“Oh, yes, please.” She blushed again. “There is a book I should like in the library, but I’m afraid I simply cannot reach it. I thought, perhaps, as the tallest gentleman in residence, I might trouble you to reach it for me.”
Kate blinked at her. “Isn’t there a stepladder?”
Miss Willory barely spared her a glance. “It’s broken. Mr. Hunter—”
“Odd,” Kate remarked. “It was intact when I used it.”
“You used it recently? Well then, that would explain…” She cleared her throat delicately. “I’m sure I’ve no idea how it might have come to be broken.”
Kate swallowed down a retort. Arguing that she’d had nothing to do with whatever had happened to the stepladder would likely only give her a headache. When it came to Miss Willory, the best course of action was to get rid of the girl as quickly as possible, not drag the conversation out. “Would you like me to ask one of the footmen to assist—?”
“Oh, no, Lady Kate. I’m sure it would be best for all if you kept your seat.”
Inevitable headache or not, Kate would have responded to that if Hunter hadn’t spoken first.
“Show me the book, Miss Willory,” he said coolly, rising from his seat.
“Oh, you are too kind,” Miss Willory simpered.
“You really are,” Kate muttered, but neither seemed to hear.
Kate didn’t glower at Miss Willory’s back as she left the room with Hunter, but only because there were others in the parlor who might see. Perhaps, that was why Miss Willory had come to Pallton House, she thought. Not for Mr. Potsbottom or Lord Comrie, or even Lord Martin, but for Hunter. Unable to hold back any longer, Kate looked down at her ink stain once more and glowered at it. She should have guessed earlier, she fumed. She should have realized it might be Hunter Miss Willory was after. True, he hadn’t a title—it was possible he hadn’t even a traceable lineage—but he did have the fortune to buy half of England. And wouldn’t Miss Mary Jane Willory just adore owning half of England?
Irritated, and unaccountably nervous, she stood to pull a small nearby table between their chairs, and fetch the chessboard.
Ten minutes later—which was five minutes longer than Kate felt was necessary—Hunter returned from his task and eyed the table dubiously. “Didn’t I mention I’d rather not play chess?”
“I can’t sit here talking to you while you read a book,” she informed him. And she had every intention of talking to him, just not on the topic she’d originally planned. “But if your vanity is so easily bruised that you tremble in fear at the mere thought of—”
“I’ll play.”
“Excellent.” She pushed a pawn forward and strove for a casual tone. “Did you retrieve Miss Willory’s book?”
“That is why I went,” he reminded her, taking his seat.
“You were gone an awfully long time for just one book,” she commented as he studied the board. “Did you run into difficulty?”
“Miss Willory had a spot of trouble remembering where the book was located.”
“It’s a library,” she drawled. “They’re arranged by author and subject according to—”
“She had a spot of trouble remembering who wrote it as well.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Of course she did.”
He looked up at her with brows raised. “Beg your pardon?”
“You are aware she’s attempting to flirt with you?” She flatly refused to give Miss Willory the accolade of having accomplished the deed.
“I’ve eyes in my head,” he replied by way of answer.
She waited for him to expand on that. He didn’t. “Do you like her attempting to flirt with you?”
He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, his expression one of smug amusement. “Are you jealous, Kate?”
Rather, was her initial and entirely unwelcome thought. “Curious,” is what she told him.
Hunter idly shrugged one shoulder. “I might like it, were she a different sort of woman. It’s no compliment to receive the attentions of someone like Miss Willory.”
“Oh.” She stifled a sigh of relief. “Good.”
He grinned at her. “You were jealous.”
“I certainly wasn’t,” she countered, smoothing one of the many wrinkles in her gown. “I was merely worried you couldn’t see past her charms.”
“And that you’d lose me to them?”
Do I have you to lose? That unbidden thought was even more unwelcome than the last. Uncomfortable with both, she strove to steer the conversation in another direction. “You’ll twist any comment to suit your purposes.”
“I’ll twist any comment?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Lady Kate, I have never met another human being so adept at modifying a comment for her own benefit than you.”
“I—”
“Yes,” he cut in with a patronizing smile and nod, “that was a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” she countered. “And I was going to say that you obviously haven’t spent enough time in the company of those who are so clearly in the right.”
“I’ve spent considerable time in my own company.”
“I do so hate to repeat myself,” she said smartly, “but you obviously haven’t spent enough time in—”
“Oh, Mr. Hunter!” Miss Willory once more sailed into the room blushing and giggling. “I’m dreadfully sorry to trouble you again, but I’m afraid I must ask on behalf of Mrs. Ifill if you would be so kind as to assist in the library one more time.”
Having been an unwilling witness to Miss Willory’s brand of flirting on numerous occasions, Kate knew, without a doubt, that it would not be merely one more time.
“Perhaps it would be wise to fetch a footman instead,” she suggested, “and have him repair the ladder.”
“What a clever idea,” Miss Willory said sweetly. “And how generous of you to offer.”
“I’ll fetch the footman,” Hunter said quickly, rising from his chair. He headed for the door once more. Miss Willory followed, but not before throwing a disgustingly self-satisfied smile at Kate.
She’d stall him for the next twenty minutes at least, Kate fumed. With a sigh, she left to search out one of her own books with the idea that by the time she found something appropriate for reading in the parlor, Hunter would have returned. Considering that the only other appropriate book in her possession, besides the volume of poetry she’d had on the veranda, was a book on musical theory Lizzy may, or may not, have unpacked and placed on the vanity, it was possible she would return to the parlor to find him waiting for her.
She made a point of not finding her book until twenty minutes later, even though Lizzy had, as it turned out, placed it on the vanity. With the volume tucked under her arm, she made the return trip whilst pondering Miss Willory’s sudden campaign for Hunter’s hand.
How desperately did she want that hand? Kate wondered. And how far would she go to obtain it? Would she attempt to maneuver him into a trap? Feign being compromised? It was a dangerous game to play with someone like Hunter, but Miss Willory was conceited, conniving, and possibly just desperate enough to try.
It seemed the staff at Pallton House were not the only people she would need to keep an eye on. Resolved to keep a close eye on Hunter as well, lest he not recognize a marital trap when he saw it, she reached the bottom of the stairs just as a maid opened the front door to admit, of all people, her brother.
Her mouth fell open. “Whit?”
Her brother looked up, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned at her. “Good afternoon, Kate.”
“What in the world are you doing here?”
“Such a flatterer, you are,” he laughed, handing his gloves to a waiting maid. “I was invited.”
“You’re the Earl of Thurston. You’re invited to everything,” she pointed out as she crossed the foyer. “Why would you want to come here?”
As soon as the question left her lips, she hit on a possible answer. He may have come to help Hunter watch over her. Whit was in
ordinately fond of watching over her. It was strange that he’d allowed her to come to Pallton House at all if he’d known of the smuggling operation, but she wasn’t in a position to demand an explanation.
Whit bent down to place a kiss on her forehead. “Delighted to see you as well. And to see that you are well.”
“I’ve been gone less than a week. What else would I be?” Putting aside for now the question of what Whit did and did not know, she looked behind him at the open door and asked, “Where is Mirabelle. Did she—?”
“Still on the other side of the carriage, I imagine. Mrs. Warrings snagged her before she could make it to the front—” He broke off when she shoved her book at him and headed for the door. “Where are you going?”
“To greet Mirabelle.”
“You’ve barely greeted me.”
She tossed a teasing smile over her shoulder. “Well, you’re not Mirabelle, are you?”
Kate found Mirabelle just where Whit had indicated, on the other side of the carriage being held captive by the exceptionally friendly Mrs. Warrings. To her further surprise, she was also in the company of her mother’s friend, Mrs. Mary Summers.
Mrs. Warrings fluttered her hands dramatically as Kate arrived. “Lady Kate, had you any idea? Your brother, Lady Thurston, and our dear Mrs. Summers here? What a delightful surprise.”
“It is that,” Kate agreed and stepped up to give both ladies a kiss on the cheek.
Mrs. Warrings glanced at the house. “I simply must make my hellos to the earl. He managed to sneak straight into the house without my seeing him.”
“He did, indeed,” Mirabelle commented dryly. Of average height and build, with dark eyes and hair an unremarkable shade of brown, some considered the current Lady Thurston a somewhat plain woman. It was Kate’s opinion that those people were idiots. When Mirabelle smiled, a person would be hard pressed to find a more beautiful lady in all of England. It lit up her whole face and made it impossible for one not to smile in return. But Mirabelle wasn’t smiling at present. She was scowling at the house, and though Kate couldn’t be certain, she thought perhaps Mirabelle muttered something under her breath. Something along the lines of “traitorous blighter.”
Mrs. Warrens didn’t appear to hear. “Do excuse me.”
“I shall join you,” Mrs. Summers said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. “I am quite done in.”
Tall, rail thin, and with sharp, hawkish features, Mrs. Summers looked every inch the imposing governess she had been for the last two decades. But her eyes, which usually betrayed the warm and kind heart hidden behind the disapproving air, now showed only exhaustion.
“Are you well, Mrs. Summers?” Kate asked.
“Quite, dear.” Mrs. Summers patted Kate’s arm. “Just a trifle tired from the journey. A brief lie down will serve to restore me.”
Kate didn’t believe that for a moment, but she waited until Mrs. Warrens and Mrs. Summers had moved out of earshot before turning to her friend.
“Whatever is the matter with her? Is she ill?”
“Not at all,” Mirabelle assured her. “She’s melancholy. That’s why we’ve come.”
“Melancholy?”
Mirabelle nodded and took Kate’s hand to lead her around the side of the house at a clipped pace. “We need a spot of privacy for this.” She stopped and scanned the side lawn impatiently. “Isn’t there a gazebo or the like about?”
“There’s a bench just on the other side of that half wall.” She pointed at a decorative stone divider. “We could just as easily speak inside, you know.”
“Yes, but first I’d have to go through all the greetings, and I don’t want to wait to tell you—Oh, yes, this will do nicely.” Clearly impatient, she tugged Kate down on the bench. “You’ll never guess what has happened.”
“Whatever it is, it must be very exciting. This is most unlike—”
“Mr. William Fletcher offered for Mrs. Summers.”
Kate sighed with delight. “Oh, that’s wonderful.” Not quite as shocking as she’d expected given Mirabelle’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It had become fairly clear the two were attached after all, but still it was very nice and—
“Mrs. Summers refused him.”
Kate gasped. That was shocking. “What? But she’s violently in love with him.”
That statement garnered a raised brow and a smirk from Mirabelle.
“Madly in love with him anyway,” Kate amended. “Mrs. Summers doesn’t do anything violently, except perhaps disapprove, although I suppose she’s really more quietly severe in that regard than she is violent. I don’t think one can be quiet and violent at—”
“Kate.”
“Yes. Right. Why did she refuse him?”
Mirabelle nodded and bent her head forward conspiratorially. “She wouldn’t say at first, so I wrote Sophie with the idea that she would know her former governess well enough to guess.”
“What did she write in return?” Kate asked, wondering how the Duchess of Rockeforte felt about her lifelong companion remarrying.
“She didn’t. And this is where things become very exciting.” Mirabelle leaned in a little more. “Sophie came to Haldon the very next day. She dragged Mr. Fletcher and Mrs. Summers into the library, closed the doors, and demanded to know what was the matter with them.”
Kate opened her mouth, closed it. “How do you know what she said if she closed the doors?”
“She demanded violently. At any rate, Sophie exited the library a few minutes later leaving Mr. Fletcher and Mrs. Summers inside. They were arguing—something about how her first husband died, and—”
“A moment,” Kate cut in, holding up a finger. “Mrs. Summers was shouting?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how do you know what she was saying? Were you eavesdropping?”
“No, Evie was.”
Kate bobbed her head. “Of course.”
“The argument grew quieter after a few moments, and then Mrs. Summers began to cry—”
Kate winced. “Oh, dear.”
“That’s what Evie and I said, but then she stopped, and Mr. Fletcher said he would consider the matter, and Mrs. Summers said something too quietly to be heard, and then they came out of the library appearing quite ill at ease with each other. Mr. Fletcher left for London immediately, and Mrs. Summers expressed a desire for a change of scenery. We brought her here.”
Kate shook her head as if to settle all the pieces of information into place. It didn’t help. “They’re not to be married, then?”
“I don’t know,” Mirabelle replied, straightening up. “Mrs. Summers refuses to speak of it except to say that Mr. Fletcher would need to see it through, or she will not accept.”
“See what through?”
“We’ve no idea. And you know how Evie is about ferreting things out, but attempting to pry information out of Mrs. Summers is rather like trying to keep information in Lizzy, it’s a fool’s pursuit. At any rate,” she continued as Kate laughed, “we’re bound to find out eventually, and it’s still intriguing news. Plus, it was a very convenient excuse for me to come. Do you know, I’ve never been to a house party not held by your mother or my uncle? I’m rather embarrassed by how delighted I am to be here.”
“You’ll not be delighted for long,” Kate warned her. “Miss Willory is in attendance.”
Mirabelle’s face fell almost comically. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s hardly a jesting matter, is it?” Kate glanced at the house. “I know she’s been very unkind to you in the past—”
“And you and Lizzy and Evie and Miss Heins and—”
“Yes, I know. But her family has fallen onto hard times. And she hasn’t any real friends to speak of. I find myself torn as to how to treat her.”
“You’d give the devil a powder if he claimed a headache.” Mirabelle held up a hand to forestall an argument. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that matter. Is there any other news, unsavory or otherwise, I should be ma
de aware of?”
Out of habit, Kate opened her mouth to inform Mirabelle of each and every event that had occurred since they’d seen each other last. I’m involved in the investigation of Lord Martin’s smuggling operation. I kissed Mr. Hunter in a sitting room, twice. I’m hoping to do so again at the earliest opportunity.
She shut her mouth. In part because she was stunned by the last thought, in part because informing Mirabelle of the investigation would guarantee Whit knowing of the investigation, and in part because she suddenly realized she wanted to keep how she felt about Hunter private, for now. Which was very odd, indeed. When she’d fancied herself in love with Lord Martin, she’d wanted to do nothing but speak of him. She’d nearly driven her friends and family to distraction with her incessant babbling. But then, she wasn’t in love with Hunter, she was simply…growing more curious about the man.
She cleared her throat. “No, no, nothing that would be of interest to you.”
Ten
Hunter looked through the window of the Thurston guest room and smiled at the idyllic picture Mirabelle and Kate made sitting on the bench, the late afternoon light gilding their hair and the sea breeze tugging gently at their skirts. He made a note to regularly invite the Thurstons to visit once he and Kate were married. Mirabelle would like that, he mused. She hadn’t often had the opportunity to travel. And he would like seeing his beautiful wife sharing tete-a-tetes with the pretty countess of Thurston on his coastal estate. On all five of them, actually.
He indulged in the daydream a moment longer before turning away to watch as Whit issued orders to the staff. In Hunter’s estimation, Whit was the quintessential peer of the realm—proud, arrogant, and exacting. Each of those traits Hunter could identify with and appreciate. Whit’s unrelenting drive to be the most honorable earl in England, however, was something Hunter was sure he would never fully understand. Honor and nobility were all well and good but sometimes, for some men, the cost for both was too dear.
Hunter imagined Whit would argue that the price of not being honorable was the only thing a gentleman couldn’t afford, but then, Whit had never had to choose between thieving or starving.
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