By noon, it had gotten colder. Before heading to the table, I put on a warm fur-lined coat and gloves. Even though it was May — and just a couple of hours ago I'd been sweating from the heat — the weather was still fickle.
The dining pavilion smelled of roasted venison and cloying perfume with a plum-like sweetness. I sat down between some baron, poking at a roasted pheasant breast, and the young, wiry Lord Harwick, whose back was straighter than his chair.
Across the linen-covered table sat Braunt, entertaining three barons with exaggerated tales of his hunting prowess.
"...nearly tore my head clean off, the beast! But I got a bullet between its eyes before it could..."
I turned away and motioned to a servant. A young boy quickly filled my glass with cool wine that made my teeth ache the moment it touched them. My eyes drifted to a piece of reddish meat, now cold and covered in a thin film. Reaching out, I grabbed a rosy-golden bread roll, tore it in two with my fingers, and shoved a piece in my mouth, trying to chew. I had no appetite at all.
"By the way, about sponsoring that abandoned textile factory near Haigrove Lane," said Count Wellinor, gesturing with a turkey leg. "I finalized the ownership papers last week, but I don't intend to run it myself. If any of you gentlemen are interested in buying it out, we can draw up the agreement today — since Captain Oberon is here too."
Speaking of which.
I glanced around. Havisham was nowhere in sight. Most likely holed up in his tent, buried in paperwork, with no plans to stick his nose out for the rest of the day.
"My lord?"
Realizing someone was addressing me, I turned and raised a questioning brow. Count Wellinor was staring at me with the expectant look of a hamster waiting for someone to toss a seed into its cage.
"What do you think about it?"
Scratching my earlobe, I gave a half-hearted shrug.
"For now, I'm not planning on taking on any extra business. I need to sort out the eastern shipments and the industrial equipment at the factory."
The earl nodded, dabbing his lips with a napkin.
"If you need any help — don't hesitate," he said. "At the moment, I'm working with Tallulah. Good wool, although the prices are obviously bloated. But hey, no coin, no candy, am I right, gentlemen?"
Half the table laughed. I forced out a dry smile, letting my gaze drift over the heads of those seated, just in time to catch Braunt leaning playfully toward the blushing young viscountess, twirling the stem of her wine glass with his fingers.
"Does your factory employ child labor, my lord?" asked Harwick, tugging at the silver cufflinks on his sleeves.
I set down the crust of bread I'd been tearing apart.
"No. That's not something I deal in."
Harwick's face twisted like I'd shoved garlic under his nose. He adjusted his monocle and turned away, stabbing at his vegetable salad with a fork.
What the hell kind of question was that?
The baron on my left leaned forward, eyes wide and swimming in drink.
"My lord, I've been meaning to inquire about your sister. Does the young lady… ahem, plan to marry? My nephew constantly pesters me to make an introduction. We've a very handsome dowry, and I daresay..."
"Margarita's education takes priority for now. She'll decide when the time is right, and I don't believe it's my place to pressure her."
"And if she chooses not to? Will you continue to provide for her without hesitation?"
The clink of cutlery dulled. It felt like a cloud had gathered above the table, one threatening to dump a bucket of water on me — though, luckily, I always carried an umbrella.
"If it comes to that, I'll provide for her even beyond my death. Margarita handles half the household accounts; she's an equal owner of our inheritance and has equal say over the property left to us by our father. If she doesn't want to marry, then I trust she has good reason."
Honestly, I'd be thrilled if she developed a sudden revulsion toward men. Another death at the hands of some degenerate was not on my agenda.
After a moment, Count Wellinor spoke in a low baritone.
"If we had a daughter, I'd feel the same. Unfortunately, I have only a disobedient son who prefers poking holes in my hats to learning any basics of etiquette."
Eleanor, seated to her husband's right, gave him a quick, distant glance before returning to her meat, her long, neat fingers gripping the lace tablecloth.
I immediately felt Braunt's gaze. I also knew the kind of filth about to pour from his rotten mouth.
"My lord," the viscount began, leaning forward. The edge of his cravat brushed the soup tureen, nearly dipping into the gravy. I offered him a cool smile, raising my brows and arranging my face into the softest, most pleasant expression I could manage. "Surely the lady needs no husband. Not when she has such a… devoted and understanding brother who surely gives her all his love."
The table fell silent as I set a tiny silver teaspoon down on my saucer.
The implication was obvious. I remembered the men who, rejected by Margarita, had claimed she didn't need a fiancé because her brother was already warming her bed.
Disgusting.
My fingers reflexively tightened around the steak knife's handle.
"You, viscount, clearly need a wife smart enough to teach you how to hold your tongue."
Count Wellinor jumped to his feet.
"We're not here to make enemies, my lords," he said, turning to Braunt with a sharp scowl. "Viscount, you will apologize."
Braunt clenched his jaw, then forced another smile, as if nothing had happened.
I saw his lower lip tremble.
"My apologies, your grace. I may have had a little too much to drink."
There wasn't a hint of remorse in his voice.
"I've lost my appetite," I said, rising and scraping my chair back.
I didn't even get to turn before a gloved hand extended in front of me, blocking my way.
A silver chain dangled from the breast pocket of a navy-blue coat.
"Your grace, I've just finished preparing your documents. Have you had lunch?"
Captain Oberon peeked over my shoulder, eyeing the untouched venison and half-empty wine glass. Then he stepped aside and motioned toward his gray tent with an open hand.
"You've eaten. Come."
I scoffed and, without a word, followed him.
A few steps away, I caught the muffled sound of Braunt's laughter and the soft twittering of the flustered viscountess.
"One day, you'll die — even if not by my hand. And when you do, I'll come to your filthy grave and piss on the stone that bears your name. Then I'll order a doghouse built beside it, so some mangy mutt can scratch its fleas there every few hours while you…"
"You alright?" Oberon broke into my thoughts bluntly, lifting the tent flap. Warm air wafted out.
I lifted my head. White strands fell into my face, only to be swept back by a cool breeze.
"Of course, captain. As always."