Heaven Sent (15 page)

Anne had been the expert on such
things. He sighed heavily as his heart gave a predictable tug. It
always tugged when he thought about Anne and how much he missed
her. She’d been the perfect hostess.

Perfect hostess. Perfect mother.
Perfect wife. Damn the Fates for taking her away from
him.

As he gazed at the head of the table
and pictured the seating arrangements in his mind, he wondered if
Anne would have approved of them. He’d heard her say often that
tables should be set so that a man sat next to a woman and the
woman next to yet another man. Therefore, he supposed, he ought to
seat a female to his left, rather than Mark, no matter how much
business he and Mark had left to discuss.

Not that this was a formal occasion.
Far from it. It wasn’t Aubrey’s fault that Bilgewater had got a bee
in her bonnet and hared out to Santa Angelica with the intention of
depriving him of his daughter. Nevertheless, Aubrey didn’t fancy
listening to any more criticism from her, and particularly not
about table arrangements.

Frowning, he guessed he’d better seat
Becky next to himself. Or Miss Prophet. His frown deepened as he
thought about Callie. Dash it, but she was a disturbing female.
Aubrey wondered if she was one of those Siren-like women who cast
out invisible lures to draw men into their webs. Mark certainly
seemed to be smitten with her, damn him.

Pressing a hand to his head, Aubrey
told himself not to be irrational. The fact of the matter was that
Callida Prophet was an attractive young woman with a quick mind, a
good education, and a very good figure. She was in a perfect
position to be married, in other words, and Mark would be a good
catch for her. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, she’d be
a good catch for Mark, too, with her education and her ability to
deal with children.

He also hated admitting that Becky had
bloomed since Miss Prophet had taken on the job as her nanny. And
Aubrey was glad that Becky seemed so much happier now than she had
before Miss Prophet had inflicted herself upon the Lockhart
household.

Even the servants liked her. Figgins,
who never said anything, good or bad, about anyone, had told Aubrey
that Miss Prophet was a “fine young woman,” for heaven’s sake.
Figgins! Aubrey had gaped in shock at his butler. He still felt
rather like gaping, but didn’t.

Aubrey was saved from further musings
as Mrs. Granger, in her apron and with perspiration beading her
forehead, hurried into the dining room. She seemed startled to find
Aubrey there.

“
Oh, Mr. Lockhart! I didn’t
know you’d be here.”

“
Just came in to inspect the
table, Mrs. Granger. It looks splendid. I knew you wouldn’t fail me
in my hour of need.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile, which
Aubrey could tell she appreciated.

She returned his smile. “The late Mrs.
Lockhart used to worry up a storm whenever Mrs. Bridgewater came to
visit. That’s why I came out of the kitchen to make sure Delilah
hadn’t forgotten anything on the table. I know Mrs. Bridgewater is
quite the perfectionist, Mr. Lockhart.”

“
You mean she’s a
cantankerous old fusspot,” Aubrey said with a chuckle. “I’m no
expert, but the table looks all right to me. What do you
think?”

The older woman straightened a napkin
that hadn’t looked like it needed it to Aubrey. “I do believe she
didn’t forget a single thing.”

“
Good. I suppose Figgins has
taken care of the wine situation.”

“
Oh, yes, sir. The
Burgundy’s breathing right now.”

As Aubrey had never understood the
intricacies of table settings, still less did he understand the
language of wine. He was glad Figgins did, or Aubrey would probably
be written off as a bumpkin by Anne’s relations. He rubbed his
hands together and tried to appear the hearty host. “Splendid. I
guess we’re all set.”

“
Yes, sir. The roast beef’s
almost ready to take up. It has to sit for a few minutes before
Figgins carves it.”

“
Ah.” Although Aubrey’s
parents had been quite well off, they hadn’t put on airs, and there
were lots of things about high living that Aubrey didn’t completely
understand. Fortunately, he could afford to hire servants who did.
“That’s good.”

With a nod, Mrs. Granger went on to
say, “Figgins will sound the gong at a quarter to
eight.”

“
Wonderful.”

Mrs. Granger dipped a quick curtsy and
left the dining room with a parting assurance that all would be
well with the meal. As Aubrey watched her go, he wondered whether
Miss Prophet knew about things like letting Burgundy breathe or a
roast settle before it was cut. He guessed he should ask Miss
Prophet if he really wanted to know the answer to that one. The
thought of how she would respond—most likely she’d fix him with
that cold stare that she had used when he’d yelled at her and
Becky—both depressed and angered him. Which, in turn, upset him
more because he didn’t understand why he was thinking about Miss
Prophet in the first place, let alone wondering whether or not she
knew how to cook a roast.

“
For the love of God, quit
thinking about that wretched woman,” he snarled at himself as he
exited the dining room and entered the small reception room leading
from the drawing room.

“
Which wretched
woman?”

Damnation. What was she doing here?
Aubrey frowned at Callie Prophet, who sat on the sofa with Becky.
They looked as if they’d been glancing through the large volume of
birds as illustrated by John James Audubon and reprinted on colored
plates. Callie stared back at him, her color high, and Aubrey had
the unpleasant sensation that she knew perfectly well about whom
he’d been lecturing himself.

“
Look at this, Papa,” Becky
said, pointing at a colored plate in the book. “Here’s a
yellow-bellied sapsucker.” She giggled merrily.

Aubrey’s mouth twitched. “That’s a
pretty funny name for a bird,” he admitted, choosing to ignore
Callie’s question.

She sniffed. “It seems to me that
there are a lot of yellowbellied members of lots of species running
around loose these days, Becky.”

“
Really?” The little girl
glanced up at Callie wide-eyed, and Aubrey saw that, as improbable
as it seemed, Becky’s insufferable nanny looked
uncomfortable.

Callie muttered, “That was only a
joke, Becky.”

“
And one in remarkably poor
taste,” Aubrey said unnecessarily. He wished he’d kept his damned
mouth shut—not because he didn’t mean it, but because making such
prim and prissy statements made him sound like old Bilgewater.
Aubrey didn’t like to think he and Bilgewater had anything
whatsoever in common.

“
Good evening,
all.”

Aubrey turned to find Mark Henderson
standing just inside the doorway, gazing at Callie. His chest
tightened, although he couldn’t have said why. He certainly wasn’t
jealous of Mark. Was he? The idea was more than Aubrey could stand
to think about at the moment.

The only thing he knew for certain was
that the poor boy had better be careful if he had intentions in
that direction. Miss Callida Prophet would eat him alive if he got
within wooing—rather, in her case, attacking—distance: “Good
evening, Mark. Hope you’re hungry. Mrs. Granger’s putting on the
dog tonight.”

“
She’s putting on a
dog?”

Becky’s sharp cry made Aubrey swivel
toward her again.

She stared at him,
horrified.

After shooting Aubrey a fulminating
glance, Callie said soothingly, “It’s only a figure of speech,
Becky. Sort of like ton of bricks.”

“
It is?” Becky looked
doubtful.

This was ridiculous. It also irked
Aubrey that Miss Prophet had leaped to explain the expression to
Becky before he could. “It only means that she’s preparing an
exceptionally good dinner for us tonight, Becky sweet.”

“
Oh. Good.”

“
Did you think she’d cook a
dog?” Mark opened his
eyes with
mock horror. He shook his head. “I don’t go in
much for dining on dogs.”

“
Good heavens, no,” Aubrey
said, aiming for jolly and almost achieving it.

“
Although a dog might be
tasty with mustard,” Mark added with a wink.

Aubrey guessed the wink had been for
Becky’s benefit, but it seemed to have been aimed at Miss Prophet.
The woman did look remarkably pretty tonight. She wore a
rust-colored evening gown with no frills, and had dressed her
strawberry-blond hair in a loose pouf, a la Mr. Gibson. Tiny
dangles that looked like amber adorned her earlobes, and she wore a
simple amber pendant on a gold chain around her neck. The dress was
modest and simple and perfectly appropriate. Aubrey couldn’t
understand why, thus clad, she made him salivate.

Mark, he meant. She made Mark
salivate. Aubrey was immune to feminine charms. He hadn’t glanced
at another woman since he’d met Anne.

Good God, he’d clearly been under too
much stress of late, if he was mistaking Mark’s infatuation for his
own. Frowning, he took out his silver pocket watch and squinted at
it.

“
It must be about time for
the gong to—” The musical note of the Chinese gong permeated the
atmosphere. Aubrey stuffed his watch back into its pocket and gave
an internal sigh of relief. “Ah, yes. There it is.”

“
Good. I’m famished.” Mark,
still eyeing Callie covertly, gave his waistcoat a playful pat.
Becky laughed, as he’d intended her to.

Aubrey glanced around the room,
“Where’s Bilgewater?”

“
Where’s who?” Mark asked,
astonished.

After a second’s shocked silence,
Callie burst out laughing. So did Becky, although Aubrey imagined
she wasn’t sure what was so amusing. He scowled at the
nanny.

“
I said,” he said, lying
through his teeth, “Where’s Mrs. Bridgewater?”

“
Oh,” said Becky, willing to
accept her father’s word.

“
Oh,” said Mark, who wasn’t,
but who was game.

“
Oh,” said Miss Callida
Prophet, who Aubrey guessed was neither willing nor game, but was
putting on an act for Becky’s sake.

Aubrey gave her a good glare to let
her know he wouldn’t countenance her spreading his slip of the
tongue to his daughter or the household staff. She gazed back at
him, her green eyes as innocent as a new day. In other words, she
could lie as well as, or better than, he could, and she wanted him
to know it.

“
I believe I heard the
gong.”

The occupants of the sitting room
turned at the sound of Great-Aunt Evelyn’s voice. She stood in the
doorway, majestically clad in a maroon taffeta dinner gown that
dripped beads and fluff. Aubrey blinked at the vision of enormity
taking up space in his sitting room before someone—he suspected
Miss Prophet, who had stood and taken Becky’s hand—poked him in the
back and he started forward to lead the formidable personage—she
looked like a deep-purple whale, actually—into the dining
room.

Mark Henderson bowed at Callie. “May I
escort you and Miss Lockhart in to dinner, Miss
Prophet?”

Callie’s smile for Mark wasn’t lost on
Aubrey, who kept an eye on her. He told himself it was to head off
any outrageous behavior on her part but he couldn’t quite make
himself believe that.

“
Thank you, Mr. Henderson.
Becky and I would be happy for your escort.”

‘
We sure would,” Becky
exclaimed happily. “I’m hungry!”

“
Me, too,” said
Mark.

Mark took seating arrangements out of
Aubrey’s hand when he held out the seat to the left of Aubrey’s for
Callie.

She sat gracefully, smiling at Mark
the while. Aubrey, dealing with Bilgewater, gritted his teeth and
bore it.

“
And you, young lady,” said
Mark with his ready twinkle, “can sit beside me here on my other
side.” He held a chair for Becky as if she were a grown-up
lady.

Becky smiled up at him. Aubrey could
tell she was happy to be noticed by his young, handsome secretary,
damn the man.

Blast it, what was wrong with him
tonight? Why was he feeling this animus toward Mark, who was a very
nice and obliging young fellow?

Aubrey saw the way Mark looked at
Callie as he took his seat, and the reason for his sullen mood
became clear to him.

He didn’t want Mark and Callie getting
together. Not, of course, because he himself had any interest in
the young woman, but because she’d leave Becky if she had the bad
taste to marry someone. Aubrey felt better now once he’d cleared up
that tangle in his mind. Smiling at the company, he said, “Mrs.
Bridgewater, would you care to say grace?”

“
Certainly.”

The old crone offered a blessing that
sounded more like a command to God, and which lasted for what
seemed like forever. Aubrey almost fell asleep before she droned an
“Amen.”

That was when he noticed that his
daughter’s nose only

barely reached the table. He frowned.
Blast it, they had forgotten something. “Becky, my love, where’s
your chair seat?”