Page 40 of The Trouble With Titles
“Quiet it, then. I need you to display courtesy and respect for our guests.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes before shutting them with an agonized expression. “Aye.”
“Mother, we have lived next door to the Bigsbys for thirty years. We have greeted them in the street, and I have grown up alongside Madeline and Henrietta in the garden. I insist we treat them as old acquaintances.”
Isla exhaled with a slight parting of the lips, the only sign she was appeased. “Very well. I suppose we can do away with the formalities in lieu of the time you spent together as children. But what if they are confused by the lack of introductions? Eleanor Bigsby knows well that we have never been formally introduced.”
Simon had considered this, but he planned to welcome them as old friends. “MacNaby will announce dinner within minutes of their arrival, and then we shall engage in delightful conversation to make it clear what our attitude is.”
That was the flaw in his plan. Isla tended to pick at her food while barely speaking and, of late, John grew grumpier as his bedtime drew closer. Nicholas had grown dour since they had learned of their nephews who were to inherit in Simon’s stead,and ever more sullen since embarking on sobriety in the past day or so.
That his family had not known about their guests did not help, or John might have slept in this morning to improve his stamina. This dinner was so unexpected. Nevertheless, Simon was invested in its success. Once he settled this quarrel with the duke and his relations, it would be time to pursue his own path, and Madeline was the companion he wished to have at his side when that day arrived, so Mrs. Bigsby must be treated as an honored guest. He would carry the entire conversation himself, if he must.
MacNaby spoke from behind, interrupting his thoughts. “Mrs. and Miss Bigsby.”
Simon spun on his heels, rushing forward to bow over the hand of Mrs. Bigsby and then Madeline’s. “Welcome to our home. We are, indeed, honored to have you.”
Rising back up, Simon sought his composure as Madeline winked at him with mischief in her eyes. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Scott. We have long wished to enjoy the company within your home.”
Mrs. Bigsby smiled politely in agreement, her amber eyes wary as she turned her gaze to the other occupants of the drawing room.
Simon flashed a grin, composing his face to turn back to his family. “Lord Blackwood, Lady Blackwood, Mr. Scott, are we not honored to host Mrs. Bigsby and her daughter?”
John had risen from his armchair, appearing heavy as he lumbered forward. “Welcome, Mrs. Bigsby. It is our honor to host you this evening.”
“My lord.” Mrs. Bigsby sank into a curtsy, displaying an unexpected grace for a woman of her stature. Being nearly the same height as Simon, it was one of the qualities that had fascinated him as a boy; he had imagined her as a warrior froman epic tale, striding into battle to strike fear in the hearts of her competitors. “It is a pleasure to visit your home. The art is splendid, and I notice several works by Thomas Lawrence—a true privilege to behold.”
She pointed to the opposite wall where several large portraits of Scott ancestors stared at the inhabitants of the room.
“You know Lawrence’s work?”
“Of course. We study all renowned artists in our quest for inspiration. Our manufactory takes pride in producing the finest works that will withstand the test of time.”
Simon’s tension eased as John and Madeline’s mother moved to view the paintings. Dinner might prove a success despite his reservations.
Madeline tookher seat at the elegant dining table, an original Chippendale if she were to guess, with tapered legs and intricate carving. It was bedecked with fine crystal, shiny silver, and exquisite china. Hothouse blooms were artfully arranged in porcelain pots, beeswax candles flickered from silver candelabras, and gilt-framed mirrors around the room strategically reflected the light to chase the shadows from the room. Footmen in fine livery were lined behind their chairs to attend them.
It was precisely what she had expected it to look like, and she was ecstatic to be invited, albeit under spurious circumstances.
“Where is Miss Carter?” Lady Blackwood sat at the end of the table, opposite to the baron. Her emotionless eyes cast about, evidently noting for the first time that Molly was not present. Madeline bit her lip, anxiety coiling in her stomach.
“Miss Carter is not well this evening, so she is taking a dinner tray in her bedchamber,” replied Simon from near the head of the table where he was seated diagonal to the baron.
“I should see to her.” Lady Blackwood made to rise, sending Madeline into panic. If Isla Scott returned to the family wing, it would be a disaster. It was Madeline’s role to ensure such a thing did not happen.
I must stop her!
“Oh, Lady Blackwood! I am so disappointed! I have so anticipated speaking with you tonight.” Mama narrowed her eyes from across the table, dubious at Madeline’s words as she struggled to find an excuse to keep Lady Blackwood from leaving the dining room. “You are the envy of the entire neighborhood. I was hoping to convince you to reveal the identity of your modiste!”
Creases appeared between Mama’s brows as her questions mounted. Her mother’s disbelief was palpable as all gazes rested upon Madeline. It was true that Lady Blackwood was always attired in exquisite gowns, but the idea that Madeline would want such garments would be difficult to comprehend. The Bigsbys favored attractive but practical dresses, which allowed them to go about their work. In their world, expensive silk was only worn for formal dinners such as this.
Lady Blackwood settled back into her seat with her usual lack of expression, but Madeline sensed she was pleased to have her vanity pandered to. Perhaps she would forget Molly’s absence if Madeline could distract her for sufficient time. The dowager baroness might be difficult to read, but her choice to never display emotions upon her face revealed at least one character trait for a businesswoman such as herself to utilize to her advantage—vanity.
“I confess, I am reticent on the subject. Nothing ruins a good modiste more than being overwhelmed with more orders than she can manage.”
Madeline blinked at the selfishness of the statement, though she supposed she should not be surprised by such arrogance from a prig of the privileged class.
Simon interjected from down the table. “Would you not want to elevate the proprietress in question? Bring her new clientele as a sign of appreciation for work well done?”
