“I’ll introduce you formally to him tonight after dinner in the ballroom. And we shall see, eh?”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“His family is respectable,” he mused. “I believe his estate in Lincolnshire is prosperous. If no problem presents itself, then perhaps…”
Grandmama’s teacup rattled in its saucer, and she gathered up her reticule and gloves. “I should like Diana to take her time, Frederick. She has only just met the man.”
Flustered, Papa hunched his shoulders. His mother was the only one who had that effect on him. “I understand, Mama. But you know how these things are done.”
“I know only too well. But I will be angry should you rush Diana into an engagement before she is entirely happy with the arrangement.” She stood. “Come, Diana. It’s a delightful morning and there is time for a stroll before we attend the archeologist’s talk.”
Struggling to find a reason she’d gone out in the gardens without mentioning it, Diana followed her grandmother from the breakfast room.
“Have we met Lord Montgomery?” Grandmama asked in the hall, turning her shrewd, blue-gray gaze upon her. “I don’t recall him.”
“It happened when I slipped out for a few moments,” Diana confessed. “I needed some fresh air.”
“Have you not a window in your chamber?”
“I do, but…”
“You like this Montgomery so much that you mentioned him to your father?”
“I have a good reason, Grandmama,” Diana said miserably. She hated keeping secrets.
Grandmama’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Diana. I expect it is something I’d rather not know about.” Her eyes softened. “You are not in the usual way, but a sensible girl for all that. I understand you wish to find someone to care for you and protect you. Someone you could love. You are no longer a young debutante who requires strict chaperoning. But please think carefully before you do anything rash.” She paused, and a faraway expression stole into her eyes before she focused again on Diana. “Sometimes, when you are young, passion rules your head, and you make mistakes.”
“I will be careful, Grandmama,” Diana said, chastened. She wondered about her grandmother’s past. Great-Grandfather had intended her to marry another gentleman before she’d met Grandfather. They’d married despite her father believing him unsuitable. Diana pondered how she could persuade Grandmama to reveal more as they walked in the gardens and strolled along the path. The sun warmed her shoulders, the air scented with perfume from a bank of white roses where contented bees hummed.
Why hadn’t Ballantine come to breakfast? She had planned to dally there as long as she could, but Grandmama had whisked her off. When would she see him again? She hoped they might have time alone to talk. Although the mysterious man strongly resisted telling her what he was up to. She nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth. Time was growing short. They had only tomorrow before they returned home, and then it would be unlikely she’d see much of him, and only on formal occasions. The thought disturbed her and spurred her on to considering how she might waylay him.
“Now tell me about Lord Montgomery,” Grandmama said, unexpectedly disturbing Diana’s thoughts.
Caught on the hop, Diana struggled to come up with an explanation which would satisfy her grandmother. She decided on the truth. “He joined me when I was returning to the house after my walk. I found him quite charming.”
“I’ve always distrusted overly charming gentlemen,” her grandmother replied as they strolled on.
*
After Damian hadleft Lady Diana the previous evening, he’d slipped outside again in search of the other men. They might have entered the house while he’d been in her bedchamber, but there was always the chance they hadn’t.
The clouds had wandered away and in the moonlight, it had been impossible to hide from prying eyes. Not until he’d reached the cover of the first copse of trees. Smoking his cheroot, he’d stridden toward the monument, sending aromatic smoke into the air while allowing himself to be seen. A Mr. Graves and his wife had come toward him along the path, laughing together. They’d greeted him, then continued on to the house.
The wind had freshened, blowing Damian’s hair about. He’d shoved a lock back before it could blind him, and having reached the trees, stamped out the cheroot, veered off the path, and listened. It had been too quiet. He’d come too late. Tomorrow, in daylight, he’d search for some sign to alert him to where they’d met. A discarded cigar or cheroot or the imprint of the men’s shoes on the ground would be a welcome clue. Then, if they met again, he’d be ready.
As he’d bent beneath the low bow of an elm, a sudden explosion had rent the air. The birds had flown from their roosts, squawking and erupting into the night sky. Damian hadfelt the heat of the ball passing within a whisker of his head. He’d crouched behind a bush, drawn out his pistol from where he’d tucked it into the back of his trousers beneath his coat, and listened. The slap of running feet had passed close to him. Unsure of the direction of the runner, Damian had waited, his pistol cocked. When nothing further had occurred, he’d stood and cautiously moved out of the bushes. He’d stepped onto the path in time to see a man enter the house. With his face obscured in the poor light, it was impossible to see much of him, not his build, nor the color of his hair. He’d quickly vanished inside. Having learned nothing useful, Damian had cursed. His stomach had tightened. Someone had almost killed him for his efforts.
Walking back to the house, he’d swung around at footsteps behind him, his hand on the gun concealed in the back of his pantaloons beneath his tailcoat.
Charles Moreau had emerged out of the gloom and hurried over to him. “Was that a shot I heard?”
“I believe it was.”
“Mon Dieu. That is strange. Is it wise to be outside after dark?” He’d clutched his coat closer. “Who knows what rogues might have lurked here in the gardens on the lookout for good pickings?”
Damian had joined him, matching his pace, and they’d covered the last few yards to the house. “One wonders,” he’d said, his voice heavy with irony. “Someone shooting foxes, I imagine.”
Moreau had failed to react to his tone. “I find the rooms in the house have grown smoky and stale. It’s a shame, but I shan’t go on my usual evening stroll before bed again.”
