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Baines’s face hardened into a smile that was more of a grimace. “Mr. Sparrow, you forget yourself. Mr. Falconbridge was seen boarding a ship bound for America two weeks ago. Are you calling my informant a liar? Are you calling me a liar?”

This discomposed Sparrow who shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “No,” he said grudgingly.

“ Thank you, Mr. Sparrow. We will all make allowances for someone of your frail constitution and mental capacity. I do not need to remind anyone here how fortunate you all are to have land to farm in this precarious climate. Economic times are hard. It is a caution to thank God for what you’ve got, lest he take it away for ingratitude. I do. Every day. As our good vicar, Mr. Staveley, will attest.”

His curt nod closed the meeting at that point, and people began to shuffle out of the room. Bidenden noticed the redhead, clutching her little boy’s hand while she balanced the younger child on her hip. Sparrow, he noted, was jostled almost off his feet by the crowd surging toward the door as if they couldn’t get out fast enough. He also noticed that two of the Baines boys followed the old man out of the room. That left Baines and what appeared to be the eldest of his three sons. Baines spoke briefly to his remaining son, then the man left, and Baines picked up a small leather compendium and moved toward the door. Bidenden stepped forward.

“Baines, I’d like a word.”

Baines looked around and frowned at him. “Do I know you, sir?”

“We were briefly introduced when I was last here, but you may not remember. You were taking your leave of Mr. Falconbridge when I accosted him. It was here, oh about six weeks ago.”

Baines, as if recalling who he was, said with a tight smile, “Mr. Passmore, I’m rather busy—perhaps another time?”

Bidenden shut the door and turned toward him. “It’s Bidenden, actually. Viscount Bidenden. Perhaps you’ve heard of my father, the Marquess of Malmsbury?”

Baines’s mouth fell open, and he said, “Yes, my lord, I have.”

“Good. Take a seat.” He waved to a chair, drawing up one for himself.

Chapter 16

Pagette arrived the next day with Rick’s horses and his curricle, and thus, the following day Rick was able to make good on his promise to Cecey to call upon their neighbors. No, not his favorite pastime, but he was deriving so much pleasure from her company, that he found himself wanting to do things to please her.

Cecey had delicately extracted the names and directions of their more prestigious neighbors from Mrs. Staveley, who had been more than willing to wax lyrical on the subject of the local gentry. Rick had taken the precaution of mapping out the itinerary before they set out, as they had five households to visit within a five-mile radius, and his plan was to accomplish the lot in one rather long afternoon. If they were lucky, some of them wouldn’t be home, and it would be a matter of leaving cards instead.

His luck held for the first two. Viscount Eaton and his family were not in residence yet but were expected momentarily from London with the imminent close of the season beckoning. And Mrs. Fitzdowning, a widow, was visiting her sister in the next county, but would be delighted to call upon them on her return, they were assured by her butler. However, Captain Greathorne, a retired naval captain, and his two unmarried daughters were delighted to welcome them in and offer tea in exchange for the latest gossip from London. The captain who had lost a leg at Trafalgar, turned out to be more interested in regaling Rick with tales of his naval days, and it was an hour before they could extract themselves, the Misses Greathorne promising to visit very soon.

“Not too soon, I hope,” muttered Rick setting his greys in motion. Their fourth quarry, a Mr. and Mrs. Littlejohn and their several offspring, proved to be more agreeable. They were a young couple with a growing brood of little ones. Rick found Littlejohn a fine fellow, and Cecey seemed to enjoy Mrs. Littlejohn’s society. Leaving the Littlejohns with a promise to invite them to dinner soon, Rick turned the curricle toward the last visitor, whose property bordered theirs on the east side, close to the village of Haynes.

Berrisford Park, despite the grand sounding name, was a smaller estate than its neighbor Woodrow Manor. It was the home of Mr. Berrisford, a reclusive bachelor of uncertain age. “Sounds like a dry old stick,” said Rick. “Hardly likely to want to socialize,” he added hopefully.

“You never know. He may be lonely and welcome a visit,” said Cecey, dampening Rick’s hopes of bringing their excursion to a rapid close. It was late afternoon by this time, but the long twilight of impending summer had barely begun yet. There were hours of daylight left.

As Rick turned the curricle into the short drive, a compact, two-story sandstone house came into view. The gardens around the house were neatly trimmed and well maintained with a plethora of flowers in rainbow colors. The paintwork was fresh, and the windows sparkled. In a damned sight better condition than Woodrow Manor, reflected Rick, the picture of a miserly recluse living in dilapidated squalor vanishing from his inner vision.

The butler who welcomed them in and took their gloves, coats, and hats was surprisingly youthful and energetic. The vestibule was light and airy with bunches of peonies in vases, and the woodwork sparkled with beeswax.

“Come into the parlor. I’ll let the master know you’re here,” he said, enthusiastically flinging open a door to a bright and spacious sitting room, done out in shades of soft green and cream with touches of gilt. The furniture was old-fashioned but well cared for, and this room also sported vases with a profusion of lily of the valley, lilac, and sweet pea. The scent was heady.

“How tasteful,” said Cecey. “Something like this might work in the morning room at home, don’t you think?” She indicated the paintwork and furnishings. Rick, whose sensibilities did not run to the artistic, merely nodded as she went on musingly, “Perhaps blue instead of green, however?”

Rick was saved from having to reply by the opening of the door. A man of around forty and rather unconventional appearance entered the room. His brown hair was longer than fashionable and his clothes were casual in the extreme. He had eschewed a jacket altogether, being dressed in shirtsleeves, an unbuttoned waistcoat, and breeches, with scuffed boots and no neckcloth.

“Good lord! You’re Kenrick Lane?” he said, advancing into the room with his hand held out. “Don’t think I’ve seen you since you were in leading strings! Mind you, I was a scrubby schoolboy myself at the time. My parents attended one of the open days at The Castle one year and dragged me along. And this is your wife?” He turned to Cecey and offered a bow before Rick could utter a word, and he barreled on. “Delighted to meet you, Lady Kenrick. Oh God! Forgive the state of my hands!” He held them up and the nails were visibly dirty. “Been potting petunias!” he said with a broad grin. “Please take a seat, would you care to stay for dinner? Please do. I can assure you, the food is excellent!”

The butler appeared just then with a tray of drinks which he set down on a sideboard, while their voluble host went on, “Lady Kenrick, will you partake of a sherry?”

Cecey smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Excellent! Brandy or scotch, Lord Kenrick?” he asked. Then, “I’m having the scotch myself, not that there is anything wrong with the brandy. Excellent stuff, straight from France.”

“Ah, scotch would be fine,” said Kenrick, relaxing into his chair. It was evident they were staying for dinner. Cecey threw him an amused look. Their host was certainly an original.

“You’ve not been at Woodrow Manor long, I gather?”

“No, we only arrived last week.”