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“Good afternoon.”
Daniel turned to find the young lady he’d met in this place a few days ago. She also looked much better, more rested and less pale. Or perhaps that was just a reflection of the crisp, pink cambric gown she wore. Her blue eyes met his evenly. “Miss Pendleton,” he said with a bow. “May I introduce Lord Macklin, who is visiting me? We came over to see how you are getting on.”
“Quite well, thank you.” Miss Pendleton sat down in an upholstered armchair and gestured toward the settee like a grand lady perfectly accustomed to calls from noblemen. Daniel was more than ever convinced that she had grown up in far different circumstances. They sat. “It was kind of you to send over the cleaners,” she added.
Daniel had been poised to fend off effusive gratitude, but she offered no more than that. For some reason, it irritated him.
Murmurs from the kitchen, which was after all only a few feet away, suggested that Tom had come in through the back door. And indeed when the maid returned with refreshment, he was carrying the tray.
“This is Tom,” said Daniel. He left it at that. Let Macklin offer more information, if he had any.
He said nothing. Tom went out with the maid, a giggle drifting back in their wake.
Miss Pendleton poured tea into cups of fine china and served them slices of chocolate cake that was as good as any Daniel’s cook could produce. He acknowledged that he was surprised at all she’d accomplished in such a short time.
“Miss Penelope,” said the earl. “Was your father fond of Homer?”
“No, I was named after a great-aunt.”
She sipped her tea and didn’t ask who Homer might be—another sign that she came from a cultured household. It was maddening to know so little about this woman who had intruded into his life. Indeed, Daniel was suddenly sick to death of the muddles and mysteries his heedless parents had left behind. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Where did you grow up?”
Macklin shot him a sidelong glance. Daniel silently admitted ineptitude. His question had been abrupt, rude. But he was impatient. He wanted to know who she was and why she’d inherited a house that should by rights have been his. Not that he needed Rose Cottage. It was just the principle of the thing. Once he knew, he could forget the whole matter and get on with his many duties.
“North of Manchester,” Miss Pendleton replied.
Daniel hadn’t realized that a tone of voice could be aggressively vague. Her eyes were as steely as a gauntlet thrown down. Why must she be so prickly? he wondered. What did she have to hide?
“Why is your man staring at us?” asked the earl.
Daniel followed Macklin’s gaze and saw the old fellow who’d taken their horses. He was stationed outside the window by the fireplace glaring in at them. Did he see himself as a chaperone? There was no sign of any other, unless one counted the gormless young maid.
Their hostess leaned over to look. “Oh, that’s Foyle. He fancies himself as a kind of household guardian.”
“Rather like a gargoyle,” said Macklin.
They both turned to look at him, startled, and the usually imperturbable earl grimaced. “I beg your pardon. That was impolite. It’s just that his face is so…full of character.”
A short laugh escaped Miss Pendleton. “Foyle wouldn’t even mind the comparison. He always said he was craggy as a mountain. He used to make faces to amuse us when I was small.”
So she had a family retainer, on top of everything else, Daniel thought. He was formulating more searching questions when Foyle turned to look at something behind the house. The man scowled, raised a fist, shook it as he shouted something inaudible, and ran off.
The sound of more running feet and raised voices followed. It sounded like a riot.
“What in the world?” said Miss Pendleton.
They rose and went out to discover the source of the uproar.
The back of her property was full of goats, Penelope saw when they rounded the side of the house. White goats, brown goats, multicolored goats. Several clattered over the cobbles of the yard. One stood on the roof of the privy, staring down at them with bright-yellow eyes. How had it gotten up there? A small black goat capered before the open doors of the barn, hopping as if it had springs in its legs, to the obvious consternation of the horses tied up there. More goats were in the kitchen garden plot, eating the vegetables. Penelope saw one take a careful mouthful of a carrot top, pull the root from the ground, and eat it with gusto. Foyle was down there, looming over a small boy and yelling. Kitty and the lad Tom stood on the kitchen stoop observing the show.
Penelope wove her way across the yard, avoiding goats, conscious of two noblemen on her heels.
“Nobody’s been living here,” the goatherd was saying. “So it seemed a shame to waste the turnips, y’see.”
“Well, somebody lives here now,” Foyle answered. “So take your animals away and keep them off.”
“I’ll try, mister,” the boy whined. “But they’re used to coming here now, y’see. And I can’t always make them mind me. You’d best get a fence.”
“I’ll get a shotgun,” growled Foyle. “It’s up to you to keep the creatures away from our property.”
