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They would chat now, Daniel thought, as acquaintances did. And neither would be any wiser at the end. He’d learned that lesson long ago. “No, though I sometimes go out with the local hunt. We have an interesting stone-wall and grass country. Do you hunt?”
“I? Oh, no.”
She tried to make it sound as if the mere idea was ridiculous, but he thought she was familiar with the sport. The sharp desire for more information about her surfaced again, not only because of his father’s legacy to her. He couldn’t resist. “Did your brother?”
Miss Pendleton stiffened. She turned away from him. “What have you got there?” she said to the dogs. They’d found a dead hedgehog and were nosing the remains. “Leave it!” She pulled them along and walked faster. She did not answer his question.
Daniel burned with silent humiliation. His parents had been just the same, on the rare occasions they’d spent time together. As if a query was an embarrassing solecism, better off ignored. He didn’t need this. Rose Cottage lay ahead. It was past time for him to go. And not come back. Even if Miss Pendleton encouraged him to do so. Which she clearly wouldn’t. He searched for bland phrases. “Ralston, the farmer who bred the dogs, will probably be by to see their new home.”
“He’s welcome to.”
She sounded like a different person—grander, colder—letting him know he’d overstepped. Deuce take her and her reticence, Daniel thought. Yet another part of him continued to wonder what had happened to bring her here.
Back at the barn, Foyle had arranged an ancient blanket over some straw as a dog bed and set out bowls of water. Miss Pendleton removed the ropes. The dogs drank noisily.
“You need a gig or a dogcart,” said Daniel, looking around the empty building.
“Foyle is handling it.” The words came out sharper than Penelope would have liked, but Daniel’s question had roused her fears again. Exposure might be inevitable, but she wouldn’t make the mistake of offering too much. She could still hope that the recent past would remain buried.
She turned and strode toward the house, feeling him at her back. Their entire conversation had been more intimate than was wise. She couldn’t go walking about the neighborhood with Lord Whitfield, alone. Country people gossiped. She knew this from the loss of many people she’d thought real friends. She couldn’t get into the habit of expecting him to visit, or of needing his help. Loss was far more painful than solitude, Penelope thought, and he belonged back at his great house, not here.
* * *
At Frithgerd, at that moment, an informal conference was taking place in one of the bedchambers. Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, handed a letter he had just sealed to his valet and glanced over at young Tom, who sat by the window waiting to join him on a tramp about the estate. “Our host has gone out?” Arthur asked.
“He took some dogs to the young lady at Rose Cottage,” said Tom.
“Purchased especially for her,” added Clayton, the valet. “And the household is wondering why.”
“I ’spect it’s to chase off the goats,” said Tom. He smiled. He’d enjoyed the goats’ spirited resistance to being herded.
“But why is his lordship supplying them?” Clayton replied. “That is their question.”
Arthur considered it a hopeful sign. He’d come to Frithgerd on a mission, and his recent experience suggested that a lively young lady could be just what was needed.
“Everybody’s making up stories about why she’s inherited Rose Cottage,” said Tom.
“What sort of stories?” Arthur asked.
“The usual drivel,” answered Clayton, his round face disapproving. The valet had been with Arthur for more than twenty years, and the earl valued his canny insights as much as his personal services. “She’s somebody’s mistress, or discarded mistress, or the old lord’s love child, or a disgraced cousin waiting for a baby to show. People have such common minds.”
“One of the grooms reckoned she was a hindoo who used her foreign magic to wreck the old lord’s ship on his journey home,” said Tom. When the other two turned to stare, he added, “The first sight of her put an end to that tale.”
“You can’t faulthisimagination,” said Arthur.
“It’s not going to be easy for Miss Pendleton to settle into the neighborhood with gossip like that flying about,” said Clayton.
Arthur nodded. Clayton looked unassuming, with his wide cheeks and snub nose. Many failed to notice that his brown eyes were exceedingly sharp. “That’s one reason I’d like to find out more about this legacy,” he said. “Let’s get that letter off.”
With a bow, the valet departed. Arthur led Tom downstairs and out into the gardens. They walked a while in the mild June air, silently companionable. On the surface, they had little in common, the earl thought. And some people were bewildered by his friendship with a boy born into the slums of Bristol who didn’t even know his own last name. But when he’d encountered Tom on a visit to Somerset a few weeks ago, Arthur had been impressed by his sunny temper and active curiosity.
The lad was so eager to learn and experience. He was inspiring, and Arthur enjoyed his candid opinions and manner. Other noblemen might have called it effrontery, but there were many dry sticks in the House of Lords. Arthur hoped to help the lad to a bright future, whenever it became clear what sort of help Tom really wanted.
“Perhaps you can include Rose Cottage in your rambles,” he said. Tom spent a good part of each day outdoors. He was a natural rover and didn’t like to sit still.
“Spy on them, like?” The lad sounded unhappy with the idea.
“No. More keeping a watchful eye, and perhaps becoming a friend.” Arthur had no doubt he would; friendship was one of Tom’s gifts. “Isn’t the maid Kitty about your age?”
