“You have a lovely home, Mr. and Mrs. Dinwiddie,” Fernsby volunteered.
“Thank you,” said the old couple in unison.
“But is it your... primary residence?” Fernsby ventured gently. “That is, do you live in New Bridge Road year-round?” He blew his nose with a honk.
“Oh yes,” said Miriam Dinwiddie, pride in her voice. “This cottage belonged to my aunt. She left it to me, and when we retired from service in St. James’s Palace, we came straightaway. Silas’s family home is in Scotland, obviously.”
“Oh very good,” affirmed Fernsby. “I knew several Dinwiddies in school. Excellent chaps. Crack shots. You’re a devoted huntsman I presume, Mr. Dinwiddie? I’ve never met a Scotsman who wasn’t.”
“No, my lord,” said Silas Dinwiddie. “I relocated to London as a youth and left all of that behind, didn’t I.” He glanced at his wife.
“Well, your hearing’s been saved, then, and good for you,” said Fernsby, sneezing again. “Gunshot takes a toll on the ears. But the primary sport in Kent must befishing, is it not?”
No one agreed nor disagreed about the primary sport in Kent. The conversation faded into mindless chatter about the weather. Luke glanced at the woman he was certain was Princess Danielle. He may have failed to learn enough about her, but he knew plenty about himself. When it came to women, Luke’s strong preference had always been easy, and generous, and soft. Taken as a whole, Luke’s life had not been what he’d call “carefree.” Because of this, he never invited more struggle when he could choose less. Danielle Allard d’Orleans looked like she would be... if not a struggle precisely, then certainly a colossal amount of effort.
It could not be said enough: She was so bloody young. Not a child, but energetic and pure; while he was weathered and hard-lived. The light behind her eyes was bright and clear. At the moment, she had the look of something small and fast that was about to bolt.
Luke had not prepared himself togive chaseon this visit. He was hardly a lazy man, but something about her made him question his own stamina. The act of rescuing his old friend Linus Welty would require a great deal of work. The currency he would use to make it all happen—Princess Danielle—was meant to require no work at all. Luke had earned this currency (he’d earnedher) by treading water for three days with Fernsby clinging to his broken shoulder. At this point, he’d grown weary of treading. He would swim no more.
“Captain Bannock knows a thing or two about fishing,” Fernsby was saying, “considering his Cornish roots.”
The occupants of the room turned to study Luke. The princess looked at him as if he was something fanged and scaled that might rise from the depths. A cat leaped into Luke’s lap and Fernsby sneezed again.
Enough, Luke thought. He’d been taken by surprise and he had no background information, but he was not helpless, nor was he a coward. He must discover the truth.
“I beg your pardon on behalf of my friend,” Luke said. “I fear Lord Fernsby suffers from a sensitivity to cats. It was never our intent to impose on your morning, and we will not linger. However, before we go, might I be so bold as to inquire after the names of the ladi—”
“Oh but we’ve been terribly remiss, haven’t we?” cut in Silas Dinwiddie, shoving up. “Please allow me to introduce our Dani and her friend. Lord Fernsby, Captain Bannock, please meet our neighbor, Miss Amelia Broom.” He extended a hand to the young woman with the flowered hat. Amelia Broom floated from her seat, stealing glances under lowered lashes. She sank into a deep curtsy.
Fernsby stood and Luke followed. The cat in Luke’s lap meowed in protest, and Luke clutched him to his ribs.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Broom,” said Fernsby.
“How do you do,” Luke muttered.
“And,”added Silas Dinwiddie, extending a shaking palm to the other young woman, “our, er, daughter, Danielle Allard.”
Luke minced through the man’s words, searching for titles. He did not hear “Princess,” or “Her Serene Highness,” which was the address for members of the Orleans branch of the French royal family. There’d not even been a “Miss” before her given name.Why?Why say her name—Luke had heard it, clear as day—but not her title? What the devil was going on? Luke glanced at the old man. He was flushed and sweating and staring at his daughter like she was about to ship out with the Navy.
“How do you do?” Fernsby was saying.
“Hello,” Luke said, inclining his head. He gave a shallow smile, waiting for someone in the room to say more. Instead, silence settled around them like cat dander. The women retook their seats. Luke and Fernsby followed. Out of sheer frustration, Luke began stroking the cat on his knee. The animal tried to bite his glove with every pass.
Finally, he said, “Forgive me, but I was given to believe—”
“Dani, dear,” cut in Silas, “but should we offer the gentlemen a cup of tea?”
And now the old man had interrupted him twice. Luke didn’t stand on ceremony, but the rudeness was impossible to miss. Was Silas Dinwiddie tryingto curtail his questions?
“Tea?” challenged Danielle Allard, looking to her father.
“Of course, dear,” said her mother. “And why shouldn’t we offer tea? There’s water in the kettle, it’s just a matter of stoking the fire and doing up a tray. You know the one, don’t you? Amelia will help you.”
The girl called Amelia stood, but Danielle Allard did not move. She glanced at her friend, then back to her mother. “Tea?” she repeated skeptically. “Now?”
“If you don’t mind, Moppet,” soothed Silas. “In my view, there’s never a bad time for tea. I presume these gentlemen have traveled all the way from London. Amelia Broom will help you.”
“There are tarts, made only yesterday,” reminded Miriam Dinwiddie, a subtle snap to her voice.
