“I’ve got a nice estate,” Beckham said, starting to blather. “She’d be lucky to have me. It’s unentailed and—”
The door opened behind them. “Pardon me,” came an imperious voice. “I expected to find a fire at the very least, but I see merely a gaggle of tipsy gentlemen, and I fail to see how that can be termed an emergency.”
Gabriel turned about and bowed. The countess had apparently been caught on her way to bed. She was dressed in a voluminous cap and swathed in enough ruffled white cotton to outfit an entire village.
“You do me too much honor,” he said, kissing her hand.
“I feel bound to tell you, Your Highness,” said Lady Dagobert, “that I do not consider the time of night salubrious for encounters with the opposite sex, nor do I appreciate requests of this nature.”
“I entirely understand, and yet you are the only person in the castle to whom I could make this appeal,” Gabriel said, drawing to the side so that the countess could see Beckham for the first time.
She sniffed in disgust. “Fisticuffs, I see.”
“Lord Beckham has a confession to make,” Gabriel explained, “and as an arbiter of the ton , I felt that you were the best person to hear it.”
“I trust you’re not implying I’m of a Romish disposition,” the countess said. “Lord Beckham, say what you wish. But only, if you please, after you wipe the blood from your chin. I am quite squeamish.”
Beckham did as commanded, gave a kind of shudder, and blinked several times.
“Get on with it, man,” Lady Dagobert commanded.
“Effie Starck—”
“That’s Miss Ephronsia Starck to you,” she interrupted. “I don’t hold with these relaxed manners among the younger set.”
“Miss Ephronsia Starck did not, ah, welcome my advances,” Beckham said. “In fact, she stabbed me with a fork after repulsing an unwanted intimacy on my part.”
The countess nodded. “You’re a blackguard,” she said. “Knew it the moment I saw you, and I’m never wrong about a character. I hope never to see you again in my natural lifetime.”
Beckham swallowed and looked as if he very much hoped her wish would come true.
“I’ll take care of Miss Ephronsia’s reputation tomorrow,” she continued, and no one in the room doubted but that Effie’s name would be as unblemished as that of a newborn babe by noon. “I shall ensure that she has her pick of the ton . I fancy that people give my opinion some weight.”
“Where you go, others will always follow,” Gabriel said.
“We’ll follow,” Algie piped up.
The countess gave him a disdainful look but managed to stop herself from delivering a judgment of his character. She turned to Gabriel. “Surely you said that Lord Beckham will be traveling for his health.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling at her. “He will.”
“I believe that Jamaica is a nice place,” she said. “I heard tell that one in two people there are eaten by sharks. That leaves fighting odds, as I see it.”
Gabriel bowed. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”
She snorted. “Continental flummery.” And with that, she exited the room.
“What did she say? I’m not going to Jamaica,” Beckham said, her words filtering through his mind. “I might rusticate for the fall. Or perhaps even for next season. Though that would be a sacrifice, I tell you. I would be missed.”
Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. Wick was lounging in the doorway, a phalanx of footmen at his back. A moment later Lord Beckham was escorted from the room, and all that was left of him was a wail dying away down the corridor.
“I knew enough to put two and two together, and I didn’t stop to think,” Lord Dewberry said, thumping the edge of the billiard table with his fist. “I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Perhaps it took a man with an interest in one of these young ladies to look straight at the problem,” Lord Wrothe put in. “Miss Ephronsia Starck is lucky to have met you, Prince.”
“Oh, I haven’t met her,” Gabriel said. “I’m afraid that I merely pretended an interest, the better to smoke him out. Would you give me a game, Toloose?”
“You took out Beckham from the goodness of your heart?” Toloose said, raising an eyebrow. “Such virtue . . .” He handed over a billiard cue. “I feel near to melancholy at the fact that I’m honor-bound to slay you at billiards.”
“Oh you are, are you?” Gabriel asked, chalking his cue.
“For the honor of my country,” Toloose said, nodding. “Who would have thought the Pomeroys had such a magnificent table, by the way?”
“They didn’t,” Gabriel said, leaning over to sight down his cue.
“Really?” Algie asked, cheerfully propping his elbows on the side of the table. “So where did it come from, then?”
“It’s the only piece of furniture I brought with me from Marburg,” Gabriel said, giving Toloose a wolfish smile. “You did say that you play for high stakes, did you not?”
His opponent broke into a bellow of laughter.
Twenty-six
A s it turned out, Lady Dagobert’s information offensive was considerably more efficient than predictions of the noon hour. Kate learned of Beckham’s disgrace when Rosalie brought hot cocoa in the morning, and it was confirmed when, on Lady Arabella’s invitation, she met a small group of ladies in the rose drawing room for a demonstration of how to shape a reticule from a swansdown muff, to be given by Effie’s maid.
No one bothered to tinker with a muff, let alone shape it into a reticule. They were too busy agreeing that they had never trusted Beckham, and assuring Effie that she was a dove and a saint.
“Show us how you held the fork,” Henry said, snatching one from the tea tray. “I’d rather learn how to poke holes in a loose fish like Beckham than turn my favorite muff into a reticule. Like this? Or like this?”
Kate burst out laughing, watching Henry thrust her fork into the air like a man learning to fence.
“I really couldn’t say,” Effie said, her cheeks pink with excitement. “It all happened so fast. I just knew that I had to save myself and so I did.”
“I only hope that I’m not of an age where gentlemen might hesitate to offer me an impropriety,” Henry said. “I think I have the grip down perfectly. I’m sure I could do considerable damage, if only someone would give me the opportunity. Perhaps I could convince my husband that I need to practice.”
Lady Dagobert looked up from a small escritoire, where she was penning missives to, as she put it, everyone who mattered. “I consider forking husbands to show a lack of moral fiber,” she pronounced.
“That’s because she’d out-and-out bludgeon Dagobert if she wanted to,” Henry muttered to Kate.
“Let’s talk about the ball tomorrow,” Arabella cried after a hasty glance at her mother. “Miss Daltry, what will you wear? You have such exquisite taste . . . will you wear a pair of glass slippers?”
Kate opened her mouth, but Henry jumped in. “Glass slippers? What are they? Something I missed because of that dratted trip abroad last spring, I warrant.”