When It's Perfect (13 page)

“Have you spoken to him yet, Renn?” George asked, resting his arm across the intricately carved mantelpiece.

The earl took a long swallow of whiskey and gazed at both of them over the rim of his glass. “No,” he replied after a moment, lowering the tumbler. “But after tonight, I’ll make arrangements for a private meeting. I’m sure there are more things to discuss than I’ve taken into account.”

Mary hated the thought of not being privy to the family issues and the specific gossip that was likely to take place when the viscount arrived. But she also knew it would be her place to suggest that she retire. Before she changed her mind about mentioning it, she rubbed her palms together and sat forward. “Perhaps it would be best if I took

dinner elsewhere, gentlemen. I’m not sure I should be part of a discussion of family issues.”

George dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense. You’re lovely company.”

“I want you here, Miss Marsh,” Marcus maintained.

God, she suddenly wanted to grin, though as any good guest she restrained herself and nodded negligibly. “As you wish, Lord Renn,” she answered properly, shielding her delight by pinching her lips together gently.

A certain glimmer passed between them, and she noticed what seemed to be humor in his eyes as well. She could only wonder if he suspected her desire to stay and found her backhanded approach to it amusing.

“I always get what I wish for,” he said, his hard mouth twitching at one corner.

Her eyes opened innocently. “Do you?”

He almost smiled. “Are you in any doubt?”

“Doubt about what, my lord?”

“Will you two stop bantering with questions?” George broke in before topping off his sherry. “It’s making me dizzy.”

“My God. I never thought I’d actually see you again, Renn.”

Attention captured instantly, they all turned toward the doorway.

Filling it impressively stood the forceful bearing of Baudwin Fife, Viscount Exeter. Tonight he looked well groomed, reserved as he should in a soft woolen suit of off-black, white shirt, and Byron tie, accenting nicely his auburn hair and fair skin.

“And Miss Marsh,” he added without waiting for response, stepping into the room and toward her. “I’m enchanted, as always.”

She doubted it. But she nodded gracefully as she raised her fingers for his grasp, shivering inside from some uncomfortable yet unfathomable sense she felt every time she found herself in the viscount’s presence. She’d often wondered why the countess wanted her only daughter to marry the man, but then, that was none of her concern and most probably an estate issue.

“Exeter,” the earl cut in at last, walking to stand beside them, “it’s good to see you.”

George moved closer as well and the three men shook hands in turn, all the while conscious of the somber mood and underlying tension pervading the reunion.

“Care for a drink?” George offered properly.

“God, yes,” Baudwin answered in an exasperated air. “Whiskey, please.”

“Whiskey it shall be.”

George nodded to a servant, who had already begun pouring the amber liquid into a tumbler, then sat again in the chair beside her.

“So, Renn,” Exeter remarked, pulling out his tails and making himself quite comfortable on a matching midnight blue settee across from them, “How was your return? I hope the weather was to your advantage on the trip.”

Marcus moved so that he stood between Mary and George, directly across from the viscount, leaning his elbow on the cushioned back of her chair. “I didn’t actually pay much attention to the weather until I returned to St. Austell,” he replied.

“Right.” Exeter took a long drink, then licked his lips and scowled.

“It’s been a nasty spring. All rain and mud.” He glanced at Marcus from the corner of his eye. “I’ll bet you miss the hot desert, eh, Renn?” He snickered and took another drink. “And the desert ladies. I hear they’re quite… uh… different from our English ladies. Beautiful.”

Mary could sense Marcus stiffening at her side, wondering at his mood, if he were as annoyed by the viscount’s lack of respect as she was.

But she didn’t dare look up at him, or say a word as she would have loved to do at that moment.

“Beautiful, yes, in a different manner from the English, I suppose.

But I am seldom in the company of Egyptian ladies.” He took a sip of his own whiskey. “I generally spend my days digging and cataloguing, studying.”

“That’s my brother,” George cut in, “all work and no play. But then there are beautiful ladies in this country, too.”

“Oh, true, true,” Exeter agreed. Then he chuckled again, shaking his head before finishing off his drink. “I apologize, Miss Marsh. This discussion isn’t appropriate for an English lady’s ears, I know, but you’re older, a spinster. You’ve no doubt heard it all before.”

For the first time in her life, Mary hated that word. The drawing room seemed to reel for a moment, grow ever hotter, until she realized it was her own sudden fury bubbling up from the inside and threatening to escape in a scathing retort. Still, because she was a lady of refined class, she did nothing but smile, albeit somewhat sarcastically, running her palms down her skirt at her thighs.

“I imagine you’re correct, Viscount Exeter,” she admitted prosaically, staring him in the eye. “At my age, very little shocks me.”

The tension fairly crackled; George placed his sherry glass on the tea table with a loud
clack
. The earl hadn’t left her side, and she hadn’t felt him glance down at her at all, so with all hope, he didn’t notice her cheeks flaming with supreme embarrassment.

“Frankly, Exeter,” Marcus said in a dark, speculative tone, “I tend to be far more shocked by the behavior of the English than by that of the Egyptians. But then, perhaps it’s because I’ve been away so long. Many things have surprised me upon my return, including the memory of just how naturally lovely and refined English ladies are.”

Nobody said a word to that, though Mary felt the incredible urge to hug the man for his witty defense of her—which, as it happened, was one of the most surprising things she’d felt since her arrival in Cornwall.

Suddenly the viscount laughed again and raised his glass. “Right you are, Renn. Another one,” he ordered the waiting footman, who quickly moved to the sideboard to do his bidding.

“Exeter, darling, I’m so glad you could make it to dinner,” came Gwyneth’s saturnine voice from the doorway. She glided into the room, in a wide gown made entirely of black crepe, looking perfectly preened and attractive, yet sufficiently dour that the occasion didn’t appear too much like entertaining.

“And here is one of our lovely English ladies,” the viscount said, arms outstretched. Gwyneth reached him first, and he grasped her shoulders, pulling her forward for a peck of his lips to her cheeks. “You’re looking well, Lady Renn, especially under such dismal circumstances.”

Gwyneth stood back a pace, patting the back of one hand to her cheek. “Yes, thank you ever so, my dear. It’s been a trying time for all of us, and I fear the horror that has befallen our family will in no way dissipate soon.”

“Oh, no, I imagine it won’t,” the viscount agreed, accepting a newly poured whiskey from the footman without looking at him. “I’m just so glad we’re all able to be here for you.”

Gwyneth smiled faintly. “Yes, as I am. Renn has returned at last. My darling son.” She glanced at him, and Mary couldn’t help but do the same. He stood at her side still, with fortitude, his hard face expressionless.

Then slowly, as if knowing everybody watched him with speculation, he stepped forward and kissed his mother’s cheek dutifully. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he remarked.

“Thank you, dear.”

Mary stood at last. “Lady Renn,” she acknowledged with a tip of her

head.

“Mary, dear, I’m so glad you’re joining us.”

Mary didn’t know if that was a sincere statement, but she didn’t comment, and neither did anyone else. It appeared they all felt it perfectly natural that she be included.

Gwyneth took a sherry offered her from a silver platter, and for a moment they all stood around the tea table, silently sipping their beverages for something to do, avoiding conversation and the morose atmosphere that seemed destined to plague the entire estate. Moments later, Safford, always the efficient butler, announced that dinner would now be served.

Mary followed Gwyneth into the dining room, the men behind her.

“Miss Marsh will be seated next to me,” the earl fairly ordered without looking at any of them as he walked to the head of the table.

That pronouncement startled her as much as it did everybody else, but she tried not to show her surprise. Nobody objected verbally, of course, though she felt quite certain speculation ran rampant among them all. But as if it were an everyday occurrence for her to sit next to the earl, she blindly moved to his side as he reached for her chair and held it out.

“Thank you, Lord Renn,” she said quietly, sitting perfectly still. He took his place to her left, Gwyneth hers at the foot of the table, George across from her, and the viscount to her right. It had been a long time since Mary had felt so exposed—for no reason—and so utterly uncomfortable at dinner.

They all remained relatively quiet during the first three courses, and Mary ate little and talked even less, though the conversation stayed casual and general, mostly about mines and clay transport. Of course the viscount had the same issues to relate to that George did, and for a time the two of them held at least part of her interest.

At last, however, between the courses of creamed white fish and roasted duck, as she knew would happen, the earl leaned back in his chair, half-filled wine glass in hand, and gazed at their guest.

“Well, Exeter,” he began nonchalantly, “I’m sure the death of my sister has been extremely difficult for you.”

Mary thought she might have heard Gwyneth gasp; George cleared his throat loudly.

The viscount sat back as well, his chair creaking from the weight. He lifted his wine glass and drained it, signaling the waiting footman to refill it. “It’s been simply awful, Renn. Simply awful.” He drew a long,

full breath and shook his head. “Such a lovely girl, and I adored her. I hope you know that.”

Mary stared at her uneaten duck, picking at it with a fork, acutely listening to the subtleties in inflection between the two men during such touchy conversation.

“I do, indeed, Exeter. I know she was so looking forward to marrying you.”

The viscount shifted in his seat. “And I her, of course. Her accident has been most unfortunate for everyone.”

Gwyneth placed her silverware on her plate. “Please, darling, let’s not talk about this now—”

“When exactly would you like to discuss it, Mother?” the earl asked matter-of-factly. “Exeter is here now, and this is a family dinner.”

Mary hoped nobody would notice her.

“Um, Miss Marsh is here, too, Renn,” George added hesitantly, nodding once in her direction.

She suddenly wanted to slide under the table as they all turned their attention to her.

“I’m well aware of that, George. She was also Christine’s last good friend, and I enjoy her company.”

What company
? God, she’d hardly said two words in the last hour.

“I agree,” the viscount remarked, lifting his glass. “To Miss Marsh. A lovely spinster who graces our table with beauty and smells of lavender.

Thank you ever so much for sitting her next to me, Renn.”

For the first time that she could recall, Mary actually felt keenly humiliated for the man—and for the Longfellows. The viscount was drunk, and it showed in his speech, voice, and actions. But as she was quickly learning he often did, the Earl of Renn saved them all embarrassment by ignoring it.

“When was the last time you saw Christine, Exeter?” he asked coolly, taking another short sip of wine.

Mary glanced up at the viscount’s face. His cheeks and nose were pink, but he seemed oblivious to the importance of the question.

“Oh… I don’t know. Perhaps a week or two before she—” he waved over a footman to refill his glass. “A week before she died, perhaps.”

“And how did she seem to you?”

“Renn, really,” his mother admonished.

Marcus gave her a look of cold steel, but otherwise brushed over the comment. “How did she seem?” he repeated.

“She seemed… the same—no, overwrought a bit.” He paused.

“Maybe.”

Marcus leaned forward in his seat, never dropping his gaze from the man. “Overwrought in what way, specifically?”

Perspiration began to bead on the viscount’s brow, and in two swallows he finished off his wine again. Mary found that amazing, as she’d never seen a person drink so much alcohol in one sitting.

“God, I don’t know,” he exasperated at last, waving one hand in the air then dropping it hard on the lace covered table. “The way women are from one day to the other.”

A cloud of icy silence fell over the table. Mary couldn’t contain her resentment any longer, though she did manage to restrain herself.

Tapping her lace napkin on the side of her mouth, she asked pleasantly, “Then you’ve got sisters, Viscount Exeter?”

Everyone looked at her, including the viscount, who glanced down to her person for the first time, his brows pinched.

“No. What the devil has that got to do with anything?”

She expected that. Smiling flatly, she replied, “I was just utterly amazed that you knew so much about ladies and their day-to-day behaviors.” She folded her hands in her lap. “From where do you get your information?”

It seemed to Mary that everybody squirmed, including one or two of the servants, though she never dropped her pointed gaze from the viscount’s pinched red face.

“Yes, Exeter,” the earl urged thoughtfully, taking the cue, “Miss Marsh poses an interesting question. Do tell.”

A moment passed in awkward silence. Baudwin quickly took another drink of wine from his glass, which had just been dutifully refilled without his having to ask this time, then placed it loudly back on the table.

Suddenly, losing some of his meager control, he returned his concentration to his food and began to slice what remained of his duck with fumbling hands. “Maybe she was nervous ‘bout the wedding,” he blurted, biting down on a large chunk, then chewing loudly. Waving his knife and fork in the air, he added, “Maybe it was her monthlies that had her confused. That happens to the lot of them, you know.”