“Arnaud’s father?”
“Yes. I wish you could have met him. Arnaud is so much like him, courageous, honorable, and dedicated, but capable of great love.”
When Sophie straightened to allow the footman behind her to place the soup, she glimpsed the face of the admiral sitting across from Honore. He must have heard, or sensed, some of their whispered exchange. When he caught her glance, his smile revealed a twinge of regret.
Sir Thomas stood and gave a light tap to his wine glass with a knife before lifting a toast. “To a gathering of fine friends, and to a blissful respite before we return to the toils of London. After dinner tonight, we will be entertained by the famous actress, Mrs. Withers, with a few selected monologues from Shakespeare. We will enjoy her performance outside on the piazza, in a beautiful English midsummer night.
“Later, my estate is yours to roam. The gardens and grounds abound with torchlights. And when you are ready to retire, my housekeeper, Mrs. White, has had cards prepared which will be on the tray in the hall. Hand-painted flowers have been applied to all of our second-floor doors. The cards are sketches of the house plan with corresponding floral images for each room. I hope that will prevent any aimless midnight wandering in case you find it necessary to leave your room.
“Now please, enjoy the evening.” He sat back down and tucked into his soup.
After Sophie turned away from Honore, she noticed for the first time, all the way down the table, Lydia with her head leaning toward Captain Neville. A quick check of Lord Howick on Sophie’s left revealed his countenance remained calm and jovial. He was enjoying the evening and seemed to have eyes only for Mrs. Withers across the table. Had he not seen his daughter’s dinner partner?
“Do I have soup in my beard?” Lord Howick stopped mid-sip and laid down his soupspoon,
“No, no, of course not.” Sophie gave a nervous flutter with her hand. “Please, do not let me interrupt your dinner.”
“There must be a reason you were staring.”
Sophie noticed a gleam of humor in his eyes. “Of course not.”
“I hope you’re not worried about Lydia’s guard joining us for dinner.”
“Me? No, I am not.”
“You do realize I fully trust Captain Bellingham and all of his men?”
“You do?”
“I’ve entrusted them with both of your lives, and they are honorable men. I’m confident they would never take advantage of my trust. And, fortunately, they all know I have the power to end their careers if they betray that trust.”
Sophie gave a shiver. “You’d do that?”
“Do you doubt me?”
With that, Sophie nearly knocked her soupspoon to the floor. “Never, Lord Howick. Never.”
“Then that is settled. Now finish your soup and try not to worry about things over which you have no control.”
Arnaud had just finished a fine piece of roast beef and after the footman behind him whisked away his plate, he noticed Frannie leaning toward him, lips parted. Her white-blonde curls feathered from her elaborately styled hair and glittered in the candlelight.
“I wonder…” Her tone was tentative, unusual for Frannie.
“Yes?”
“Did you notice the woman down the table across from Lord Howick?”
“Of course. That’s the actress, Mrs. Withers.”
“You’ve been introduced?”
“Not exactly.” Arnaud had to loosen his damned neckcloth again.
“But you’ve met?” A hint of humor laced Frannie’s query.
“In a fashion, yes.”
“All right. I understand. I’ll not press you, but you ought to know she was a very, shall we say, close friend of Miss Brancelli’s late father.”
