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“Just imagining how I’m going to throttle you both,” Mac replied, popping a potato into his mouth and grinning at the colorless faces peering his way.
“You want another bottle?” Gram asked. She snapped her fingers and turned her head from side to side. “Carson! Where’s Carson?” Pointing to a young footman on her left, she said, “Where’s Carson? These young men would like another bottle.”
The puny footman—well, puny to Mac at least—glanced up to Charles, no doubt having heard the correct interpretation and understanding that no one had requested another bottle. Desmond was nearly asleep where he sat, and Mac believed the table had had enough to drink, but he wasn’t in charge. Charles gave a nod, and the footman left the room immediately.
“What made you decide to stay?” Charles asked, curiosity furrowing his brows.
Mac picked up his glass once again before setting it back down. He pushed his chair back a fraction and stretched his legs under the table. How much should he say? Your cousin, Charles, has grown more beautiful than I could have imagined and sets my pulse to rapid. The prospect of spending time with her is nearly worth staying in a house with Miss Sophy again. Nearly? No, it was worth it. Or so he thought.
Mac sighed, trying for nonchalance. “I promised Captain Sheffield I would help him, and that is precisely what I intend to do.”
“And Miss Sophy?” Charles asked, his eyes flicking to Desmond.
Mac scrubbed a hand over his face. Charles may be conscious of ill-talking a woman around her brother, but Mac did not hold the same scruples. Desmond was perfectly aware of what his sister had done. “Perhaps I was being too rash earlier. Miss Sophy may have had a change of—”
“Circumstances?” Desmond supplied sleepily.
“I was going to say heart. But yes, perhaps she has had a change of circumstances. Though if that were the case, you would know, wouldn’t you, Des?”
“Well,” Charles said, mirroring Mac and stretching out his own legs. “Whatever the reason, I am glad you changed your mind. And to make it up to you, I will take you fishing in the pond first thing tomorrow morning.”
Mac grinned. “Deal.”
“What is happening with the servants tonight?” Gram shouted with an exasperated breath. “That’s it.” She brought her frail frame to a stand and threw her napkin onto the table. “Without Mabel, nothing runs smoothly. And where is Carson? I’m off to bed.” Gram lifted her cane and stalked off without so much as a farewell; each man shot to their feet to bow their mistress away from the table, their murmured ‘goodnights’ undoubtedly bouncing off her ears unheard.
“Where is Miss Sheffield, anyway?” Desmond asked, and Mac secretly thanked him. He had wanted to ask the question all night but was afraid Charles would see right through him if he did. He’d made it to the second course before he quit watching the door and realized she was not joining them for dinner.
“Tired,” Charles said. “We gave her quite a scare with Pippa earlier, and then she had all the work involved with preparing our rooms.”
“Your perfect hostess shirked her duties in lieu of sleep?” Desmond smirked, his pompous attitude seeping into his words.
“I told her to,” Charles defended. “Besides, Gram is the hostess in this house.” Charles brought a hand up to his tanned face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “To think what almost happened today…”
“But it didn’t,” Mac reminded him gently. He had been looking out the window when the carriage had veered away, too, and had seen how close they had come to trampling the small child. He had been away too long to know Pippa, except through Charles’s letters and stories, but he had been affected by the ordeal as well. That, compounded with the way Mabel had held Pippa after the near-collision, had pierced his heart. He hadn’t been able to see from the distance that it was Mabel and thought the woman to be the child’s mother. But the shock was unmistakable in the bend of her shoulders, and his heart had ached for her and the child.
When Pippa had skipped over to the carriage and climbed up to ride with the driver, Mac had the unmistakable pang that this little girl reminded him of another little girl he used to play with, and the thread of guilt that accompanied that thought was emphasized when he remembered, once again, that he had been headed to her house.
“Just wait until you see Mabel,” Charles said unexpectedly.
Mac looked up and was surprised to find the comment was directed to him. “Oh?” he said noncommittally. “Is she so very changed?”
“No, she is the same old Mabel. But with the shell of a diplomatic hostess now.” Charles laughed to himself. “Trust me though, she’s the same girl that used to follow us around, drop mud bombs from trees, and terrorize poor Akkerman’s precious tulips.”
Mac laughed at the image and was instantly transported to the blissfully carefree existence of his youth. A youth that was cut short by the start of his navy career. He sobered instantly, remembering the callous young man he had once been—the boy who had laughed in Mabel’s face.
“Mr. Fremont, you have visitors.” The stately butler spoke from the doorway, causing both Charles and Mac to startle, and Desmond to snort awake.
“At this hour?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Lydia Pemberton and Miss Sophy Pemberton have arrived with Mrs. Boucher. I have placed them in the drawing room awaiting further directions.”
Charles looked at his butler like he was a foreign object, his mouth hanging open in a dumb manner that belied the man’s years at university.
“And have you inquired of the mistress of the house?” Mac asked helpfully. Or, so he hoped. In truth, his body was battling the desire to hear that Mabel was on her way downstairs with the irritation of knowing that Miss Sophy was in the house.
“Mrs. Henderson has awoken her,” Carson said with barely veiled irritation. So this was what the man had been doing for the last half-hour during his mysterious absence. “Their rooms are prepared, and she has offered to dress and come greet them if you wish, sir.”
“No, no, of course not.” Charles swatted a hand through the air. “I will greet them. Mrs. Henderson can show them to their rooms. If you will call for a tea service, I will go and attend to our latecomers.”
“Very good, sir.” Carson bowed and turned to leave, surprisingly spry for such an old man.
“Why so late?” Charles asked, rubbing a hand over his face.
Mac shrugged his shoulders and stood. “I’m off to bed. Give them my greetings.” He stopped at the door. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter much to me.”
“Right. Goodnight, Mac,” Charles said, his exhaustion showing in the drooping of his shoulders.
He heard Charles rousing Desmond as he mounted the stairs, and hastened his stride, eager to escape before the women discovered his presence.
