His long-lashed eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Here, let’s sit down a moment.” He led her to a bench in the cloisters.
When they were seated, she explained, “I am merely disappointed. I hoped Mr. Edgecombe might consider publishing John’s book or at least give him some work, but no.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Did John send you here to speak on his behalf?”
She nodded.
“You know, we used to see him often, rambling about the estate, but I have not seen him in weeks, if not months.”
“He is ... not well, I’m afraid.”
“Has he seen a physician?”
“Not recently. I appreciate your concern, but he will be all right. In time.” She prayed the words were true. In the meanwhile, Rebecca would do anything—or almost anything—to help him.
He tilted his head and regarded her pensively. “I don’t like seeing you unhappy.” He paused, then gave her a crooked grin. “Shall I bring you rout cakes?”
For a moment she blinked up at him, not comprehending.
“Do you not remember?” he asked, with a touch of disappointment.
Then it came to her. “Oh yes! New Year’s Eve at the vicarage.” Rebecca had been sent to bed early and had sat sadly at the top of the stairs to watch the party from there. Frederick had sneaked upstairs with rout cakes and together they’d sung, “Auld Lang Syne.” A promise not to forget old friends.
His dark eyes held hers. “If only I could make you smile as easily now.”
She managed a weak grin in reply. “Thank you for trying.”
At dinner, even more tables were occupied than had been the previous evening. Lady Fitzhoward looked around and clucked like a self-satisfied hen.
“That newspaper notice was quite effective. Did I not tell you it would be?”
“You did indeed.”
Lady Fitzhoward’s gaze swept over her—wearing the same dinner dress—and her lips compressed. “If you intend to stay the whole week, we should have your trunk brought out of storage.”
“Good idea, my lady.”
The stunning Miss Newport came in, wearing the same gown as the night before as well. Empathy and surprise rippled through Rebecca. Was she simply traveling with minimal baggage, or was the evening gown her only one?
Lady Fitzhoward’s keen eyes noticed her interest. “What?”
“Oh. Just curious. She wore the same gown last night too, when you were not feeling well.”
Lady Fitzhoward humphed. “One would think an actress would have an extensive wardrobe.”
A waiter approached. While he described the bill of fare for the evening, Rebecca noticed Lady Fitzhoward’s eyes stray several times toward a man about her own age dining alone across the room.
When the waiter had taken down their selections and departed, Lady Fitzhoward beckoned the maître d’hôtel to their table.
“Yes, my lady, how may I be of service?”
She lifted her chin toward the table in question. “That man seated alone. I have seen him before somewhere but cannot place him. Who is he?”
Rebecca surreptitiously glanced over. The man was well dressed and distinguished-looking, with dark brows, silver side-whiskers, and an aquiline nose.
