Page 44 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

How long would she find it necessary to stay?

That question sent his gaze to the distant horizon, as bleak and empty as ever. Had she told him a story about pursuers to garner his sympathy? He could well imagine dangers lurked out there for her, as they did for far too many women. But a mysterious hunter, sent by some nameless marquess who wanted to rid the world of any evidence of his daughter and the mistake she had made? Alistair looked back at Constantia. It seemed more than a little far-fetched, but one expected as much from creative sorts.

Or perhaps the marquess hadn’t yet learned that family portraits were all but impossible to destroy.

Alistair had persuaded himself that bringing her here was the safest thing to do. Safer for her, as she recovered from her injuries and determined the future course of her life. Safer for him, because Rylemoor Abbey was big enough that he could keep his distance from her.

And filled with reminders of why it was essential for him to do so.

Fortunately, the architecture of the east wing was too utilitarian to be of artistic interest. She had never once looked in his direction. She had no idea he watched her, day after day. His sigh, loud in the hushed library, fogged the glass.

When her head whipped around as if in response to the sound, he leaped back from the window.

But she couldn’t have heard him, of course. Unlikely even that she had seen him. He dared to peek around the edge of the curtain. She tilted her chin as if listening to something far off, then tucked her sketch pad against her breast and scurried inside.

Alistair could just make out his puzzled frown in his faint reflection on the glass. Something obviously had startled her. She had darted from the courtyard like a doe flushed from a copse. But what had she heard?

He was on the point of abandoning his fruitless speculations when a familiar chaise and four lumbered into view: Aunt Josephine. And a day early, at that.

Constantia had been wise to run.

He found himself watching with a sort of horrified curiosity to see whether Wellend had noticed the arrival. The lack of a proper, deferential greeting would result in endless complaints.

Then again, if no one assisted his aunt from the carriage or opened the door to the house, would she turn around and go home?

He had momentarily forgotten about Danny, who was employed by their aunt to do precisely those sorts of menial tasks, along with reading aloud, answering correspondence, and taking her yippy little dog for walks.

No sign of the dog, at least. Aunt Josephine was marching across the courtyard now, not even pretending to require her companion’s arm. Then, abruptly, she stopped. She snapped open her lorgnette, gestured with it at some obstacle in her path—though God knew there was ample room to go around whatever it might be. Danny hurried forward, bent, and retrieved the item at which their aunt had been pointing: Constantia’s stool.

Aunt Josephine would no doubt give him an earful over dinner about lax servants and unsightly litter. But for now, and in spite of himself, he snickered. Constantia did have a way of upending plans.

He really ought to go down and welcome his aunt, though in point of fact, she had invited herself. She was his father’s sister, as unlike the man as it was possible to be. As such, she should have been Alistair’s ally in the war against the trouble his father’s foolishness had caused.

But her help always came with a heaping side of judgment. She’d offered employment as a lady’s companion to one of his sisters—she’d wanted Edwina, but Danielle, recognizing her next younger sister’s misery at the prospect, had fallen on her sword. For nearly a year Danny had been bristling under the weight of constant comparison to docile, domestic-minded Eddie.

His aunt had also, more than once, recommended he hire a man of business who could restore some semblance of order to the estate’s account books, as from the look of things, Ryland, it seems you’ve inherited your father’s incapacity for figures.

Stubbornly, Alistair sat down on his chair. Dinner was in an hour. That would be soon enough to greet her.

And he would spend the time between now and dinner checking his sums. Perhaps his aunt was right. Perhaps he’d made some mistake in his arithmetic . . .

“Alistair?”

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d sat down again. He only knew that his fingers ached from the grip on his pencil, and his head ached from the conclusion he’d reached again and again. No, not his head—his heart.

What choice did he have but to ask Aunt Josephine for help?

But all that melted away when he looked up from the ledger at the sound of his name and saw Danny hurrying toward him, arms outstretched. “She’s not mistreating you?” he asked, enfolding her in an embrace and resting his cheek against the top of her head. Was it his imagination, or was she a little thinner?

She pulled back just enough to look up into his face, her dark eyes dancing merrily. “You must know I’d never allow that.”

Eddie would not have stood up for herself. Freddie or Georgie would have been sent home inside of a fortnight. But Danny? Well, Danny had a way of putting people in their places, without ever seeming to have done so.

“Oh, I’ve missed you.” He hugged her close again, at the same time steering her away from the desk. He couldn’t risk her seeing the ledgers. He never wanted any of them to worry.

Danny clasped his hand and led him toward a pair of brocade-covered chairs in front of the empty hearth. “What’s this about a drawing master? Harry was so excited I could hardly make heads or tails of anything she said.”

“Oh. Yes. I brought someone from London.”