Trem nodded towards the door and she followed him—a few moments later, Mr. Foxcroft emerged as well.
Over the next hour, they toured the rest of the property. Henrietta stayed so long in the gallery before the portraits of Trem’s parents that, eventually, her fiancé had to insist that they move on. His father really did look exactly like him—umber hair and elegant, sly features and hazel eyes. His mother, on the other hand, had dark hair and soft blue eyes set in a rounded, pretty face. Henrietta was no stranger to the death of parents. She had grown up thinking her own mother was dead—and less than five years ago, her own father had died suddenly. And yet she couldn’t help but think that there was something particularly cruel in a young couple both being killed at the same moment. To be taken away from their son before he could ever remember them. It was too painful.
They toured the famous ruins last. Of course, Trem had to narrate the story of John and Catherine’s ill-fated meeting out by the stones, while Mr. Foxcroft grimaced at the impropriety of conduct shown by all the young people involved.
“To take a lady out to the gardens unchaperoned—during a ball,” Mr. Foxcroft huffed. “My apologies, my lady, I know he is your brother, but that is not conduct becoming of a gentleman.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Foxcroft.” Henrietta laughed. “It was disgraceful of him.”
“What was disgraceful,” Trem exclaimed, “was how hard I had to run when I discovered that he was out here trying to seduce his mortal enemy. I nearly killed myself. I’ve never run so fast in my life. Only to have him in a terrible temper with me, too, mind.”
They all laughed, even Mr. Foxcroft, although he shook his head as he did it.
As they filed inside, Trem went ahead—he informed them that he wanted to make sure that a suit of armor that had once hung in the gallery could still be found in the house.
With Trem out of earshot, Mr. Foxcroft asked Henrietta, quietly: “Is your housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, coming for the wedding, Lady Henrietta?”
Henrietta was taken aback by the query. What did Mr. Foxcroft know or care about Mrs. Morrison?
“Yes. She has been like a mother to me. She wouldn’t miss it for anything.” Henrietta winced at her choice of words—indelicate, to say the least, when her own mother would not be in attendance. “How do you know Mrs. Morrison?”
“Oh,” the man said, and Henrietta couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a blush. “Years ago, she came to retrieve your brother from the manor, after he broke his arm in the orchard.”
“Well,” Henrietta said brightly, not sure what to think, “I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you again.”
Mr. Foxcroft nodded, not looking at all certain. “Lord Tremberley did well to pick you, Lady Henrietta. He’s lucky you will have him.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Trem and Henrietta had just sat down for supper in the small dining room when they heard a carriage pulling up the drive. Trem suppressed a groan. He had enjoyed showing Henrietta his ancestral home immensely and introducing her to the staff. They had even had a very nice interlude in the master bedroom ahead of supper… And now that was all about to be spoiled by the arrival of guests. Early guests, at that. The wedding wasn’t for four days and he had hoped they would get this one last night alone before their visitors began arriving tomorrow.
Good God, he thought. What if it was John and Catherine? He wasn’t sure that he was ready to have his tranquility so shattered.
However, when his butler told him and Henrietta the names of the newly arrived guests, he sighed in relief.
“Bring them straight into the dining room,” Trem told Bonner. “And please have the footmen set the table for two more.”
Moments later, Montaigne and Leith sauntered into the dining room. Henrietta embraced them both in quick succession and Trem clapped both of his friends around the shoulder.
“Sit,” he hastened. “We were just about to dine.”
“We bloody raced here,” Montaigne began, without preamble. “John and Catherine aren’t far behind. But we weren’t about to leave you to that confrontation on your own.”
“No matter what your sins,” Leith added.
“Leith,” Henrietta broke in, “you mustn’t blame Trem for what happened. I wanted it to happen. I’ve told him everything now—about how I’ve loved him for ages. I had my opportunity and I took it.”
“Henrietta,” Leith scoffed, “I can’t expect you to understand. When it comes to a man’s sister—well, he doesn’t want to see his best friend, and quite the scoundrel, at that, sniffing about her skirts. Not to mention more besides.”
Trem watched Henrietta turn scarlet and take a sip of her wine to cover it.
“Enough, Leith.” He couldn’t have anyone embarrassing Henrietta in the dining room that, very soon, would be hers—and already was hers, as far as he was concerned.
“John was pleased at first about the engagement,” Henrietta retorted. “It was only this nonsense about me leaving London that set him off.”
“She has the right of it there, Leith,” Montaigne said, spearing a potato with a fork.
“In my opinion his anger is merely a delayed reaction,” Leith said, folding his napkin neatly across his lap. “He was delighted about the engagement until it occurred to him that his best friend must have been debauching his sister under his nose.”
