Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] (7 page)

“Believe me, Miss Westbrook, I’ve never for a moment imagined I was.” His reply came out so quickly, on the whiplash of his temper, and she knew if he’d taken time to think, he would never have said those words. He pivoted away, stepping nearer to the window and bringing the teacup to his mouth again.

Her face heated. Her stomach turned over. The bay in which they stood felt suddenly very small. The piano played on behind them, a Bach sinfonia whose cool precision only underscored her discomposure, and she could not for the life of her think of what to say.

She’d thought … well, in truth maybe she’d had some
inkling of his finding her attractive. Yes, of course she had. Men generally did find her attractive; there was nothing remarkable in that. She just hadn’t imagined him to harbor, these three years later, any feelings as could spur him to speak so … pointedly.

Her hands were still clasped behind her back, and her nails were digging into her palm. How long had she been silent now? He’d been the last to speak; she ought to say something in answer.

But he spoke first. “Let me try again, without the officiousness.” He frowned into his teacup as though the right words were floating there. Because he wanted to avoid looking at her. “As a friend to you and your father, I strongly recommend you confide in him. In your mother as well, for that matter. I’m sure they’d agree with me that it seems odd, this aunt wanting you to call now when she’s had years to issue such an invitation.”

“On the contrary, it’s easily explained.” All at once she couldn’t seem to remember how to talk to him. His presence scrambled her thoughts and she could only spit them out as belligerence. “Lady Harringdon has heretofore chiefly occupied herself with making matches for her daughters. Now they’re all married, I expect she’s in want of something to do, and why shouldn’t she like to repeat her success with another young relation?”

“Kate.” Rarely, rarely did he call her by her Christian name, and she wished he hadn’t done it now. The single syllable fairly dripped with pity. “Do you really think the countess intends to make a match for you? Has she said anything at all to support that notion?”

“I don’t wait for her to say so.” Now wounded pride leaped headlong into the whirlwind of mixed-up sentiments, making her more belligerent yet. “If she hasn’t already formed the idea of sponsoring me into society, I shall have to form that idea for her.”

“Such a thing isn’t easily done.” Said like a grown man lecturing patiently to an impetuous little girl.

“I never supposed it was. I don’t limit myself to
easy
undertakings, you see. And you’ll pardon me, I hope, for questioning the extent of your authority on the intricacies of better society.” She knew perfectly well he’d always spent his evenings in study rather than going out to balls and card parties as other young men liked to do.

He blanched, and too late she heard the words she’d said, or rather, heard the insult he must have heard in them. For an instant his eyes widened, and flicked back and forth trying to read her, as if he couldn’t believe the Miss Westbrook he knew would really say such a thing and he must make sure she was not some other woman in disguise. Then he shifted his gaze to a spot over her shoulder. “Quite right.” His voice had gone crisp and remote. His posture was stiff as a soldier’s. “I’m no expert in these things. I oughtn’t to have taken up the subject at all.” He made a partial bow, his eyes still not meeting hers. “I’ll excuse myself now. Thank you for the tea. I wish you such success with your aunt as may render my concern laughable.”

She nearly put out a hand to stop him from leaving. She’d meant to refer only to his retiring habits. He prided himself on those; she couldn’t truly wound him with a jibe on the subject. She would never deliberately mention the scandal that had hurt his standing in society. Not once in the months since she’d learned of it had she given him the slightest indication that she knew.

But any explanation, now, must involve invoking that same set of events. And she was too agitated from their argument to find her way to a more circumspect apology. She could only watch as he withdrew from her company and made his way to the opposite side of the room.

He did not again address her for the remainder of his
call. He spent a good while speaking to Viola at her desk, and obligingly looked through some of Sebastian’s innumerable drawings, and laughed with Mama and Papa by the fire. And when he took his leave it was with one bow to encompass all the Westbrooks, his glance skipping over her like a stone across the water in a game of ducks and drakes.

“What did you say to Mr. Blackshear tonight?” Vi asked her later, as they readied for bed. “Even I could see he was displeased with you.” In the mirror, her blunt, guileless stare caused Kate to lower her own eyes to her hands.

“I don’t remember quite what I said.” She wove her sister’s nighttime plait with a bit more concentration than usual, or at least the appearance of such. “Only it was in response to his presumption. He questioned my chances of making such connections as you know I am determined to make.” Viola didn’t know about Lady Harringdon’s note, so Kate left that part vague. “I suppose I may have been a bit injudicious in my reply.” Even the milder insult she’d intended was beginning to feel like the petty work of a schoolgirl at Miss Lowell’s.

Vi shook her head—she could never remember to not do that when her hair was being plaited—and winced at the tug to her scalp. “You surprise me. For all the times I’ve had to hear you lecture on what courtesies are due to a guest, I should have thought you’d be the last among us to speak as carelessly to Mr. Blackshear as if he were but another sibling.”

I’ve never for a moment imagined I was your brother
. She ducked her head lower as heat crept into her cheeks. That had been the dropped stitch, the blotted word, the missed entrance; the point from which everything had gone completely off course. What did he mean, exhuming those sentiments and bringing all kinds of awkward consciousness into their relation? She would surely not
have lost her temper, and would never have chosen her words so carelessly, if he hadn’t said that to her.

“Really, it will be too bad of you if he keeps away from us now.” Viola clearly took her silence as an invitation to further reproach. “He calls rarely enough as it is, and he’s one of the few tolerable men among Papa’s protégés.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Papa knows any number of agreeable young men.”

“Agreeable to you, I’ll grant, since they spend the visit staring at you slack-jawed.” Vi picked up her hair ribbon from the tabletop and wove it through her fingers as she spoke. “Mr. Blackshear has better sense. He remembers to ask after my book, and Sebastian’s drawings, and what Mama thought of Mr. Kean’s
Othello
. Did you not see how attentive he was to Rose? I would have thought you’d appreciate that.”

“I did see. I did appreciate it. He was very good to her.” She plucked the ribbon from her sister’s fingers and wrapped it round the tail end of the plait. “I hope … if I’ve offended him, I hope he may not hold that against the rest of you.”

If
, again. She’d offended him. She hadn’t meant to do so, at least not so deeply as she had, but she’d offended him all the same. He wouldn’t hold it against the other Westbrooks, though, would he? He
did
have better sense, as Viola said. A brief squabble with her, and an accidental slight, couldn’t put him off the household altogether.

Though it wasn’t just the squabble and the slight. Too vividly she remembered the speed with which he’d turned from her and taken interest in his tea; the long, sinfonia-filled pause in which they’d stood there, the echoes of his rash utterance dancing circles round them both.

She tied the ribbon tight, measuring out the loops and
trailing ends to make a neat symmetrical bow. Vi was right. Mr. Blackshear
wasn’t
like Papa’s other young men who came to call. She could not permit her parents and siblings to lose his society merely because of some awkwardness or a misunderstanding between him and her.

She would apologize, in some way that wouldn’t further pierce his pride. She wouldn’t even wait for his next call—she could go to whatever court he was practicing in, and find a moment to tell him she was sorry. Perhaps he’d apologize, too, for having spoken indiscreetly. Or perhaps they’d simply pretend, both of them, that he never had. Either way, they would return to the easy cordiality that had been their habit, and they’d both be more careful with how they spoke, in the future. They would not again risk jeopardizing a friendship that affected more people than just themselves.

“Viola.” She found her sister’s eyes in the mirror. “Do you think our brother could be persuaded to chaperone us for an errand to one of the courts?”

Y
OU
’
LL PARDON
me, I hope, for questioning the extent of your authority on the intricacies of better society.
Well into the next day, he could remember her words verbatim. They’d burned themselves into the folds of his brain.

Nick flexed the fingers of his right hand one by one, a small, inconspicuous action that vented some of his bodily restlessness. A barrister couldn’t, after all, give himself a quick shake while sitting at the courtroom table under the eyes of judges, jury, and opposing counsel. Possibly the eyes of Lord Barclay, too, but he’d forbidden himself to look.

The ridiculous part was that he couldn’t even be sure whether she’d meant to make reference to the family scandal. She had a history of plaguing him for his habit of staying in and studying when other young men went out to balls. That might very well have been the target of her remark. He’d never seen any sign that she knew how his name had been tarnished.

Yet it certainly wasn’t out of the question that she would know. She took a greater interest in these things than others in her household did. And if the subject should come up in passing between her mother and
father—
Any day of the week will do for inviting Mr. Blackshear; he hasn’t any cases of late to take up his time
—he could picture her inquiring, and her parents telling her, with an admonishment to allow no change in her manners with Mr. Blackshear.

Nick bent his head to the pages of his brief and pulled one back to frown at the second, though he knew precisely what was on each page. How could he expect to see no changes in her manner, when he’d committed a shameful change in his manner with her?

Believe me, Miss Westbrook, I’ve never for a moment imagined I was
. He had to will himself to not visibly cringe in the courtroom. At least a dozen times since last night he’d relived the taste of those words on his tongue; seen her astonishment and dismay; felt all over again the self-disgust at his want of discretion, and worse, at his having such feelings to report in the first place.

He’d put a deal of effort, over the years, into shaping his affection along brotherly lines. He’d succeeded to a notable degree. Then there she’d been, incandescent with the triumph of her aunt’s letter, bantering with him in her flirtatious style, and when they came to speaking in temper he simply lost his head.

It’s done. You can’t call back the words, either of you. She’ll remain your friend, or she won’t. She knows your secret, or she doesn’t. Now is this really how you want to spend your courtroom time when that baron may be watching how you do?
No. It wasn’t. Enough woolgathering. He straightened the pages of his brief and sent his attention to the boxes where the witness and prisoner stood.

Lord only knew what Barclay would make of this case, if he’d never before experienced the criminal courts. A Miss Mary Watson stood accused of thievery from a Mr. Joseph Cutler, under circumstances that did credit to neither party. In such cases, he might tell the
baron, a barrister’s client must be Justice herself, and he always took care to picture her standing in the dock, blindfolded and regal, in place of, for example, the slatternly, fidgety woman who stood there now, periodically baring her unfortunate teeth in what seemed to be a smile. No doubt Stubbs had recommended she make some attempt to look amiable.

She looked about as amiable as a flea-ridden cur backed into a corner. Nick allowed one glance up to the gallery, to the place where Stubbs always sat. The solicitor had apparently known this glance was coming: he shrugged and shook his head, eyes big and plaintive behind his spectacles, hands helplessly half raised and lowered again.

Well, at least the accuser was no likelier than the prisoner to make a good impression with the jury. Mr. Cutler, perhaps striving for an air of sophistication, had no sooner taken his place in the witness box than he produced a silver toothpick and began to employ it, with an occasional flourish, in between giving his account of what had transpired.

“She took my ring, what had a value of three shilling.” Cutler held up his denuded left hand as though to make a more emphatic proof. “Besides that, she took all the money I had on my person. Three pound in bank notes and eight shilling in coins.”

“
All
the money you had.” George Kersey, arguing for the prosecution today, was one of those barristers who believed every bit of testimony could be improved by a turn in his own voice. In this case, admittedly, he might be right.