“None taken.”
Evie spoke absently as she examined the lichen-covered trunks, gnarled branches, and sparse crowns. She touched a stunted blossom—small and pale, it was clear that it would never bear fruit. Others like it had already fallen, lying like tiny, crumpled ghosts upon the ground.
“Did anything change around the time that the trees stopped producing fruit?” she asked.
Mr. Lydell scratched at the tuft of straw-colored hair sticking out above his ear.
“Not from what I’ve been told. The weather didn’t change, nor our tending of the orchard. Of course, the land around us changed—the building of factories and the railway and so forth. But the farm, it stayed the same.”
She took out a small notebook. Donning her spectacles, she began jotting notes.
“There continued to be a healthy population of bees?” she asked.
“I think so. But as the orchards died off in the area, the bees left too.”
“What about moths?”
“Moths?” He frowned. “I don’t reckon anyone paid them much attention.”
“That is hardly surprising,” Evie murmured. “Yet it is often the smallest, most easily forgotten creatures that hold the world together. Do you remember ever seeing moths in the orchard—at night, perhaps?”
“Well.” The farmer braced his hands on his hips. “I can’t say that I have. My grandpapa and his papa before him collected almanacs and added their own notes. Maybe you would like to have a look at them?”
With a spark of excitement, she said, “I would indeed, sir.”
She left the farm with a small trunk of dusty almanacs and a pie freshly baked by Mrs. Lydell. Unfortunately, her desire to delve into the handbooks was thwarted by the evening’s obligation: a ball hosted by Lady Vernon. Pauline was putting the finishing touches on her outfit when Harkness came in.
Tension gripped Evie. She hadn’t invited Harkness to accompany her on the farm visit. Indeed, she’d been avoiding her companion all week because it was too hard to keep up the pretense that all was well between them. Knowing what was at stake—what the blackmailer could do to James’s future—she dismissed her maid and forced a smile.
“How was the visit to the farm?” Harkness asked.
“Fine.”
Feeling nervous, Evie turned to show off her new ball gown. It was the shade of blushing peonies, with a square neckline and tiered skirts that twirled gracefully.
“What do you think? Will I do?”
“The frock is pretty enough.” Harkness’s mien was as dour as her charcoal-grey bombazine. “More importantly, it shows off the necklace. If the dastardly villain is watching, he won’t be able to resist the diamonds. He’ll send the next note, and by God’s mercy, we shall capture him and be done with this dark business.”
Conflict tore at Evie. If Harkness was indeed in cahoots with the villain, would she bring up the plan to seize him? If he were caught, surely she would be implicated as well? Or was this some sort of reverse ploy…to manipulate and maintain Evie’s trust?
Please be who I think you are, Harkness. Please be a true friend.
Evie’s temples throbbed. “I will be very glad when all this is done.”
“Is something wrong, lambkin?”
The familiar endearment twisted her heart. “No.”
“You haven’t been yourself since London.” Harkness’s gaze slitted. “Did something happen while you were there?”
Is she probing? Acting as an accomplice to the villain? Or is she being a concerned friend?
“As I’ve said, my lecture went splendidly.” The ache spread to the back of her skull. “Were you referring to something else?”
After a pause, Harkness said grudgingly, “I was wondering about the state of affairs between you and the earl. If your reconciliation has lasted.”
“It has.” Thinking of James—of all he was willing to risk for her—ignited a spark of defiance. “Our love has grown stronger, and this time, it is going to last. Forever.”
