Mr. Harris beamed. “Why, tis but a step away, Your Grace.” The man crossed the bedchamber to gesture through the open window. Both men looked out across the green to the cluster of cottages standing at the heart of the village. “That one there. The one with the blue door.”
Wade smiled, feeling his heart beat a steady, determined rhythm in his chest, for he could see the Staunton cottage from the window of his rented room.
His quarry was—at last!—in his sights.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dark clouds loomed over the horizon. Cassandra looked up from her teacup, frowning. She and Honoria sat in the back garden—as usual—under Papa’s favorite oak tree. Wet weather had blanketed the countryside for days, and it seemed today’s sunshine was only a brief reprieve.
It would storm again. Perhaps within the hour.
“We ought to bring the tea tray in,” she said, eying those ominous clouds over the tree tops and rooftops, “and close the windows before we’re flooded.”
Honoria looked up. “So soon?”
“We’ve been spoiled today. I think we shall be made to pay for it.”
The youngest Staunton sister began to gather the plates and cake. She placed it all upon the tray with a great, unbecoming clatter. “It makes no difference to me whether we sip our tea indoors or out.”
They rose. Cassandra carried the tray as Honoria moved ahead to open the door. It was a pity to abandon the garden while there was still some sunshine left, but a distant rumble of thunder quickened their pace. The two women hastened inside to put away the tea things and shutter the house.
Cassandra tidied the kitchen while her sister saw to the windows. She listened through the floorboards as Honoria moved about the house, crossing from room to room. She took comfort in the rhythmic slam of the panes and rattle of the latches as they were—one by one—pushed into place.
The sisters would be safe no matter how hard the storm raged. Their humble cottage, a place of comfort and stability for all their lives, could withstand the most punishing winds and lashing rain.
She was, however, shocked to hear banging, and rattling, and, indeed, knocking of a different sort. Someone was at the door.
Who would risk calling at this hour, with such a storm brewing?
Cassandra dried her hands before shuffling through the house. She paused at the hall mirror to steal a glance at her reflection. A little windblown, perhaps, but nothing too out of place. Besides, her neighbors would not be offended should she receive them looking shabby.
Everyone in Longstone was a bit shabby. It was part of their charm.
Another persistent knock sounded. Cassandra opened the door, expecting to see Mary Brooks, or George Fulton, or any one of her friends in the village. A tall figure darkened the threshold as if he had brought the storm clouds with him.
His collar was turned up and his hat pulled low. Two black eyes regarded her hotly, yet his gaze sent a shiver down her spine.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying. She had the good sense not to ask what brought him here. Of course, she knew—the duke was in pursuit.
He inclined his head. “Miss Staunton.”
There was no carriage waiting in the lane. No horse tied to the gatepost. She searched over his shoulder as the wind picked up, ruffling his hair. Had he walked from Caswell Hall?
She stepped back, remembering her manners. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” He entered the house, looking about him. She watched his dark eyes assess the hall table, the oval glass hanging above it, and the cheerful arrangement of flowers in an old vase. He passed her his hat and gloves, and then moved to the small sitting room beyond.
Cassandra placed the discarded effects on the hall table, quite stunned. She had never entertained a duke before—especially not one of such a dangerous reputation.
“Won’t you sit, Your Grace? I am afraid my sister and I have just finished our tea…”
His brows lifted. “Miss Honoria is about?”
Her younger sister was, no doubt, eavesdropping from the top of the stairs. “If you don’t mind waiting, I could put a kettle on. I am sure she would happily entertain you.”
He sat on the sofa. “Don’t bother. I am already committed to supper at the White Lion.”
It was her turn to lift her brows. “You’re not staying at Caswell?”
