“To find out what his wife meant by establishing herself with the staff,” Kesgrave explained.
Bea drew her brows in confusion. “I would think such a simple concept is self-explanatory.”
“Yes, you would,” he replied, “and I was satisfied with the comment for a good hour and a half. But then as I was reviewing the figures in the accounting ledger, I paused for a moment to consider what it actually meant and felt a cold chill.”
“The temerity of Mr. Stephens, opening a window in your study without securing your permission,” she said with light outrage. “I trust he offered you his coat.”
“I felt a chill because I knew it could not be as simple as your telling Mrs. Wallace at what hour you would like your morning tray,” he said with a hint of impatience.
“Is that all it takes?” she asked mildly.
“Bea!”
“Yes?”
“You vowed,” he said vehemently.
“Actually, I did not, no,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “I tried to vow and was roundly thwarted by the clergyman you yourself selected. Perhaps if you had taken the time to interview each perspective minister and ascertain his stance on alterations to the Solemnization of Matrimony before the ceremony, then I would have vowed and your anger would be entirely justified. But you did not consider our nuptials important enough to require that modicum of effort and you cannot hold me accountable for that.”
As Beatrice had taken a similar tact during many of their previous disagreements, Kesgrave knew better than to try to dispute her individual points, many of which were purposely absurd. Instead, he pointed out that it was her intention that counted, not her success in achieving it. “If you tried to overturn Mayhew’s chair but failed to unseat him because you misjudged your own strength or underestimated his heft, he would still be irate at your attempt to dump him onto the floor. The difference between intention and action is merely a detail, as I am sure Mr. Bertram would agree.”
It was a valid argument, Bea thought, and one she herself might have employed if their situations had been reversed. But they were not, so she waved her hand dismissively and affected a pose of abject scorn. “Merely a detail. Merely a detail? All meaning lies in the details, as I am sure Mr. Bertram’s supervisor would agree. Have you not read Leviticus, your grace? ‘All flying insects that walk on all fours are to be regarded as unclean by you. There are, however, some flying insects that walk on all fours that you may eat: those that have jointed legs for hopping on the ground.’ Jointed legs,” she repeated with forceful intensity. “Now there is a superior being who comprehends the importance of details.”
It was a measure of either his affection or self-control that he did not pound his fist on the table in frustration but said with only bland vexation, “Very well, brat, and what of your promise not to investigate the horrible murders that cross your path? How are you going to wiggle off that hook?” he asked, his tone more curious than cross.
“Ah, there, we are well in the clear, your grace,” she said with reassuring confidence.
His lips twitched. “Are we?”
“Oh, yes, there will be no undignified wiggling today save for Mr. Mayhew’s squirmy fingers. I have held tightly to our compact.”
Without saying a word, Kesgrave made his differing understanding of the circumstance known by looking around the room with exaggerated interest.
“No, it is true,” she insisted earnestly. “In this case, I have crossed its path. This murder has absolutely nothing to do with me, and I am intruding with great impudence—you see, Mr. Mayhew is correct to compose a novella—on a private matter. Having said that, I must also note that the victim was the most creative and masterful practitioner of the culinary arts of this or any century and his death deprives the entire world of beauty and grace, which makes it, I would argue, the concern of every person of feeling and sensibility.”
Kesgrave’s opinion of this particularly dizzying piece of sophistry was readily apparent in his expression, which bore an unsettling resemblance to the one he had worn the day before after concluding his tour of the house in his bedchamber, and Bea, whose breath hitched in perceiving it, knew the look was not appropriate for any drawing room, even one that did not contain a banker furiously venting his spleen via pen and paper at the opposite end of the room.
Transfixed, her heart pounding slightly, she stared into his bright blue eyes and wondered why she was there, anywhere, that wasn’t alone with her husband.
Seconds passed, perhaps minutes, certainly the time limit she had imposed on Mr. Mayhew, without either of them speaking, but Bea was spared the mortification of discovering just how long she could sit there gazing insensibly at her husband by their host, who observed the tea service with approval.
“Mrs. Blewitt is a treasure,” he added fondly, unaware that Henry had yet to return.
Startled, Bea looked up to find a perfectly composed Mr. Mayhew smiling serenely at her. As if nothing extraordinary had happened, he regained the chair that he had summarily vacated in a distempered freak and asked Bea if she would be so kind as to pour.
She was so taken aback by the change in demeanor, she complied. The pot, however, was nearly empty and only a thin stream trickled out before dribbling into drops. She placed the partially filled cup in front of the banker, who lavishly praised her efficiency before thanking her and the duke for responding so quickly to his summons.
His summons, Bea thought, amused by the pompous attempt to impress her with his confidence. Surely, he did not think he could alter her understanding of recent events by simply claiming them to be the opposite of what
