My Favorite Countess

by Vanessa Kelly

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

She is difficult, demanding, and at times, quite fierce. And Dr. John Blackmore can't take his eyes off her. The Countess of Randolph is the most striking woman he has ever seen. . .and the most infuriating patient he has ever tended. Mired in responsibility, Bathsheba doesn't have time to convalesce in the country. She should be in London, hunting for a wealthy new lover to pay off her late husband's vast debts, not dallying with a devastatingly handsome doctor. But it is only a matter of time until the good doctor and the obstinate countess will have to contend with the sparks that fly between them. And once their bodies surrender, their hearts may follow. . . Praise for Vanessa Kelly and Sex and the Single Earl "A sensual treat!" --Anna Campbell"Successfully marrying the tart wit of a traditional Regency romance with the steamy passion of today's Regency historicals isn't easy, but Kelly proves to be more than capable." – Booklist "Guaranteed to satisfy even the most passionate romance reader." --Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Wears Plaid

Release date: January 28, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

It was so much worse than she’d imagined.

Bathsheba Compton, widow of the fifth earl of Randolph, stared in horror at Mr. Oliver as he outlined her dire situation. Ruination loomed, and no matter how hard she taxed her brain she couldn’t see a way to avoid it—not without a wrenching sacrifice on her part. The very thought of what that might entail made her stomach twist into knots.

Matthew also stared at his land agent. Not with horror, but with his usual befuddled expression. With his wrinkled brow, balding pate, and droopy eyes, the current Earl of Randolph looked like a basset hound emerging from a sound slumber.

“I say, Oliver,” he exclaimed. “You’ve been droning on about the accounts for the last half hour, and I can hardly make heads or tails of it. What do you mean, bankrupt? I can’t be bankrupt. I’m an earl!”

Mr. Oliver cast a long-suffering glance in Bathsheba’s direction and tried again.

“I regret to say, my lord,” he replied, enunciating very carefully, “that the estate is seriously encumbered with debt and, at this juncture, the small crop yield at the end of the summer will do little to alleviate the problem. Coming on the heels of last year’s crop failures, the situation is little short of disastrous.”

Bathsheba closed her eyes and held still, hoping the roiling in her stomach would subside before she became physically ill. The day of reckoning had finally arrived, in spite of her desperate efforts to save her family from disgrace.

“Do you mean we’re at a standstill?” demanded the earl, finally waking up to the urgency of the situation. “I thought all that retrenching we did last year was supposed to pull us out of dun territory? What was the point of all that cheeseparing if we’re still in as bad a shape as we were last year?”

Mr. Oliver’s mouth opened just a fraction as he stared at his employer in disbelief. Matthew glared back at him. The beleaguered land agent sighed and pulled one of the leatherbound ledgers from the pile in front of him.

Hunched over the old walnut desk in the library of Compton Manor, Bathsheba and Matthew peered at the account books Mr. Oliver had spread before them. She had grasped the miserable state of their finances instantly. After all, she had kept her father’s books for several years preceding his death. Numbers were one of the few things that never lied, especially when recorded by an employee as meticulous and honest as Mr. Oliver.

The land agent flipped through the ledger until he found what he wanted, then shoved the book in front of his employer.

“My lord, you have very little income, and certainly not enough to support two households. The town house in London,” he glanced again at Bathsheba, “requires significant upkeep and maintains a full complement of servants. You will recall that you and her ladyship agreed some time ago that it was imperative to keep up appearances in town, so as not to draw attention to the considerable debt left by the previous earl.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Of course I remember. I’m not an idiot. But we’ve spent next to nothing these last three years on the improvement of the estate here in Yorkshire. Nothing’s been refurbished or replaced. I can’t even remember the last time I bought a book.”

Mr. Oliver didn’t even blink. “My lord, you obtained several rare volumes just last month. I have the bills right here.”

Bathsheba snatched the papers from Mr. Oliver, quickly scanning them.

“Oh, Matthew,” she groaned. “How could you? You spent over five hundred pounds on books just last month.” She riffled through the bills with growing disbelief. “Did you really need another edition of The Canterbury Tales to add to the three you already own?”

The earl’s long face drooped with guilt. “I suppose not, Sheba. But it has such magnificent illustrations.”

He lurched from his chair to retrieve the text from one of his carefully organized bookshelves. Returning, he cradled the large volume in his arms as tenderly as an infant.

“See?” He pointed out an elaborate and beautifully drawn illustration of the Wife of Bath. “The workmanship is priceless. I’ve been waiting years for Samuel Thompson to let go of this.” His eyes pleaded with her to understand.

Bathsheba had to swallow twice before she could answer. “Yes, dear. It’s lovely.” But not as lovely as paying off some of their mountain of debt would have been.

He beamed, but his smile faded as he examined her face. He sank into his chair with a sigh.

“Is it really as bad as all that?”

She reached across the desk and took his hand in a comforting grip.

“Matthew, we were forced to retrench last year because all the crops failed after that horrible summer. We hoped the harvest this year would correct the situation but, according to Mr. Oliver’s figures, we will not be so fortunate.”

Matthew still looked confused. Though the sweetest man she had ever met, he had the worst head for business in Yorkshire. Never expecting to be a lord—after all, everyone had assumed Bathsheba would give her husband an heir—Matthew hadn’t trained for it, and still spent most of his time with his nose buried in antiquarian texts. He had always been more than content to leave the business of managing the Yorkshire estate and the town house in London to her.

His face suddenly brightened. “But what about our investments? You’ve done a bang-up job managing them these last few years. Surely Oliver exaggerates. Why, you’re the smartest female I’ve ever met. You always take care of everything.”

Guilt burned through her veins like fire. She hadn’t managed things well at all, not since the Earl of Trask abandoned her as his mistress two years ago. That had been the first disaster, and more had piled on ever since.

“I’m afraid there have been problems with our investments,” she admitted. “I was forced to fire our man of business just last week. Mr. Gates saw fit to invest the vast majority of our funds in speculative ventures, all of which came to naught. I didn’t realize how risky these schemes were until it was too late. We have nothing left. Nothing but debt, and I have only myself to blame.”

Disbelief slowly replaced confusion on the earl’s kind face. She couldn’t look at him, so she pushed out of her chair and began pacing the threadbare carpet. More than anything she wanted to run from the library and from this house full of never-ending responsibilities and bitter memories. She wanted to run all the way to London, never to set foot in Ripon or Yorkshire again.

Mr. Oliver rose from his chair and began stacking the ledgers. When he had completed his task he turned to Bathsheba, watching her with patient sympathy. She and Mr. Oliver had worked together for years. He was one of the few men in her life she had come to respect.

“Will there be anything else, my lady?”

She stopped in front of the old chimneypiece, painted with a bucolic but sadly faded scene. She had to resist the temptation to lean against the mantel and burst into tears.

“Thank you, Mr. Oliver,” she said, dredging up a smile. “That will be all for now.”

Silence fell over the room after he left, and for a moment it seemed imbued with the peace of a warm summer day in the country. She let her gaze drift round the library, her perceptions sharpened to painful acuity by their impending disaster.

The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the mullioned windows, casting gentle beams on the old-fashioned Queen Anne chairs, the venerable but scarred desk, and the cracked leather wingchair stationed in front of the empty grate. To others it might all look old and worn, but the weariness of the room was lightened by bowls of yellow roses on side tables, and by Matthew’s collection of antique globes, polished to a high gleam. The servants had to make do with very little, but they were fanatically loyal to the earl and did their best to transform the run-down estate into a home—more of a home than it had ever been during the time she had resided there with her husband, Reggie.

“Sheba, what are we going to do?”

She jerked around. Matthew hadn’t moved from behind his desk, paralyzed, no doubt, by her incompetence. But a moment later he leapt to his feet and hurried over to join her.

“Don’t look like that, my dear,” he said. “You’ll think of something—I know you will. You always do.”

He gazed at her with perfect confidence, and her heart almost broke under the strain of his trust. Unlike most people she knew, Matthew had never lost faith in her. And he would do anything he could to help her.

She straightened her spine, disgusted by her momentary weakness. Matthew could no more help her than he could help himself. As usual, she was the one who would have to make things right. If that meant giving up her freedom, well, that was infinitely preferable to living in poverty and disgrace.

And there was Rachel to consider. Bathsheba would slit her own wrists before she let anything happen to her sister.

Pinning a confident smile on her face—marriage had taught her never to appear vulnerable—she led Matthew back to his desk.

“I do have a plan, and I must return to London on the morrow to put it into effect.”

“Capital! I knew you’d have some trick up your sleeve.” He sank into his chair, looking enormously relieved.

That made her laugh, but even to her own ears it sounded bitter.

“Hardly a trick. I see only one way out of this mess, and that’s for me to find a rich husband. I’ll demand—and get—a very large settlement. That way I can help you alleviate your debt, and you’ll be able to rent the town house in Berkeley Square once I move out.”

Her heart contracted painfully at the thought of leaving her elegant mansion, but Matthew had let her live there on sufferance. After Reggie died, the new earl would have been well within his rights to ask the widow Randolph to vacate the premises.

Matthew stared at her as if she’d lost her wits. “No, Bathsheba. I won’t hear of it. You don’t want to marry again—you vowed you wouldn’t after—after—that is to say . . .” His words died away as he fiddled with a lump of sealing wax.

“After Lord Trask abandoned me to marry Sophie Stanton? Go ahead, Matthew. You can say it.”

His soft brown eyes filled with sympathy, but he remained silent. She sighed and lowered herself into the wingchair, ignoring the crackle of ancient leather.

Her skin still crawled whenever she thought of those terrible weeks in Bath almost two years ago. Trying to come between Simon and Sophie—to wreck their engagement—had been a cruel and wrenching task. But she’d had little choice. Simon was one of the richest men in England, and if he had married her, all her money problems would have vanished like smoke. But after that episode she had lost her appetite for husband-hunting and had vowed to rescue the Randolph finances on her own. Instead, she had seen their investments—not very healthy in the first place—vanish under the weight of her own carelessness and a hired man’s greed.

Matthew stirred, interrupting her gloomy ruminations.

“You don’t have to marry just anyone,” he said. “You could marry me.”

His abrupt offer startled a laugh out of her. “My dear, please don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he said stoutly. “I’m very fond of you. Always have been. And you’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. Never thought that bastard cousin of mine deserved you. I understand your worth, Bathsheba, and I would never betray you. Only say the word and I’m yours.” He finished his unexpected proposal with a shy, earnest smile.

Bathsheba’s eyes stung. Lord, she hadn’t felt so much like crying since her father died.

“Matthew, you’re a dear man and I’m very fond of you, but we wouldn’t suit. Besides, that would hardly solve our problem.”

“But if we married we could consolidate households. Sell that bloody great barn in London and retrench here in the country.”

Anything but that. She would throw herself into the Serpentine before she moved back to Yorkshire.

“Darling, you know I would go mad if I had to live here all year ’round. And I would make your life a misery. My mind is made up. I’ll return to London right away and begin looking for a husband in earnest.”

She smiled at him, seeking to ease his anxiety. “I’m not completely without resources. I don’t think I’ll have too much difficulty finding someone who will suit. He simply needs to be very wealthy, and to bother me as little as possible.”

Matthew bristled. “Of course you won’t have any trouble. Never meant to suggest otherwise. Just snap your fingers and every man in London will be falling all over you.”

“Yes,” she replied sarcastically. “But this time I have to persuade one of them to actually marry me.”

He shushed her and rearranged the papers on his desk, but Bathsheba couldn’t fail to notice his relief that she had rejected his proposal. No wonder she had turned so cynical. Men didn’t want to marry her. They only wanted to bed her. Well, at least she could acquit Matthew of that charge. He didn’t even want that.

“Bathsheba, what are you going to do about Rachel?”

Her heart jolted with a hard, extra beat. Why did Matthew have to bring her sister up now? Didn’t they have enough to worry about? “I’m not going to do anything about Rachel. She’s fine just where she is.”

He fiddled with his papers some more. “I was thinking we could bring her here—to Compton Manor. I could look out for her, and I’ve more than enough servants to tend to her needs. That, at least, would relieve you of the expense of her upkeep.”

She stared at him, stunned by the suggestion, fighting back incipient panic. To the world, her sister had died long ago. The scandal of her reappearance would surely doom Bathsheba’s chances of securing a rich husband.

“Absolutely not.” Her voice came out sharp as a blade. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you for the offer, but Rachel is happy where she is. The Wilsons love her and would be very sorry to lose her.”

That much, at least, was true. On her visits to Rachel, it was obvious to Bathsheba that her sister was happy, and that her caretakers were genuinely fond of her. No matter how much it cost—and it cost a great deal—she must keep Rachel safely hidden away in the countryside. A rich husband could help her do just that.

The earl gave her countenance a thorough inspection. She calmly met his gaze, refusing to squirm or show any discomfort.

“Don’t you think it’s time for another physician to examine her?” he asked abruptly. “Perhaps something could be done for her.”

She took a moment to quell the stab of anger and guilt that pierced her. “There’s nothing that can be done to help. She’s like a child, Matthew. The fever robbed her of both her speech and her wits. Rachel will never recover, and no one will understand why my father insisted we hide her away, or why I maintained the fiction of her death after Papa died.”

Because you were a coward. The words whispered through her brain, but she ruthlessly beat them back. She might have been a coward, but Reggie had left her no choice.

“But . . .”

She leaned forward in her chair and glared at him. “Leave it alone, Matthew. I mean it.”

As always, he crumbled before her will. “Well, she’s your sister,” he conceded. “I just wanted to help.”

“Thank you, but she’s my responsibility, not yours.” She knew she sounded heartless, but Matthew’s sentimentality—and naiveté—tried her patience. She was too weary and discouraged to pretend otherwise.

Bathsheba rose, smoothing down the silk of her skirts, taking comfort, as always, in the slippery, rich feel of the material draping her body.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must speak to my abigail. We leave for London first thing in the morning.” Now that her mind had been made up, she couldn’t wait to shake the dirt of Yorkshire from her slippers and return to the city. Where she belonged.

Matthew rose, too, but suddenly looked as if someone had stuck a burr down the front of his breeches.

She sighed. “Is there something else?”

“Sir Philip Dellworthy and his lady heard you were back and sent round an invitation to dine with them tomorrow.”

Bathsheba closed her eyes. Of course they had. She had arrived in Ripon only twenty-four hours ago, but she so rarely came north that her visit was bound to cause a stir amongst what passed for the local gentry. They would all want to see the Countess of Randolph and hear the latest gossip from town. And there was nothing she hated more than having to hobnob with a drawing room full of vulgar mushrooms, beefy squires, and disapproving, countrified matrons.

“And you told them what?”

He gulped. “That we would be happy to dine with them.”

“Matthew!”

He cut her off. “It won’t do to run away, Sheba. They’ll think something’s wrong, and that will cause gossip.” He gave her a placating smile. “Must keep up appearances. That’s what you always say, isn’t it?”

She flung herself back into the creaky leather chair. “Yes, that’s what I always say. Pour me a brandy, will you? And make it a generous one. I’m going to need it.”



Bathsheba wedged herself into the corner of her luxurious carriage, resting her throbbing head against the squabs as the vehicle bumped over the appalling country roads. She let her eyelids droop, allowing herself to slip into velvety darkness. Sleep began to thread its foggy tendrils through her brain. Worries slowly dissipated as she drifted into welcome oblivion.

A loud thump, and then her head slammed into the side of the carriage as a wheel plunged into a hole the size of Westminster Abbey.

“Oh, I say, old girl,” said Matthew, peering at her with concern. “Hope you didn’t hurt yourself. The roads are ghastly, what with all the rain we’ve had lately.”

She stifled an unladylike curse and raised her hands to smooth her coiffure.

Another twenty-four hours of country living had done nothing to improve her humor. After an intensely boring dinner with Matthew—who had brought the new copy of Canterbury Tales to the table with him—Bathsheba had retired to bed early. She had tossed and turned most of the night, kept awake by the quarter hours of the casement clock outside her door and by her gloomy thoughts. Sleep had finally come near dawn. A few hours later she had been awakened by a cacophony of birdsong, which somehow seemed a great deal louder and much more annoying than all the tumult and bustle of the London streets.

Her day had passed with all the speed of a hobbled tortoise. After thoroughly depressing herself with an inspection of the overgrown gardens and shabby manor house, she wrote several letters, read a book, and went over the ledgers again with Mr. Oliver. By the time she and Matthew set out for the Dellworthys at the absurdly early hour of four P.M., Bathsheba was ready to shriek with boredom and frustration. When she was young she had loved the country. Now she had no idea how it had ever appealed to her.

“Where in God’s name is Dellworthy’s estate? Scotland?” she groused. “We’ve been driving for ages.”

Matthew smiled, ignoring her miserable temper. “Not much farther, my dear. And it’s not really an estate. More like a smallish park. But the house is only a few years old, and Dellworthy spared no expense in the building of it. The man made a killing in the wool trade. Rich as Croesus, they say.”

Bathsheba hated him already.

A few minutes later they bowled up a graveled drive through a small park, trimmed and landscaped to within an inch of its life. As the carriage pulled into the sweep in front of the house, Bathsheba jerked upright to stare out the window.

“I thought you said they built the house a few years ago.”

Matthew nodded.

“It looks like a castle,” she said. An absurd, miniature castle. Loaded down with battlements, chimney stacks, and what appeared to be a small Gothic chapel sticking out into the front courtyard.

She looked at Matthew. “You must be joking.”

He shrugged.

Sir Philip and his lady greeted them in an entrance hall crammed with Roman statuary, then escorted them into a red drawing room festooned with elaborately draped curtains—also red—held up by gilt carved eagles. Large pier glasses, bright crimson sofas in the French fashion, and an Egyptian chimneypiece added up to a stylistic assault. In the late afternoon sun, the entire room seemed to pulsate and throb as if it were alive. Bathsheba surreptitiously rubbed her temples, feeling the building ache of a migraine.

Lady Dellworthy introduced her to the other guests, including the vicar and his wife, some other respectable and boring local worthies, and Miss Amanda Elliott, a middleaged spinster whom Bathsheba vaguely remembered from a previous visit. Miss Elliott, however, clearly remembered her, and not with fondness, if her coldly correct greeting was any indication.

Lady Dellworthy tapped Bathsheba’s arm with her fan. “And here is our local physician, the worthy Dr. Littleton. And his friend and former student, visiting from London. Perhaps you have met him already. Dr. Blackmore, may I present Lady Randolph, cousin to the current earl, Lord Randolph.”

Bathsheba turned away from the chill of Miss Elliot. She looked up, looked higher, and felt the breath clog in her throat as she found herself staring into the compelling gaze of a very tall and very broad-shouldered man. The throbbing, wound-colored drawing room faded away, as did the pain in her temples.

Like an untried schoolgirl she stood motionless, fascinated by the color of his eyes—a shivery, wintery gray. They were hooded and penetrating, with a weariness that called out to her, sneaking past her defenses, setting off a bittersweet ache in her chest.

He didn’t speak or move. She let her gaze drift over toolean features that were beautiful in a starkly masculine way. There were deep lines around a sensual, generous mouth, and a hard jaw shadowed with the hint of a night beard that matched the black of his unfashionably short hair.

Bathsheba blinked hard and tried to look away, but she couldn’t. She had the bizarre notion she could stare into Dr. Blackmore’s face for days on end, and never once feel bored.

Amusement began to replace the weariness in those amazing eyes. The doctor bowed, then straightened to his considerable height. She felt like an awkward child standing before him.

“Lady Randolph,” he said, his deep, smooth voice sending a velvet hum up her spine. “It is a great pleasure to finally meet you. I have seen you at routs and concerts in London, of course, but have never had the honor of an introduction.” His smile grew knowing, as if he sensed her discomposure and found it entertaining.

She jerked herself to attention, irritated by her uncharacteristic loss of control.

“Why, Dr. Blackmore,” she replied in her best seductive purr. “How remiss of you not to secure an introduction. I’m sure I should be insulted. Perhaps if I bother to think about it long enough, I will be.”

He looked startled. Lady Dellworthy squeaked and fluttered helplessly beside him.

Bathsheba turned away to address Dr. Littleton. Fortunately, she did remember him, and took refuge in asking questions about the general health of the local villagers. The physician happily obliged her, launching into a detailed recital. But Dr. Blackmore still loomed over her, a disturbing presence that set her nerves jangling like a steepleful of demented bells. She ignored him, studiously listening to his colleague. After a few minutes—although it felt so much longer—he walked away.

She gradually let out her breath, doing her best to pretend she was listening to Dr. Littleton drone on about Mary something-or-other’s consumptive complaint. Why had she reacted so strongly to Dr. Blackmore? Certainly, he was a handsome man, but she had known dozens of handsome men, and taken a few of them into her bed. No. There was something else. Something that plucked a chord deep within her memory—something her conscious mind wanted to push away.

She dared a peek across the room, where Dr. Blackmore now stood talking with Miss Elliott and Matthew. As if she had tapped him on the shoulder, he glanced over, meeting her gaze with a direct, hard look.

Hard, but not cold. In fact, she felt burned by the heat in his eyes, and it frightened her. In a flash she suddenly remembered why. That was exactly how Reggie had looked at her when first they met. As if he already possessed her, body and soul. That look had sucked her in, consumed her, and had eventually made her life a long purgatory of despair. Standing at her husband’s graveside four years later, she had vowed she would never succumb to passion again.

Bathsheba stared into Dr. Blackmore’s intense gaze a moment longer, then turned away.

Lady Randolph was a finished piece of perfection, the most alluring John had ever encountered. Seated across from him at dinner, she ate with a dainty precision that utterly seduced him. From a distance, as he had seen her before in London, she was lovely—petite and lush, with gleaming coils of russet hair. But up close her beauty became a devastating weapon, one so powerful he had been knocked into speechless idiocy when Lady Dellworthy introduced them.

Even trapped in a labored conversation with Sir Philip, Lady Randolph sparkled with life. Her luminous green eyes shone with intelligence, presenting an enticing contrast to the pretty bow of her mouth. John had been tempted to lean down and taste that sweet, innocent-looking mouth when she stared up at him in the drawing room—Lady Dellworthy and her respectable guests be damned.

But then she had parted those soft lips and leveled him with a frosty insult. That had surprised him, given her initial response. She had certainly been affected by their meeting, unable to hide the evidence of her arousal. Her dilated pupils, the flush across her cheekbones, the hitch in her respiration, all told him she had responded in a visceral, sexual way. And, like a crowing fool, he’d been startled into giving her a triumphant smile that sent her running for the hills.

“What about you, Dr. Blackmore?” asked Sir Philip. “What do you think?”

He dragged his attention from Lady Randolph’s entrancing face back to his host. “I beg your pardon, sir. I have been inattentive, which I can only blame on the excellence of the goose.”

Sir Philip, seated at the head of the table, gave a congenial laugh as he leaned over and jabbed him in the bicep. “Oh, aye, the goose! I saw you with your eye on the countess. Not that I blame you. I can hardly pay attention to my own dinner, what with such great beauty next to hand.”

He waggled his graying eyebrows at Lady Randolph, who sat at his left. She stared back at him before lifting her lips in a decidedly vicious sneer. Sir Philip smiled and carried on, apparently oblivious to the gaze that would have struck terror into the soul of a more perceptive man.

“Dr. Blackmore,” he said, leaning back as one of an endless number of footmen removed his plate and replaced it with another, “I asked you and her ladyship what you think of our little castle. My lady worked hand in glove with the architect, and to great effect, if I do say so. Of course, it’s nothing to compare with the beauties of Compton Manor. But still, I flatter myself that our efforts were not quite wasted.”

Lady Randolph’s sneer turned lethal. “Very few houses in Yorkshire can compare to Compton Manor,” she said in a cold voice. “It’s a pity that so many people these days fail to understand the principles of good taste. I always think it a great mistake when amateurs take upon themselves the work of experts.”

Sir Philip flushed the color of faded brick. She smiled and turned back to her plate, delicately spearing a single, perfect strawberry and raising it to her mouth. Despite his irritation at her rudeness, John couldn’t help but notice the moist fullness of her lips as they closed around the red berry or the smooth column of her slender throat as she swallowed. An inconvenient erection began to swell against the placket of his trousers.

“Oh, Dellworthy,” called his wife from the other end of the table. “Are you boasting about the house again?” She gave a hearty chuckle. “He loves to talk about our little manor and my small role in its creation. My dear Lady Randolph, I assure you I tell him that he mustn’t.”

John smothered a grin at the stunned look on Lady Randolph’s face. Her narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils registered her distaste with Lady Dellworthy’s slapdash manners. In London, one would never call down the dining room table, at least not in a formal gathering. He suspected Lady Randolph rarely attended informal ones.

As oblivious to danger as her husband had been a few minutes earlier, Lady Dellworthy carried on. “My dear countess, did my husband point out to you the vaulted ceiling?”

John winced. The lady’s voice had a peculiar, carrying quality. Even her husband and some of the other guests looked embarrassed. Lady Randolph looked ready to spit nails.

Their hostess waved an arm at the ceiling, her numerous gold bracelets clinking with a cheery little jangle. “I wanted to create the effect of a Norman cathedral. A nave in miniature. From the outside of the house, the dining room resembles a chapel. Perhaps you no