Page 12 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

Kate’s mouth compressed with irritation. Jack’s astonishment at finding her thus engaged wasn’t very flattering. “I’m making a Christmas gift for someone,” she said, resuming her chain of stitches. “Is that so surprising?”

“Yes,” he replied frankly. “This gift isn’t for me, I hope?”

“No, not for you.”

“Good. Because I don’t want some ugly knitted scarf that I’ll be obliged to wear all winter so as not to hurt your feelings.”

“I told you, it’s crochet, not knitting,” Kate said. “And since when were my feelings so fragile?”

“How am I to know? You’ve been away in London. James says you’ll be changed now you’ve come home.”

“I haven’t changed,” Kate said.

“And that’s the problem,” James said.

Kate looked up from crocheting as her eldest brother entered the room to join them.

James Aldrick Nicholas Beresford was the newly minted Viscount St. Clare. He’d assumed the lesser title on Papa’s elevation to the earldom. Like Jack, James was tall, lean, and powerfully made. A copy of their father to an uncanny degree. But if Jack resembled Papa as a reckless young blade, then James resembled him as a man in his prime—cold, formidable, and capable of anything.

Were Kate anyone else, she might have been intimidated by him. She wasn’t, thank heaven. Quite the reverse. “Can none of you leave me alone for five seconds? I came in here because I wanted some peace.”

“A pox on your knitting,” Jack said. “Put on your habit and come riding with me.”

“Ivo can go with you,” Kate said. “I must finish this before Christmas.”

Ivo was her second eldest brother. At three and twenty, he wasn’t quite as wild as Jack, but he was far more fun than James. He’d recently returned from a lengthy grand tour of Europe and was keen to reacquaint himself with the local flora and fauna.

“Ivo is down the lane calling on the blacksmith’s daughter,” Jack said. “Someone should tell him she’s already had half the young squires in the West Country.”

James hit the back of Jack’s head with the flat of his hand as he walked by him. “Don’t be crass. Not in front of our sister.”

“Kate would say the same,” Jack grumbled under his breath. “Indeed, she’d say worse.”

“Don’t embroil me in your quarrels,” Kate shot back tartly. “Can’t you see I’m sewing?”

James studied her face. At five and twenty, he considered himself to be responsible for all of his younger siblings, never mind that he was only a scant few years older. “What are you up to, Kate?”

“Nothing. What are you up to?” She examined her brother with a critical eye. He was clothed in a dark suit with a freshly pressed shirt and an immaculately tied cravat “You’re dressed exceptionally fine for a morning indoors.”

James was silent for a long moment. And then: “I’m taking the carriage to fetch Ivo home.”

Jack scrunched his face in confusion. “I thought Ivo was wooing the blacksmith’s daughter?”

“I never said so.” James’s expression became grim. “I believe he’s at Letchford Hall, calling on Miss Burton-Smythe.”

Kate’s mouth fell open. “He would never!”

“You can’t be serious!” Jack exclaimed at the same time. “He knows how Mother and Father feel about that family.”

Sir Frederick Burton-Smythe owned Letchford Hall, the estate that bordered Beasley Park. He and Kate’s father were enemies of old. Kate didn’t know the specifics, only that, at one time, Sir Frederick had been in love with her mother, Margaret.

Not in love. Obsessed.

He still was, Kate suspected. Why else would he have named his daughter after her mother?

Margaret Burton-Smythe, known as Meg hereabouts, was a willowy, freckle-faced redhead of eighteen. Kate had no particular quarrel with her, but all the same…

What was Ivo thinking to even consider courting such a person?