Page 12 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

Graydon remained seated. He would see this document, then leave.

If Miss Dearing had looked unhappy before, now she looked positively worried.

Florence could not believe her ears. What document? Why had Iris said nothing of this? Trying to please Father, no doubt. Florence couldn’t fault her sister for that, but Iris never saw the pitfalls in what he asked of her. ‘Papa—’

Her father put up a hand. ‘Iris, if you please.’

Iris scurried from the room.

The earl had shifted in his seat, as if ready to leave, before Father had made his announcement. Now he was gazing at the plate of biscuits with a look of longing. How like a man to be more interested in food than what could be an impending disaster.

Only, she could not help but feel a smidgeon of pleasure. She had baked those biscuits herself. She had quickly learned that their cook, a woman from the village, was all very well at ‘plain cooking’, as she called it, but had too heavy a hand for cakes and other delicacies.

‘Would you care for another?’ she asked, waving the plate of biscuits under the earl’s nose.

She had no doubt some unpleasantness was about to ensue, judging from her father’s sly little smile. He had always muttered darkly about the Ingrams being nothing but lickspittle nobodies and no better than they should be. While she was aware that others in the neighbourhood were happy to agree with his opinion, with just cause, she had put Father’s animosity down to jealousy that the Ingrams had risen in the world while the Dearings, in this forgotten corner of England, were slowly sinking. Hopefully a bit of sweetness would help ease the moment.

‘Thank you.’ He took a shortbread flavoured with lemon and a custard tart. They disappeared in an instant.

She offered the plate to her Papa. He waved it away, his gaze fixed on the door through which Iris would appear.

The earl took another shortbread. ‘These are very good,’ he said.

Florence realised she was still holding out the plate.

‘I am glad you like them,’ she said. ‘I baked them especially.’

‘You baked them?’ He sounded surprised.

Inwardly she winced. No doubt, he now thought them no better than farmers’ daughters.

‘I like to bake.’ She hoped she didn’t sound too defensive.

‘Florence is an excellent baker,’ Father said. ‘Nearly as good as her mother. Came from good English Yeoman stock, her mother. You won’t find her like today.’

The earl was regarding her rather as one might regard an unusual artefact in a museum. Mortified, Florence gritted her teeth. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, she reminded herself fiercely. It was what he thought of Primrose. And a beauty like Primrose did not have to worry whether she was high born or low born, so long as she behaved like a lady.

‘You are a talented woman, Miss Dearing,’ Lord Blackdown said, and took another custard tart. ‘These are also delicious.’

Her face heated. Oh lord, was she blushing because he had offered her a compliment? Surely not? She put down the plate so emphatically, the teacups rattled.

Iris burst through the door. ‘Here it is, Papa. I had to look everywhere. You had moved it.’

She blushed wildly when she realised everyone was looking at her and handed Papa a rolled parchment tied with a red ribbon before sinking into her seat, folding her hands in her lap and clearly trying to disappear into the cushions of her chair. It was too bad she was so awkward in company. It was going to be difficult to find her a husband.

Father untied the ribbon and unrolled the document. ‘There,’ he said, holding it out to Blackdown. ‘What do you think of that?’

Blackdown hastily swallowed his mouthful and took the parchment. He frowned. ‘It is a sort of list. A very old one in Latin…or rather, a copy of a very old one, if I am not mistaken.’

Father grinned, his ears seeming to shift against his head as he revealed his yellow teeth. Florence hated it when he grinned that way. It gave him the look of one of the rather ugly gargoyles on the church in Shaftsbury.

‘A fellow I know at Oxford has access to the Domesday Book for his own research. He found this for me.’

‘Ah, I see. Very nice.’ The earl held it out, as if to hand it back.

‘Look at it, your lordship,’ Father said. ‘See, there—Dearing Manor. And, if you translate the description and the measurements, it says the field behind this house belongs to this manor. Not to Blackdown Hall, which is also mentioned.’

He sat back, looking pleased.