Chapter 26
Perry’s skin had been crawling for the last several minutes, like she had landed in a pile of maggots. Not that she’d ever done such a thing, but this surely must be the feeling.
Her father’s hand rested on hers for the second time that morning.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked.
She glanced up at him, and then Fox returned, drawing her attention. His look of concern must mirror her own.
“I am,” she said. “But I am not sure I should have dinner at Sir Richard’s until after my injuries have healed.”
“I’m not sure any of us should,” Farnsworth said, “but especially not the ladies.”
“That is a dangerous road for an evening excursion,” Fox said.
“He did not mention the assault on your servants last night, Fox,” Farnsworth said. “Does he call on you often, Goodfellow?”
“Never,” Fox said.
“Interesting. Fancy him paying his first call just after we’ve arrived.”
“Lady Perpetua,” Kincaid asked, “have you met him before?”
“No,” she wheezed, a pain in her injured rib sharpening the pronouncement, another uncontrollable wriggle making her back spasm. Sir Richard might’ve picked her up from the chair and carried her off, his interest had been that palpable. Without the men here, she would have run for a knife in the kitchen. Father’s dislike had been clear.
Which, she reminded herself, didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to use the man’s interest for one of his schemes.
“If you need my help, Father, then I shall determine to go to dinner. I can work out a way to cover this.” She touched the scarf at her neck.
A necklace of wide ribbon and a brooch would work—it had for Sirena. There would be something among her mother’s things she could use. And if Fox would come with her…
But the invitation had gone to her father and the ladies, had it not? She strained to remember.
“Will you remove your scarf, Perpetua?” Father said. The question was a gentle command, but there was kindness in his eyes. “I should like the others to see what we are dealing with.”
Heat shot through her. She must be a bright shade of crimson.
“Sir.” Fox pushed back his chair and opened his mouth to say more.
“It’s all right, Fox.” She unwound the scarf she’d found in her mother’s things, sending the lilac scent rising. The damp sea air touched the skin above the dress’s deep neckline. It should have cooled the flush racing through her but it only made it worse.
She’d been so foolish. She dropped her gaze and hitched in a breath.
Kincaid cleared his throat. “Who did this, my lady?”
Jane leaned in. Despite her promise to Jane, she had put off explaining her injuries. She’d not shared the story with anyone but Father. Nor had Fox, apparently.
She repeated the story about being taken on the road.
“A big man,” Kincaid said. “Might it’ve been this Sir Richard? He seemed taken with you.”
“I was dressed as a boy.”
Kincaid and Farnsworth shared a look.
“She was,” Farnsworth said.
Could it have been the Baronet? The voice was different, gruffer, surer, the body more solidly muscular. Sir Richard looked like a stuffed hog swathed in quality worsted.
