Page 7 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

Christine gave her a long look. “No, I suppose not. Nor how could it be? You’ve set the bar so high no man can hope to meet it. Not when measured against the standard set by your brothers.”

Kate smiled at the mention of her overbearing, overprotective, and frequently irritating older brothers James, Ivo, and Jack. Despite their constant interference in her life, she was excessively fond of the three of them. “What have they to do with anything?”

“They’re all of them dashing and well favored. Like three golden princes out of a fairy tale. My mother says James is the image of your father at that age.”

“They’re all the image of my father,” Kate said distractedly. She traced the pad of her thumb over the letters of the monogram. “Though Jack does have Mama’s temper.”

“As do you, my dear,” Christine pointed out gently.

Kate’s mouth quirked. “A lady needs a bit of temper. She’d lose herself otherwise.” She turned from the window, the bloodstained handkerchief still twined in her fingers. “And you’re wrong to say that no man can measure up to my brothers. Not that I’m blind to their finer points, but…I’m not looking for some masculine ideal. I’ve never sought it.”

“Then what?”

“I told you, I want a hero.”

Christine smiled dryly at the impossibility of it. “Is that all?”

“Very well then,” Kate said, goaded. “If that’s too much to ask, I at least require a gentleman who will provide a bit of a challenge. I can’t abide being bored.”

It was the unfortunate truth of it; one Kate had finally come to accept after her lackluster season in London. She knew now that she could never spend her days stitching silently in a drawing room, content to be admired by some respectful adoring spouse. She was made for the storm. For braving the mad currents of life, not sheltering in the shallows.

“Life can’t always be exciting,” Christine said. “Sometimes we must put our heads down and get on with the business of a lady’s day-to-day. There’s happiness to be found in the quiet moments. In being industrious and obliging mothers and wives.”

“In needlework and crochet patterns, you mean.” Kate twisted her shawl more securely through her arms. “I can do both well enough, thank you very much. I don’t need to make a life’s work out of it.”

“You’ll do neither with that wound festering on your finger,” Christine said. “Pray God that miserable cur didn’t infect you with some dread disease.”

“That dog was no cur.” Kate’s words held an impish twinkle. “He was a rare Spanish import.”

“So I heard,” Christine replied without humor. “Do you truly think that gentleman rescued him?”

“I know he did,” Kate said. “It was quite the most heroic display I’ve witnessed since arriving in London.”

“What’s this about a heroic display?” The door swung open and Christine’s cousin Gilbert Trumble sauntered into the drawing room.

Gilbert was a thin, fair-haired gentleman with a loping gait and an easy manner. He expended most of his time hunting, shooting, and riding to hounds. What leisure hours he had left were spent at his club in St. James’s Street⁠—a veritable hotbed of society gossip. It kept Gilbert remarkably well informed. He could always be relied upon for the latest tittle-tattle.

“Gilbert!” Christine crossed the room to greet him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving for Surrey this morning?”

“That dashed bay hunter of mine has sprained his hock.” Gilbert took Christine’s outstretched hands. “I’ve been in the stable physicking him since dawn.” He kissed her cheek. “And missed the fun, it seems.” He glanced at Kate. “What’s this about heroic deeds?”

“Heroic might be overstating the matter.” Christine released her cousin’s hands. “Kate claims a gentleman stranger rescued a dog in Bond Street.”

Gilbert came to greet Kate, first with a bow and then⁠—a little sheepishly—with the same cousinly kiss on the cheek with which he’d greeted Christine.

Kate may as well be his cousin. She’d known Gilbert Trumble all of her life. He was an amiable fellow and sufficiently capable on horseback. Granted, he was at times a trifle awkward with her—particularly in recent years as she’d grown into a young lady—but he’d never once stepped a toe out of line. Kate trusted him almost as much as she trusted her brothers.

“He did rescue it,” she said. “And then he disappeared into the crowd.”

“We have no notion who he was,” Christine said.

“Save for his initials,” Kate added. “C.H.”

“C.H.?” Gilbert cocked his head with interest. “What did he look like?”

Christine answered: “Tall. Black hair. Quite impolite, really.”

“C.H.,” Gilbert repeated. “I say…I wonder if it was Charles Heywood? He’s recently back in England.”