He pointed to a moth eaten five-point red deer with one ear hanging loose and missing a glass eye. The stuffed animal hung askew above the entrance. “What a spectacular trophy. Did His Grace shoot the buck on the estate?”
Saunders raised a brow, no doubt thinking Flynn was a cork-brained ninnyhammer.
“No. He did not.” The majordomo continued marching along the corridor.
No, the duke didn’t shoot it, or no, it hadn’t been shot on the estate?
Saunders stopped outside a partially opened door. The low murmur of conversation floated through the crack. He rapped once before sweeping the door open and announcing, “The Marquis of Bretheridge.”
Prepared to do battle, Flynn entered the cozily appointed room. He stopped when a teacup clattered to the floor.
The woman from the stream sat upon a settee.
“Oh dear, see what I’ve done.” She gathered the pieces of broken china strewn on the floor. Not once did she lift her gaze from the carpet. As she leaned forward to retrieve a saucer shard, her dress gaped, affording him a glimpse of a full bosom.
“Forgive me, Aunt Camille. I’ll replace the cup, of course. I’m not usually this clumsy. I must have been startled.” Her gaze swept upward for a fraction, then lowered just as swiftly. “I wasn’t aware we expected a guest for tea.”
Curious. She hadn’t been informed he’d been invited. What else was she ignorant of? The proposed nuptials?
Flynn eyed Waterford. What was he about?
“It’s quite all right, Angelina.” From her seat opposite the settee, the duchess gestured to Saunders who had poked his head into the drawing room at the sound of breaking porcelain.
He sent Flynn an accusatory glower and pursed his lips.
Flynn narrowed his eyes. He’d enough of the pompous butler. Someone needed to put the servant in his place.
“Saunders, please send William at once. Mrs. Thorne has dropped her teacup. Oh, and we shall need another cup, as well.” Her Grace made no effort to assist the woman on the floor, frantically blotting the spreading puddle of tea. Nor did the duchess seem the least concerned that a costly china cup had been destroyed.
“Angelina-Rose, do get up at once.” The Duke of Waterford’s tone held censure. “We have servants for that sort of thing. Gently-bred ladies don’t wallow about on the floor on their knees cleaning up muck.”
Mrs. Thorne’s head jerked toward her uncle. Her eyes rounded in astonishment before she cast her focus to the floor. “Yes, Uncle Ambrose.”
A rosy flush tinted her ivory cheeks. Gracefully climbing to her feet, she placed the sopped napkin on the tea tray. She’d yet to meet Flynn’s eyes.
“Really, my dear.” Waterford’s voice grew even sterner. “Bretheridge will think you have been raised by some of those red-skinned savages in America we hear so much about.”
No, I’ll think you’re a mean-spirited churl who enjoys humiliating others.
Mrs. Thorne’s generous breasts rose as she took a deep breath. Her color high and her features schooled into a polite mask, she finally turned her attention to him. A tight smile on her face, a hint of moisture glinted in her eyes.
She’s mortified.
The duke didn’t bother rising to make the introductions. His slurred speech hinted as to why. He flapped a hand in Flynn’s direction. “Angelina, may I present Flynn, Marquis of Bretheridge. Bretheridge, my niece, Mrs. Ells—er, that is, Thorne.”
Waterford released a hiccupping belch. He patted his bloated belly and licked his lips. “Beg pardon.”
Egads, the man was half-soused.
Her Grace appeared unaware or else chose to deliberately ignore her spouse. Focused on sipping her tea and nibbling biscuits, she avoided gazing at her husband.
Not that Flynn blamed her.
His Grace’s resemblance to a drowsy lizard lounging atop a rock was uncanny. If the duke’s tongue flicked out and caught the annoying fly buzzing about the ginger biscuits, Flynn wouldn’t have been altogether shocked.
Chagrin coloring her cheeks, Mrs. Thorne scooted around the table. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
She sank into a graceful curtsy.
The woman before Flynn bore scant resemblance to the sprite he met earlier. Other than several curls framing her oval face, her hair was neatly coiffed. The black of the muslin gown she wore emphasized her unusual greenish eyes and trim figure. Only the slight mark on her flushed cheek hinted she’d been splashing about in the stream and climbing trees.
Flynn bent over her hand. The jolt he experienced earlier when helping her from the tree shot through him again. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thorne. Have we met before? You seem familiar.”
Most wicked of him to tease her.
She inhaled sharply and tossed her uncle an uneasy glance.
So, she didn’t want the duke to know about her little adventure. Why?
“No, I don’t believe we have. I’m newly arrived in England, you see.”
“I was so sure.” Flynn positioned his back to Their Graces and stared pointedly at Mrs. Thorne’s slipper-clad feet.
Grinning, he snared her gaze. And winked.
Her amazing eyes widened, the pupils growing huge. Her pretty mouth trembled.
He swore she bit the side of her cheek to keep from laughing. What an utter delight.
Saunders entered the drawing room, teacup in hand. A footman toting a basket and linens followed on his heels.
The butler placed the cup on the tea tray and swept a bland eye over the duke. “Have you need of anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, that will be all.” The duchess arranged the new cup to her satisfaction. She expertly poured tea for Mrs. Thorne and Flynn. Sugar tongs in hand, she glanced up.
“Cream or sugar, my lord?”
“Both, and three lumps, please.” And that barely made the stuff tolerable. He must be one of a handful of his countrymen who didn’t enjoy the beverage. Traitorous for an Englishman.
He followed Mrs. Thorne to the settee and waited until she sank onto the cushion before claiming a seat for himself, mindful to maintain an acceptable distance between them.
Waterford rudely gawked at them, a speculative glint in his eyes.
Flynn’s mouth quirked. He raised his brows in a silent challenge. No doubt the cur plotted when to introduce his scheme.
Smiling and murmuring her thanks, his niece accepted another cup of tea from her aunt. Could Mrs. Thorne really be unaware of her uncle’s conniving?
“A moment, Saunders.” Her Grace turned to the butler who had gained the door. “Please speak with Miss Simpleton, and inquire if Felicia’s been found yet. I wish to be informed the moment she has.”
Flynn bent toward Mrs. Thorne. “Is Felicia a pet?”
Mrs. Thorne smiled again and shook her head. “No. Felicia’s my much younger, mischievous cousin. She finds it amusing to hide from her governess. Felicia’s quite cunning. Poor Miss Simpleton doesn’t find it clever in the least.”
Flynn nearly snorted into his teacup. He bit his tongue to suppress a bark of laughter.
Miss Simpleton, the governess?
That was outside of enough. As for the missing child, she must be the window peeper. “You might search the room directly to the left of the entry.”
“Indeed?” Saunders’s beetle brows arched to his hairline as his lips thinned.
Flynn took a sip of his tea and suppressed a grimace. “Someone peeked at me through the draperies when I arrived.”
That caught the duchess’s attention. She paused, teacup halfway to her mouth. “Didn’t you search the music room already, Saunders?”
After sending Flynn a withering glare, the butler turned to Her Grace.
“I did. Twice. I am quit
e sure,” he slid Flynn a haughty sidelong glower, “something as obvious as a child would not have escaped my notice.”
Saunders managed to pull his spine even straighter. Neither of Their Graces chastised his insolence.
Examining the butler from toe to top, Flynn’s smile deepened. “Saunders, perhaps something as obvious as a child might not have escaped your notice, but fastening the top button on one side of your falls did.”
Every eye in the room sank to the butler’s groin.
The duchess gasped, William sniggered, Mrs. Thorne made a peculiar coughing sound Flynn was convinced concealed laughter, and the duke snapped, “Good God man, fasten yourself up!”
Without a word, the majordomo stamped from the room, his ears bright red.
Poorly done, Flynn. You humiliated the man.
Though, Saunders brought it on himself.
Waterford’s attention followed the butler. He rubbed his chin. “Ought to dismiss him without reference this very instant.”
Flynn stared in disbelief. Not a word of chastisement for Saunders’s rude and impertinent behavior to a guest, but a missed button and the duke threatened to dismiss the butler?
Flynn forced his tongue to form words. “Don’t be hasty, Waterford. A competent majordomo is a prize worth keeping.”
If he hadn’t directed everyone’s attention to Saunders’s unfortunate state of undress, Waterford likely wouldn’t have noticed. Such vindictiveness wasn’t typical of Flynn, and his behavior gave him pause. He’d been acting out of character the entire day.
“Yes, yes, well, perhaps so.” The Duke hid a yawn behind his hand.
William finished cleaning the tea mess, collected the basket, then turned to the duchess expectantly.
“Thank you, you may go.” Her Grace selected a piece of shortbread. “Please ask Saunders to prepare more tea and to send the fresh brew in at once. This pot grows cool.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” William bowed.
“William?” Laying a hand on his arm, Mrs. Thorne stopped the footman. She smiled kindly. “Thank you for cleaning my spill. I’m sorry to have put you to any trouble.”
The man broke into a toothy smile. “It wasn’t any trouble.”
He bowed again before leaving. No sooner did he exit, than a flustered middle-aged woman escorted a beautiful, doll-like child into the room.
“Ah, I see you have found my darling.” Her Grace patted the cushion beside her. “Come my pet, give Mama a kiss. Miss Simpleton, you may have your tea. I’ll ring when you’re needed.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Relief and gratitude swept the governess’s haggard face. Dipping a hasty curtsy, she bolted for the door, no doubt eager to escape before the duchess changed her mind.
Felicia pecked her mother’s cheek. An exquisite child, she would someday be a stunning woman. Given her penchant for mischief, she would lead some poor chap a merry chase, Flynn would wager.
She turned her curious forget-me-not blue eyes on Flynn. “Who are you?”
Already having risen when the governess entered the room, he bowed. “I’m the Marquis of Bretheridge. I believe I detected you peeping at me from the front window.”
Felicia grinned and jumped to her feet, clapping her hands. Excitement danced in her eyes. “Oh, wonderful. You’re the man marrying Lina.”
Chapter 8
For the second time in a quarter hour, a teacup slipped from Angelina’s hands.
This time, thank goodness, Lord Bretheridge deftly caught the cup and saucer before they met the same fate as the first. Other than a paltry amount of tea sloshing into the saucer, he averted another disaster.
Her heart beating an irregular staccato, Angelina gaped at Felicia before scanning the faces of the others assembled. Surely she heard wrong, hadn’t she?
Aunt Camille, pale as the lace rimming her bodice, sat dumbfounded, a half-eaten ginger biscuit partway to her slack mouth.
Felicia, beaming with excitement, bounced on her toes, while Uncle Ambrose, his face an unreadable mask, thrummed his spindly fingers on his rotund belly and considered the marquis.
Lord Bretheridge’s dark brows swooped into a vee above the bridge of his strong nose. He pressed his lips into a stern line. Once his lordship placed the cup on the table, he shifted his position to stare at Uncle Ambrose.
Unconcealed hostility glittered in the marquis’s eyes.
Angelina fidgeted with her napkin. Why didn’t anyone say anything? At the very least, deny Felicia’s giddy outburst? Whatever had given the child such a preposterous notion?
Pinching her fingers together, Angelina drew in a labored breath. Striving for calm when a swarm of bees hummed in her belly, she attempted a smile. “Felicia, my love, what a wonderful imagination you have.”
Angelina dashed Lord Bretheridge a peek from beneath her lashes.
He regarded her, anger and pain evident in his eyes.
She steeled her features as another flush scorched her face and veered her attention to her cousin. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Lord Bretheridge and I just met. We certainly are not affianced.”
A pout formed on Felicia’s pert mouth as a scowl settled upon her face. Hands on her hips, she shook her head, her flaxen curls pirouetting about her shoulders.
“You are, too. I heard Papa say so.” She swirled to face her father. “Tell them, Papa.”
“My darling, how did you hear such an absurd thing?” Aunt Camille set her biscuit aside. Brushing crumbs from her lap she studied her daughter. “Papa has never discussed anything of this nature with me. I assure you, I’d be the first to know of such an arrangement.”
She turned her attention to Uncle Ambrose. Eyes mere slits, she spoke between stiff lips. “Lina is my niece, and as she’s underage, her mother would need to consent to a match.”
Not underage for much longer, dear aunt.
Aunt Camille’s modulated voice held a distinct trace of accusation. After folding her napkin, she set the linen beside the tea tray. Did her hand shake the merest bit? She made a pretense of straightening the tea service.
“In her last letter, my pet, Aunt Lucille made no mention of any such thing.” She bathed Felicia with a doting smile.
“That’s not something she would likely overlook, now is it, kitten?”
Indignation simmered in the outraged glare Aunt Camille leveled her husband.
He kept his scrutiny fixed on Angelina and Lord Bretheridge. A peculiar predatory glint sparked in Uncle Ambrose’s blurry eyes.
A chill crawled from Angelina’s shoulders to her waist. She didn’t know this man at all.
Tension radiated from the marquis, evident in his taut shoulders, fisted hand, and flexed jaw. Yet he remained silent. With his unyielding stare, he challenged Uncle Ambrose, their eyes clashing.
Angelina swung her gaze between them.
A silent battle raged, one green-eyed gaze dueling with the other.
But why?
Her mouth gone dry, she wet her lips. “Felicia, I don’t think—”
“I’m not lying.” Felicia’s eyes misted, and her lower lip trembled. She stomped her foot and fisted her hands at her sides. “I’m not!”
“Of course you’re not, darling.” Angelina offered her a reassuring smile. She’d never known her cousin to spin falsehoods. She was an incorrigible imp and given to practical jokes, but she wasn’t dishonest.
“Perhaps you misunderstood Uncle?”
“No, I didn’t.” Felicia denied vehemently, her hair bouncing. A mutinous glower descended.
“I heard him quite clearly. I was hiding from Miss Simpleton behind the draperies in Papa’s London study when a man came to call. His name was Mr. Did—Diddles . . .”
Frowning, she rubbed the side of her nose. “He had a
funny name.”
“Diddlethwaite?” Aunt Camille managed, though her hand clutched her throat, and she croaked as if she’d swallowed a good-sized dill pickle. Whole. “Your man of business, Waterford?”
From the grayish tint and strained expression on the duchess’s face, Angelina feared her aunt was about to faint dead away. She swayed, and Angeline surged to her feet.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 9