“Shall I send for tea, Miss?” Fiona asked tentatively.
Bridget shook her head. “We have not yet established if Mister White is remaining long enough for tea.” And they didn’t have a service she wanted to see broken. “I ask you again, sir, what are you doing here? You may dispense with the formalities.”
“Yes, right, formalities, estates and all that,” he said nervously. “That’s why I’ve come.”
He made to push a hand through his hair. His rumpled hat went flying. The black wool slapped against an ancestral oil painting and dropped to the floor with a thud.
“Dash it all,” Mister White muttered. Turning from her, he went to retrieve the abused hat, knocking into the table on which the vase had stood.
Bridget cast an incredulous look toward Fiona. The maid, who fortunately still cradled the vase, watched Mister White, bemused. Bridget turned back in time to see him knock his head against the wall when he bent to pick up his hat. He stumbled back, caught himself, and stepped forward. One large boot further crushed the battered accessory.
She hurried to his side. His seeking fingers found the hat and jammed it onto his head. Bridget took his arm. To her surprise, the muscles under his coat were quite solid. Standing beside him, the scents of shaving soap and sandalwood mingled with the jasmine at her ear. A foreign heat crept up her neck.
Ignoring her inexplicable reaction to the man, she gave his arm a tug. “Please, Mister White, come sit down.” Before you ruin our home or yourself. She tugged again.
“Yes, certainly, of course,” he said, and allowed her to lead him to the nearest chair.
She shoved his long form into the brocade seat, then braced a hand on each hip. “Now, succinctly and without moving, please tell me why you’ve come to Lomall a 'Chaisteil.”
“To learn about husbandry.” He smiled up at her.
Really, his mouth was well formed, she thought, her gaze caught by that smile.
He pushed at his spectacles, peering at her through them.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, as his words filtered through her odd preoccupation. “You’re here to learn about farming?”
He leaned forward in the chair, nodding eagerly. “Yes. You see, I recently inherited an estate.” He reached his hand toward his hair again.
Bridget leaned forward and snatched his hat from his head before he could send it flying a second time. She held the crumpled wool out. Fiona took it. “You inherited an estate,” she repeated, urging him to complete his mystifying explanation.
He wrenched his gaze up to her face.
She flushed, realizing the view she’d offered while securing his hat. Not that she had much there for anyone to view. Still, what she was endowed with, she’d all but shoved in his face. Her cheeks heated.
“Yes,” he said. “An estate. Unexpected and all. Death in the family.” His tone remained light, but the sorrow that flickered deep in his eyes was unmistakable. “So, now I’m to run the place and, don’t you know, I haven’t a clue where to begin.”
Bridget stared down at him. He was terribly forthcoming. He’d spoken more in her presence than any other man she’d met, save Ollie and her father. Yet, she still had no notion what he was speaking about.
“That is all very interesting, Mister White, and my deepest sympathies for your family’s loss, but why are you here? Why have you come to Lomall a 'Chaisteil?”
“Oh, yes, right.” He waved an arm about, encompassing the room. Without being asked, Fiona jumped forward to secure a nearby figurine, adding the little shepherdess to her armful. “I need to learn about managing an estate. A friend of mine, Lord Winston, said your father, the baron, knows all there is to know. Said I should come here for a bit, while my servants settle into the estate. Sent them ahead.” He dropped long fingers to his knees, his gaze falling with them. “He knows I’ll only be in their way.”
“Lord Winston sent you here?” she asked, unable to dull the sharp edge in her voice. What did this Mister White know of a lord who wrote in code to her brother?
He nodded. “I have a letter.”
He fumbled in the pockets of his rumpled coat. Apparently not finding it, he stood and patted all about as if he might have heretofore undiscovered pockets. When he started to crane his neck, looking around him, Bridget pushed him back into the chair.
She yanked her hands back, again surprised by the solidity of the body under his rumpled garments. “Stay there,” she said. “In that chair. Don’t get up. I’ll go speak to my father.” She turned to find Fiona, arms laden with vase, hat and figurine. “Come, Fiona, we can put those in Father’s office and you can fetch tea for Mister White.”
“My hat,” he said.
Hearing the chair creak as he started to stand, Bridget whirled back. “I will return your hat to you, sir.” Once he was ready to depart, to keep the article from assailing any more artwork. “You stay right there.” A quick glance about showed the other breakables in the room were out of his reach, even with his long arms.
“Ah, yes, of course, Miss Sollier.” He lowered back into his seat.
Bridget gave him a firm look before turning to usher Fiona from the room. Together, they went to the baron’s office. Stopping in the hall outside, Bridget took the vase and figurine. “Take Mister White’s hat to father’s valet. Maybe he can do something to restore it. And don’t return it until such time as Mister White is ready to leave.”
“Yes, Miss.” Fiona curtsied.
“After you deliver the hat, please order the tea.”
“Yes, Miss.” With another curtsey, Fiona left.
Bridget knocked and waited for her father to invite her into his office. She didn’t know what it meant that Lord Winston had sent Mister White to them, assuming the man’s claim was true. She did know she couldn’t let her father know how suspicious she found the claim.
She would find a way to gain her father’s permission to let the man remain. It was possible Mister White was who and what he claimed, and nothing more. It was also possible he knew something of Ollie and the dangers he faced. Either way, Bridget was resolved to find out more.
