Shaldon sat as still as death.
Sir Richard played the buffoon heartily—perhaps the man really was a person of interest.
The Baronet accepted coffee and chattered on about the weather, fishing, the coronation, accepting a few nods and grunts as encouragement.
Fox’s head ached with it and his thoughts went to Perry, glad she was in the capable hands of Lady Jane. For all he knew, that lady might be one of the many who’d served Shaldon during the war years. She had that look of quiet intelligence about her.
Jenny appeared with a fresh pot, and Sir Richard’s eyes flashed, a look then quickly veiled. He glanced from her to Fox and back again.
“That will be all,” Fox said in his best lord-of-the-manor tones. Jenny bobbed a curtsy and he heard her footsteps retreating, and then a few minutes later, growing louder.
His chest tightened. The steps and the rustle of skirts were not Jenny’s.
Lady Jane stepped into the room in a swirl of rosewater scent, clad in a blue day dress, a fichu tied high at her neck, just like the one Perry, who entered behind her, wore over the simple gown that must be another of her mother’s. They’d both dispensed with caps, their hair twisted into simple knots, even Perry’s shortened locks.
Sir Richard jumped to his feet, bumping his cup and splattering coffee. “Well,” he murmured. “Well, well, well.”
“Good morning, or perhaps I should say, good afternoon,” Lady Jane said.
“I trust that you both slept well?” Shaldon signaled, and the ladies took seats down the table from Sir Richard, Perry shielded by Kincaid, and Lady Jane by Farnsworth.
“Yes, indeed,” Lady Jane said. “After such a journey, rest is just the thing.” Her gaze traveled around the table and landed on Sir Richard.
But the man didn’t return the lady’s nod.
A pounding started up in Fox’s ears. Sir Richard’s eyes were riveted on Perry.
