark, and Francesca went on quickly. "Now, to the place setting ... Irene, show him which utensils are which."
Irene cast a recalcitrant glance at Francesca, but said, "Oh, very well." She leaned closer to Gideon and reached in front of him to point out the different eating utensils. "They are in the order in which one uses them, the outermost being used first. You see? The spoon for soup is on the far right of where they will set the plate. Next comes the fish knife, matched by the fish fork on the left side, then the meat knife and fork, the pudding spoon and fork, and finally the savory knife and fork. The spoons for the ices and for the fruit at the end will be brought out with the plates."
As she talked, Irene was very aware of how close she was to him. She could smell the faint scent of his cologne, warmed by his body heat, and when she looked up from the place setting to see if he had followed her words, she found her face only inches from his. She moved involuntarily, startled, and had to put her hand briefly on his arm to steady herself. He gazed back at her, and she knew that he had been watching her face, not the utensils to which she had been pointing.
"Are you paying attention?" she asked sharply.
"Of course. But which was this one?" He indicated the small rounded knife on the little plate to the left of the place setting.
"That is the butter spreader." Irene straightened up, removing herself from such close proximity. "That is why it is put here across the bread plate."
"And which of these glasses is for the liqueur?"
"None of them. The servants will bring out the liqueur or port glasses at the appropriate time." Again she reached across him to touch the various glasses above the knives and spoons. "Sherry glass for the soup. White wine glass, with fish. Claret glass, with meat. And of course, water. But you do not really need to remember where they go. The glasses will be filled by the servants at the correct time."
"And which did you say was the savory fork?"
Irene reached across to tap the small fork that lay closest to where the silver savory dish would be placed by the servant. They continued in this manner for several more minutes, going over the uses and placement of the cutlery. It seemed as if every time he ran through a listing of them, Gideon forgot one or more, and Irene grew increasingly impatient.
With each mistake or slip of the tongue, his expression grew more stolid and his voice seemed to slip further back into his East End youth,
H's
dropping and
A's
drifting toward
I's.
Even Francesca began to look nettled.
Francesca sighed and said wearily, "Now, once again, Lord Radbourne. Which is the fish knife?"
Gideon hesitated, looking down at the place setting in front of him. "Well ... now, they're all startin' to look the same to me." His hand hovered over the plate for a moment. "I'd say it'd be ... this one." His index finger fell decisively to the meat knife.
Irene let out a groan. "No, no, no. Really, my lord, we have gone over this twenty times, at least."
She reached over and took his hand, forcibly redirecting his finger to the smaller fish knife. "This is the knife for the fish. It goes with the fish fork over here on the left. They are both outside the meat fork and knife, as the turbot will come before the roast joint. I cannot conceive how you can still be confused over this."
She looked at him in some exasperation. His face was set in the same blank, stony expression he had worn for the last few minutes. But there was something lurking in his eyes that made her pause.
"It must be too 'ard for me, my lady," he started. There was a faint tremor in his voice, and he stopped, pressing his lips together tightly.
Irene's eyes narrowed, and she leaned a little closer, staring into his eyes. "You are trying to gammon me, aren't you!"
"I don't know what you mean," Gideon began, trying for a wide-eyed look, but his mouth began to twitch, and he brought his hand up, pressing his fist against his lips.
"Oh!" Irene jumped up, her hands doubling into fists. "You are doing it much too brown, my lord! You cannot be so abysmally stupid and manage to run a successful business!"
Gideon began to laugh, which only served to infuriate her even more. She turned away, and began to pace up and down the room, spewing forth a litany of complaints. "What is the matter with you? Why do I waste my time? You are the most ill-mannered, inconsiderate wretch!"
As Irene continued to pace and fume, Francesca stared at Gideon from across the table, her eyebrows shooting upward. "You mean this has all been a pretense?" Suddenly she began to chuckle, and soon she, too, was laughing.
"What is wrong with you?" Irene cried, whirling around to stare at Francesca now. "Have you gone mad? We have just wasted thirty minutes teaching this fool things he probably already knew!"
Gideon turned his head toward her, grinning. "It isn't that hard, my lady. I think you put too much faith in Teresa's words last night. I did not spend my life in a hole. I have been able for some time to afford a chef—far better than the one in this drafty pile, I might add—and my butler would not have dreamed of having anything less than the perfect setting at my table. Even if I had not known how to eat when I arrived here, it merely takes looking at what everyone else is doing to learn. 'Tis not Euclid, you know, or the writings of Plato."