Page 19 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Geneviève recoiled at the thought of such a horrible fate. “How terrifying!”
“More terrible if we were strangled in our beds,” hissed Mrs. Wapshot, looking about her as if the would-be perpetrator might be lurking behind the sofa. “Or worse! Some of those men haven’t seen a woman in decades! Think on that!”
It appeared that Mrs. Wapshot had given it a great deal of consideration. The lemon shortbread she raised to her lips disappeared in one ferocious bite.
Geneviève felt the pressure of Hugo’s arm against hers. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’re safe here.”
He reached to fondle the ear of the rough-coated wolfhound at his feet. “If any brute comes near, Tootle and Muffin will show them what for.”
Inching her knee away from the spindle of drool which threatened her skirts, Geneviève arranged her face in a gracious smile. As long as the ruffian appeared with a tasty titbit, she doubted they’d have much to fear. Muffin’s attention was fixed solely upon the uneaten morsel on her plate.
“Of course, there’s no need for you to shy fromthem,” added Hugo. “They’d never attack anyone we presented as a guest.”
Geneviève tried to return her concentration to Reverend Wapshot, who was speaking enthusiastically between mouthfuls of fruitcake.
“I visit the men every Sabbath for their sacred communion with the Lord and, whatever their misdeeds, they offer sincere devotion in that hour of supplication.” The Reverend scanned the room with a satisfied air.
Lord Wulverton scowled. “Hardly surprising, when you consider how they spend the majority of their hours, entombed within those gray walls. Little wonder they take the opportunity to stretch their legs and their voices.”
“Quite so,” agreed Reverend Wapshot, shaking his head and extending his glass to Withers’ approach with the decanter. “We pray for them, don’t we, my dears?”
Beatrice nodded meekly, but Mrs. Wapshot jolted upright. “May they know the error of their ways and repent! The cold of their cells will seem as nothing to the searing fires of hell’s damnation, to which they’re destined for their heinous crimes.”
Glancing at Lord Wulverton, Geneviève noted his expression of extreme distaste. Nevertheless, before he could reply, there was a clatter at his elbow.
Withers wobbled, almost dropping his tray.
“Steady there!” The viscount caught the butler as his knees buckled, and swiftly removed the glassware from his trembling hands,before mishap could occur.
“So sorry, m’lord,” Withers mumbled, apparently not at all himself.
“Dash it, Withers, you’re not well!” pronounced Hugo, leaping to support his other side. “Come along. We’ll get you to your parlor, and Mrs. Fuddleby will make you a reviving pot of tea.”
Tootle, who’d positioned himself hopefully at Mrs. Wapshot’s side, lumbered off as the door opened. Though the spot had been advantageous in the way of pastry crumbs, the dog clearly wasn’t fond of raised voices. The kitchen hearth would be infinitely more restful.
“Ours is a forgiving God, my love,” the Reverend softly chided. “And it’s our duty, here on earth, to show the same mercy. We’re all less than perfect, are we not?”
Mrs. Wapshot appeared to have a ready retort but a stern look from her husband, combined with Betsy’s arrival with a tray of jam tarts, diverted her from further proclamation.
There was a short silence, broken only by the clatter of forks upon plates and the sipping of wine. Muffin gave a great sigh and shuffled round to lay his head in Marguerite’s lap.
At last, Beatrice spoke, having barely said a word for the most part. “Everyone deserves a second chance. Whatever our human weaknesses, we can learn to rise above them.”
“Hear, hear!” agreed Geneviève, giving Beatrice a smile of encouragement.
“What have I missed?” asked Hugo, returning as theconversation became easy once more, this time on the merits of blackberry wine over damson.
“Reverend Wapshot is inviting you to the rectory tomorrow to sample his homemade wines, Hugo,” said Marguerite. “Perhaps, our dear comtesse may like to join you.”
Mrs. Wapshot pursed her lips, but before any more could be said, Lord Wulverton interrupted, having reappeared in the doorway.
“I need an extra pair of hands with me to visit the tenants. The countess may like to see how the moorland farming folk live, and the importance of our benevolent traditions.” He glowered at the back of Mrs. Wapshot’s head. “I’ve a dozen geese to deliver, and Mrs. Fuddleby is making up baskets of preserves and pickles.”
All this he’d uttered without looking at Geneviève, but he turned to her now, his eyes piercing, as if defying her to make some excuse.
“I could help,” piped up Hugo, “In the car, you know.”
Lord Wulverton waved his hand dismissively. “Hardly built for rutted farm tracks is it, that machine of yours, and no room to put the baskets either. Far easier with the trap and pair.”
