Page 11 of The Scent of Intuition
“Oh, Bea, I hoped you’d be here in time!” Despite the puffy circles under her eyes that betrayed her lack of sleep, Violet was always the picture of elegance, even at this early hour. She was serving herself a generous portion of coddled eggs.
“In time for what?” Bea asked when one footman pulled a chair back for her to sit and another poured her a cup of coffee.
What was most unusual, however, was Violet chewing with vigor and stuffing half a slice of toast in her mouth. “Hungry?” she sputtered as if her appetite had left her no time to swallow before her next bite.
Bea tried not to grimace, but her stomach growled at the sight of the lovely display of the breakfast set for guests, which usually didn’t include her. The table was covered with dishes of kippers, several tiny white bowls of what she knew to be jams, covered by notched lids and porcelain spoons sticking out of a small hole in each one, as well as racks filled with fresh, toasted bread, and a pot of steaming tea promising to round off the hearty meal.
Yet it wasn’t the food nor her hostess’ insatiable appetite this morning that caught Bea off guard. Instead, it was the guest who entered the dining room after she’d taken a seat. He was a young man, dashing in a worldly way that words seldom captured, with an easy manner that spoke of good breeding and intelligence that flickered in his dark eyes. His politeness was evident in the slight bow he offered Bea, a gesture of respect that seemed almost from another era.
Or another country.
Bea knew Debrett’s well and couldn’t recall anyone who’d matched his description, much less anyone of any status whom she hadn’t met before.
“There you are. How good of you to join us for breakfast.” Violet pressed the napkin to her mouth and nodded toward the seat across from Bea. The guest took his place with all the elegance of a true gentleman, one hand behind his back and a curt incline to thank his hostess.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and inviting, filling the space between them with an immediate sense of familiarity.
Aha!He was titled, or else he wouldn’t dare forego the etiquette of more formal forms of address when dining with the Countess of Langley.
As soon as he spoke, Bea realized that he wasn’t English, but she couldn’t pinpoint the slight accent—a combination of a French lilt and the Russian rolling “r,” and yet, it was neither.
“I see the preserves from the orchards have arrived,” he said, and Violet waved grandly at the little porcelain jam pots.
Oh no, Violet was already plotting something, and Bea hadn’t even had time to ask her for help.
“Lady Beatrice Wetherby, may I formally introduce you to our esteemed guest who found himself at our doorstep last night, seeking shelter after the ball?” Violet’s eyes sparkled with the thrill of the introduction, a secret pleasure in the orchestration of social connections that was a hallmark of her character.
He was impeccably dressed in cream-colored breeches, polished riding boots, a dark blue waistcoat, and a matching velvet coat. This man was not searching for shelter; he was a surprise house guest.
Then, turning to the young man, whose polite interest had sharpened into keen anticipation at Violet’s preamble, she continued, “Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, this is Lady Beatrice. She is a cherished friend of this household, with a keen wit and a generous spirit that endears her to all who know her.”
“A display of sweet delights for me this morning,” the prince said, looking at Bea rather than the jams.
Taking the seat across from her, Bea couldn’t help but smile, the formality of their introduction melting away in the face of his flattery.
So Violet had a prince in store after the ball.
Cunning.
Smart.
Bea had to give her credit; she was a master manipulator of humankind.
She met Violet’s gaze momentarily, and they understood each other perfectly.
“Stan is a Hohenzollern and has traveled widely,” Violet started.
“I’m only a Hohenzollern on my mother’s side, I’m afraid,” he said as he lifted a cup of coffee to his mouth.
“Prince Constantin Ferdinand Maximilian—” Bea started. No, that didn’t sound correct. She furrowed her brows.
“Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen,” Violet corrected her.
“Right.” Bea shot her athank-you-for-embarrassing-melook. There was a reason one had the chance to memorize the names of aristocrats in order before the balls, lest this exact embarrassment occur where one forgot the order of someone else’s given names.
“My friends call me Stan; it’s part of Constantin,” he said with a smile. Bea cocked her head. How did Violet know that misspeaking his name would put her on a friendly basis of using their given names so quickly?
He spooned the strawberry jam onto… that couldn’t be right. Before she could say anything, Violet reacted.
