It was insupportable—the cowardly display.
Surely, she was made of sterner stuff than her poor showing would indicate. She recalled the terrifying moment in the Skeffingtons’ library when she believed the Duke of Kesgrave was seconds away from bashing in her skull with a candlestick. On that occasion, she had resolved to meet death without cowering.
How, then, could she cower now while meeting the household staff?
To even compare the situations was lunacy, she knew, for a vicious murder bore no relation to a slightly awkward interaction with one’s retainers. That her mind linked the two indicated a diminished ability to produce lucid thoughts.
The room itself did little to improve her mental acuity. Its sumptuous furnishings—the rosewood chaise longue with brass inlay, the tufted window seat with embroidered silk, the gilt mirror with its scrollwork top—spoke of lavish wealth and five hundred years of Empire. Everywhere she looked, she was reminded of rose petals.
She could not calmly remain there, waiting for Kesgrave to strew her path. It was the height of hypocrisy, was it not, to claim to desire discomfort and then immediately shrink at the first hint of it.
Inhaling deeply, she rose to her feet and strode purposefully to the door.
If it were done when ’tis done, she thought, then ’twere well it were done quickly.
After a moment’s consideration, she settled on the servants’ quarters as her destination. She would first attempt to earn the approval of the housekeeper before taking on the gargantuan challenge of ingratiating herself with the butler, Marlow, whose mien was as intimidating as his size.
If she and the duke had held true to their original wedding date, then the new mistress of Kesgrave House would have arrived in Berkeley Square to find the household staff assembled in a neat row to meet her properly.
Nothing, however, about their courtship had gone according to plan—and a good thing too, Bea thought, for the rules governing social interactions did not allow for a spinster to woo a duke. But, as always, it was the servants who suffered for the lack of conventionality and, it must be said, consideration. Having had the presence of mind to ensure Bea’s mother’s bracelet was present at the proceedings, the groom failed to account for other, more mundane matters and overlooked the step wherein he alerted the household staff of his immediate nuptials.
In consequence, Mrs. Wallace had turned a bright pink yesterday upon discovering that she was greeting the new Duchess of Kesgrave in her second-best apron.
Flustered, the estimable woman swiftly regained her composure, welcomed her warmly and provided a light collation in the drawing room, complete with the tea cakes she recalled Miss Hyde-Clare…er, that was, the duchess enjoying the last time she had visited them.
It was a minor slip, almost too small to be noticed, but the housekeeper’s color rose again, and although her expression did not reveal her thoughts, Bea was convinced the other woman held her responsible for the regrettable breach in etiquette.
And Kesgrave!
He had done absolutely nothing to improve the situation. Rather than soothe his housekeeper’s nerves with banal decorum, the notoriously high-in-the-instep duke had chosen that moment to become irreverent and flippant, mortifying Beatrice with his obvious impatience to be alone with her. She had barely raised the hot brew to her lips before he was putting her teacup on the table and insisting she must take a tour of the house.
“As Mrs. Wallace can attest from intimate firsthand knowledge, Kesgrave House is tediously large, with dozens and dozens of rooms,” he had said, standing with such grace and purpose, Bea felt her stomach flutter in anticipation. “My forbearers were a pompous lot who sought to cow their detractors with an overwrought display of abundance. A deplorable practice, I assure you, for the brighter the plumage, the slighter the bird. Therefore, I am now burdened with an exceptionally large house with an excessive number of rooms, and if we have any hope of concluding our tour before nightfall, we must begin now. I am sure Mrs. Wallace understands.”
Oh, yes, Mrs. Wallace had understood. Her visage revealed not a hint of comprehension, but she perceived exactly the reason for his haste, and Bea’s cheeks turned a seething shade of scarlet in response.
’Twas excruciating, having the servants know her business, and somehow the housekeeper’s studied blandness was more painful than the meaningful look Lady Abercrombie had darted in her direction when Kesgrave announced their intention to leave the luncheon the dowager had laid immediately following the toast to their happiness.
Her eyes firmly fixed to the floor, Bea allowed the duke to lead her from the room.
True to his word, Kesgrave had provided her with a cursory tour of her new home, drawing her attention to noteworthy rooms (“My study, of course, with its generous use of mahogany to spur deep thinking”) and notable artworks (“The Origin of the Milky Way, one of three paintings Correggio did based on the myth of Hercules, which my grandfather acquired on his grand tour”).
She was still challenging his claim that the third duke had smuggled the large Grecian urn in the second-floor hallway out of the Palais des Tuileries by requiring his footman to impersonate a hunchback (“Naturally, I would not expect the Duc d’Orléans’s valet to have seen a man with a hump before but presumably he was familiar with the porcelain vase that occupied the lintel in the drawing room”) when Kesgrave paused beside the open door to his bedchamber.
“And now, my love,” he said on a sigh of deep satisfaction as he pressed his lips softly against her forehead, then her cheek. “And now I promise you will have no cause to take issue with my propensity to be slightly too thorough.”
Although her heart tripped in excitement, she managed to say with arch condescension, “Slightly, your grace?” before murmuring in the wrong order the names of three warships that had appeared in the Battle of the Nile.
For once, he had made no effort to correct her.
Having
