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home to find their guest reclining on the sofa, languidly flicking through a book of poetry and fighting what Decima frankly described as a thundering headache. She took herself off to her room rather than dampen everyone’s spirits over luncheon and was somewhat cheered by Pru’s smiling face.
‘I’ll make a cold compress for your forehead, shall I?’ Pru tiptoed about, finding the hartshorn and the lavender water and humming softly under her breath.
Decima levered herself up against the pillows and regarded her with interest. Pru had been very quiet, and extremely close-lipped, the past few days, and Decima had decided not to pry, but it was such a relief to talk to someone who appeared to be happy that she ventured a question.
‘Have you seen Bates lately, Pru?’
‘Yes, Miss Decima. Almost every free evening I’ve had, and my half-days. I don’t think we’ve stopped talking, hardly.’
‘Really? Bates talkative? Don’t you argue any more?’
‘He was just shy, that’s all. Bashful, like.’ That seemed unlikely, but then, Decima decided, she was not regarding Bates with the eye of love and perhaps Pru was more perceptive about his character. ‘We don’t argue at all now, not about anything.’
‘That is wonderful, Pru.’ Headache forgotten, Decima sat up properly. ‘Has he said anything about the future?’
‘Not yet, but he sort of hinted. He said his lordship might see his way to letting him have a cottage if he ever felt like settling down.’ That was promising. It would mean losing Pru, of course, but Decima couldn’t begrudge that. ‘I think he might say something this evening.’ Pru’s round face was creased by a beaming smile and Decima thought she had never seen her look so pretty.
‘What will you be wearing? Would you like to borrow my Norwich shawl?’ Pru’s eyes widened in delight—the fine Paisley-patterned cashmere was a luxury no lady’s maid could hope to aspire to buying.
‘Oh, Miss Decima! I’ll be ever so careful of it.’
Decima felt revived enough to take some soup and fruit in her bedroom, but she refused Lady Freshford’s invitation to accompany them on a shopping expedition. She was still trying to forget Adam, Henry and Olivia by thinking about Pru when there was a tap at the door.
Decima opened it and found the Freshfords’ butler outside, an expression of rigidly repressed irritation on his face.
‘I am sorry to disturb you in your chamber, Miss Ross, but Lord Weston is at the door. I informed him you were not at home, but I regret that Staples, who was passing through the hall at the time, very pertly interrupted me to say that you were in your room with a headache.’
‘I am sorry she spoke in such a manner.’ It was outrageous of Pru, and a direct attack on the butler’s authority and dignity. ‘I will speak to her directly.’ But the man did not appear mollified.
‘His lordship then said that he was sorry you were indisposed, Miss Ross, but that if you were so unwell that you could not come down, he would come up here himself and speak to you.’
‘What? Has his lordship been drinking?’
‘No, Miss Ross. I would venture the opinion that his lordship is exercised, to a high degree, with some irritation of the spirit. I tried to insist, but he refuses to leave, and I am reluctant to employ the footmen in ejecting a peer of the realm without Sir Henry’s express orders.’
‘No, of course not, Starling, that would never do. You have acted quite correctly. Please show his lordship into the little drawing room and tell him I will be down directly.’
‘Certainly, Miss Ross. I will find Staples and have her sent to you.’
Decima hesitated. Whatever had brought Adam here in such a mood, it was unlikely to be trivial, nor something she would want to share with anyone, not even Pru. ‘No, Starling. I imagine this is a confidential, family matter. I will see Lord Weston alone.’
She turned back into her room, but not before she had caught a glimpse of the disapproval on the butler’s face. He would no doubt complain to his mistress, but, with her headache rapidly returning, Decima was past caring.
She smoothed her hair and her gown and made her way downstairs, past the rigid figure of the butler and into the small drawing room. Why she should be feeling quite so ridiculously apprehensive she could not say, but her stomach appeared to be trying to tie itself into a knot and she felt positively queasy.
‘Adam…’
‘Do you really have a headache?’ He was standing by the cold fireplace, one booted foot on the fender, his brows drawn together as he regarded her.
‘A little, it is better than it was.’ Decima returned his unsmiling look with a level one of her own. ‘What exactly is so important that you must outrage Lady Freshford’s butler so?’
‘You have had a very busy morning, Decima, have you not?’ Adam drew the leather gloves he had been holding in one hand through the other, making a snapping noise that jolted her stretched nerves painfully.
‘I have had a visit from Olivia, that’s all.’ She was becoming angry now, but the apprehension was still there, coiling inside her.
‘All? I gather I have you to thank for the transformation of my fiancée from a modest and innocent young lady into one of a highly coming disposition.’
‘But…but all I said was…’ Decima lost her voice. What on earth had Olivia been saying—and doing?
