Before Margaret could so much as loosen her bonnet, Sholto appeared at the top landing — flushed, sticky, and holding a half-melted sugar mouse proudly in front of him. He negotiated the steps one at a time, both hands occupied: one with the sweet, the other leaving a faintly tacky trail on the banister.
Aunt Shaw paled. “Oh heavens, look at that railing—Edith, the child is a disaster!”
But Sholto reached the bottom and made straight for Margaret, beaming up at her. “Aunt Margaret, who was that man?” he asked, sugar mouse aloft like proof. “Right outside. He was talking to you.”
Margaret froze. “Sholto—”
Aunt Shaw exclaimed in horror as his free hand smeared something shiny on the hall wainscoting. “Sholto Lennox! Have you no notion of propriety? Mary, take him at once— oh, where is that girl?”
Edith caught her son’s hand. “Oh, goodness. Where did you get another of these? Have you been in the pantry again?”
But Sholto wriggled free, darting back toward Margaret like a determined terrier. “Aunt Margaret,” he insisted with rising volume, “who was that man you talked to on the walk? The one with the dark coat? I saw him—I did—I saw him talking to you!”
Heat swept through her cheeks, and she bent quickly, hoping to quiet him before anyone else heard. “Sholto, dearest—hush. You mustn’t make such a fuss. It was only—”
But it was too late.
Edith straightened. “Who was talking to Margaret? What man? Sholto, darling, don’t smear that on Mama’s sleeve. Margaret, what is he talking about?”
Margaret cleared her throat. “It was nothing, I assure you.”
Edith was trying to keep her son’s fingers off her skirt until the nurse could come claim him. “Not one of those dreadful salesmen—they always hover at the door this time of year.”
Aunt Shaw stepped out of the way of the oncoming nurse, brows lifting in mild surprise rather than outrage. “Did someone accost you, dear? Or did you recognize him?”
And Dixon—faithful, sharp-eyed Dixon—paused with Margaret’s bonnet still dangling from one hand, staring at Margaret just a heartbeat longer than usual.
Margaret forced her voice to not to shake. “It was not an encounter worth fussing over. Mr. Thornton happened to be leaving the same appointment.”
Sholto beamed, delighted with himself for solving the mystery. “The big man! He held your hand!”
Margaret’s breath stopped.
Edith gasped softly. “Held your—Margaret!”
“Sholto,” Margaret whispered, mortified. “He assisted me out of the carriage. That is all.”
Aunt Shaw’s expression softened into understanding. “Ah—yes. The Milton manufacturer your father befriended.” She hesitated. “I remember him from that sad journey north. A rather grave man. And that mother of his…”
Edith looked bewildered. “The manufacturer? But what is he doing here in London?”
Margaret swallowed. “Business.”
“A very respectable man,” Aunt Shaw murmured, as if ensuring propriety was not at stake. But Margaret had known her aunt long enough to catch the hint of derision under the words. Mrs. Shaw had her own opinions on “manufacturers,” even the best of them.
Meanwhile Dixon’s gaze had sharpened to a narrow point, fixed entirely on Margaret’s face. Not suspicious of Thornton. No—Dixon never doubted him.
Suspicious ofherexpression.
Margaret looked away too quickly.
Edith fluttered closer. “But Margaret—you look quite undone. I told you, you ought to have waited for Henry. Those dreadful solicitors! Unless it was that Mr. Thornton who distressed you?”
“Edith, please.” Her voice came out softer than she meant.
“Well, no matter,” Edith insisted. “Captain Lennox assured me only this afternoon that Henry would be joining us for dinner tomorrow evening, and, one hopes, to services on Christmas morning as well. Surely, you may take your concerns to him and be done with it.”
Margaret stiffened without meaning to. Henry—with his smooth assurances, his cool professional manner, his perfect confidence that he always knew what was best for her. Henry, who had once proposed.
