Her eyes drifted to the lane where the boy had vanished. At its far end, she caught the barest suggestion of a figure, still, half-turned, watching. The moment she blinked, the figure was gone, leaving only the ordinary bustle of the street.
They walked on, the silence between them no longer easy, butsharpened and watchful. Whatever tomorrow’s tea might bring, someone already knew more about their plans than they should and had taken the trouble to warn them.
Chapter Twenty-One
The drawing roomat Barrington’s home carried the quiet hum of a house that had been busy all afternoon. Light slanted through the tall windows, warming the oak paneling. A long table had been cleared for the guest lists. Also a neat stacks of paper, swatches of silk ribbon, and pencil sketches of floral displays. The air held a mild mix of tea and beeswax, with the faint promise of something baking in the kitchens.
Kenworth stood at the head of the table with two lists in hand, his expression set with mock gravity. He raised the smaller sheet. “One from Mrs. Bainbridge.” He lifted the other, three times as long and written in an elegant but crowded hand. “And one from your mother, Colonel. I shall need a miracle, or a fair wind to sail them all up the east coast.”
Mrs. Bainbridge tried to look stern, though amusement tugged at her mouth. “It will be a small wedding.”
“It will be a proper wedding,” Barrington said, the pride in his voice unhidden though the words were quiet. “Mother has waited a long time for our wedding and wants all her friends to celebrate with us.” The warmth in his tone set even the lists aside for a moment.
“Frankly, my lord,” Kenworth remarked, “I think she wants repayment for all the wedding gifts she and your father have given over the years.”
A pause, one heartbeat, two, before laughter broke out, the kind that came as much from shared history as from the jest itself.
“Yes, retribution. That does sound like my mother.” Barrington raised his goblet. “To Mother.”
Before the moment could turn back toward debate, Leticia leaned toward the lists. “If we direct your mother’s guests toward the outer tables and the bride’s closest friends to the center, it keeps the heart of the room for those who matter most.”
“It gives everyone the place of honor they believe they deserve,” Gabriel said evenly, though his glance toward her carried something unspoken.
Their eyes met over the paper, the sort of look that could pass for nothing unless you were the one inside it. The table fell into a moment’s stillness, the kind born of quiet understanding. Mrs. Bainbridge lifted an eyebrow and said nothing. Barrington glanced between them before looking down at the lists. Kenworth set the long sheet aside as though nothing at all had happened.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Sanderson stood in the doorway with the composure of a man who could deliver a message across a battlefield without ruffling a cuff.
“Lady Marchmont and Miss Erica Notley,” he announced.
Lady Marchmont entered in a sweep of pale blue pelisse, light catching on the trim at her cuffs. Erica followed, her plume nodding, her gaze bright. The air seemed to make room for them, carrying in a breath of the afternoon and a thread of perfume like a quiet invitation.
“Mrs. Bainbridge,” Lady Marchmont said warmly, offering her hand, “I hope you will forgive the interruption. We were speaking earlier, and Miss Notley reminded me of something you admired in my library during the masquerade. We decided it should come here at once.”
At her nod, Erica set a cloth-wrapped parcel on the table, handling it with more care than needed, as though the attention belonged to the gathering as much as the parcel.
Mrs. Bainbridge rose. “The Sèvres vase.” She unwrapped porcelainthe color of a summer sky, roses painted in such fine detail they seemed close to moving. “It is lovelier than I remembered.”
“It belonged to my grandmother,” Lady Marchmont said. “She brought it home from Paris. It was broken once, years ago, but mended so neatly the join is almost a memory.” Her fingertip traced the faint seam. “It would lend a touch of grace to your celebration.”
Leticia stepped nearer. The brushwork around the flowers had a steadiness that spoke of patience and a sure hand. Erica smoothed the cloth’s edge. “It deserves to be seen,” she said lightly.
They spoke for a few moments about where the vase might be placed, the mantel in the dining room, perhaps, or a receiving table at the castle entry to welcome each guest as they arrived. The talk was comfortable, a piece of daytime business that belonged in any good house.
Lady Marchmont’s gaze turned to Leticia and Gabriel, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “And when will we be celebrating your vows?” she asked without pressure.
Gabriel’s answer came steady, unhurried. “We are still in discussion, but we have vowed to have an answer by the end of next week.”
Lady Marchmont’s brows lifted a fraction. She smiled as if the answer pleased her. “I shall keep my best gown pressed.”
Sanderson returned with a footman carrying a tall arrangement of chrysanthemums and glossy leaves. It was handsome enough, but far too high for a table meant for conversation. The footman set it where Kenworth pointed and stepped back with the practiced neutrality of a man accustomed to many opinions.
“From the High Street florist, ma’am,” Sanderson said.
Mrs. Bainbridge studied the arrangement. “This is not what we discussed. It will block the view of anyone who tries to talk over it.”
Kenworth moved closer, regarding it with professional concern. “It will go back at once with a note. We are testing the hand, not building a wall.”
Leticia leaned in to examine the stems. “The flowers are fine, but they need a low bowl with air between the blooms.”
