Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (5 page)

“It’s Margaret, actually. But I go by Meg.”

Lord Featherstone made a sniffing noise.

Meg’s face colored, and she glanced at the earl. Did the noise signify his disapproval with her name? Or was her nervousness causing her to be extra sensitive? But before she could wonder more about his reaction, Serena excused them and led Meg toward where Lord Vernon, the duke, and Daniel were speaking to a man she had not noticed earlier.

“Miss Meg Burton, if you would allow me, I would like you to become acquainted with my dear friend, Colonel Jim Stackhouse.”

Meg nodded her consent to the introduction.

The man turned, and it was all Meg could do to maintain her countenance. The side of Jim Stackhouse’s face was marred with an uneven red scar that began at his forehead and passed through his eye, over his cheek, ending below his ear. He wore a patch over his eye, and his graying hair hung loosely to his shoulders, no doubt in an attempt to cover his disfigurement.

“How do you do, Colonel?” Meg said, hoping he could not hear from her voice that her throat had gone dry. Even without the scar and patch, he appeared menacing. A thrill skittered up her spine, and she tried not to look too interested at his injury.

His face was weathered and wrinkled, and his good eye scowled at her beneath a heavy brow. He looked to be no older than fifty, but she found it difficult to judge. She wondered if his many battles had aged him. The only thing that prevented him from looking like an evil villain or murdering pirate was the gold-trimmed regimental jacket he wore.

“A pleasure,” he growled.

Meg did not think any words could have been more the reverse of his expression. She did her best not to cringe as his eye moved over her, but she was secretly delighted that a person so interesting and potentially dangerous had joined their party. The evening could hardly be tedious with such a dinner companion.

Serena slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Colonel Stackhouse rescued me when the French attacked Sevilla, and he saw me safely from Spain.” She looked at him with utter admiration, as if he were a kindly grandfather instead of a maimed war veteran. “He saved my life.”

The colonel’s face softened for a brief moment when he looked at Serena. He patted her hand before turning back to the men and continuing his discussion.

While she feigned interest in the men’s conversation, Meg took the opportunity to study the gathering. Lord Vernon stood to the side nodding and smiling between the two groups while Lady Featherstone and Lady Vernon spoke together animatedly—Lady Vernon in her excited voice, and her friend in clipped tones that Meg decided was an indication of a more straightforward temperament.

Once Meg was able to look past the shock of their dazzling blue eyes, she saw that the Poulter siblings were not at all alike.

Lucinda was definitely the more confident of the sisters, while Helen appeared to be shy and timid. Perhaps it was because Lucinda was older, Meg thought. Both sisters were exceptionally beautiful, but where Lucinda’s high cheekbones and pointed chin were all sharp angles, Helen appeared much softer. Her cheeks were rounded and her expression more pleasant and approachable.

The earl continued to look around the hall as if there were a foul odor that hovered just beneath his nose, which he was too polite to mention. His hair was fair like his other family members’, and Meg noticed that he continually stroked his thumb and finger across his upper lip. When she looked closer, she was able to see a thin layer of whiskers that must be the beginnings of a mustache.

As she watched, Helen attempted to say something to her brother but was interrupted by Lucinda. Though she could not hear their words, she saw that the elder siblings conversed without allowing Helen to get a word in; even their body language seemed to shut her out.

Meg felt a swell of pity for the young lady. She understood all too well how it was to be the youngest sister. She didn’t feel an overwhelming desire to get to know the rest of the family but thought she would like to become better acquainted with Helen.

Supper was announced, and the group made their way into the dining hall.

As they moved to the table, Meg overheard Lucinda speaking to Serena. “Will your brother be joining us this evening, Your Grace?”

“No, I am sorry. His duties keep him quite busy at the moment.”

Meg did not much appreciate the reminder of the prince and the arrogant way he had avoided them since their arrival. No doubt his “duties” consisted of eating and sleeping and believing himself superior to his sister’s guests.

It was thanks to their hosts’ hospitality and attention to detail that the room was arranged so that a dinner party of eleven felt intimate and comfortable. Meg found herself seated between Lucinda Poulter and the earl. The Ladies Featherstone and Vernon sat on the other side of the table, chatting like young girls.

Conversation flowed around Meg, and she listened, feeling completely out of her element as the company discussed the events that would take place during the Season. Although he did not speak to her, Meg felt Lord Featherstone’s eyes upon her more than once, and she concentrated on using the best possible manners as she ate.

Lucinda leaned toward her. “Miss Margaret, Helen is so looking forward to her debut, and you must be as well.”

Meg swallowed and dabbed her napkin against her lips before answering. “Please call me Meg.”

Lord Featherstone harrumphed again, and this time she was certain her name was the reason for his displeasure. She chose not to acknowledge his reaction, instead thinking of the way Carlo had called her Margarita, making her feel as if her name were the most beautiful word he knew. The thought brought a smile to her lips.

Meg looked up, meeting Lucinda’s overly polite gaze. Her raised brows and stretched smile weren’t fooling anyone. “Yes, I am quite looking forward to London and the Season. I am just now realizing how ill prepared I am.”

Lucinda’s eyebrows drew together, and her bottom lip pouted out in a show of concern. “I’d imagine it is quite a shock traveling to someplace so civilized from the wilds of America.”

Wilds of America indeed—Charleston is one of the largest cities in the United States with a population of nearly 25,000, not a frontier town with log cabins and Indian raids.
Inside Meg’s mind, she regarded Lucinda with a tipped head, partially lidded eyes, and a flat stare. But outwardly she managed to maintain what she hoped was a refined expression. “Yes, undoubtedly London will prove to be very different from Charleston,” Meg said.

“And you are so fortunate in your sponsors. Lady Vernon is truly an expert when it comes to town fashions. She has the best eye for style and color, and her modiste is second to none.”

Meg glanced across the table at the woman in question just as Lady Vernon stole a glance down the table at Colonel Stackhouse and shuddered.

Lucinda continued. “She advised me on my wardrobe last Season, choosing the most exquisite gown of lilac for my debut ball. Thereafter, lilac became all the rage.”

“I am sure it was lovely,” Meg murmured, cutting a piece of pork and wondering how this topic could possibly become any less interesting.

“But, you know, it’s not enough to merely wear a beautiful dress. There is much more to being an accomplished young lady than simply looking the part.”

Meg swallowed and nodded. “You are right, of course.”

“For example, my sister and I both play instruments, embroider, sketch, speak Italian and German, and arrange flowers.”

“Very impressive,” Meg attempted to nod approvingly as if these sorts of skills were a regular accomplishment of young ladies of her acquaintance, but inside, her stomach clenched. She had a passing knowledge of French and a pathetic ability at the pianoforte. Improving her talents had not been a matter of extreme importance as she’d attended school and helped her father manage his business.

“And what occupies your time, Meg? What sorts of activities do you do?” Lucinda’s brilliant eyes were trained upon her, and though she did not turn her head, Meg could feel Lord Featherstone had stilled. He was awaiting her answer as well.

“I . . . well, I help my father with his bookkeeping. He is a merchant, you see. And I spend much of my time studying poetry and reading books.”

Lucinda’s expression did not change, though her eyes widened the slightest bit. “Your father works in trade? That is charming, dear,” she said, nodding slowly, and doing little to mask the condescension in her voice. “I’m certain you perform your tasks wonderfully.”

Meg’s heart sank. She was in no way able to compete with the British ladies when it came to talents. And this was only her first exposure to the
ton
. What would the remainder of the Season be like?

“The development of one’s mind is of utmost import,” Lord Featherstone said.

Meg turned her head toward him. She felt her face relax into a grateful smile. He had saved her from embarrassing herself further with her lack of accomplishments. Perhaps she had misjudged the earl after all.

“Although it is important to consider what types of edification to choose,” he continued, stroking his insubstantial mustache with the tip of his forefinger. “A lady should shun literature that puts radical ideas into her mind, especially such things as novels or modern poetry, focusing instead on things that improve her ability to manage a household and make appropriate social connections.”

Meg’s smile froze on her face. Her insides heated.

“It certainly would not do for a lady to form opinions that disagree with her husband’s, for example.” Lord Featherstone looked down at Meg as if she were a young child in need of a gentle reprimand. Meg would not have been surprised if he had patted her on the head and told her to go play with her poppets.

She opened her mouth but could not think of anything to say that wouldn’t be extremely rude, so she closed it. She looked around the room, but aside from the two women across the table, the only person paying any attention to the conversation was Colonel Stackhouse, who regarded her with interest as if waiting to see how she would answer.

Lord Featherstone apparently thought that his words were being well received and continued. “It is appropriate that a young lady not concern herself with matters better left to gentlemen, focusing instead on maintaining a pleasant disposition. But certainly a bit of reading in order to add to her competence as a conversationalist is to be seen as a benefit. It is as King Henry said, ‘The empty vessel makes the quietest sound
.
’”

Meg blinked.
Did the earl just misquote the bard?
This was an atrocity that she could not allow to pass without setting the record straight. “Sir, I am afraid you misunderstand Shakespeare’s meaning. The boy in
Henry V
is musing on the babbling of the French soldier and the fact that in all his speaking the soldier said little. The boy paraphrases the proverb, ‘The empty vessel makes the
greatest
sound,’ meaning those with the most to say are often the least intelligent, while a wise person does not need to use so many words.”

The moment the utterance left her mouth, Meg knew she had made a mistake. Lord Featherstone’s face reddened, and his eyes narrowed. Meg glanced down the table, relieved to see that Daniel was too occupied with Helen to have overheard her blunder. The discomfort at their end of the table became palpable until Lady Featherstone took the attention away from Meg by speaking rather loudly.

“Colonel Stackhouse, Her Grace tells me you have been in Chelsea recovering from an injury.”

Meg was astonished. Surely her correction of the earl’s misunderstanding of Shakespeare was not as gauche as bringing up a man’s deformity.

The colonel glanced up at Lady Featherstone, gazing flatly at her for a moment. “I should think the answer to your question is rather obvious, madam.” He directed his attention back to his plate.

Apparently Lady Featherstone was not to be deterred by the colonel’s clear wish to terminate the discussion. “And does your wound still give you discomfort, sir?”

“Discomfort?” The colonel set his silverware down and leaned back in his chair. “Madam, I was stabbed through the face with a French bayonet that flayed open my skin and popped my eyeball like a grape. I think discomfort is a rather mild term for such a sensation, don’t you?”

The ladies at the table gasped, and Lord Featherstone whispered, “Oh my,” as he put his hand over his mouth.

Meg, however, leaned forward in anticipation of a ghastly tale. This was quickly becoming the most entertaining evening of her stay thus far, and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it.

Colonel Stackhouse glared at Lady Featherstone, but to her credit, the countess did no more than raise her brow. “I am quite skilled with herbs and ointments, sir,” Lady Featherstone said, her voice remaining even and calm. “If you would allow me to inspect your injury, I believe I could create a salve that will relieve any itching and ease the soreness.”

“That will not be necessary,” the colonel said, returning to his meal.

“Mother, really . . . ,” the earl said.

Lady Featherstone did not acknowledge her son or the shock in his voice. “Oh come, Colonel. If you think to spare my genteel sensibilities, you are speaking to the wrong woman. A salve will even help the scar to heal much more smoothly.”

The colonel looked as if he would argue but perhaps did not want to draw more attention to himself by continuing to refuse. A war seemed to take place in his expression before he finally said, “Very well, madam. I thank you for your concern.”

The servers began to clear the plates, and following Serena’s lead, the ladies excused themselves to the drawing room. As they were leaving, Lord Vernon spoke up for the first time since the company had sat down to supper. “At which battle did you receive your wound, Colonel?”

Meg slowed down, hoping to hear some of the gruesome details.

“It wasn’t a battle at all. Only a minor skirmish near Badajoz. Pointless, really.”

Lord Featherstone nodded his head knowingly and stroked his fuzzy lip. “One may think that, sir. However, even the smallest engagements are important. As the poet said, ‘But what good came of it at last? Why that I cannot tell, said he. But ’twas a famous victory.’”