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“Mrs. Booth. She wanted me to know that there was a problem at the cottage and I’m to return to the house tonight.” What Cara didn’t say was that Mrs. Booth had been most insistent that Cara not accept any offer for a room in town at one of the inns because it was nearly Christmas and Christmas could be difficult for Lord Sherbourne, and with Mrs. Booth gone for the next week, Mrs. Booth would feel immensely better about abandoning Lord Sherbourne if Cara were there.
Cara had answered that Lord Sherbourne seemed quite able to fend for himself.
But Mrs. Booth interrupted to mysteriously say, “But you don’t know the whole story. If you don’t dislike Lord Sherbourne, and if you don’t mind Christmas at the main house, it would be good for Alec and his family, to have you there.”
Cara had intended to ask Mrs. Johnson about this but there hadn’t been time.
“We need to move you again,” Alec said. “Mr. Trimble has brought your things to the house, but I wondered if you would prefer staying in Bakewell? I realize it’s been a challenging few days, and more chaos than we imagined. I’m happy to cover your hotel bill, it’s the least I can do.”
“But it hasn’t been challenging,” she said. “I’ve actually had fun. I’m just sorry that you and your staff have been so inconvenienced.”
“No one has been inconvenienced.”
“Not even you?” she said, trying not to laugh.
“If you’re referring to what you overheard at breakfast—”
“I am.”
“Do you enjoy making me suffer?”
She laughed out loud now. “Yes, actually. And since I do like making you suffer, I’d love to return to the house.”
“I’ll have Trimble return your things to your bedroom then.”
“But what about your family arriving? Won’t they mind me crashing their Christmas?”
“They’re only here for a night, and will be off the next so you won’t be crashing their Christmas.” He paused. “Just mine.”
She smiled, and her heart thumped and warmth rushed through her. “Looking forward to that.”
“Why am I not shocked?”
“Because you’re not as stuffy as you like to pretend to be.”
“Stuffy?” he repeated stiffly.
“Yes, there, that’s the tone. It’s like you’re a newscaster for the BBC.”
There was a slight silence and then Alec cleared his throat. “Where are you now?” he asked.
“In the back of Paul’s car. I’m almost to Buxton.”
“Buxton?” Alec repeated. “And who is Paul? What do you know about him?”
“He’s from Manchester originally, but he and his wife now live in Bakewell. He was my taxi driver from the train station to the cottage on the day I checked in.”
“Oh.” Alec sounded somewhat mollified. “But why is he taking you to Buxton?”
“I met some women at breakfast, a group of Australians who are romance writers, and they were talking about Jane Austen and Bath and the popularity of Bath, which a duke in Buxton thought he could recreate there, since they also have thermal waters. Anyway, these Australian romance writers had a wonderful day in Buxton and said I had to do the premium tour because at the end of the tour you get to taste the waters in the historic Pump Room, and they give you your very own souvenir glass.”
For a moment there was just silence then Alec laughed. “I shouldn’t have worried about you. You’re doing fine.”
“I am,” she agreed.
He hesitated for a moment before asking, “How are you getting home? Is Paul picking you up?”
“No. He has another booking but he told me about the trains. I’m going to take the two fifty train and should arrive in Bakewell around three forty-five and then I’ll just walk to the house.”
