After the meal, the ladies proceeded to the drawing room, as usual. The gentlemen followed after a short while. Tonight, Mrs. Towers insisted on some entertainment, so Blanche played the pianoforte with tolerable skill. Or perhaps more than tolerable—Poppy was used to listening to her cousin Rosalind play, and Rose was an incredibly gifted musician. Still, she couldn’t help glancing at Carlos, who sat in a chair on the other side of the audience. Was he impressed by the perhaps more than tolerable Blanche?
He seemed attentive, but then he caught her eye and gave her a tiny, secret smile that sent heat up her spine.
After Blanche curtseyed and took her seat, the Hobbsons stood up. To Poppy’s surprise, they performed a scene from Shakespeare, a rousing dialogue between Oberon and Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream. They gave it their all, and the effect was unexpectedly moving. Poppy applauded enthusiastically at the conclusion.
“Thank you, thank you,” Mr. Hobbson said. “A little hobby of ours.”
“Sometimes,” his wife added, “I envy those women who have made a career on the stage.”
Mrs. Ainsworth gasped, looking scandalized. “Don’t mention actresses when proper ladies are present!”
“Oh, I’m not advocating any of our young friends choose that path,” Mrs. Hobbson said, not at all put out. “I’m just saying that there must be a certain thrill to performing for an adoring audience.”
“Well, I adored your performance,” Poppy declared, not looking at Mrs. Ainsworth.
Then Mrs. Towers recited a poem—which could have been deadly, but she was a consummate orator and knew how to bring forth the humor in the piece.
After the performances all concluded, Carlos approached Poppy.
“Truce?” he asked softly.
“Were we at war?”
“I don’t think we left things in a particularly peaceful place.” He sighed. “I’m sorry if I came across as demanding before. I’m just concerned about the whole situation.”
Poppy nodded. “I know. So let’s agree that we’ll both be careful then.”
“Fair. Since I’ve got you talking to me again, I was wondering,” Carlos said, “about Mr. Towers. How did he buy this place? If he’s just a retired barrister, as you say.”
“Oh, he’s just a barrister,” Poppy told him, “but Mrs. Towers was born the only daughter of an earl…an earl who happened to have tin mines on his lands.”
“Really.”
“Yes, she was born Lady Candice Morse, and she was an heiress of the first order, expected to make the match of the century. However, apparently she turned down dozens of proposals from men who personally knew the king, only to turn around and marry a lawyer, gaining the humble title of Mrs. Towers.”
“Lucky man.”
“I’d say lucky woman…to have made her own choice.”
Chapter 12
It was late, but Carlos couldn’t sleep. The evening entertainment was over and the guests all drifted off to bed. He’d already taken two evening strolls around the grounds as an excuse to watch for ships, though he hadn’t seen anything of note (just a frigate off in the distance, clearly aiming to make the harbor at Treversey).
He could go out again. Sneaking around a house in the small hours wasn’t exactly model behavior, but he was a man and no one would blink at it. They’d probably assume he was heading to find some female companionship, which actually suited him just fine. As long as no one realized how interested he was in the local smuggling operations, they were free to assume whatever they liked. Restless, he shrugged into his darkest-colored jacket and opened his door, ready to patrol the outside of the house once more.
Just then, a shadow moved in the far corner of the hallway. He jumped, reaching for the knife he kept hidden beneath his jacket.
But before he could draw it, the shadow moved again, and he saw the sleek shape of Poppy’s cat emerge, a dead mouse in her jaws.
“Ah. You’ve been hunting,” he said to the cat.
Miss Mist stared at him, unimpressed. Just like her owner, he thought. Then she walked right past him and into his room, where she deposited the dead mouse on the floor near the bed.
“Why, thank you for the gift,” he told the cat. “But isn’t that something you ought to save for your mistress?”
The cat mewed, then apparently decided she was hungry. Carlos was glad—he didn’t really want to handle mouse disposal on top of everything else.
“You can stay here if you like,” he said, bending down to pet the now-fed cat, who began to purr delightedly. “But I’ve got some smugglers to stalk.”
