Nelson could not be entirely sure of what he was being thanked for and would likely make off with Mrs. Wendover at the first opportunity, but he wagged his tail. For now, the stuffed rabbit was back with its rightful owner.
Before taking Mrs. Right’s hand, Valor gave a little curtsy. “Lord Thorpe, Lord Charles, a pleasure to know you. Lord Dashlend, you’re wrong about what’s happening on the moors—it’s murder. Mr. Stratton, we’ll all thank you to stop staring at Felicity while she’s sleeping. You might sleep in another room if you cannot help yourself.”
“I think that’s quite enough of an adieu, Poppet,” Mrs. Right said with a snort. She led Valor out of the room.
Serenity thought she’d at least better explain the comment about murder. “Valor is certain that when a fox screams, it is a woman being murdered on the moors. We cannot convince her otherwise.”
“Deuced inconvenient those foxes keep her up at night,” the duke said. “There is a bright spot, though—she accused my vicar of being involved in the murders. He’s still not over it!”
Once Valor had gone, they played the game for a while longer. Winsome asked Lord Thorpe if he would be prone to Mr. Stratton’s habit of staring at his wife while she was sleeping. He said not if she would not like it. This was deemed a fact, though Serenity had nearly gone through the floor with the embarrassment of prying so far into Lord Thorpe’s personal attitudes.
Verity was not the slightest embarrassed by it and said, “So you do plan to be in the same room all night, then?”
Lord Thorpe did indeed plan on it. It gave Serenity shivers just to think of it.
Grace asked Lord Charles if it was true that he’d bet Lord Waltondell last season regarding how many spots Lady Alvinia’s prize coach dog had. Lord Charles admitted to it, which was deemed a fact. He was further questioned on the nature of the bet by the duke and it seemed he’d lost one of his horses.
Serenity found herself horrified over the idea. She could not imagine putting her Dales pony at such risk for any reason. Toplay with her horse’s fate for a bet would be unconscionable. She could not imagine how her dear Jupiter would feel to be taken away from her stablemates—they were her friends. It would be a betrayal of the worst kind.
Mr. Stratton, who had probably heard enough of his habit of watching Felicity sleep, finally rose to signal an end to the party. Serenity supposed that, had it been another house, the ladies of the household would stay in the drawing room. The Nicolets did not care for such constraints, though.
They followed the guests out the doors and to the pavement. Felicity and Mr. Stratton climbed into their carriage and Grace and Lord Dashlend got into their own. With much waving, they were off in their different directions.
Lord Charles’ horse had been brought from the stables. Lord Thorpe had, naturally, walked over, as he was only two doors down. Serenity was pleased to note that he lingered.
Lord Charles noted it too. “Well, Thorpe, you have not forgotten which direction you travel?”
Serenity supposed that was a hint that Lord Thorpe should get going.
Winsome said, “It is such a fine night, I suppose it would do us good to walk with Lord Thorpe to his doorstep.”
Very clever, Winsome!
“Indeed,” Serenity said, “the night air is always good for one’s health.”
“Is it?” Lord Charles asked.
“Of course it is,” Lord Thorpe said, looking eager to jump on the idea.
“It is very commonly known,” Verity said.
“News to me,” the duke said, “but I’ll pretend to believe it.”
“Thank you for attending us, Lord Charles,” Serenity said. She did not wish to brush him off, but she did wish to walk with Lord Thorpe to his doorstep.
Seeing as he had no other recourse, Lord Charles tipped his hat. “Ladies, Your Grace.” He turned his horse and trotted down the street.
Lord Thorpe put out his arm and Serenity gently laid her hand upon it. They proceeded, rather slowly, toward Lord Thorpe’s house. The candlelight falling from behind window curtains along the square gently lit it with a soft romantic aura. Perhaps less romantic was being followed by her father, Winsome, and Verity. Her family were suspiciously quiet, and she felt put on the spot somehow.
They had reached Lord Thorpe’s doorstep. “I believe the weather will be fine on the morrow,” he said.
“Indeed, yes, it is sure to be fine. In the morning at least.”
“At eleven.”
“Yes, at eleven.”
“Well now, Thorpe,” the duke said, “I suppose you’d best get inside. Despite claims of night air being beneficial, I should not like my daughters to catch cold.”
