I laughed as I draped a lace shawl over my shoulders. “You needn’t worry on my account. It’s Abigail who needs watching.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Indeed, she does. I just heard from one of the tenants that he spied her riding with Mr. Barron yesterday.”
I opened my mouth to protest and swiftly shut it. How was it that Abigail and I no longer shared our secrets with each other? I had thought Mr. Barron had abandoned her, considering Mr. Perry’s refusal to bring him into our venture.
Despite my anxiety over Abigail’s secrecy, there was no time to dwell on it. Before I knew it, Abigail and I found ourselves at the Hawkinses’ home, exhausted from the day’s events but eager for the country dance.
The large manor house, which had plenty of room for a country dance, was aglow with candlelight, and the polished floor gleamed while a fiddler struck a merry tune. A crowd of familiar faces pressed close against us, including Lord Hawthorn’s tenants and the villagers. I recognized the Cordings with their son, Jonathan, at the outskirts next to a table with an enormous punch bowl. Mr. Perry had a glass of punch in hand, his nose especially red this evening.
Earlier in the afternoon, we had enjoyed the maypole, festooned with blue, pink, and yellow ribbons, as the young girls twirled with their crowns of flowers. The Green Man, one of the Devon boys bedecked in green attire and foliage, had marched through the street leading the procession of merry morris dancers. Within the ballroom, I now spied many of our dancers, including the Green Man wandering with a bit of leaf trapped in his tousled hair. He joined the other young men near the punch bowl, where a concoction of lemonade and Jamaican rum brought a steady line.
“I should have liked to have been crowned the May Queen,” Abigail confided wistfully as she joined me. I smiled at her. Alreadythe steward of the dance had arranged introductions for her to dance with a partner, so the evening wasn’t a loss.
“You resemble a queen,” I said.
She glowed, frocked in one of my pink gowns with flowers pinned artfully within her arranged curls. She brushed her gloved hands against the dress. “I don’t think I ever want to take this gown off. I do hope I will dance holes into my slippers.”
“You are only young once. Did Mr. Barron fill your card?”
She fidgeted with her gloves. “I fear he has lost interest in me unless I can change his mind.”
“There are plenty of good men out there,” I said more confidently than I felt. “Mr. Barron doesn’t know what he is missing.”
She fidgeted with her gloves, but her attention remained pinned on the youth by the punch table.
Abigail did not have to wait long to be asked to dance. A young man I recognized from church held out his arm, hardly needing to coax her to join a quadrille about to start. The music soon reached a crescendo, the violin as thrilling as could be.
I had a hard time not tapping my slippers to the rhythm. Suddenly the music ground to a discordant halt, and at the room’s entrance, a disturbance caused a ripple through the dancers. Three men pushed into view, each eliciting a different reaction from me.
The peerage graced the Hawkinses’ home. Dressed in severe black, Rafe towered over Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley. He scanned the room, his features narrowing as if he wanted to be anywhere else. Mr. Beaumont created quite a stir, his blond hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. Again, he wore a bloodred waistcoat. His friend, with hair elaborately curled like a woman’s, appeared the picture of boredom. The dance had concluded, and couples were re-forming lines to prepare for the next when Mr. Hawkins urged those near the front to make way for the peerage.
A few couples sheepishly edged out of the way to make roomfor the newcomers. Mr. Beaumont’s mocking smile grew wider as his host fawned over his new guests while pointing out the most eligible ladies in the room.
My gaze snapped to Rafe, who appeared stone-faced when Lord Ainsley placed a hand on his shoulder. As if sensing the weight of my stare, Rafe turned. Our eyes locked and my breath froze in my lungs. He had come with the Dilettanti. The very men I had longed to impress.
“Miss Littleton, will you not dance?” A voice purred in my ear.
Startled, I whirled around to see Mr. Barron grinning at me. “It’s me or Mr. Cording by the punch bowl. Don’t look now, but I believe he’s coming our way. Never mind; he lost his courage. Back to the punch bowl for another drink. Poor man, so faint of heart. I’ll gladly stand in his stead.”
“I have no desire to dance, thank you.” I dearly hoped Abigail would remain with her partner and not spy Mr. Barron by my side. I wanted no jealousy from her.
He angled closer, his spirit-laden breath igniting a spark of annoyance. “We don’t need to dance, then. It’s conversation I’m after. You found something else in the field, did you not? Mr. Perry has suddenly become as tight-lipped as they come. Repeatedly, he’s rejected my offers to help him clear the field or post a guard. Why? I understand someone tried to steal a mosaic.”
“Did Miss Perry share this news with you?” I demanded.
“She did.”
“And what are your intentions with my friend?”
He opened his mouth, shocked, no doubt, by my question. “I have asked her for the honor of her hand, upon my word. Her father is quite agreeable to the notion.”
I didn’t know what to believe, considering Mr. Perry had expressed only disgust with the innkeeper, and my friend wouldlikely marry any half-decent man who could provide a comfortable life.
As I inched backward, Mr. Barron placed a hand on my arm. “Please, Miss Littleton, I am worried for her. And you. I consider the vicar a dear, dear friend.”
A ripple of fear chased away my former annoyance. “There is no need to worry about us, Mr. Barron. We’ve been careful with the excavation, and I’ve had help.”
Mr. Barron’s grasp on my arm tightened, his tone lowering. “That so-called help hasn’t been enough when danger comes from unexpected places.” He steered me away from the dancers, closer to the wall. The music grew louder as the fiddlers increased their tempo. With the clapping and cheering, no one would overhear our conversation.
