Mother would’ve been absolutely appalled.
Well, Mother was in London, and surely taking the late afternoon nap that would shore her up for whatever supper party, soirée, musicale, or ball she would be attending this evening.
Details such as cantankerous goats and tasty mushroom bean stew didn’t make it into her weekly letters to Mother. After all, it was Artemis who was mistress of Endcliffe Grange—not Mother. Which, sometimes, was easy to forget, what with old habits being so hard to break and all. And Mother was such a force, wasn’t she?
It was only now that Artemis realized Mrs. Hopper had moved from the menu and on to neighborhood gossip that a specific word caught her ear. “Did you saykittens?” She sat forward on her chair, a sudden smile curving her mouth. “Do we have kittens on the estate?”
She loved kittens.
Mrs. Hopper heaved an exasperated sigh. “That is not what I said, actually.” A pause. “Milady.” Another pause. “The kittens aren’t here. They are on Sir Abstrupus’s land.”
Sir Abstrupus Bottomley.
If Artemis had a nemesis, it was he—a ninety-something-year-old minor baronet who seemed to be continuing his existence on this mortal plane for no other reason than to oppose her at every turn.
“The poor wee ones aren’t long for this world, I’m afraid,” continued Mrs. Hopper.
Artemis’s brow dug into her forehead. “How do you mean?”
Though, she knew. The kittens would be drowned. Controlling the population, they called it.
Heartless—soulless—Artemis called it.
Mrs. Hopper’s gaze sharpened. “Ye cannot save every animal in Yorkshire, pet.”
Artemis didn’t like it when people spoke to her that way—as if she were too innocent or too good to understand how the world truly worked.
Well, she did.
And had for a long time.
An image from long ago whirled through her mind—of her being swept across a gleaming ballroom floor in the arms of the most handsome man she’d ever met, dizzy with motion and glittering light and that which dazzled even brighter—love.
Dizzy, dazzling, instant love.
The silly, reckless, foolish love of a young lady who didn’t know any better than to let her heart soar in any direction it wished.
Silly … reckless … foolish.
She understood the workings of the world better than anyone suspected.
Except for Mother.
Mother knew.
“Perhaps I can’t save them all.” Her voice quivered with fervency. “But I can try.” She stood. “Where are the kittens?”
Even as Mrs. Hopper sighed with resignation, Artemis detected respect in the cook’s eyes. “In the barn near the northern boundary—the one that’s half falling down.”
Artemis nodded. “I know the very one.” She smiled down at Bathsheba, who had returned to her side with intuitiveallegiance. “What do you say, girl? Shall we embark upon a kitten rescue?”
Kitten rescues weren’tall playful sweetness and cuddly balls of fluff.
Tiny pointed teeth and razor-sharp claws were involved.
And one decidedly unhappy mama cat.
It hadn’t been difficult to locate the kittens in the old barn. Bathsheba had put her nose to the ground and made straight for the far corner where the mama cat had been sheltering her litter on a bed of hay beneath a landing that, indeed, looked ready to fall down any second now.
