LITMIR.BIZ

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Mortimer added. ‘Didn’t expect your arrival so late.’

      ‘By Jove,’ Simon said. ‘What a good idea. Tea. Just the thing.’ He looked at Lullington. ‘If you think so, Lull? Do you?’

      It seemed Viscount Lullington now pulled Simon’s strings. Not a pleasant thought.

      ‘Oh, yes, please,’ Lady Caldwell said with a brilliant smile. ‘We stopped for dinner when we realised the hour was far advanced, but I would die for a dish of bohea.’

      All eyes turned to the lean viscount. He nodded his head. ‘Very well. Tea for the ladies. For myself, I’d prefer brandy.’

      ‘Me too,’ Simon said.

      Frederica got up and rang the bell.

      Lady Caldwell smiled up at her. ‘I wonder if, while we wait for the tea, you could show me my room. I am desperate to freshen up.’

      Oh, dear. She should have thought to ask. ‘S-s-s—’

      ‘Surely, she will,’ Uncle Mortimer said. ‘Show our guest upstairs, Frederica. Don’t take too long. My head aches if I drink tea too late in the evening.’

      Aware of Lady Caldwell’s rustling silks, her lush curves and exquisite face, Frederica found her tongue tied in knots. She would have liked to ask the woman about London, about the museums and the academy of art, but feared her words would only make her a fool. So they walked side by side in silence until they reached the bedroom.

      Frederica opened the door and Lady Caldwell breezed in. ‘Ah, Forester,’ she said to a stiff-looking grey-haired woman standing over a brass-bound trunk, shaking the creases from a gown of a soft rose hue. ‘Here you are.’ She turned to Frederica. ‘Come in, my dear. Fear not. Forester’s bark is much worse than her bite.’

      Forester played deaf.

      Since the words of a polite refusal escaped her, Frederica stepped inside. She perched on the upholstered chair by the door, while Lady Caldwell headed for the dressing room.

      ‘Do you need help, my lady?’ Forester asked.

      ‘Fiddle-de-de. If I cannot make water at my age, you best send me to Bedlam.’

      Forester’s lips pressed together, but she made no comment, continuing to remove items from the chest and put them away, opening and closing drawers, putting scraps of lace here and handkerchiefs there. Such delicate items and so many? Had their guests come for an extended stay? Uncle Mortimer would not be happy.

      A soft chuckle made her turn. ‘You are gazing at my wardrobe in awe, Miss Bracewell.’

      ‘You have a g-great many gowns.’

      Her ladyship laughed. ‘So I do. Lullington and I are on a progress, do you see? We are going to visit everyone we know for the next month or two, until the Season starts again. London is flat, there is absolutely nothing to do.’ She sat down at the mirror on the dressing table, patted her hair and pinched her cheeks.

      ‘Are you engaged to be married, then?’ Frederica asked, then turned red and was glad Lady Caldwell had her back to her as she realised just how impertinent her enquiry sounded.

      ‘La, but you are a country miss,’ Lady Caldwell said with a musical laugh. ‘I left my husband in London. I am travelling with several companions. I have my maid, as do the other ladies who make up our party. The rest of them are staying at Radthorn’s house, as you know, and so for now you are my chaperon. Not a breath of scandal, I assure you.’

      The thought of trying to chaperon the sophisticated Lady Caldwell made her want to giggle. The whole arrangement sounded odd, but then Lady Caldwell was clearly a woman of the world.

      From out of the trunk Forester pulled a dark blue riding habit with gold epaulettes and lots of frogging.

      ‘Do you ride out with us tomorrow, Lady Caldwell?’ Frederica asked.

      ‘Oh, my dear, you must call me Maggie or I vow I shall feel like an ancient crone.’

      Put entirely at ease, Frederica laughed. ‘No one would use that word to describe you. And thank you. Please call me Frederica.’

      Maggie clapped her hands. ‘To answer your question, yes, I will join the hunt. Do you go too?’

      She nodded. That had been a bone of contention between her and Uncle Mortimer. In the end, she’d agreed, but only if she could stay well to the rear and avoid being present for the kill.

      ‘I shall look forward to keeping you company.’ Maggie rose to her feet. ‘I can’t wait for this masked ball. I love dressing up, don’t you? Of course you do. What woman wouldn’t? And wait until you see the wonderful men Radthorn has brought with him.’ She put a delicate hand to the centre of her chest and gave a languid sigh, then laughed and held out her hand. ‘Come, let us go downstairs. Tea must have arrived. I think you and I are going to get along famously.’

      Oh, yes, they’d be great friends. Maggie would talk and Frederica would listen and everyone would be happy.

      What would her new friend think if she learned that Frederica was an artist? A wanton? And about to go out into the world alone?

      Robert tightened Pippin’s girth and looked up at Frederica, the first of the riders out of the stable. No longer the secretive little mouse she’d been a day or so ago. The sea-green riding habit was of the very best quality. Its tailored lines suited her slim figure and matched the colour of her eyes. He’d never seen her look so elegant or so happy. She looked utterly charming. Glowing.

      Bloody alluring.

      He wanted to drag her back to his cottage and hide her away.

      ‘Th-thank you, Robert,’ she whispered.

      Aye. She’d whisper, with her London guests nearby. And that was just how he wanted it. He touched his cap and pulled it lower on his forehead, keeping a wary eye out for Lullington. Of all the cursed ill luck, he had to be one of the guests. And Maggie, too. He was still having trouble believing it.

      He shouldn’t have reported for work this morning. He should have sent word of some infectious disease the moment he’d realised who young Bracewell had brought along as guests. But that would have left poor old Weatherby in the lurch.

      A visiting groom led out the next animals, a sweet little chestnut mare called Penny and a large black gelding. The mare whickered a soft greeting to Robert. He bit back a curse. Who’d have thought the horse would remember him? Maggie, in a dark blue habit, strolled into the courtyard on Lullington’s arm. Robert watched covertly as a groom threw her up. She was too busy conversing with the viscount to notice him, a mere servant. Thank God.

      Instead of leaving the task to the groom, Lullington saw to Maggie’s tack, his hand touching her thigh lightly in an intimate gesture as he finished. So Maggie had gone to Lullington. Perhaps that’s why the viscount had been keen to see Robert disgraced. They had often vied for the same females, usually to Lullington’s disadvantage. But unless things had changed, he’d not be able to afford the kind of baubles Maggie liked to add to her collection.

      Lullington sprang into the saddle unaided. ‘Hey, you there.’ He pointed his crop at Robert. ‘A stirrup cup for the lady.’

      Head lowered, Robert touched his hat and went for the tray of pewter cups set on a bench by the door. Normally Maisie would be out here passing the good cheer around, but something had happened in the kitchen and Snively had assigned Robert the task.

      He handed a cup up to Maggie, who nodded a thank you.

      Lullington looked down only long enough to grasp his goblet. He leaned closer to Maggie. ‘God,’ he lisped in a low voice, ‘did you see the hack Bracewell is riding? A slug.’

      Maggie’s answering laugh struck a chord in his memory. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place. Merry and meaningless laughter. Now it left him cold.

      He took a cup to Frederica, who

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