Chapter Nineteen

SOMETHING ABOUT BECKWITH’S expression as he bumbled about the breakfast buffet the following morning made Sybil decidedly nervous. “What’s wrong with you, Beckwith?” she asked suspiciously. “You’ve rearranged those cups three times. And you still haven’t brought me those biscuits which I’ve asked for twice. Haven’t I asked twice, Charles?”

Charles, absorbed in buttering his toast with the intense care required to ensure that the entire surface would be evenly coated, merely shrugged.

“Sorry, m’lady,” Beckwith mumbled, ambling over with the biscuits with an irritating, dilly-dallying shuffle.

“Something’s amiss, I can tell,” Sybil declared, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you hanging about in this way? You know we don’t require your services at breakfast.”

“I only want to see to the tea things, m’lady,” Beckwith said, ambling back to the buffet. “We don’t want Lady Amelia to go into one o’ her takings because the tea ain’t brewed proper.”

“Hasn’t Amelia been down yet?” asked Sybil in amazement. “It’s well after ten!”

“No, m’lady, not yet.”

“Don’t recall her ever coming down this late before,” Charles remarked. “And I don’t recollect that Beckwith’s ever fussed so about the tea, either.”

“That’s quite true, Charles,” Sybil agreed. “There’s something havey-cavey in the air this morning. Out with it, Beckwith!”

The butler, who knew a great deal more than he intended to reveal, had hoped to be able to observe at first hand the cyclone which he knew was about to strike, but he realized that he’d run out of excuses to remain. “I’ve finished,” he muttered, edging reluctantly to the door. “I’m just goin’.”

He was about to close the door behind him when a nervous Lady Amelia made her appearance. “May I serve you y’r tea, m’lady?” Beckwith asked her eagerly, holding the door for her.

“No, thank you, Beckwith. We won’t be needing you,” she answered, dismissing him and carefully shutting the door. “Good morning, Sybil, and you, too, Charles.”

“There you are, Amelia,” Sybil greeted her curtly. “How is it you’re so late this morning? And, by the way, where is Nell?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Only let me pour myself a cup of tea first, if you please.”

“Tell me what?” Sybil cried impatiently. “I knew something was amiss, I knew it! There’s an air about the house this morning like … like impending doom!”

“No need to enact a Cheltenham tragedy,” Amelia said bracingly and carried her cup to the table. The fact that her cup trembled enough to cause some tea to slosh over into the saucer was not lost on Sybil.

“Then get on with it,” she urged tensely.

Amelia took a heartening sip of her indispensable brew and sat back in her chair. “I have a letter for you, my dear,” she said to Sybil in a voice that seemed to underscore the importance of her otherwise innocuous words. She pulled from her sleeve a folded sheet of notepaper and handed it across the table.

“What is it?” Sybil asked, looking at the letter as if it were a snake about to bite. “Who sent—?”

But before she could finish her question, the door opened, and Beckwith, his face flushed with anticipation, entered. “Lady Imogen Lewis to see you, m’lady,” he told Sybil with ill-suppressed glee.

Sybil, her eyes fixed on her letter, waved him aside. “Tell her I’ll see her in a few minutes. Make her comfortable in the—”

“There is nowhere in this house where I’d be comfortable,” came a caustic voice from the doorway, “and you may as well face the fact, Sybil Thorne, that I won’t be put off!”

“Why, Imogen, what a surprise—!” Charles murmured embarrassedly, standing up in awkward haste. “Do come in.”

“I am in,” Lady Imogen said coldly.

“Won’t you sit down?” Sybil asked with a forced smile. “We were just—”

“No, I won’t sit down! Nor will I ever set foot in this house again after I’ve had my say. What do you mean, ma’am, and you too, my lord, by permitting your ward to jilt my son again?”

Charles gasped and fell back into his chair. Sybil, with a chagrined “What?” could only stare at her guest in dismay. “What are you saying?”

“Are you trying to pretend you know nothing of this?” Lady Imogen demanded.

Sybill shook her head, completely confounded. “No, nothing!” she gasped breathlessly. “I’ve not heard a word—!”

“Then let me be the first to tell you,” Lady Imogen said flatly. “Your ward, a foolish chit whose disreputable behavior and shocking callousness reflect no credit on those who reared her, had the temerity and the singular lack of judgment to announce to my son last evening, in the rudest, most tasteless way, that their betrothal was at an end. And this was done immediately following a magnificent dinner party which had signified to the very cream of English society my approval of the match!”

There was a moment of silence while the others tried to digest the import of Lady Imogen’s flood of words. Charles, who understood only that his ward had been maligned, felt that it behooved him to come to her defense. “I think I must take exception, Lady Imogen, to the way you speak of our little Nell. I cannot permit—”

“Oh, be still, Charles!” Sybil interrupted brusquely. “If what Lady Imogen says is true, I shall speak of our little Nell in terms a great deal worse! Lady Imogen, you must be mistaken. Nell has been most docile and tractable since the understanding with Nigel was reached. I can’t believe she could have changed so abruptly.”

“I am not mistaken,” Imogen stated. “The little wretch has destroyed everything. When word of this leaks out, she will not only have wrecked her own reputation beyond redemption, but she’ll have made my son and me the laughingstocks of England.” Suddenly her lips began to quiver and her face took on an expression of pathetic self-pity. “I don’t know how I shall be able to hold up my head!”

“Don’t say so,” Sybil said, jumping up and running to Lady Imogen’s side. “Here, sit down, please! Not a word of this will leave this room. It’s all been some sort of terrible mistake. A lover’s quarrel, no doubt. We’ll talk to Nell and bring her round, and everything will go on just as we’ve planned.”

Lady Imogen allowed herself to be seated, but she would not otherwise be placated. “You’re a fool, Sybil Thorne, if you think this can ever be patched up. Nigel is beside himself with rage. He won’t have her name mentioned in his hearing!”

“Oh, dear,” Sybil said in some discouragement. She paced about behind Lady Imogen’s chair thoughtfully. “But surely you, Lady Imogen, could convince him to relent, if you truly put your mind to it.”

“Do you imagine that I would do anything to encourage my only son to shackle himself to that … that … wayward, skittish, shatterbrained minx?”

“But I tell you she’s changed! We haven’t heard her side of this. I’m certain she can explain everything to your satisfaction. Be reasonable, Lady Imogen. Would you not like to have this incident buried? Would you not like to be able to go on as before, with no need for embarrassment or shame? Let me send for Nell. I know she can put all this right.”

She bent over Lady Imogen breathlessly. Imogen looked at Sybil with speculative eyes and then nodded almost imperceptibly. Sybil, with a sigh of relief, reached across the table to the little silver bell near her place and rang it. Beckwith, who had never left the room, stepped forward. “Yes, m’lady?”

Sybil started. “Oh! Good heavens, have you been standing there all this time? Beckwith, you try my patience beyond endurance! But never mind that now. Find Miss Belden and tell her to come here at once!”

Beckwith shook his head. “She’s not at home, m’lady.”

“Not at home? But where can she have gone so early?”

Amelia coughed gently. “Sybil, dear—”

Sybil waved her off impatiently. “Not now, Amelia, please! Can’t you see that I’ve a crisis on my hands? Well, Beckwith, where has the girl gone?”

Beckwith shrugged. Amelia tried again to attract Sybil’s attention. “She’s left, Sybil. The letter, remember?”

“Letter? Oh, good God!” She looked down at the letter still clutched in her hand. “Has this anything to do with—?” She ripped open the seal and her eyes flew over the words.

In the silence, Amelia turned to Imogen. “May I offer you a cup of tea? There is nothing more soothing—”

Before she could finish, Sybil let forth a piercing wail and tottered to the nearest chair. The door burst open and Harry, with Roddy close behind, came hurrying into the room. The two men, still in their riding clothes, had just returned from a brisk canter through the park. “Good lord, Sybil,” Harry exclaimed in alarm, “what’s the cause of this to-do?”

“Disaster!” she announced in a voice quivering with passion. “Complete disaster! I am about to have an attack of apoplexy!” And she fell back against the chair with a groan and shut her eyes.

“Here,” Amelia suggested promptly, “have a cup of tea. It will do you good.” She placed a cup in front of her stricken niece, but Sybil opened her eyes, glared at Amelia venomously, groaned and shut them again.

Harry and Roddy exchanged looks of complete perplexity. When Harry turned back to the table, he found himself face to face with a tall, angry dowager who had risen from her chair and now stared at him in frozen-faced disdain. “I am Lady Imogen Lewis,” she said awesomely, “and it seems to be my place to bring information to this household which, were this a house at all well run, you would have ascertained without my intervention. I regret to have to inform you, Lord Thorne, that your Miss Belden has terminated her betrothal to my son—and for the second time!”

Harry stared at the dowager in fascination. “Has she indeed?” he asked with admirable restraint, trying to ignore the choked sound emitted by Roddy.

“So I’ve said,” the dowager continued. “The wretched girl has jilted my son, ruined my social standing and made a shambles of the reputations of your family and mine. As head of this family, Lord Thorne, you must bear the brunt of the responsibility for what that heedless and heartless wretch has done.”

Harry, delighted beyond measure by the news, was hard pressed to keep from breaking into a wide grin. “I regret ma’am, that you should be put to any … er … inconvenience because of this rather precipitous conclusion to the relationship between Miss Belden and your son,” he said with elaborate formality. “You will, however, wish to hurry home to console your son in his disappointment, so we will not try to detain you.”

“Henry!” Sybil cried, dismayed.

Lady Imogen could scarcely believe her ears. “See here, young man, are you suggesting that my presence here is de trop?” she asked, her neck growing mottled with rage. “I have no intention of taking my leave until I am satisfied that this matter will be dealt with in proper fashion! And as for offering my son consolation, I’ll have you know that I haven’t the slightest reason to do so! He is rather to be congratulated! Yes, congratulated for having escaped so dire a fate as to be riveted to that—”

“In that case,” Harry interrupted smoothly, “we need not express any regrets at all.”

A choked sound of laughter came from Roddy, and Harry’s lips twitched. Lady Imogen, realizing that she’d been bested in an exchange, became even more mottled. “Lord Thorne,” she said indignantly, “it seems to me that you cannot be fully aware of the extent of Miss Belden’s iniquities. Not only did she jilt my son, and for the second time, but she did it in the most humiliating way. He told me that she threw something at him!”

Sybil groaned and clutched at her breast. “I shall certainly have a seizure!” she wailed.

Harry heard Roddy choke again, and he himself had great difficulty in keeping his countenance. “Did she in … indeed?” he managed to ask politely.

“She most certainly did! It is fortunate that Nigel was not injured!” Lady Imogen said dramatically. “He was quite overcome by the incident, I can assure you.”

“Quite overcome?” Harry murmured, enthralled. “How unfortunate. What was it she threw at him?”

“I couldn’t say, my lord, for poor Nigel could barely speak coherently! It was all I could do to obtain the salient facts last evening. He had not emerged from his room this morning when I left the house.”

“’Twas a bunch of flowers,” Beckwith volunteered, grinning.

“Beckwith!” Sybil cried furiously “Will you remove yourself from this room?”

But Harry turned to Beckwith with an incredulous stare. “Flowers?” he asked choking.

Beckwith nodded. “Nothin’ but a bunch of flowers. She dumped ’em on his head. I seen ’er do it!”

Sybil, with a helpless wail, dropped her head forward and covered her face with shaking hands. Roddy, no longer able to restrain himself, broke into a hearty laugh. Charles also guffawed. “Flowers? I say!” he chortled, slapping his knee gleefully. “The chit can’t have inflicted much of an injury with a handful of posies.”

Lady Imogen, offended beyond words by the apparent lack of seriousness with which her news was being received, drew herself up proudly. “It was more than a handful of posies, Lord Charles,” she declared roundly. “It must have been the bouquet I bestowed upon her, and it was a very large bouquet indeed!”

This proved too much even for Harry’s self-control, and he turned his face to the nearest wall, his shoulders heaving. Lady Imogen stared at his back icily. When at length he regained his breath, he turned back to face her, his expression appropriately calm except for the laughter that still danced in his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Lady Imogen,” he said with a slight tinge of breathlessness in his voice, “but I trust this discussion is now at an end.”

“Good!” said Amelia. “Now, perhaps, we can all have some tea.”

“Aaaah!” screamed Sybil, as if poor Amelia’s remark were the last straw.

“Must you keep offering us tea, ma’am?” Lady Imogen asked in disgust. Then turning back to Harry, she said, still undaunted, “You have not yet informed me of what you intend to do to see that Miss Belden is taken properly to task for her outrageous and reprehensible behavior.”

“Our intentions in regard to Miss Belden are, Lady Imogen, entirely our affair. May I wish you a good day? Beckwith will show you to your carriage.”

When Lady Imogen had been led out of the room, Roddy ran up to Harry and the two men pounded each other joyfully on their backs, laughing and shouting at once. “She cried off! I told you she was an out-and-outer!” Roddy cheered.

“An armload of flowers!” Harry crowed. “Dumped ’em right on his head, by God! I wish I’d been there to see his face!”

“Have you both lost your minds?” Sybil cried. “How can you stand there laughing like loobies? We have invited hundreds of people to a wedding! What do you suggest we do about them?”

“Tell them not to come,” Harry said, grinning.

“And what about the things I’ve purchased for this affair? Do you realize that I’ve filled this house with dishes, glasses, gold plate, hundreds of bottles of champagne and I-don’t-know-what?”

“Send it back,” Harry said promptly, still grinning at Roddy in intense relief. “Throw it out! Give it away to the poor!”

Sybil, pushed beyond endurance, rose from her chair and tottered over to them. She placed herself directly before her nephew and spoke in trembling wrath. “So, this is all an enormous jest, is it? We shall be made ridiculous before the entire world, we shall have to notify half of London that there will be no wedding, we have lost the opportunity to benefit from the Lewis’ wealth, and we shall probably be left without a friend to stand by us in the ordeal! It is all most amusing! Very droll! Completely hilarious! Very well, my lord, read this! If you find it humorous, perhaps I’ll be able to laugh with you.”

Harry, with a sudden frown, took the letter she thrust at him. “What is this?”

“It’s a letter from the very same young lady whose antics you seem to find so entertaining. She’s run away! Now let us hear you laugh!”