With manful resignation, Noah squared his shoulders and donned his riding gloves. Then he began the long march toward his doom—only slightly delayed, upon drawing near his sisters, by his lunging to deliver a withering, “I shall make you pay for this.”
“No need, brother dear!” Elizabeth called cheerfully after him. “The accounts are still in your favor.”
When Jonathan was comfortably installed, with his feet against a warming-box and a blanket over his lap, he accepted a pair of reins from the stablemaster. “Serenity’ll do well for ye, yer grace,” the man said with a bow. “No steadier horse in Sussex, I wager. She’s the far better choice.”
“Better than what?” Jonathan would have asked, had he any chance. But the sleighs ahead were already in motion, and the groom sent Serenity after them with a click of his tongue.
Amid his exhilaration, Jonathan soon forgot the puzzling remark. Greystone Castle sat amid wide pastures and gentle rises, all perfectly suited for easy and speedy dashing.
Rays of sun peeked through clouds to emblazon the glittering snow. Icicles clung to naked trees. A bracing wind whistled along to the cheery jingle of bells and the crunch of hooves meeting snow. And though the cold nipped at Jonathan’s cheeks and nose, the rest of him stayed delightfully snug beneath his blanket.
Steadfast as advertised, Serenity trotted along without any need of direction. Jonathan was therefore content to leave such matters to her and enjoy the scenery, though he found his gaze most frequently, and unaccountably, trained on the sleigh ahead of them.
While its passengers were his beloved and her new beau, Jonathan did not stare daggers at Milstead nor pine for a glimpse of Claire’s face. (Not at the moment, anyway.) In fact, all he could see of the lady was her heavy cloak, for her head lay deep inside its fur-lined hood.
That hood, however, was almost invariably tilted up toward the gentleman, who gazed down upon his companion in a manner that (Jonathan imagined) was very earnest. Though Jonathan could not see their expressions or hear their conversation, he could sense the air of gravity between them.
It was evident something of great intensity was taking place.
Miss Harris also took notice. “Begad!” she cried. “I suspect Lord Milstead is proposing at this very moment!” She craned for a better view. “Back in the castle yard, did you see how they both got under one blanket?”
Jonathan had seen no such thing and very much doubted Miss Harris had, either. Still, the mere thought opened a pit in his stomach.
Was Milstead proposing?
Had Jonathan already lost?
He quite suddenly found himself staring daggers after all, and spent the rest of the ride blind to the breathtaking scenes whizzing by.
After half an hour, the little convoy rounded a copse and, one by one, slowed to a halt in the middle of a large field. They seemed to have reached their destination: an odd cluster of snow-shrouded mounds and thatched shelters, and beside them, a great tent.
Upon leaving their sleighs, everyone gathered to peer at and puzzle over their surroundings. Except Jonathan, who peered only at Claire and Milstead, trying to detect some evidence of the alleged engagement. But they exchanged no meaningful looks, intimate gestures, or happy blushes, merely appearing rather anxious on her side and wooden on his.
The detective remained in suspense.
“Very well, cousins,” Cainewood said loudly, “you’ve had your fun keeping secrets from the rest of us. What is this place?”
Claire’s worried frown reshaped itself into a smile as she moved to the front of the group. “Lord Cainewood is right—it’s time to reveal the surprise.”
She approached a gentleman of middle age who, though not of the Greystone party, was familiar to Jonathan. After a private but clearly friendly exchange, she turned back to her guests.
“Let me introduce Mr. Hawkins, who joins me in welcoming you to the Bignor Villa.”
A chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” rang out, along with a “huh?” or two. Those native to Sussex had all heard of the Bignor Villa, for there was a great hubbub a few years ago when its Roman-era ruins were discovered beneath a local farm.
The excavation had been ongoing until quite recently, as Jonathan well knew, since it was the very reason he’d come to Greystone Castle last year. Before he ever knew of Claire’s existence, he’d received an invitation from his good friend and correspondent Mr. Lysons—a prominent antiquary and leader of the Bignor excavation—to visit the site and examine its artifacts. After accepting with enthusiasm, Jonathan had arranged to stay with a Jockey Club mate who happened to live nearby: Noah Chase, the Earl of Greystone.
“Since it’s closed for the winter, we shall have the place to ourselves,” Claire went on. “As a friend of our family, Mr. Hawkins has granted us special access for the day.”
A friend of their family? Ha!
The Chases had known nothing of Hawkins or anyone else at Bignor before Jonathan came along. It was he who’d first brought Noah here—and he would have brought Claire too, had the site been fit for ladies at that time. He’d promised, however, to take her at the earliest opportunity and, in the meantime, returned to Greystone many an evening with some new etching or relic to interest her and her siblings.
Surely she remembered all this? Surely Jonathan and the villa were inextricably linked in her mind?
He searched her face for signs of awareness, but she avoided his gaze and continued: “Our very kind friend has also offered to tour us about the ruins. But first, please come this way.”
She struck out directly toward the tent, trusting the others to follow. As they circled round to the front, Jonathan observed three of the tent’s four sides were draped in thick hangings to ward off the chill. The fourth was left open, revealing an interior piled with carpets, cushions, blankets, and a long, low table set for luncheon. The effect was luxurious and cozy.
