Rayne snorted. “My clothes have been soiled.”
“Yes. Her ladyship has requested your clothes be laundered and directed me to the tub.”
Devil take the man; his lip haddefinitelyquirked.
“Well,” Rayne queried, “have you anything I might borrow?”
James eyed him up and down. “You’re larger than Master Theo, of course, but I do believe Lord Farring left something behind.” He bowed. “I will see what I can pull together.”
“Thank you.” Rayne blew the hair from his face. “And, while you’re looking, can you tell Mrs. Shillingham Lady Julia isnotto depart unaccompanied.”
James’s lip quirked again. “Certainly. However, may I assume the dispatching of letters is permitted?”
Rayne lifted a brow. “And—considering your tone—mayIassume a letter has already been dispatched?”
“Quite so, my lord. Quite so.”
A fission of fear traveled up his spine. “And to whom did Lady Julia send a letter?”
“To Lord Belhaven, my lord. Edmund Alistair…if you pardon, I’ve forgotten his surname.”
“Clarke,” Rayne finished. “Edmund Alistair Clarke.”
The bastard was real after all.
…
“…And before we enter the aviary, I suggest you don appropriate attire.”
Mrs. Shillingham handed Julia a kind of shawl, pieced together from worn linen.
“What’s this for?”
“Your head.” The woman made a prune face. “The birds are beautiful, but they tend to mess.”
Julia whipped the piece of cloth around her hair. Every room she’d been in so far had been more fascinating than the last, and she wasn’t about to miss this one. The birds’ enthusiastic squawking had beckoned her the entire time they’d been exploring.
Hair sufficiently protected, she stepped inside the aviary. Like in the orangery, the roof was made of glass. Tall, wide-leafed plants fanned out in every direction.
“Where are they?” She heard the birds but could not see them.
“Oh, they’ll come. Strangers make them curious.”
A huge flash of color hurdled through the air. Julia grabbed her headscarf, dipping as the bird landed on a perch across the path.
“Pretty.” The bird’s head bobbed.
“So are you,” Julia replied with a nervous laugh.
Mrs. Shillingham rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He greets everyone that way, I’m afraid.”
“He?”
“The men are the fancy ones—all color and strut, each one trying to outdo the others.”
“Does this one have a name?”
“Sir Tangle—he was swathed in netting when Her Grace found him.”
