Page 25 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
Maria shot a furtive glance to where Mrs. Plumtree sat at the other end of the table. She was as stubborn as he, and just as bent on getting her way. Something simmeredbeneath the surface whenever the two sparred, and Mrs. Plumtree gave as good as she got. Even after the shocking way he’d presented Maria, his grandmother hadn’t wavered. But was their conflict just about the woman’s demands? Or was there some other, more ancient, grievance between them?
And did that grievance extend to the others, as well? She didn’t think so. They seemed perfectly content to dine with her. Lord Jarret, the brother sitting directly across from Maria between his two sisters, had asked Mrs. Plumtree about her day. Lady Celia had made a joke that had her grandmother chuckling. Lady Minerva had observed the exchange with an indulgent smile.
Minerva. How odd that Oliver’s sister should have the same Christian name as Miss Sharpe. It must be very popular for ladies in England. Never having heard it until discovering Miss Sharpe’s books, she’d assumed that Minerva Sharpe was merely a pen name. But maybe not.
The footman coming around with a tureen asked if she wanted any eel soup, and Maria blinked, then nodded. People actually ate eels? Was it just an affectation of lords in England?
And how exactly was she to eat it? There were three spoons at her disposal: one that looked like a miniature spade, a lovely one with strange designs on it, and a plain one about the same size. Which was for the soup, curse it? The spade one didn’t make sense, but she wasn’t sure which of the other two to choose. Neither looked much like a soup spoon.
She was staring blindly at them, terrified she’d choosethe wrong one, when Lady Minerva softly cleared her throat. Maria looked up to find the woman casting her a meaningful glance as she picked up the plain spoon and dipped it into the soup.
With a grateful smile, Maria did the same. The eel soup was actually quite good. She dipped her spoon again.
“So, Miss Butterfield,” Mrs. Plumtree asked, “what brings you to England?”
Maria froze, her mind racing. What was she supposed to say to that?
“Came looking for Nathan,” Freddy said blithely beside her.
“My cousin,” Maria put in quickly as she pinched Freddy’s arm beneath the table. “Freddy’s brother. Nathan came here on business. My aunt needs him at home, but he hasn’t answered her letters.”
“And have you found him?” Mrs. Plumtree asked.
“Not yet,” Maria said. “Oliver has promised to help us look, though.”
“Least I could do,” Oliver said smoothly.
A long silence ensued, during which she wondered how many more such slips Freddy would make before the night was over. When engrossed in eating, he tended to forget anything but that.
“Have you any brothers or sisters of your own, Miss Butterfield?” Lord Jarret asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Maria said. “Just Freddy and his three brothers, all of whom grew up in the same house as I did.”
“Four boys in the same house with you?” Lady Celiaexclaimed. “You poor dear. I can hardly endure it when my brothers are staying at the town house. They’re always causing some trouble or another.”
“Oh, yes, andyounever cause any trouble,” Oliver teased. “Never mind the shooting match where you brought three men to blows over whose rifle you should deign to use. Or the spectacle you made of yourself when you dressed as a man to enter a match. Or—”
“You can shoot a rifle, Lady Celia?” Maria leaned forward. “How did you learn? I’ve always wanted to myself, but Papa and my cousins refused to show me how a rifle works. Could you teach me?”
“No!” Oliver and Freddy said in unison. Then Oliver added, “Absolutely not.”
Lord Gabriel leaned close. “I’d be happy to teach you, Miss Butterfield.”
“Stay out of this, Gabe,” Oliver growled. “Bad enough you taught Celia. Maria already has enough weapons at her disposal.”
His grandmother arched one eyebrow. “Pray tell, what sort of weapons do you mean?”
Oliver paused, then gave a lazy smile. “Why, her beauty, of course. That weapon is devastating enough.”
“It won’t stop a scoundrel from manhandling a woman,” Lady Minerva put in.
“As if you know anything aboutthat,” Lord Jarret pointed out. “Just because the heroines in your books get manhandled with nauseating regularity doesn’t mean the average woman does.”
Maria stared at Lady Minerva, heart pounding. Had she actually stumbled into the presence of— “Are you by any chance the authoress, Minerva Sharpe?”
Lady Minerva smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Good God, Miss Butterfield,” Lord Jarret said. “Don’t tell me you read Minerva’s Gothic horrors.”
