Page 65 of Enticing Odds
“I haven’t seen such a rout since that evening you emptied Uncle Frederick’s pockets a couple years ago.”
“Your uncle deserved it, though.” Now she turned back to him, one hand still atop the chair.
“So did Midder, I’d wager.”
An hour or so later, the entire dinner party filled the room. Mr. Brenchley was scowling angrily at his third course, while Mrs. Brenchley sipped anxiously at her port.
It was an odd assemblage, consisting of those who were later than most to leave town. There was the wilting and wavering Lady Sowersby, a fellow widow, and the Rosewells, a younger couple with small children, who were only just realizing the sheer amount of additional work that shifting their household from the city to the country now entailed. Cressida’s odious brother, Sir Frederick Catton, was of course in attendance. Sir Frederick was staring at Mrs. Brenchley from his seat alongside Mr. Brenchley, who himself seemed none too happy about his seating assignment and spent the majority of his conversation upon the agitated young Middlemiss. Rounding out the party were Mr. Bunch and Baron Parfitt, a jovial pair of confirmed bachelors from her garden society, and then finally, Arthur.
It was a poorly thought-out number of gentlemen to ladies, but Cressida hadn’t been expecting an eleventh to exacerbate the ratio. Conversation flowed easily enough through the dinner, directed by Cressida’s confident hand, and soon the cloth was removed and the final course of fruit and nuts set, along with wine.
The time had come to deliver hercoup de grâce—indeed, the only reason for this entire gathering—that would provide extra assurance that the Brenchleys and their half-witted nephew, Viscount Wormleigh, would think twice before ever daring to cross her or her sons again.
And as a bonus, it would prove quite irksome to her brother as well.
Cressida raised her goblet of claret, waiting for a lull in the conversation. Then, in a loud, clear voice, she turned to the meek Lady Sowersby, who’d barely eaten half of what had been served to her that evening.
“Now, here’s something new and exciting—and I daresay I’m the first to know.”
The entire table hushed; she felt all eyes upon her. Cressida practically preened.
“Oh?” Lady Sowersby’s eerily blue eyes widened, giving her the look of a wraith.
“Well, the word from one Mrs. Keene is that her daughter expects a very promising offer of marriage this evening.”
As she said the name Keene, she looked to Frederick. He was staring at her, his eyes dark and furious, his face coloring. It had been a lovely turn of events, to find this gem of gossip. For Frederick might’ve claimed the charming Miss Keene as his bride if not for Cressida’s interference. But the most wonderful part of Miss Keene’s engagement was not the insult to her brother.
“Ah yes, the lovely Miss Keene. She was quite the favorite at Queen Charlotte’s ball. I’m not surprised to hear she’s done well for herself,” Lady Sowersby gushed. “But, pray—who is the gentleman? Or are we to be kept in the dark?”
Cressida grinned, now turning her gaze to Mrs. Brenchley. The vicious woman who would dare spread vile lies about the parentage of her beloved Henry. Cressida had already cemented her position of power over her, and now she’d make certain that the woman would never forget it.
“It is rumored that the Marquess of Silwood is quite taken with her youthful beauty,” she said in a low, smug tone. “It is,by all accounts…” She drew out the anticipation, hoping it would bolster her charge, “A love match.”
Mrs. Brenchley gasped, then did her best to hide the outburst by forcing a cough.
“Are you quite alright?” Cressida asked, hand to her breast in mock concern.
“Forgive me,” the lady said, her voice shaking. “I seem to have the hiccups.”
“Take small sips of water. I find it helps.” Cressida turned back to Lady Sowersby. “I only wish I could claim credit for the match, brilliant as it is. Although I do recall them dancing with one another at my ball.”
“You know, you’re right,” Lady Sowersby breathed. “Two dances, as well. And both of them waltzes! Why, he must be quite taken.”
If she could claim to be the author of two of her enemies’ misfortunes, she would gladly do so. But here she spoke the truth; fate had intervened on her behalf on this occasion.
Cressida grinned.
But then she cast her gaze down the table, where Arthur was frowning behind his wine glass, and she quickly looked away.
A handful of hours later, she bade goodbye to the final guests, Mr. Bunch and Baron Parfitt, who’d arrived and left in the same carriage. When she returned to the drawing room, Arthur was uncharacteristically silent. He stared into the fireplace, a tumbler of liquor in one hand, the other covering his mouth.
“And where does young ‘Midder’ stay when in town? I assumed we were to put him up again,” she said in a more casual tone, returning to her seat upon a tidy red velvet couch opposite him.
But her eldest son seemed disinclined to answer, instead responding with a question of his own.
“Are you happy, Mama?”
The blunt question smacked her square in the face. Mind reeling, she cast about for the response that would set him most at ease.
