Page 28 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Namely:

Five unwed sisters.

A crumbling estate.

And insufficient funds to take care of either, to say nothing of both.

Problems that did not—could not—involve the woman who had, inadvertently or otherwise, made them more difficult to solve.

No, Miss C. would not be disturbing the predictable patterns of his life for much longer. Already, she was mostly recovered from the effects of her fall; her bruises were beginning to change color and would soon start to fade. She seemed already to be growing tired of playing the patient, and his sisters would soon cure her of any desire to be a teacher. She would continue on to whatever her destination had been and leave him in peace.

Or what passed for it, anyway.

“At the moment,” he said, realizing he had been looking at her and that she was waiting for him to speak, “I’m eager to stretch my legs.”

When the carriage stopped, he did not wait for the steps to be lowered but opened the door and leaped to the ground. While she busied herself with raising the hood of her new mantle, he spoke to the hostler to urge haste and moved about as if to ease the fatigue of his muscles. At last he helped her down, much as he would’ve if she had been one of his sisters, and preceded her into the inn.

“My lord.” The proprietor approached and bowed. “How good to see you again. A room for tonight?”

“Much obliged, Meachum, but no. Just two pies, a pint, and a pot of tea for the lady.”

“Very good, sir.” He gestured them toward a table in the bustling dining room. If he found their traveling arrangements unusual, he was savvy enough to say nothing of it. “The ladies Haythorne were in fine spirits when they stopped the day before yesterday.”

“And when are they not?” Alistair joked, his attention somewhat distracted by the way Miss C. was craning her neck to peer about the room. She had not lowered her hood. “But I thank you for the report. This is their new teacher, Miss Coo—”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she spoke across him and curtsied.

Even after they were seated, she kept her head covered. His face must have reflected some surprise at that, for she explained, otherwise unprompted, “I find it chilly in here, don’t you?”

He didn’t demur, though it was surely warmer inside than it had been in the carriage. But perhaps she was tired of the way her bruised cheek tended to attract notice.

“This is a market town,” he offered after a few moments of awkward silence. “If there’s anything you require for your stay at Rylemoor, now would be the best time to acquire it.”

She was busy working loose the fingers of the glove on her uninjured hand. He considered offering his help, but after that morning, the assistance he’d given in the shop, it might seem as if he were rather too eager to touch her. “There’s nothing I can think of, my lord,” she said, once she had succeeded. She did not remove the other glove, which disguised her bandaged wrist. “I assume your sisters have paper and pencils available?” she countered.

He nodded.

“Then that will be more than sufficient to begin.”

“More than sufficient?” he echoed skeptically. “I should think paper and pencil the bare minimum of requirements.”

“A work of art does not begin with the act of applying paint to canvas, my lord. One must first understand the principles of composition.”

“Learning to see, as it were.”

Her expression was in shadow, but he knew from the way the firelight caught her eyes that she had shot him a look. “Precisely. I find it useful to begin by examining the techniques used by other artists, to consider the choices they have made. Rylemoor Abbey has, I hope, some paintings we can study for the purpose? From my understanding, it would be unusual if such a large and ancient estate did not.”

Did Rylemoor Abbey have paintings? Alistair set his teeth together to contain a bitter laugh. “More than sufficient,” he told her, making his best effort to disguise those clipped words as a little joke. Never had he been so glad to see a servant approach. A lad wearing a coarse apron placed a pot of tea and cup and saucer in front of Miss C. “What happened there?” As Alistair reached up to accept his pint, he nodded at a nearby pile of kindling, the remains of a broken chair. Both the boy and Miss C. turned to look. “Not a fight over the last steak and ale pie, I hope?”

“No, m’lord.” The lad grinned as he tucked his now empty tray beneath his arm. “’ Twas a fight over summat else.”

Alistair paused with his mug halfway to his lips. He’d never known this unassuming posting inn to attract the sort of customers who brawled. Had his sisters been in danger?

“A fight over what?” he demanded.

“A fight over how much oak it takes to hold up a mountain,” he answered with a laugh. “Some oaf come in, lookin’ to find someone. Insisted this was the spot. Swore he’d sit right here and wait. And ’e mighta done it, too, if the chair hadn’t broke. Fell apart right beneath him, it did. After that, he skulked off.”

Alistair laughed along with him, but the spout of the teapot rattled against the edge of Miss C.’s cup, as if she didn’t see the humor in the story. “My goodness. Looking for whom?”