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A little overdone, to Esme’s mind. Obviously Slope was an amateur thespian. She took the note and slit it open.

“Oh, but Slope!” she cried, “This letter is not addressed to me!”

“There was no name on the envelope,” Slope said, “so I naturally assumed it was addressed to you, my lady. Shall I redirect the missive?” He hovered at her side. She had better take over the reins of the performance. Her butler was threatening to upstage her.

“That will be quite all right, Slope,” she said. Then she looked up with a glimmering smile. “It doesn’t seem to be addressed to anyone. Which means we can read it.” She gave a girlish giggle. “I adore reading private epistles!”

208 Eloisa

James

Only Rees looked utterly bored and kept eating his roast beef.

“I do not go for weariness of thee,” Esme said in a dulcet tone, “Nor in the hope the world can show a fitter love forme. It’s a love poem, isn’t that sweet?”

“John Donne,” Darby said, “and missing the first two words. The poem begins, “Sweetest love, I do not go forweariness of thee.”

Esme had trouble restraining her glee. She could not have imagined a comment more indicative of Darby’s own authorship. He actually knew the poem in question! She didn’t dare look at Henrietta. It was hard enough pretending that she was the slowest reader in all Limpley Stoke.

“Never will I find anyone I adore as much as you. Al-though fate has cruelly separated us, I shall treasure thememory of you in my heart.”

“I do not believe that this epistle should be read out loud,”

Mrs. Cable said, “if it truly is an epistle. Perhaps it’s just a poem?”

“Do go ahead,” Rees said. He appeared to have developed an active dislike of his dinner companion. “I’d like to hear the whole thing. Unless perhaps the missive was addressed to you, Mrs. Cable?”

She bridled. “I believe not.”

“If not, why on earth would you care whether a piece of lackluster poetry was read aloud?”

She pressed her lips together.

Esme continued dreamily, “I would throw away the starsand the moon only to spend one more night—” She gasped, broke off, and folded up the note, praying that she wasn’t overacting.

“Well?” Mrs. Cable said.

“Aren’t you going to finish?” Mr. Barret-Ducrorq said in his beery voice. “I was just thinking perhaps I should read Fool for Love

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some of this John Donne myself. Although not if his work is unfit for the ladies, of course,” he added quickly.

“I believe not,” Esme said, letting the letter fall gently to her left, in front of Mr. Barret-Ducrorq.

“I’ll do it for you!” he said jovially. “Let’s see. I wouldthrow away the stars and the moon only to spend one morenight in your arms. ” He paused. “Sizzling poetry, this Donne. I quite like it.”

“That is no longer John Donne speaking,” Darby remarked. “The author is now extemporizing.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Barret-Ducrorq said.

“Did that letter refer to a night in your arms?” Mrs. Cable asked, quite as if she didn’t know exactly what she had heard.

“I fear so,” Esme said with a sigh.

“Then we shall hear no more of this letter,” Mrs. Cable said stoutly, cutting off Mr. Barret-Ducrorq as he was about to read another line.

“Ah, hum, exactly, exactly,” he agreed.