Recovering from a momentary stupefaction, the Viscount cleared his throat, and begged pardon for the impertinence of barging in without the slightest ceremony. This apologetic admission, expressed with a very fetching smile, was enough to curb a reproving tongue, and the Countess, a lady with no straitlaced inclinations, returned the smile and blithely proffered an elegant hand for the Viscount to kiss.

“Lady Stokeford,” he murmured, and remarked afterwards, “Why, ma’am, you’re a rare and refreshing sight to behold! The town’s overgrown of stale beauties these days, you know. May I ask what brings you here all of a sudden?” His fine gray eyes swept across the room and fleetingly countered the Earl’s blazing ones. Lord, he thought, Stefan is rankled to the bone!

Lady Stokeford gracefully laughed over the compliment. “Always the charmer, are you not, Robert?” she responded with her well-modulated voice. Rendering yet another bow as an answer, Lord March deposited himself on the chair across the settee. “Although,” the Countess added with a pointed glance towards his son, who had moved to the fireplace and broodingly turned his back to them, “I could not say the same thing about my dear son, could I?”

“Alas, ma’am! I’m afraid Stefan’s a hopeless case,” Lord March chuckled, but found the remark a little provoking. Lady Stokeford might be impervious to the reaction of his son, but the Viscount was certain he saw that stiff shoulders vaguely flinched. Unflappable he might appear to be, but Lord Robert March acknowledged the tension that pervaded the atmosphere, and it inwardly put him in fidgets. What with the Countess bent on stirring the coals, and Stefan ready to spit fire at the first opportunity, a mighty awkward position he would be in, to be sure.

Hardly ignorant of the complexities with which the lives Beaumonts were involved, the Viscount knew exactly the strain brought by Stefan’s tempestuous relationship with his mother. It certainly had a very long history, and Robert had not been a confidant in the past decade without being constantly told of every intrigue and issue.

As a juvenile, he’d spent a fair amount of summer holidays at his friend’s residence in Gloucestershire. Those glorious days were filled with unbridled delight and youthful pursuits—clandestine swimmings in a creek, or fishing, or reckless races through the fields — any larks a pair of fifteen year-old striplings could conceive to while the day away. Young Robert had been the perky, outspoken one, always game for anything, while the young and taciturn Stefan had never divulged much beyond his interests, and told a little of what he thought about certain things.

Their friendship hadn’t been formed out of easy circumstances. Young Stefan had been difficult to deal with, hostile and wary, and would only answer a question as scantly as possible, although this did not deter Robert from reaching him out. He’d proved to be tenacious and gradually got on Stefan’s nerves, and had tried so far as to poke his prying nose in the matters that Stefan would’ve preferred to deal with alone. This meddling had been finally put to an end when the considerably enraged Stefan had decided to give Robert a facer. It had been unpleasant, but surprisingly enough he’d relented and begged pardon, and took the other lad’s hand. And for the next days to come, a newly-formed friendship had started to grow between them.

It had been yet another Herculean task for Robert to persuade his friend to let him stay over the entire summer in his family’s country seat. Stefan had been so set against the idea and protested that Robert would never liked it there, because it was as dull as backwater. ‘Oh, fudge!’ he’d replied. ‘We can always contrive to do something! Stop being a bloody spoilsport and say yes, Stefan!’ In the end the exasperated Stefan, acknowledging that he would never get another week of peaceful nights without Robert nagging him to consent to his plan, had been moved to agree.

It wasn’t certainly a backwater; in fact, the scenery that surrounded Stefan’s abode was a marvel to see. Though oddly enough, the Stokeford Manor, an imposing grey edifice that housed generations of proud Beaumonts, stood like a blotch amidst the lush green vista. To an onlooker it definitely had a somber effect, and Robert had found it as quiet as a dead man’s chest. When he’d asked the whereabouts of his mother and father, Stefan had only shrugged, and said woodenly: “Father must be in his study. And Mother—well, the last time I saw her, it was eight months ago.”

There had been a day in one of Robert’s sojourns that the Countess of Stokeford was present. It had occurred to him that for her to put appearances was rather an unusual thing in the household. She was a remarkably good-looking woman even back then, with a pair of lively blue eyes, shining auburn locks and a neatly trimmed figure for a woman of her age. Out of sheer naiveness, and the thought that every family was like his own, Robert had been a little shocked, and a trifle disconcerted, to see the loathing that had severed the bond of the late Earl of Stokeford and his Countess. Never had he seen a couple hated one another so cordially, and acted as though it was a very natural thing in the world.

It was borne in on Lord March later on that his friend’s reserved temperament had its roots on the nature of his upbringing. Moreover, he recognized, with a little pang of sadness for his friend, the significance of Stefan’s description about his home: it was a backwater, for all its coldness and the isolation it offered—a place utterly bared of love and warmth and laughter, enough to make someone wanting and a prey to self-pity. And Stefan had too much pride to reveal this vulnerability to anyone— not even to his friend back then.

Pulling away from these recollections, Lord March focused his attention to Lady Stokeford, who was presently saying, “Yes, that much is obvious. Had I been unaccustomed to brusqueness, Stefan would’ve received an earful from me for that remarkably cold reception!” she sighed. “But let us not dwell on that head further. You’ve asked, Robert, why my sudden arrival here in town, yes?”

“Indeed ma’am.”

“Well, only that the Continent tires me most awfully!” she complained, and with glinting eyes, continued, “Moreover, I find I could not bear to listen to too much cloying and mellow talking; you know how it is with these French and Italians!”

At this juncture, Stefan spoke at last, with an edge on his voice: “I hope, madam, that your French and Italians would not sorely miss your presence there.”

“Indeed, I’m sure they would.” Lady Stokeford replied coolly.

The Viscount, sensing a brewing storm, hurried into speech: “I never really cared for French, or Italians, for that matter. My Aunt Mattie—that is, my Father’s eldest sister, you know—well, she married a Frenchman during the Revolution, and I’d say a mighty fine time to marry one, too! Though of course it was all an impulse-of-the-moment kind of thing. Met the Frenchman, fell head over heels, and then—there! Leg-shackled before anyone else could blink! Lord, I could very well imagine my grandfather setting the whole house by the ears, bellowing like a trombone when he’d heard the news of my aunt’s hasty wedding. Old stiff-neck, he was, and never liked the Frenchies.”

“But how terribly romantic!” the Countess exclaimed. “And I’m sure she’d defied convention to marry for love — a noble and extraordinary thing to do!”

“Well, yes,” the Viscount acknowledged rather reluctantly. “Though my grandfather had believed that it's the glib tongue that had her daughter hooked, not some any romantic attachment.”

“Oh! Poor girl!” She tugged at the bell pull, and when Mr. Philips appeared at the doorway, said, “Philips, will you be so kind as to set another cup for Lord March? Thank you! Oh! And some apricot cakes, perhaps? Cook would certainly obliged me that, for she knows how I pined for it!”

The butler bowed and retreated the room unobtrusively.

"And speaking of romantic attachments,” Lord Stokeford enunciated after a while, his eyes filled with mocking as they were fixed on his mother’s countenance, “How about yours, ma’am? I wonder if it is a French or Italian this time?”

It was no secret that the Countess had strings of lovers. Though the advance age of forty-six already etched a few faint lines on her face, hers was a timeless beauty, and the grace of that willowy debutante who’d made London spellbound nearly thirty years ago was still noticeable. No wonder that she was still courted by several gentlemen—be it young or old.

Ever since her widowhood, Lady Stokeford had entered into a few liaisons, but the hearsay went so far as to say that the late Earl was a Cuckolded Husband—not a an uncommon thing among the nobility, though the ton believed that he had been ashamed of his wife’s conduct, and had therefore consigned himself into a hermit’s isolation until the day of his death.

But to make so blatant a reference to this indiscretion in the middle of a social call was a downright impropriety anyone in his right sense and judgement would never dare to commit. And although it was delivered in the heat of the moment, that wasn't an ample excuse to such an offensive conduct.

It definitely stunned the other occupants of the room. Lord March gaped at him, his gray eyes wide with astonishment and horror. “Stefan! Why—what the—!” Words had failed him this time.

The Countess of Stokeford looked very much outraged, and in her own kindling eyes there was sheer anger and loathing, solely directed to her contemptible son. Her knuckles white, she said, in a voice of suppressed fury, “I’ll have you know, Stefan, that I will not be insulted under my own roof! Never,” she declared indignantly, “have I imagined to live a day when I see my son so full of malice! This is beyond impudence, and I demand that you apologize to your mother this very minute!”

There was a fleeting silence, and the tension seemed to choke the life out of the room. Lord March held his breath for what was coming next, half-wishing he was anywhere else.

Lord Stokeford, his face stony, bowed stiffly at last, and replied, in a little conciliatory tone, “Forgive me, Mother. That was definitely uncalled for.”

The Countess finally got up and walked towards his son, her bosom heaving ponderously. “Well, at least that’s one consolation for me: you do know how to apologize!” she hissed furiously, turned on her heels and exited the room with a flurry of skirts.

It was silent once again. Lord March stood like a waxwork, his horrified gaze lingered at the empty threshold. “Good God!” he finally exclaimed.

Stefan slumped on the vacated settee and sighed. “I know, Robert. That’s putting it in a nutshell.”

“Upon my word, Stefan! You’ve committed solecism, displayed your impudence in that mighty casual way, and here you are, sitting like as cool as you please!” the Viscount shook his head grimly. “And she, your mother, of all people!”

“I assure you, I am anything but cool right now!” countered his friend irritably. Leaning his elbows on his knees, Lord Stokeford buried his face on his hands as a surge of shame was beginning to gnaw at him.

“You could have at least chosen a more private conversation!”

A discreet clearing of throat was heard from the doorway; Lord March turned to see that it was Mr. Philips, returned from a short excursion in the kitchen, and bore a silver tray filled with dainties and a pot of tea. “Your pardon, my lords,” he said, “but I’ve brought some more tea, apricot cakes and some scones.”

“Lord, man, what we wanted is something strong, and not some such flummeries!” he practically snapped at the butler. “Bring us the brandy!”

Mr. Philips, being in service for over forty years to be immune to the caprice of nobility, received this blustering command with perfect equanimity, answered with his usual “Very well, my lord,” and retreated the drawing room once again.

“You shouldn’t bark at old Philips, you know,” Stefan muttered grimly. “He would certainly take offense, and might not let you pass beyond the threshold the next day.”

A reluctant grin appeared on the Viscount’s lips. “Egad, I hope it might not come to that! Come to think of it, he’d meant to warn me earlier about the arrival of your mother, and there I was, looking utterly dolt! Now you’ve made me a little conscientious.” A shadow crossed his countenance as a thought occurred to him. “Stefan, I know you’ve had a hard time—”

“Drop it, March,” Lord Stokeford interrupted sharply. “I don’t want to talk about it. What concerns me is my own, and I will not appreciate it if you begin to poke your nose where it shouldn’t.”

“No,” concurred Lord March placidly, and added with a weak attempt of humor: “As I value my nose more than anything else in my anatomy, upon my soul, I won’t mention it again.”

Mr. Philips reappeared for the third time, bearing the brandy that was so impetuously requested a while ago. “Brandy, my lords,” he announced, but made no move to step forward. After a splitting second, he added: “And Mr. Beaumont.”

“Laurie!” Lord March ejaculated. “This seems to be an exceptional day!”

“Hullo!” Mr. Beaumont strolled leisurely inside with the butler in tow. “I don’t see why it is exceptional for you, Robert, when visiting my cousin’s house is a most ordinary thing to do! Although,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “I own it is not as regularly as you do!”

“I’m sure the last time I was here it was three days ago!” the Viscount retorted. “Well, what brings you here, my young buck? Haven’t clapped eyes on you these days, though I have—” he paused, suddenly remembering the actual objective of his visit. “Dammit, but I think you’re the very person I’ve been wanting to see!”

“What? replied the bemused Mr Beaumont. “And here I thought you are not entirely pleased of seeing me here.”

“Never mind him,” his cousin interposed, “Robert’s having his usual, er, vagaries today.”

“Thought as much!” the younger man grinned and settled on a chair. “Well, I am rather famished! Can I send for tea first? And some scones perhaps, cousin?”

Stefan had this time poured himself a glass of brandy, but paused mid-way in filling another to send a wry look at Robert. His lips twitched as the other man became a little flustered.

“No, you can’t!” Robert hastily put in. “Scones wouldn’t do for you at this time of day: not the thing at all!”

“Lord, and whyever not?” Laurie demanded, failing to see the wisdom of not consuming scones at mid-day.

“Oblige me, Robert,” declared Lord Stokeford with thinly-veiled amusement, “to send for Philips at once!”

And thus the fourth appearance of Mr Philips, whose pursed thin lips became pronounced the moment he heard Mr. Beaumont saying: “Tea and scones, if you please! We’re rather famished Philips!”, to which he replied, with a glance of resentment at the slightly abashed Viscount, “Yes, sir, and may I suggest apricot cakes, too, sir?”

Laurie, having a secret partiality to sweets, nodded eagerly, and complimented Mr Philips for being such a bang-up fellow and a savvy one. After answering yes sir and thank you sir rather sullenly, the ill-used butler executed a stiff bow and disappeared from the room with suspicious mutterings. Mr. Laurence, noticing the rigidness in his manner, enquired to no one in particular: “I wonder what’s plaguing the old man?”

“Flummeries,” came the cryptic answer from his cousin. Lord March choked on his own brandy and made a face at Stefan. It barely escaped the narrowing gaze of Laurie, who, with mounting suspicion, retorted, “Well, I’m dashed if I know what you’re driveling at, but you two are certainly queer today!”

The Viscount made a faint coughing sound. “Best not to get the gist of it, my lad.”

“What brings you here, Laurie?” Stefan abruptly asked. “Have you heard that the Countess has arrived in town?”

“Yes, that’s why I’ve come, and to pay my respects to Aunt Margaret,” his cousin responded in a rather pensive mood. “But the footman said she’d already retired upstairs. I hope she’s well?”

“Indeed. Just a little tired,” the Earl vouchsafed indifferently, his manner suddenly cool. “But the news certainly flies faster than the crow. I wonder just from whom have you heard it?”

“Well, that’s the queerest thing,” Laurie began slowly, as though weighing his every word. “Before coming here, I’ve dropped by my club, y’see, and one of my friends there introduced me to a certain Mr. Milborne—”

“Who?” Stefan turned sharply at him, his countenance darkening.

“Mr. Milborne—that is, Cedric Milborne,” clarified the younger man. Sensing that his cousin fell into brooding silence, he continued, “Afterwards, when he heard my name, he asked me if how am I related to the Countess of Stokeford—he’s a nice chap, y’know, with easy manners—and then I explained that she’s my aunt. He said, ‘I am fairly acquainted with the Countess, y’know. We’d met in Vienna earlier this year,’ and all I answered was ‘Really?’. ‘Yes,’ the chap said, ‘and if I’m not mistaken, she’s already here in town.’ Now that certainly bowled me over!”

Lord Stokeford received this intelligence with incredulity and displeasure, and not without suspiscion. Indeed, he was not at all inclined to think that it was merely an ‘acquaintance’ between his mother and that fellow Cedric Milborne back in Vienna. And he had the gall to brag it about — curse his impudence! To think that he was also a rival in Miss Winscott’s attentions only made it worse. Stefan’s mood blackened even more with these reflections.

“Fairly acquainted, you say? That whippersnapper certainly has the nerve!”

“But cousin! Do you, by chance, know Mr. Milborne?”

“Oh, indeed. I had the very pleasure of making his acquaintance just this morning,” he surly replied, as though the experience wasn’t worth recalling.

“No!” exclaimed Laurie, considerably surprised. “Really? But where did you meet?”

Before Stefan could return an answer, the Viscount, who’d been left in the dark throughout the whole exchange, called their attention by clearing his throat and interjected: “Begging your pardon, but just who is this Cerdirc Milborne fellow?”

“Only that this fellow Mr. Cedric Milborne, Robert,” Lord Stokeford began to explain sarcastically, “is a dear friend of Miss Winscott’s who’d just come back from his dawdling (his word, not mine) in the Continent for two years. In fact, I’d the singular opportunity to listen to his various adventures earlier this day.”