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She opened her mouth to give a resounding No!, but Mr. Hartley spoke first. “This isn’t the place to shoot a gun. Think of all the things—and people—we might accidentally hit.”
Her son’s lower lip puckered out in a pout. “But—”
“Daniel,” Emeline said in warning, “you mustn’t badger Mr. Hartley when he has been so kind as to let you help him with his gun.”
Mr. Hartley frowned as if she’d said something wrong. “I was very pleased to have Danny’s help—”
“His name is Daniel.” The words were out before she could check them. Her tone was too sharp.
He stared at her, his mouth thinning.
She glared back, thrusting out her chin.
He said slowly, “Daniel worked well today. He isn’t bothering me.”
Her son beamed as if he’d been given the most extravagant praise. She should be grateful that Mr. Hartley was so kind, that he knew exactly what to say to a small boy. Instead, she was vaguely peeved.
Mr. Hartley smiled back at Daniel and then bent to pick up the cloths and oil. “You’ll probably be busy tomorrow morning, preparing for the ball.”
Emeline blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Why, no. There are many preparations if one is throwing a ball, but as we are simply attending—”
“Good.” He glanced up, his brown eyes laughing, and Emeline suddenly realized she’d walked straight into a trap. “Then you’ll be able to accompany me to view Mr. Wedgwood’s pottery. I should like a feminine perspective on what to order.”
She opened her mouth to say something that she’d no doubt regret later but was saved by the voice of Mr. Smythe-Jones.
“My lord? Lord Eddings?”
Daniel hunched his shoulders and whispered, “Don’t tell him I’m here.”
Emeline frowned. “Nonsense. Go to your tutor at once, Daniel.”
“But—”
“Best to do as your mother says,” Mr. Hartley said quietly.
And miraculously, her son shut his mouth. “Yes, sir.” He went to the wall and called over, “I’m here.”
They heard the thin voice of the tutor. “Whatever are you doing over there? Come down at once, Lord Eddings!”
“I—”
Mr. Hartley leapt onto the marble bench that sat against the wall. For such a big man, he moved lithely. “Danny was visiting me, Mr. Smythe-Jones. I hope you don’t mind.”
Startled murmuring came from over the wall.
“Come on, Danny.” Mr. Hartley made a step with his hands. “I’ll give you a leg up.”
“Thanks!” Daniel stepped into the big hands and Mr. Hartley gently lifted him up. The boy scrambled to the top of the wall and then onto the big crab-apple branch that lay just over it. In a moment he was gone.
Emeline looked at the toes of her shoes as she listened to the tutor remonstrating with her son, his voice fading as they walked back to the house. She twisted a bit of ribbon on her overskirt. Then she looked up.
Mr. Hartley was watching her from atop the bench. He jumped lightly to the ground, landing just a little too close to her, his coffee-brown eyes intent. “Why don’t you want me to call your son Danny?”
She pursed her lips. “His name is Daniel.”
“And Danny is the nickname for Daniel.”
“He’s a baron. He will sit in the House of Lords one day.” The ribbon was digging into the soft pads of her fingers. “He doesn’t need a nickname.”
