Someone to Hold
Page 85
He arrived five or six minutes later than the time appointed for fear of being early and so, of course, had to make something of a grand entrance, or what felt like one. The Upper Rooms were crowded and humming with conversation. He stood upon the threshold of the tearoom and looked about for familiar faces. He spotted Miss Ford first and could see that she was sitting among a group of tables occupied by the Westcotts. Anna had raised her arm to attract his attention and was smiling broadly. He made his way toward them.
The Dowager Duchess of Netherby took it upon herself to introduce him to her mother and sister, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale and Lady Matilda Westcott. Joel made his bow to both ladies, greeted everyone else, and took a seat at a table with Lady Overfield, her brother the earl, and Camille’s mother. It was only as he did so that he saw Camille for the first time. She was sitting almost back-to-back with him at the next table with Mrs. Kingsley and Mr. and Mrs. Dance. He glanced at her and opened his mouth to speak, but she was impersonating her former self today, all stiff, aristocratic formality as she inclined her head to him with haughty condescension and turned her back.
She was annoyed with him, was she? Because she regretted last Sunday? Because she wished him to know that that was then and this was now and never the twain should meet? Because he had not been to see her? Because he had not spotted her immediately when he had entered the room?
He gave his attention to the conversation at his own table and strained his ears to listen to that at the next.
It was a while later when Riverdale uttered a muffled exclamation, a frown on his face, his eyes fixed on the doorway. Joel turned his head to look. Viscount Uxbury was standing there with the two men who had been at the funeral with him. They were looking about the room for an empty table. Suddenly Uxbury’s eyes alit upon Camille, or so it seemed to Joel, and remained on her as he moved away from the other two and strolled toward her table. Other members of the family were beginning to notice him and were falling silent one by one, but he seemed not to be aware of them. He had but the one object in his sights. He stopped by Camille’s table, raised a quizzing glass to his eyes, and regarded her insolently through it.
“I wonder,” he said, “if your companions and the other respectable citizens of Bath here present realize that they are rubbing shoulders with a bastard, Miss Westcott.”
What? What the devil? Had the man been so offended by the setdown she had given him a few days ago that he was willing to breach all semblance of good manners in order to get back at her?
Uxbury had not spoken loudly, Joel realized afterward. He had not drawn a great deal of attention his way. Conversation at all but the tables occupied by their group continued as usual while cutlery tinkled cheerfully against china and white-aproned waiters bearing trays wove their way among tables. Nonetheless, Riverdale rose from his place and set his linen napkin on the table. Netherby was doing likewise at his table. So was Lord Molenor. In another minute they would have ushered the viscount outside and dealt with him there in a perfectly well-bred manner for as long as it was likely they might be observed by people arriving or leaving or passing on the street. They also, very probably, would have made an appointment to meet him privately, as Netherby had done once before in London.
Joel was not well-bred. He knew nothing of the rules that governed a gentleman’s behavior, especially in the presence of ladies. He got to his feet, took two strides forward, and smashed his fist into Uxbury’s mouth.
The viscount, taken by surprise, went down heavily in a shower of blood, grasping with one flailing hand at the tablecloth of the table behind him as he went in a vain attempt to save himself. His fall was followed by a noisy shower of crockery and cutlery and smashing glassware and cream cakes and tea. One of the cakes landed upside down on the bridge of his nose.
There were screams, shouts, general mayhem. Everyone was standing. Some were trying to escape danger. Most were craning their necks to see what had happened. Others were moving closer to get a better look. Joel flexed his stinging knuckles.
“Oh, bravo,” Riverdale said quietly beneath the hubbub.
“Very well-done,” Lady Overfield agreed.
“Dear me,” the Duke of Netherby said, and somehow—how did the man do it?—all around him fell silent and those farther back shushed others so that they could hear. “New boots, my dear fellow? They can be embarrassingly slippery for a while, I have found. Too bad that you have made such a spectacle of yourself, though I daresay you are among friends here who will make every effort to forget the whole thing and never remind you of it. Allow me to help you to your feet.”
“He must have caught his mouth on the edge of a table on his way down, Netherby,” the Earl of Riverdale said, “and knocked out a tooth. Ah, Viscount Uxbury, is it not?”
Uxbury was not unconscious. He scrambled to his feet without assistance, brushing aside Netherby’s hand as he did so. He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his bleeding mouth. His face was chalky white. His two relatives had come up to him and were taking an arm each to lead him out. He went quietly after glaring at Joel and speaking to him, his voice muffled by the handkerchief.
“You will be hearing from my lawyer,” he said.
“I shall look forward to it,” Joel told him.
He was standing, he realized, almost shoulder to shoulder with Camille. He turned his head toward her, and she turned hers to him.
“Thank you,” she murmured before turning back to resume her seat. She was not the haughty aristocrat now. She was the marble lady with the complexion to match the title.
The Dowager Duchess of Netherby took it upon herself to introduce him to her mother and sister, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale and Lady Matilda Westcott. Joel made his bow to both ladies, greeted everyone else, and took a seat at a table with Lady Overfield, her brother the earl, and Camille’s mother. It was only as he did so that he saw Camille for the first time. She was sitting almost back-to-back with him at the next table with Mrs. Kingsley and Mr. and Mrs. Dance. He glanced at her and opened his mouth to speak, but she was impersonating her former self today, all stiff, aristocratic formality as she inclined her head to him with haughty condescension and turned her back.
She was annoyed with him, was she? Because she regretted last Sunday? Because she wished him to know that that was then and this was now and never the twain should meet? Because he had not been to see her? Because he had not spotted her immediately when he had entered the room?
He gave his attention to the conversation at his own table and strained his ears to listen to that at the next.
It was a while later when Riverdale uttered a muffled exclamation, a frown on his face, his eyes fixed on the doorway. Joel turned his head to look. Viscount Uxbury was standing there with the two men who had been at the funeral with him. They were looking about the room for an empty table. Suddenly Uxbury’s eyes alit upon Camille, or so it seemed to Joel, and remained on her as he moved away from the other two and strolled toward her table. Other members of the family were beginning to notice him and were falling silent one by one, but he seemed not to be aware of them. He had but the one object in his sights. He stopped by Camille’s table, raised a quizzing glass to his eyes, and regarded her insolently through it.
“I wonder,” he said, “if your companions and the other respectable citizens of Bath here present realize that they are rubbing shoulders with a bastard, Miss Westcott.”
What? What the devil? Had the man been so offended by the setdown she had given him a few days ago that he was willing to breach all semblance of good manners in order to get back at her?
Uxbury had not spoken loudly, Joel realized afterward. He had not drawn a great deal of attention his way. Conversation at all but the tables occupied by their group continued as usual while cutlery tinkled cheerfully against china and white-aproned waiters bearing trays wove their way among tables. Nonetheless, Riverdale rose from his place and set his linen napkin on the table. Netherby was doing likewise at his table. So was Lord Molenor. In another minute they would have ushered the viscount outside and dealt with him there in a perfectly well-bred manner for as long as it was likely they might be observed by people arriving or leaving or passing on the street. They also, very probably, would have made an appointment to meet him privately, as Netherby had done once before in London.
Joel was not well-bred. He knew nothing of the rules that governed a gentleman’s behavior, especially in the presence of ladies. He got to his feet, took two strides forward, and smashed his fist into Uxbury’s mouth.
The viscount, taken by surprise, went down heavily in a shower of blood, grasping with one flailing hand at the tablecloth of the table behind him as he went in a vain attempt to save himself. His fall was followed by a noisy shower of crockery and cutlery and smashing glassware and cream cakes and tea. One of the cakes landed upside down on the bridge of his nose.
There were screams, shouts, general mayhem. Everyone was standing. Some were trying to escape danger. Most were craning their necks to see what had happened. Others were moving closer to get a better look. Joel flexed his stinging knuckles.
“Oh, bravo,” Riverdale said quietly beneath the hubbub.
“Very well-done,” Lady Overfield agreed.
“Dear me,” the Duke of Netherby said, and somehow—how did the man do it?—all around him fell silent and those farther back shushed others so that they could hear. “New boots, my dear fellow? They can be embarrassingly slippery for a while, I have found. Too bad that you have made such a spectacle of yourself, though I daresay you are among friends here who will make every effort to forget the whole thing and never remind you of it. Allow me to help you to your feet.”
“He must have caught his mouth on the edge of a table on his way down, Netherby,” the Earl of Riverdale said, “and knocked out a tooth. Ah, Viscount Uxbury, is it not?”
Uxbury was not unconscious. He scrambled to his feet without assistance, brushing aside Netherby’s hand as he did so. He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his bleeding mouth. His face was chalky white. His two relatives had come up to him and were taking an arm each to lead him out. He went quietly after glaring at Joel and speaking to him, his voice muffled by the handkerchief.
“You will be hearing from my lawyer,” he said.
“I shall look forward to it,” Joel told him.
He was standing, he realized, almost shoulder to shoulder with Camille. He turned his head toward her, and she turned hers to him.
“Thank you,” she murmured before turning back to resume her seat. She was not the haughty aristocrat now. She was the marble lady with the complexion to match the title.
