“Imogen,” the earl said softly as they approached the house. He was looking directly down at her.
“Lord Hardford.”
“I amLord Hardfordthis morning, am I?” he asked her.
She turned her face unwillingly to his. She wished his eyes were not quite so blue.
“Are you sorry?” he asked her.
“No.”
She would never be sorry. She was determined not to be.
“MayI come again?” he asked. “If you have not changed your mind in the cold light of day. Though not necessarily to go to bed.”
She drew a slow breath. “You may come,” she said, “for tea and conversation. And to go to bed too. I hope.”
Having decided to take a sort of vacation from her life, to have an affair with a man who would be here just a short while, she wanted the whole of it. He would be gone soon. Andshewould be gone soon—to Penderris Hall. She wanted to sleep with him again and again and again in the meanwhile—even if the price was to be tears, as it had been last night after he left.
“I will come, then,” he said. “For all three. Imogen.”
With those words, they were inside the house, and the young twins were chasing Prudence through the hall, trying to catch her in what was clearly a lost cause. They were flushed and giggling and announced their intention of going out to see the kittens if someone would care to accompany them. One of them—it was impossible to tell them apart—batted her eyelids at Lord Hardford, and they both giggled again. The other asked where Mr. Welby and Lord Marwood had gone—and they both giggled. There was no further chance for private talk. The earl abandoned Imogen at the open doors of the ballroom after grimacing at the sight of his mother and aunts and Aunt Lavinia in a huddle inside.
“Enjoy yourself,” he said.
“Oh,” she assured him, “I shall. I want to see you dancing in surroundings as splendid as they can be made.”
“You had better save all the waltzes for me,” he said.
“If you ask nicely,” she told him, “perhaps I will save one.”
He laughed and strode away, and she realized she was smiling after him.
***
Percy’s shoulder was propped against the wooden partition that had been built around Fluff’s nest in the stables, his arms crossed over his chest, faithful hound seated alertly at his booted feet. He had always been fond of the youngsters in the family, especially those in the obnoxious age range between five and eighteen, when they giggled or guffawed or climbed trees they were not supposed to climb or swam in lakes in which they were not supposed to swim or put toads in their tutors’ beds or spiders down their governesses’ necks. The age, in fact, when most adults found them trying and tiresome and occasionally loathsome and best appreciated in their absence.
He liked them.
His family abounded with such youngsters as well as with the under-fives, whom everyone adored for their fat cheeks and plump legs and lisping voices. But today only Alma and Eva were available, so here he was because they had wanted him to come. They were squealing over the kittens and picking them up one by one while Fluff looked uneasily on. They were trying to decide which one they would like to take home with them—they seemed to be agreed upon the communal possession of just one. The kittens would not be ready to leave their mother until sometime after they left, of course, but he let them dream.
As a result of his mother’s and aunts’ visit to the village yesterday afternoon with Lady Lavinia, it seemed that four of the six kittens were already spoken for. And the Misses Kramer and their mother had apparently met Biddy, the sausage dog, at some time and had declared her to be the sweetest little thing they had ever seen. Perhaps, Lady Lavinia had said at dinner last night, they could be persuaded to take her, though she would be missed.
He had heard himself agreeing but insisting that it would happenonlyif they would take Benny too, Biddy’s tall friend, since the two were inseparable. And he had said it, he had realized, not so much in the hope of getting rid of two of the strays instead of just one as out of concern for the well-being of both dogs. Though itwouldbe good to deplete the menagerie. Blossom was firmly established at the dower house. Fluff had learned mousing skills somewhere during her pre-Hardford days, it seemed, and had been demonstrating them with remarkable success since her move to the stables. She would remain here.
However... If Percy’s eyesight had not deceived him, a hideously large and ugly feline of hopelessly mixed breed and unknown sex, with matted coat and fierce face and long whiskers, had darted across his path when he was coming downstairs for breakfast this morning. A stranger, no less. But soon to become a resident? Was Lady Lavinia hoping he would not notice? Or had she sized him up and drawn her own conclusions. A disturbing possibility, that.
There was a disagreement. The girls were squabbling with raised, indignant voices—until they dissolved into giggles again.
Percy’s eyes rested thoughtfully upon Bains, the bandy-legged stable hand, who was spreading fresh straw in the stall being used for Sidney’s horse. And he thought about Mawgan, the head gardener, with whom he had been having a few words earlier before he spotted Lady Barclay. Bains had had a raw deal. He had been left behind when he had volunteered to go to the Peninsula and had had his legs and his spirit broken. He was still a mere hand in the stables. Mawgan, by contrast, had gone off to war as Barclay’s batman, had returned with the slight, though perhaps unjustified, taint of coward about him, and had been rewarded with what appeared to be a sinecure. He was head gardener, but, according to Knorr, it was another man who actually performed that function, since the other gardeners turned to him for instructions. Knorr had so far been unable to ascertain what exactly Mawgan did to earn his salary, though it was still only February and not high gardening season.
Perhaps he should just leave well enough alone, Percy thought. Perhaps the man had earned some recognition for his service to Barclay but was not suited to any particular task on the estate. He had grown up in the lower village, the son of a fisherman, now deceased. He had apparently had no aptitude for fishing either.
The girls had had enough of the kittens for now and were cooing over Hector, whom they were declaring to besougly, poor thing, butso-o-osweet. He should take them down onto the beach, Percy thought. But there was something that had been nagging at him.
It was something to do with leaving well enough alone, letting sleeping dogs lie. He seemed to be thinking those phrases rather often, perhaps for a good reason. Why stick one’s neck out and perhaps stir up a hornet’s nest. And what a ghastly mix-up of images.
“You ought to go down onto the beach,” he suggested. “It is a beautiful day for the time of year. Cyril is down there with Welby and Marwood. Take Beth with you.”
