Mr Musswell placed a hand on Boden’s sleeve. “She has had her suspicions for some time. A woman scorned will always seek revenge.”
Matthew cast his mind back a few months. He recalled talk of a liaison between Mr Musswell and Lucinda Pearce.
“Revenge is certainly on her agenda,” Matthew agreed. “The lady cannot cope with rejection. She can be irrational when things don’t go as she planned.”
Musswell sighed. “No doubt she finds this whole situation amusing and is probably watching us from the garden.”
“Oh, there is no need to worry on that score,” Matthew said arrogantly. “Miss Pearce has left. I revoked her membership, told her she’s not welcome in my home.”
“You did what?” Boden punched the air, the strenuous activity causing him to sway and stumble. “Damn it all. God knows what she’ll do now.”
“Calm down, Lawrence. Anger serves no one but the Devil.”
Lucinda was nothing more than a gossip, a courtesan who trampled over people to get what she wanted.
“The woman has no power over you,” Matthew said. “No person in their right mind would accuse a lord of a criminal offence. If she spreads rumours, you must deny them. Indeed, it would not take much to have her refused entry to every ball and soiree.”
“Mr Chandler is right, Lawrence. You give the woman too much credit.”
Matthew nodded. “What you do in your personal lives is of no consequence.” This was not the first time he had chanced upon a similar situation. “But may I advise that you be more discreet in future. Conducting a liaison so openly is courting trouble.”
“It’s that bloody brandy,” Boden cried. “I am normally a man in complete control of my urges.”
Matthew shrugged. “Perhaps you should have had the port. It was a particularly good bottle. Indeed, my wife had a new decanter brought in just before the game.”
Boden’s eyes widened. “Yes … yes. Perhaps you’re right.”
“Indeed, I find brandy affects one’s facial expressions. You appeared to develop a twitch before playing a knave. An excessively arched brow equated to a queen.”
Boden’s face turned beetroot red. He mumbled and stuttered but couldn’t form a coherent word.
“Are you all right, Lawrence,” Musswell enquired. “Are you ill? Is it the brandy?”
“Now, I shall leave you gentlemen to your business.” Matthew tugged at the sleeves of his coat and brushed imagined dust from his lapels. “I hope to see you tomorrow, Lord Boden. I shall look forward to ripping up my vowel and watching it burn. When you play cards again, you should refrain from drinking brandy. Twitches are often mistaken for silent communication, and I’m certain you would hate for others to think you a cheat.” Matthew inclined his head. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
With a grin stretching from ear to ear, Matthew left them to their affairs. He had taken but two strides across the lawn when he heard Boden’s frustrated curses rent the air. While annoyed with Lucinda for causing mischief, finding Boden in a clinch with a male lover was a fitting reward.
Matthew was still smiling to himself when he entered the ballroom, but Robert’s frantic gesture from his position on the stairs banished all amusing thoughts. Perhaps Lucinda refused to leave and was intent on making a scene.
Matthew strode over. “What is it, Robert? Please tell me you got rid of her.”
“No, the … the lady, sir. She’s had an accident, tripped and tumbled on her way out. She hit her head hard on the front steps.”
Bloody hell!
“All I asked you to do was escort her to the damn door?” This was probably another one of Lucinda’s games to get attention. “I assume we’re talkin
g of Miss Pearce?”
Robert nodded. “Hopkins came looking but couldn’t find you.”
“I trust she’s not dead.” Matthew accompanied the footman out into the hall. Relief filled his chest when he saw John standing to attention at the bottom of the stairs.
“No, sir. She’s in the drawing room. We carried her and laid her out on the chaise.”
“But she is breathing?”
Robert nodded again. “She looks to be sleeping.”