Page 40 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
A long pause ensued. He squeezed her hand which still lay atop his arm. She withdrew it and tipped her head to the older ladies. “Indeed, I know all the ladies, Lord Chilcombe. How could I forget such pillars? Mrs. Addison, Mrs. Swarby and her sister, Miss Smith. Ladies, this is Lord Chilcombe, newly arrived from his services to the Crown in foreign parts. He is eager to acquaint himself with his new neighbors.” She dipped her head again, this time to Graeme. “Do excuse me, my lord, while I see how Lady Hermione is faring.”
“Pleased to meet you, my lord.” Blythe heard Miss Smith’s voice break the tense silence.
Lady Hermione caught her eye and sent her a smile that oozed sympathy. Mr. Jarrow, too, studied her face as he greeted her. Mr. Stockwell turned a frown at her, but she could tell he was distracted by the man at his elbow who he introduced as Mr. Crichton, Lord Diddenton’s steward.
Attendees were mingling, many going off to a side room for the dinner donated by the good people of the area. Mr. Crichton glanced that way.
“Mr. Crichton, Lord Chilcombe will be anxious to meet you, I’m sure,” she said. She glanced back and saw Graeme, a bored look on his face, listening politely as Mrs. Jarrow’s mouth and chin and finger wagged. Mrs. Addison and Mrs. Swarby nodded along with the wagging, while Miss Smith frowned and met Blythe’s gaze in a furtive glance, quickly averted.
“Or perhaps, Mr. Stockwell, Mr. Crichton, you ought to go ahead before all the food disappears. Lord Chilcombe will find you later.”
Crichton promised to speak to Graeme before departing, and both men walked off.
“I’ll go and rescue Chilcombe,” Mr. Jarrow said, his face grim, and he stepped away.
Hermione linked arms with Blythe. “Come, we’ll go and see who might think to cut us in the supper room. I had a most interesting discussion with Mr. Jarrow’s mother.” She chuckled. “It seems that all my efforts at maintaining a sterling character have been for naught.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Hermione. You are guilty by association.”
“Lady Loughton explained your circumstances to me.”
Blythe inwardly cringed. Not even Lady Loughton knew all, and if she did, would she still be a friend?
“I am here to be your stalwart companion in battling these old besoms.” Hermione laughed again. “Oh dear, I suppose I risk becoming an old besom myself. Tell me, are any of them redeemable? If we begin winning one over, perhaps the rest will follow. Mr. Jarrow?—”
“He cannot risk his reputation with two ladies such as us,” Blythe said, infusing her voice with a cheer she didn’t feel. “Oh, that is not fair. With a lady such as myself. You may wish to travel back to London and join Will at Chilcombe House.”
“And abandon my chaperonage?” She tipped her head closer. “Though I confess, I have not always been the most attentive of chaperones. You know the story of my dear Mary Elizabeth and Lord Loughton when I accompanied her to a Michaelmas house party.”
Blythe had not heard the story, but she could count. Lord Loughton’s heir had arrived a scant six months after their nuptials.
And bless dear Hermione, she was trying to distract her and lift her mood. All around them as they passed through the crowd, ladies and gentlemen were turning their backs.
“That was your lapse then, was it, my lady?” Blythe teased.
“All’s well that ends well.” Hermione scanned the laden tables. “You must be as parched as I am,” she said. “I shall fetch us both lemonades.”
Blythe watched the older lady walk away.
“Lady Chilcombe, is it?”
A man had come to stand near her, a young man in a dark frock coat, a garish waistcoat, and gray pantaloons. His hair was brushed forward as if driven by a gale force wind. His gaze fixed on her, brown eyes gleaming with hunger as he licked full lips.
“Do you not remember me?” he asked. “Frederick Falfield.”
Ah. Though this fellow was slimmer and his eyes more brown than amber, she saw the resemblance to Lord Vernon. He was related to Diddenton. That’s why her skin was crawling.
From the corner of her eye, she saw three young bucks nearby, leering and giggling.
She was tempted to cut him, as the others were cutting her, and she suddenly wished that Graeme had accompanied her. He would set the lad straight.
She gritted her teeth and stood taller. She wouldn’t pretend that Frederick Falfield did not exist.
“I do not remember you,” she said. “You are related to Diddenton?”
“A nephew, and your neighbor. Staying at Wickworth Hall.”
If Graeme wished to question someone about the damage to the drain, this was one man he needed to speak to.
