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“To answer your question, I had recently returned from Spain and was staying with an aunt in Dorset.”
“You were in Spain?” Hetty’s hazel eyes widened and she looked almost pretty with the light burnishing her light-brown hair. “That’s where our poor cousin Edgar died of a bullet wound.”
She gave a little hiccup of distress and Lady Partington patted her hand, adding by way of explanation, “Hetty was very fond of her cousin Edgar. They were great playmates when they were children. His death came as a shock to everyone.”
He registered the pain in Lady Partington’s eyes and the tightness of her mouth and shifted awkwardly.
How did Lady Partington regard the young usurper, Stephen Cranbourne, whose arrival reinforced the absence of her beloved George? Of Edgar?
“I am very sorry for your losses, Lady Partington,” he murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her lilac-gloved hand. It was true that women with flashing pomona-green eyes communicated instant excitement to his nether regions but gentle-natured, doe- eyed women like Lady Partington and her younger daughter appealed to the chivalric part of his nature.
When the carriage drew up in front of the steps, Lady Partington left the young people chatting on the front portico before departing to ensure Stephen’s room had been satisfactorily prepared.
“I’m so sorry to leave you like this but I have the most terrible megrim and Araminta will look after you. The reverend’s fiery pronouncements have done nothing to improve my aching head,” she’d said by way of parting.
As the front doors closed behind her, Stephen indicated the well-kept grassy slopes and roses bushes. “Perhaps we could take a turn about the garden since the weather has turned so agreeable,” he suggested, not being disposed to drawing room chatter when he’d much rather get a sense of the dimensions of his future domain.
He glanced across the verdant green lawn toward the beech woods that bordered the manicured gardens. Shooting parties in August? A spear of anticipation shot through him as the young ladies readily agreed to his suggestion before hurrying upstairs to fetch shawls and change their clothes with the promise to meet him in five minutes.
Stephen wandered out into the center of the lawn and gazed up at the Queen Anne façade of the Grange. How could it be improved? A conservatory? A new wing? Perhaps a tennis court. He’d never imagined being in a position to put his own stamp on things.
Hetty’s girlish giggles made him turn and he smiled to see the two young ladies crossing the lawn toward him. Cousin Hetty fairly galloped. Beside her, Cousin Araminta had perfected the regal glide. With her glossy dark hair and her proud eyes she looked like no other member of her family.
Hetty pointed at the Grange. “So, Cousin Stephen, do you like our home?”
Araminta immediately quashed Hetty’s high spirits. “Cousin Stephen is surveying the house that will be his after Papa meets his maker.” Her look was pert. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cranbourne?”
Hetty wasn’t the only one whose spirits were quashed. Stephen managed a brittle smile. “You must resent that the Grange passes out of the family because you have no brothers, Cousin Araminta.”
“I refuse to resent what I cannot change, Cousin Stephen.” Araminta tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Let us walk and I will answer everything I can about our family and the estate.”
Gallantly, Stephen offered Hetty his other arm. He’d seen her uncertainty. “It will be many years before you must worry about your home passing to me,” he assured them. “Your father is in excellent health and has merely asked me here because he is a wise man who plans ahead.”
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“What would you like to know, Cousin Stephen?” Araminta reeled him back to her. “No doubt you have questions that must have kept you awake since receiving Papa’s letter.”
Stephen met her challenging look with a smile. So there was resentment after all. “I had no idea Edgar had died,” he said with complete candor. “Not once did it enter my head that I should one day inherit and become the next Viscount Partington.”
“Please, don’t speak of Edgar again. I can’t bear it,” said Hetty. “For months I’ve prayed he’d turn up unexpectedly on our doorstep—”
“Well, that’s a nice thing to say to Cousin Stephen,” Araminta snapped. Composing her smile, she asked conversationally, “So where did you spend last night, Cousin Stephen?”
After an uncomfortable pause, Stephen replied, “I was the guest of Lady Julia and Sir Archibald.” Adjusting his suddenly too-tight high collar, he directed an enquiring look at Araminta, who’d burst into shrill laughter.
“Lady Julia!” She emphasized the title with heavy scorn. “Why, she’s the most designing brownnoser I’ve ever come across, the daughter of a wool merchant who spared no expense in seeing she was tricked out to make a good catch.”
Hetty tugged her sleeve, looking worried as she reminded her sister in an undertone, “Lady Julia is a friend of Cousin Stephen’s.”
Araminta tossed her head. “Surely Cousin Stephen is a friend of Sir Archibald. Sir Archie and Lady Julia have been married such a short time and only because—” She broke off, clearly reconsidering her words. “Ah well, you’re right, Hetty. It’s not my place to tell Cousin Stephen what he already knows and what you have no need to know.”
As they negotiated a small dip in the path, Stephen was glad that Hetty took umbrage at her condescending tone. He’d very much like to know what he supposedly already knew.
“Why ought I not know the reason they married, Araminta? I shall be coming out in a few months. You’re not that ahead of me.”
Araminta slanted a sly look at the pair of them. “Miss Julia’s eyes are as sharp as her nose and she knows how to sniff out a sure thing. Well, that’s what everyone said when she fainted into Lord Clairmont’s arms at Hatchard’s Bookshop the day after she took up Laetitia Milbank’s challenge that she couldn’t inveigle herself into his carriage.”
“But Lord Clairmont’s in his dotage!”
