“Oh, just something of John’s I was reading.”
He nodded his understanding and when he didn’t probe further, she sat back with relief.
On the large crested tray stood a milk pitcher, sugar bowl, and two fine cups and saucers—which she recognized as Worcester porcelain.
“The waiter assures me this tea is the finest souchong, but if you prefer coffee...?”
“No, tea is perfect.”
He eyed the small pitcher. “Do you still take milk?”
Surprise flared.He remembered.“Yes. Thank you.”
He poured milk into her cup, followed by tea in both. Her gaze lingered on his long, lean fingers. His were not the doughy hands of a man of leisure but were instead strong and callused from holding rein and whip, bat and bowl.
He lifted the newly arrived plate. “I have ordered seed cake. Takes me back to childhood, I own. But Bernard could bring buttered muffins or anything else you wished.”
“Seed cake sounds a treat.” She reached for a piece and tooka delicate bite. “Delicious. Rose used to make it for us after...” She swallowed, hard. A seed caught in her throat and she lifted a serviette to cover her cough.
Concern furrowing his brow, he slid her cup closer. “Here, drink this.”
She nodded, eyes watering, and sipped the stout brew.
When she recovered, she avoided his eyes, saying, “Sorry. Not very ladylike.”
“Not at all, Miss Lane. You strike me as every inch the lady.”
Her gaze flew to his. Was she imagining it, or was a flush creeping over the top of his white collar?
He took a bite of his own cake, then asked, “Did you see Rose when you visited your brother?”
She nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“How is she? My former nursery maid, remember? I have not seen her in some time.”
“She is ... em...” How to be truthful and yet vague enough not to expose her brother?How was Rose?She was concerned, fretful, feeling helpless and hopeless as to how to help John. Emotions Rebecca shared.
“She’s in good health,” Rebecca said. “As spry and hardworking as ever. Thank you again for arranging for her to live and work in the lodge. She has been indispensable.”
He watched her closely a moment, then stirred his tea, although he’d added neither milk nor sugar. He glanced up at her from beneath a fall of dark hair. “And ... how is John?”
Again she hesitated. How to reply? She didn’t want to say anything about her brother’s mental or financial state that would cause Sir Frederick to evict him. Did he know John had failed to pay the rent the last few months? His steward had likely reported the lapse. Did she want to be the one to mention it if Mr. Jones hadn’t?
She took another sip of tea to delay and dampen dry lips.
“He is ... struggling, truth be told. He hasn’t been able to interest a publisher in the book he finished recently and is finding it difficult to write another.”
A line tensed between his eyebrows, and Rebecca hurried to add, “Thankfully, he is also correcting proofs for the newspaper. He was ... distracted by work when I called at the lodge.”
“So was it your idea to stay here instead?”
“Actually, John suggested it. He had not read my letter announcing my arrival and was not prepared for company. He has taken over the room I usually use, as his office.” She added lightly, “Reference books and stacks of paper everywhere! I spent the night on the sofa, and in the morning, I realized what John really wanted was...”
“Solitude?” Frederick suggested.
“Yes, I suppose so. He believes I can help him more by staying here.” She hurried to change the subject. “Speaking of solitude, what has you sitting out here all alone?” She managed a small smile. “Your brother abandon you?”
He chuckled. “In this case, I rather abandoned him. We hosted a meeting with potential investors in a proposed canal spur, and afterward, I just wanted a little time alone.”
