She would give anything to be down there with them. To be listening as Edward spewed his humorous stories. To watch with glee as he flirted and joked.
Though John was thirty and Edward twenty-seven, John seemed ancient by comparison. Where John was stodgy and grumpy and irascible, Edward was cheerful and quick to entertain.
Why, oh, why couldn’t Edward have been the first-born son and earl? Why had Violet been left with the boring, irritable elder brother? Edward cherished her as John never could. He looked at her and actually
saw
her. But even though he possessed a heightened affection, it could never be acted upon.
Had there ever been two more star-crossed lovers? If Shakespeare had been alive, he might have composed sonnets about them!
She whipped around, too jealous to observe as Edward bantered with the twins. Annoyance rippled through her, and as she faced John again, her posture and manner were combative.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she fumed.
“What question was that?”
“Will Barbara—or will she not—be residing with us?”
“I’m still figuring out what to do with her,” he maddeningly retorted.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know the moment you decide.”
“I will.”
“In the interim, I’ll have to write to my father so he’s aware of what’s happening.”
She’d thought the prospect of her contacting the duke might alarm him, but he merely shrugged, unafraid of her father and the power he could wield.
“If you think,” John said, “that he ought to be bothered over such a paltry concern, then by all means, write to him.”
“The company here has grown unsavory. He may not want me to stay on. He may demand that I return to England at once.”
“The twins are going back on Friday. If you would like to go with them, I can book an extra passage.”
Awhirl with panic, she glared at him, lips pursed in a fashion that she knew was unflattering. She hated not getting her way, hated that she’d put her foot down and that her fury had had no effect.
They were on the verge of a major quarrel. She’d drawn a line in the sand as to what she would abide, but he’d called her bluff and urged her to scurry home to her father, which would be a disaster.
If she appeared in England without John, the duke would pitch a fit. He’d be certain that any fight had been Violet’s fault, that she’d been sent away in disgrace.
The duke had counseled her to be accommodating and submissive to John. It was an onerous burden, having to grovel and suffer so that he was always happy, but she would die before she’d let others realize that she’d failed to please him.
Again, she pondered Edward.
He
would have heeded her complaint.
He
would have comprehended her outrage over Barbara.
She smiled tightly, her cheeks so taut that she was amazed the skin didn’t crack. “I have no desire to leave for London,” she lied. “I’m eager to remain so I can learn more about you and this marvelous spot you obviously love.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Tea is about to be served in the drawing room. May I escort you inside?”
“Actually, I’d like to take a walk.” She had to escape him, or she might start screaming and never stop. “I could use some fresh air.”
“I have guests arriving, so I can’t attend you.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping you could show me the lake and point out the interesting views.”
“Perhaps tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
The door behind her opened, and Miss Lambert stepped out. When she saw them, she stumbled, seeming surprised to find them together. There was an awkward pause, as if she’d caught them doing what they oughtn’t.
“Miss Lambert,” she said, “I’m going for a walk. Would you fetch my parasol? Then you must accompany me around the park.” Miss Lambert didn’t move, and Violet snapped, “Miss Lambert, I must have my parasol. Now.”
Still not speaking, Miss Lambert scowled at John, almost supposing he’d countermand Violet’s order. She had the strangest expression on her face, as if she’d been hurt or betrayed. John was equally discomfited. Two slashes of red stained his cheeks.
The interval stretched to infinity, both of them waiting for something Violet couldn’t fathom, then Miss Lambert curtsied. “As you wish, Lady Violet. I’d be delighted to retrieve your parasol.”
“No, Violet,” John suddenly interjected. “Miss Lambert isn’t working today.”
“Not working? How ridiculous. She need only amble after me. How difficult can that be?”
“She had an accident and was injured. I advised her to rest.”
“She appears quite hale.”
“She’s not,” he curtly replied.
“Next I know,” Violet protested, “you’ll be giving her paid holidays.”
“Miss Lambert,” John commanded, “go inside. Violet is eighteen years old. I’m sure she can manage to navigate the garden on her own.”
Violet had been chaperoned and fussed over all her life, so his comment was hideously rude. If he’d slapped her, it couldn’t have been any more bracing.
“I’m recovered enough,” Miss Lambert insisted. “I am a servant here, after all. I can carry out the tasks required of me.”
Miss Lambert’s words were appropriate, but her tone oozed sarcasm, as if she believed she shouldn’t have to complete her chores or that they were beneath her.
Her statement infuriated John—Violet could feel him tense—and he grouched, “Fine. Far be it from me to keep you from your duties. If you want to traipse after her, go ahead.”
A heated visual exchange passed between them before Miss Lambert yanked her gaze from his.
“I’ll get your parasol,” she told Violet, “and I’ll be right down.”
“WHAT about the evening meal for Wednesday?”
“Beef isn’t the best choice.”
Esther halted and frowned. The remarks had emanated from the blue salon, where she met every morning with the housekeeper and cook.
“What would you suggest?” Cook asked, and an all-too-familiar voice answered.
“With all the men coming for the hunt, they would probably enjoy it if we served the venison they bring home.”
“How silly of me to forget.”
The two women chuckled, conspirators in proceeding behind Esther’s back, and Esther’s temper sizzled.
Over the next week, John would host the annual autumn festival. Crops would be harvested, game slain, dances held, whiskey drunk, banquets eaten. It was the highlight of their year in Scotland, the most important of all their visits as John displayed his prosperity and generosity.
Esther wasn’t much for socializing, but she was nothing if not loyal. She always did her part, always pitched in as much as she was able. Guests were beginning to arrive, so she’d planned to spend the afternoon with the senior staff, reviewing their preparations. Apparently, Barbara had beaten her to it.
How dare she! How dare she! How dare she!
Esther’s pulse pounded with ire. Since she’d discovered Barbara ensconced in the countess’s suite, she’d been enraged. John had refused to intervene in the squabble, so Esther had been humiliated into taking smaller, less prestigious quarters.
Though she’d had no evidence to support her suspicions, she thought that Barbara continued to undermine her. Household details kept varying from what Esther had authorized, but she hadn’t had any firm proof.
Were the servants plotting with Barbara to Esther’s detriment? Had Esther given orders—only to have the staff run to Barbara and ask what
she
wanted instead?
Esther stormed into the room to find Barbara and Cook sitting at the table. Their chairs were pressed close, and they were sharing a pot of tea as if they were bosom buddies, as if there were no class lines separating them.
“Barbara!” Esther barked. “What are you doing?”
“I’m checking the menu for the first night of the hunt. What does it look like?”
“Where do you come by the gall to assume the countess’s duties?”
“Honestly, Esther, your food selections have been atrocious.”
“They have not!”
“I can’t stand by and have John shamed in front of his peers simply because you never bothered to learn which wine should be poured.”
“Be silent!”
“Nor will I allow you to embarrass Cook again. Not when she’s capable of excellence. You thwart her with your asinine decisions, and I won’t have you ruining her reputation.”
Esther started to tremble, and she pointed an irate finger at Cook.
“Get out!” she spat.
Cook glanced at Barbara, seeking Barbara’s permission, and Barbara nodded. “Let me deal with this. We’ll finish up later.”
“You will not talk to her!” Esther shrieked to Cook. “If you need further guidance, you will come to me.”
Cook strolled out without acknowledging Esther, skirting by as if she was invisible.
As her strides faded, Esther seethed at Barbara, “You won’t get away with this.”
“I keep telling you that I already have. When will reality lodge in your thick skull? I’m back, and
I
will be John’s hostess. He’s had to endure your dour attitude and prudish ways long enough.”
“I am countess here!”
“You were never up to the task, Esther, and we both know it. Why not admit it and save everyone a bucket-load of trouble?”
Esther was shaking so hard that she was afraid she might fall to the floor. She felt as if she’d hated Barbara for all eternity, and it was amazing that thirty years could pass and she could still loathe her as much as she had the very first time they’d been introduced.
Esther had grown up with her husband, Charles; she’d been a ward of his father’s. She’d been ten when his father had informed them that they would eventually wed, and it had seemed the most logical solution.
At least to
her
. Charles had had a different view.
From the second he’d met the beautiful, lurid Barbara, he’d been blind to Esther. She’d been forgotten in a haze of Charles’s lust to have Barbara at all costs.
His disgusting passion for Barbara had destroyed Esther’s life, had made her a laughingstock. Most despicably of all, it had ensured that John was the heir, rather than Edward.
After Barbara fled, Charles—a divorced, disgraced scoundrel—had come crawling back. Esther had accepted his tepid proposal, but she’d never forgiven him.
Often, when she’d stood in the nursery at Penworth Hall, staring down at John when he was napping, she’d dreamed of smothering him in his sleep—just to retaliate for the humiliation Charles had heaped on her. Only her fear of being caught, of being jailed and separated from Edward, had stopped her from harming John.
Why couldn’t John perish so Edward would be earl? Why did John have to be so accursedly healthy? People died so frequently. Why couldn’t John have the decency to succumb and put Esther out of her misery?
And now . . . and now . . . Barbara was back like a bad penny. Lording herself over Esther. Rubbing salt in Esther’s wounds. Esther was so livid that—if she’d been clutching a pistol—she’d have shot Barbara right between the eyes.
“I’ll get even with you,” Esther warned, “if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You will not. You were always a great one for drama, Esther, but you don’t have the spine to wrangle the conclusion you desire. You merely nag and whine. You have no idea how to reach out and take what you want.”
“I might surprise you.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
Esther stomped out, and she loomed down the halls, searching until she found John out on the terrace.
He was leaned against the balustrade and sipping a glass of wine, even though it was nowhere near time for supper. He peered out across the park where, off in the distance, Violet was determinedly walking. Miss Lambert trudged along behind, looking the part of the beleaguered companion.
“Drinking, John?” Esther scolded. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day?”
“It certainly is.”
“What will the servants think if they see you?”
“Why is everyone suddenly so concerned about my behavior and what others will think of it?”
“It’s unseemly to exhibit sensational tendencies. You know that. Your mother’s blood runs in your veins, so you carry a propensity toward her worst traits. You must constantly fight them. I shouldn’t have to remind you.”
“Reputation matters above all?” he snidely asked.
“Yes.”
He downed the contents of the glass—evidently just to spite her—and he set it on the railing hard enough to crack the stem.
“You’re in a snit about something,” he groused, “but the past few hours haven’t exactly been a picnic for me, either. State your complaint, then go away. At the moment, I don’t have the patience to listen to you.”
She inhaled sharply. It was the only truly rude remark he’d ever made to her, and she couldn’t understand what had come over him. Had he ingested more alcohol than she’d realized? Had he been imbibing all afternoon?
Why would he have been? What worries did he have? He’d inherited Charles’s title, money, and property. His life was perfect. What could possibly trouble him?
“I’m aware that you don’t wish to discuss it,” she said, “but I take issue with your mother being on the premises.”
“As I believe you’ve mentioned previously.”
“She’s planning the menus with Cook.”
“So what? You hate the chore. You’ve told me so over and over again. Let her handle it.”
“It is not the assumption of the task to which I object!” she stridently declared. “It is the arrogant usurpation of a rank and station she no longer possesses.”
He wrenched his gaze from Violet and focused it on Esther. His rage was so blatant that she had to steel herself to keep from flinching.
“What would you have me do, Esther? Should I toss her out on the road?”