Page 27 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
“How old are you, anyway?” Maria asked him, amused by his vanity.
“Thirty-five.” Mrs. Plumtree had said little until now, but apparently the conversation had piqued her interest. “That’s long past the age when a man should marry, don’t you think, Miss Butterfield?”
Aware of Oliver’s gaze on her, Maria chose her words carefully. “I suppose it depends on the man. Papa didn’t marry until he was nearly that age. He was too busy fighting in the Revolutionary War to court anyone.”
When the blood drained from Mrs. Plumtree’s face, Oliver’s eyes held a glint of triumph. “Ah, yes, the Revolutionary War. Did I forget to mention, Gran, that Mr. Butterfield was a soldier in the Continental Marines?”
The table got very quiet. Lady Minerva focused on eating her soup, Lady Celia took several sips of wine, one after another, and Lord Jarret stared into his soup bowl as if it contained the secret to life. The only real sound punctuating the silence was Lord Gabriel’s muttered “bloody hell.”
Clearly, there was some undercurrent here that Maria didn’t understand. Oliver was watching his grandmother again like a wolf about to pounce, and Mrs. Plumtree was clearly contemplating which weapon would best hold the wolf at bay.
“Uncle Adam was a hero,” Freddy put in, oblivious as usual to undercurrents of any kind. “At the Battle of Princeton, he held off ten of the British until help could arrive. It was just him and his bayonet, slashing and stabbing—”
“Freddy,” Maria chided under her breath, “our hosts are British, remember?”
Freddy blinked. “Oh. Right.” He waved his spoon. “But the war was a long time ago. Nobody cares about it now.”
One look at Mrs. Plumtree’s rigid face told Maria otherwise. “I daresay Oliver’s grandmother cares.”
Mrs. Plumtree drew herself up stiffly. “My only son was killed fighting the Colonials. He, too, was a hero. He just didn’t get to live to tell the tale.”
Maria’s heart broke for the woman. How could Oliverdo this to her? Maria glared at him, but he was staring at his grandmother with his jaw set. Why did she consistently bring out the devil in him?
Mrs. Plumtree glowered at him. “That is why I am forced to leave my business and my money to my daughter’s children. Tothislot of ingrates.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, but youaren’tleaving them to us, are you, Gran? Not without getting your pound of flesh.”
Lips thinning, his grandmother rose abruptly. “Miss Butterfield, might I have a word with you in private?”
Maria glanced to Oliver, whose gaze was fixed on his grandmother.
“Why?” he bit out.
“If I wanted to tell you why,” the woman said coldly, “I would ask you to join us, which I decidedly did not.”
“Maria has barely had a chance to eat,” he said. “Leave her be.”
“It’s all right,” Maria put in. “I’d be happy to speak to your grandmother.” She wanted to know what was going on, and with any luck she could find out from Mrs. Plumtree without giving away her role. Though it appeared that Mrs. Plumtree had already guessed what Maria’s role was.
Oliver looked fit to be tied. “Maria, there’s no reason—”
“I don’t mind.” She rose and laid her napkin on the table. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”
“Do I have to go, too?” Freddy asked in a plaintive voice.
“No, Freddy,” Maria said, stifling a hysterical laugh. “I imagine that’s unnecessary.”
Mrs. Plumtree walked out, and Maria followed. As soon as they passed into a nearby parlor and the woman shut the door, she whirled on Maria with a look of barely controlled anger. “How much money do you want to put an end to this farce?”
Maria blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come now, Miss Butterfield,” she said coldly. “I know that my grandson must have offered you money to pretend to be his fiancée until I come to my senses. I can double whatever he offered. Just tell me how much that is.”
For a moment, Maria could only gape at her. Insulting as the woman’s offer was, Maria briefly considered accepting it. With money, she could hire someone herself to find Nathan and wash her hands of this mad family. She didn’t owe Oliver anything—he’d behaved abominably so far.
Well . . . he’d saved her and Freddy from that mob at the brothel. And though his grandmother would probably make sure he didn’t follow through on his threats to have them arrested, Maria had promised to maintain the “farce” through tonight at least. She had no right to rail at him about morals if she couldn’t keep her own word.
Besides, it annoyed her how his grandmother seemed to think everyone could be bought. Weren’t the English gentry supposed to be too lofty to concern themselves with the exchange of filthy lucre? Mercy, they were worse than American captains of industry.
