Page 43 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
That woman was a lady, a countess. That woman deserved better.
The shrew of a mother had been one of the women he’d met, one of those who’d tried to push their daughters forward. Anger coursed through him—anger and a desire to wreak vengeance on all the so-called better families of Risley. Surely an earl could find a way.
Blythe saw him and knew that he’d witnessed the slur. Her eyes flashed open and then she drew herself up, nodded at something Lady Hermione said and gazed calmly away at nothing.
She held that pose through the drive home. Lady Hermione was less chatty than usual. She broached a few comments about the flowers decorating the assembly room, speculated about the quality of the inn’s ale, wishing she’d had some of it instead of the watery ratafia, and complemented Graeme on his well-sprung coach and the smoothness of the lane leading to Risley Manor, neither of which he’d had anything to do with of course.
By the time they reached Risley Manor, his anger had hardened into determination. By God, Blythe would tell him exactly what had gone on.
When they arrived, her maid, Radley, met them at the door and took her wrap.
“Come and have a cup of tea, ladies,” he said. “Or something stronger.”
Blythe pleaded fatigue and a headache and let the maid lead her away.
“I shall go up as well,” Lady Hermione said, watching them. “She did very well, my lord. I should advise you to bar Mrs. Jarrow from your home. Invite Mr. Jarrow and Miss Jarrow, and perhaps the one friend of Mrs. Jarrow, Miss Smith. She will come out of curiosity, and Mrs. Jarrow will be cast down.”
“Lady Hermione, I shall tell the Foreign Office to find you a place.”
She chuckled, reached for his hands and squeezed them, and thanked him for an entertaining evening.
Too late, he wondered what Mrs. Jarrow had told Lady Hermione. They’d had a much longer conversation than he’d had with the old besom before her son’s interruption.
He would ask her tomorrow. Or…
Who the devil was Coralie? And what the devil had Blythe done to render herself a pariah?
Only Blythe could give him the full story, and he was tired of waiting for answers.
He knocked and Radley opened the bedchamber door. Blythe’s eyes flashed terror, the emotion quickly shuttered.
The maid stood firm, barring his entry.
That look in her eyes had cooled the worst of his anger. “Blythe,” he said. “I need to speak with you. May I come in?”
This was, in fact, her bedchamber, not the sitting room of a suite of rooms as a countess might expect as her due, even a widowed countess. The bed was narrower as well. But there was a settee at the end of it and two chairs near the fireplace.
He took all that in from the edge of his vision.
He took a step, and the maid moved closer, a martial glint in her gaze.
Be damned if he would explain himself to a lady’s maid.
He glanced at Blythe. She’d frozen in place, with a look of… what? He couldn’t put a name to it but he knew fear was in there somewhere in the mix and he tempered his approach.
“I am no seducer. I will not hurt her,” he told Radley before turning to Blythe. “You have my word. Blythe, I want… I need to talk to you.”
She swallowed and nodded, and with a long assessing look, the maid stepped aside.
“I’ll be nearby, my lady,” she said.
Blythe shook her head. “It’s all right, Radley. This Lord Chilcombe is a different sort of scoundrel than the last one.”
The words sent his back up. He was no scoundrel where ladies were concerned—had never been.
Except… he’d sounded the alarm on her tryst with Archie. Was that what she meant?
“Very well, my lady. I’ll fetch you some chocolate when you’re ready.”
