“He does have a point, Billingsworth.” The colonel took a thoughtful sip of his own aperatif. “Local guides are invaluable in enemy terrain, interpreting in several languages and negotiating safe passage. Natives aren’t always friendly. Better to get them on one’s side.”
“I’ll give you that Burnell, but I hope you won’t be giving us that poppycock about your precious Palekmul having been built by loin-clothed savages. They’re far too primitive, as any fool can see. I refuse to believe they could construct such elaborate cities.”
Cornelia felt the man at her side stiffen. Was the baron baiting him on purpose? Anyone who knew about Burnell’s work was aware that he advocated for indigenous tribes having been far more advanced than those living on the British Isles at the time, and that the current residents of the region were their true descendants.
Several moments passed, the baron looking increasingly triumphant and, when Burnell spoke, she could tell he was fighting to contain his temper.
“The generations succeeding those who built the great Mayan monuments—who mastered mathematics and language, astronomy and the visual arts, not to mention the perfection of the calendar—live on, farming the land and travelling the same rivers. To claim otherwise is not only inaccurate but insulting to the millions who uphold the traditions of their ancestors. Though the region was Christianized several hundred years ago, the old ways are revered in a hybrid between European Catholicism and Mayan mysticism. In many places, shrines to the Virgin Mary and the goddess Ixchel are interchangeable.”
“Pah!” The baron’s lip curled in disdain. “That proves nothing. Great the original architects might once have been but whatever enabled those people to rise to supremacy, they’ve long since been brought low—through disease perhaps, or some other weakness of their blood. The peasants who remain are simpletons, and nothing you say will alter the fact.”
Drawn by the baron’s raised voice, others in the room turned their way.
Cornelia was aware of Ethan bunching his fist. Surely, he wouldn’t resort to settling a debate of this nature through physical means?
“While we remain guests in this house, we’d better turn from this subject.” Burnell gave the baron a flinty stare. “I will merely point out that wearing animal cloth and farming the land does not make one a savage, nor a simpleton. I reserve such terms for those who refuse to look beyond their own bigotry.”
“Why, you arrogant, jumped up mongrel, I’ll wipe that smug look—” Only the interception of the colonel and Lord Fairlea taking either arm prevented the Baron from throwing his punch. “Let me go, damn you!”
“You’re a disgrace, Billingsworth.” Burnell turned his gaze towards the windows. “And you’re drunk. On that count, I suggest you remove yourself from this company and let the kitchen send a tray up to your room.”
“Like hell I will!” The baron’s cheeks were turning purple.
“He’s right, old chap. Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but let’s get you out of here. Very bad form to carry on like this.” Lord Fairlea took a firmer grip of the baron’s arm. “I can call the duke to help drag you upstairs but I’d imagine you’d rather I didn’t.”
“Damn fools the lot of you.” The baron wrenched his arm away. “I’ll take myself off, but you haven’t heard the last of this Burnell.”
“What excitement!” declared Blanche, as soon as the baron had departed. “Colonel, would you escort us to a seat, and another sherry would be most welcome—one’s nerves are a little heightened.” Not waiting to be asked, Eustacia took hold of Lord Fairlea and followed suit.
“Goodness me!” Bustling over, Lady Pippsbury flashed Burnell her brightest smile. “How thrillingly masculine. One doesn’t approve, naturally, but there is something stirrifying, seeing two males batting horns. I’m delighted to see you’re the stronger-willed, Mr. Burnell. A woman choosing her mate takes note of such things, even when the brute force of two warring stags remains contained.”
Cornelia fought the urge to roll her eyes. Meanwhile, it gave her some comfort to feel Burnell place his other hand atop hers—still tucked into his arm.
“I don’t countenance violence.” Cornelia noticed that a tick was working in his jaw. “Too many men are free with their tempers, and their fists. It’s the cause of a great deal of unhappiness.”
“A most creditable sentiment,” the marchioness beamed. “As a doting mama, I’d like to believe that any husband to my daughters would take care on both counts. A man’s honourables lie as much in self-control as in defence of those he holds dear.”
Mrs. Bongorge appeared beside. “It is true; a woman likes to be assured of a man’s dominance.” She turned bedroom eyes upon Burnell. “But even pleasure must be taken in moderation.”
Lady Pippsbury turned a condescending glare upon Mrs. Bongorge. “I fear we aren’t talking about quite the same thing. Modesty is the one thing we should never moderate—and vulgipperies are to be moderated at all times.”
“Vulgipperies?” Mrs. Bongorge batted her lashes. “Whatever they are, they sound immense fun. Knowing so much about them, I do hope you’ll enlighten me.”
The marchioness pursed her lips. “Fribbilous girl! Those without the gentilicules to know better cannot be taught.”
Burnell gave Cornelia’s hand a squeeze, and she was obliged to smother her laughter within a fit of coughing.
Lady Pippsbury’s eyes narrowed. Certainly, she had more to say on the subject but, to Cornelia’s relief, the dinner gong sounded.
As before, Lady Pippsbury and Mrs. Bongorge fought for Burnell’s attention but he drew Cornelia in, asking her to share her thoughts on the Palekmul treasures. Besides her aunts, she was the only other to have seen them, so her opinions could hardly be disregarded, and Blanche and Eustacia vigorously agreed with whatever impression she put forward.
Cornelia had no desire to monopolize the table, but the duke and duchess did nothing to intervene as Burnell prompted her repeatedly to speak.
She was certain she saw Lady Pippsbury yawn, and Lord Fairlea appeared to enter a reverie at her side, focused entirely on the food before him.
At last, Lady Studborne called the ladies to withdraw, leaving the men to enjoy their brandy.
“Thank heavens.” Cornelia heard Portia whisper to Paulina as they filed out. “If I hear one more thing about blasted Palekmul I shall scream.”
With the adjoining doors closed, the duchess invited her guests to coffee and ratafia, and took a seat by the hearth, giving the dogs a generous ear rub.
“Let’s have something festive from each of us at the pianoforte.” Lady Studborne smiled benignly. “With any luck, the melodies will lull the little one to sleep and persuade him from kicking me for the next few hours.” She looked directly at Cornelia. “You’ll oblige me, Mrs. Mortmain?”
Though rather out of practice, Cornelia managed a passable rendition of Good King Wenceslas. Mrs. Bongorge followed, playing a jaunty arrangement of Here We Come A-Wassailing and singing her accompaniment, then urged Esther to take her place.