For all her faults, Lady Bartlesby set an elegant table. The linens glowed in the candlelight as flickering flames danced off cut-crystal faceted stemware and gleaming silver.
Lord Amesbury held out a chair, ignoring a footman who stood at the ready to assist guests. The gesture was so similar to their breakfast at the inn when he’d cleared a table for her.
The inn where she’d told him to go to the devil after he hadn’t remembered her.
Lottie stifled a sigh. She would need to set aside their differences this evening for the sake of preventing gossip. “Thank you, Lord Amesbury.”
That didn’t mean she had to like it.
* * *
Dining with the enemy was one of Dante’s levels of hell, right? If not, it should be. This night might be one of the oddest social events he’d attended in months. Lord Bartlesby’s greeting had been cool, and that was being generous. In Bartlesby’s defense, he was three sheets to the wind and lucky to still be upright.
If this wasn’t supposed to be an olive branch from his cousin’s friend, then why invite him? The whole situation had baffled Ethan until he’d encountered his hostess. Once he spotted Lady Charlotte and the gleam in Lady Bartlesby’s eye, it all made sense. Lady Bartlesby had seen an opportunity for gossip and taken it. Lord Bartlesby clearly didn’t make decisions in this house beyond his bottle of port, so he’d gone along with the plan.
Ethan often received invitations to join men carousing after hours, but invitations to respectable dinner parties like this one were rarer. If tonight opened the doors to more events, that could mean building connections with peers who might eventually buy Woodrest Ale for their households. He thought of his host and the other guests as prospective customers—if he played his cards right. After dinner, when the men retired with their port, he would determine if that was realistic or if this evening was an utter waste of time.
Bartlesby jostled Ethan’s shoulder, making him bump into Lady Charlotte. Their host continued on without apology, finding his seat at the end of the table without a backward glance. Lady Charlotte shot Ethan a look. Yes, their host was decidedly in his cups and rude. The chances of this invitation being a sign of goodwill dwindled.
It might have been a month after Ethan arrived in London that he’d met Lord Bartlesby for the first time. Before London, he’d stayed at Woodrest to grapple with this new life he’d had thrust upon him.
The charming oddities of the estate had made him curious about those who’d lived there prior—this extended family who’d been out in the world all along but hadn’t reestablished contact after his great-gran’da left for Scotland. Who were the people that had celebrated christenings, marriages, funerals, and holidays within the walls of his new home? Since none of them survived, he asked around to determine who was closest to Jerome and his son, George.
George’s friends were happy to open a bottle and reminisce.
Jerome’s closest mate, Bartlesby, made it clear in the first three minutes of their interview that while Ethan might not have heard of Jerome, Jerome had known exactly who Ethan was, and apparently had spoken about his relief that George was there to prevent the “mongrel shepherd” from dragging the Amesbury title through the muck. The meeting went downhill from there.
At the opposite end of the table, Lord Bartlesby signaled for another glass of wine while Lady Bartlesby pretended she didn’t notice. The man would pickle himself from the inside out at this rate. As the footman poured, Bartlesby lifted his bloodshot gaze to meet Ethan’s, and any fool could see that no part of this evening had been a gesture of peace. With a raised brow and a slight sneer, Bartlesby dismissed Ethan and began conversing with the guest to his left.
If indeed the purpose of his invitation had been to create gossip fodder for Lady Bartlesby’s sewing circle, then Ethan had Lady Charlotte’s quick thinking to thank for saving the day.
But it wasn’t only her level head holding his attention now. The Lady Charlotte sitting beside him bore little resemblance to the quiet woman of his memory. This lass wouldn’t have given a second glance to the immature man he’d been back then. Had she always been this way and been forced to remain silent? If so, that was nothing short of tragic. It was as if she’d debuted as an ink-sketch portrait but had come into her own now, painted over with the vivid oil hues of wit, opinion, and intelligence.
“The papers are calling the events in Manchester the Peterloo Massacre, and you think we should be proud of the actions taken? Are you utterly mad?” she was saying to Mr. Lurch on her right.
“It’s a pun, milady. I hardly expect a woman of your refined sensibilities to grasp the connotations—”
“I grasp them quite capably, Mr. Lurch. My sex does not hinder reading comprehension.” Lady Charlotte’s eyes were bright, and the roses in her cheeks made her appear warm and soft—much like the deceptive camouflage nature often gave predators to lure their prey. Ethan curled his fingers into a fist. If he touched her hand in a show of support, she’d snap at him.
The conversation around the table petered out when the other guests noticed the unfolding conflict.
“I understand the newspapers are making a play on words with the Battle of Waterloo. I’ve been following the issues that started this rather closely, sir. The strife has been documented in the papers building to this tragedy.” The muscles in Lady Charlotte’s jaw twitched, and Ethan tried not to laugh, sure she was ready to weaponize her words. When she got angry at someone besides himself, it was rather fun to watch.
“Rebellious agitators.” Mr. Lurch shrugged. “Industrial workers in Manchester. No one of note. Nothing that affects you.”
“They are subjects of the crown, suffering from gross underrepresentation in our government. The last time
