“I understand. I just hopeyouunderstand. You must be sensible about this.”
They traveled the rest of the way home in silence. What in the world had gone on? He did not believe his grandmother’s version of events. That was not the Lady Winsome he knew. It was certainly not Landry. That fellow was terrified of women, not a leering lothario.
Something had gone on, though. Lady Winsome’s hair was mussed and her manner was one of unease when she’d returned to the garden. Had she been accosted in some way? Not by Landry, which was ridiculous, but by someone else. Should he have insisted on escorting her inside when she’d gone to check the clue?
But then, it seemed most improbable that a lady would be accosted inside Sir Jonathan’s house.
He would have to get to the bottom of it. He would not see Lady Winsome until Lady Darlington’s masque in three days’ time. Perhaps his first stop must be to see Landry. He had been on the scene and would have better information than his grandmother and her wild speculations.
Whatever had gone on, he could not bring himself to believe the lady had been at all at fault. As well, he could not believe that Landry would be at all capable of attempting a seduction—the fellow could barely attempt a conversation.
So whathadhappened?
*
The day followingSir Jonathan’s scavenger hunt brought rain. It was the sort of pouring rain that admitted no breaks, the skies had opened and let out a torrent. The streets had been transformed intofast-running, muddy streams and the windows were grayed with foggy mist.
Winsome was perfectly sanguine over the weather. It was the type of day when all sane people stuck to their houses and did not venture out. It suited her mood.
She had fretted long into the night, going back and forth over what had happened at Sir Jonathan’s house. One moment, it was some despicable plot she could not unravel. The next moment, it was a child playing at a joke.
Just now, she, Valor, and Mrs. Right were cozy in the drawing room. A fire had been lit to beat back the chill and candles flickered, warming the light in the room. To entertain Valor, Winsome had had written and cut out the letters to Sir Jonathan’s clues so she might work to unscramble the word that was the solution. Winsome already knew what it was, as shortly after Lord Manderbey and the dowager had departed, a winner had been announced and the answer given.
“Oh wait,” Valor said. “There is an I and an N and a G. ING is the ending of a lot of words. That leaves the E and the S.” Valor tapped her chin. “Sewing! It must be sewing!”
Winsome smiled. “That is right, Val. As well, it makes perfect sense, as that is what Sir Jonathan’s charity is all about. Young girls are trained to be seamstresses so that they have an independent means of support.”
“Because they do not have a kind Papa like we do that will buy all their dresses?”
“Something like that,” Winsome said. It was apparent that her youngest sister had not yet reached the age when her eyes were fully open to the world and saw it for what it was. At Valor’s age, Winsome had herself thought that everybody in their little village did just what they liked. If a man was a shepherd, it must be because he’d rather spend all his days with sheep than any other thing. It was not until she was older that she began to question why that shepherd would notrather live in a fine house as she did. And then to eventually understand that he could not, even if he wished it.
“Well,” Valor said, “I suppose teaching people to sew is a very good idea. They can sew their own hostessing clothes. Should I write Sir Jonathan and describe how I designed my hostessing clothes so he can show them how to do it?”
“No, no that would not be at all necessary, he will already know all about it,” Winsome said. Valor’s letters were notorious for setting people’s backs up and it would hardly be appropriate for him to receive a letter from a girl he’d never laid eyes on, even if he did develop an interest in hostessing clothes.
Mrs. Right suddenly sat up straight. “I’ve heard the door, I’m sure I have. Who would come out in such weather?”
Winsome smoothed her dress and very much hoped it was Lord Manderbey. They had not had a moment to speak before he’d left Sir Jonathan’s to escort the dowager home. She’d said she would be gone for a moment and then had been gone for over a half hour, with no explanation. He must think it so odd.
Of course, the reason for it was even more odd. She’d been locked in the ladies’ retiring room. It sounded absurd. Itwasabsurd.
The drawing room doors were flung open and a very wet Lady Marchfield strode through it.
Winsome’s heart sank. It was not Lord Manderbey. But why on earth would their aunt come out in such weather?
Lady Marchfield gave a withering glance to Mrs. Right. Then she said, “Valor, please take that housekeeper elsewhere. I will have a private word with Winsome.”
Both Valor and Mrs. Right looked to Winsome. Mrs. Right said, “I’ll stay if you need me to, Poppet.”
Winsome had rather not cause some sort of contretemps between her aunt and her dear Mrs. Right, they already were oil and water. In any case, she was all but certain Lady Marchfield had arrived to deliverthe same lecture she’d been handing out for years—the household must be regulated and their behavior modified, or they were heading toward disaster. Winsome was well able to stand up to it. She just did not know what could have set her aunt off this time as she’d not seen her all that much this season.
“It’s all right,” Winsome said. “Mrs. Right, perhaps you could help Valor with her knitting? She’s been determined to make Sir Galahad a blanket for his bed, but has not got far with it.”
“It’s very hard, that’s why,” Valor said, scooping up the dog in question.
Mrs. Right rose too. “I’ll ask Charlie to arrange for a tea tray.”
“Not necessary,” Lady Marchfield said curtly.
