LITMIR.BIZ

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and the maid must have found every beeswax candle in the house that she hadn’t used in the dining room, because the drawing room was aglow.

      Lord William took her to the harpsichord. “Do you play?”

      “Indifferently.”

      He turned his back on it. “Let us not bore ourselves with such things. I would rather talk to you. I decided to let the carriage continue while I rode. Just myself and a footman. Charmingly rustic.”

      “So only your footman is with you? No valet?” Did that mean his visit would be short?

      He gestured to his appearance. “Indeed, can you not tell? This is the poor effort I make on my own.”

      His coat of olive-green watered silk and cream embroidered waistcoat did not seem at all poor to Imogen, but she held her tongue and smiled.

      “At least I had a change of clothes. The carriage will catch up with us, if it has not done so already.”

      With alarm, Imogen recalled her charge. She was harboring a Jacobite fugitive with a guest in the house. And the guest’s servants.

      “I was too anxious to meet a lady I have heard so much about.”

      He gave her a look she couldn’t misconstrue. He was interested in her. She couldn’t imagine why. He must have access to any number of sophisticated London beauties.

      “I trust I’m not discommoding you with my precipitous arrival.”

      While she couldn’t help but be charmed by his address and attention, Imogen wanted him gone. She knew a little of their history from the gossip-sheets her mother enjoyed and she professed to despise, although she sneaked a look from time to time.

      The Dankworths had fared better than the Thanes. The old Duke of Northwich, the present duke’s father, had gone abroad with the old king, and his son had continued his loyalty to the Pretender but had carefully forbore to break the law and make his adherence into a traitorous activity. So the Northwich family had escaped much of the punishment meted out to others.

      “I am delighted you chose to visit us, but a little surprised.”

      He raised a brow. “How so?”

      Her mother was at the other end of the room, sitting by the fire chatting to Amelia and her brother while she made tea from the tray the maid had brought in. She couldn’t hear what Imogen had to say. “I cannot see us visiting London any time in the future. We are happy here, in the country.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I prefer ‘Miss’ to ‘my lady.’ My father was attainted.”

      “You may use the titles,” he said with a careless shrug. “It makes no difference to who you are. Your mother is still a dowager countess and you, as her daughter, may use the honorific.”

      “I prefer not.”

      “Use it,” he said firmly. “Claim it. When you marry, you’ll carry a different title, in any case.”

      “What if I marry a mister?”

      He gave a half smile, a charming effect that made her respond with a smile of her own. “I don’t think that will happen. You will attract a man of quality.”

      “I rarely go anywhere I can meet people of quality.” And her neighbors suited her very well.

      He glanced down and then back up at her. “You should amend that. You have your fortune and the friendship of my father. He is a widower, but I’m sure your mother is capable of chaperoning you, should you choose to make him a visit.”

      Why in the world would she do that? Her astonishment must have shown, because he continued.

      “Our fathers were once close, or didn’t you know that?”

      “Only that they supported the same cause.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “A lost cause.”

      “Not so.” He spoke so quietly she couldn’t be sure she heard him right. “I daresay you are right. But not about visiting London. The season proper starts just after Easter. You should consider visiting this year. My father would welcome you. And I would deeply appreciate a chance to further our acquaintance.”

      But Imogen had decided she’d had enough of his disturbing presence and used the pretext of helping her mother hand around the dishes of tea. After she’d finished, she strolled toward the fire, where the more comfortable presence of Sir Paul and Amelia awaited her.

      Her tiring day had made her imagine things that weren’t there, but she couldn’t deny that Lord William’s presence formed an inconvenience she could well do without. Meeting two men in one day was two too many. That both stirred her was an even bigger complication.

      Chapter 3

      At midnight, Imogen could finally leave her room. She’d retired an hour before, after seeing Sir Paul and Amelia to the front door and promising Amelia that she’d call on her soon. How she would do that she had no notion. She needed to rid the house of the inconveniences that plagued it before she could think of setting foot outside her boundaries.

      She spent her time making a list of things her patient might need. Anyone finding it might think it was an ordinary household list, and the aide-memoire helped her to steady her thoughts.

      Her covert guest must be starving by now. She hadn’t thought of providing food or asking the Georges to do so, but Tony was a strapping man, and he’d need sustenance to aid his recovery. Once she’d washed, braided her hair, and donned her night rail and robe, she took her candlestick and crept downstairs.

      The house was quiet now, the fires banked down, doors and windows firmly closed. Most nights she liked to check the fires were safe and the windows properly bolted. She would use that as an excuse now if anyone caught her.

      Lord Dankworth would be in the best guest room near her mother’s chamber. Imogen’s room was on the other side of the house. The building ranged around a courtyard, with the main body of the building at one end. The Long Gallery sat above the gatehouse and Imogen had a bedroom in one of the wings.

      She tiptoed along the corridor, shielding her candle with her hand until she reached the stairs at the end. These led right down to the kitchens, and the other way up to the attic. They were set in a building to one side of the gatehouse in the old style. She’d been going down these stairs since she could walk, so she knew all the creaky parts of the worn timber treads. She achieved the descent with barely a sound.

      Moonlight filtered in through the kitchen window, just enough to see by. Imogen snuffed her candle and went about her tasks as soundlessly as she could. When the scullery maid stirred in her nest of blankets by the fire, Imogen murmured, “Quiet, Aggie. It’s only me. I’m hungry so I came down for something to eat.”

      Imogen filled the capacious pockets of her robe. Apples from last year’s crop, wrinkled but still good because of the careful storage, half a loaf of bread, and several other items. She grabbed a pewter plate and filled it with the remnants of their dinner, all that could be eaten cold. Roast beef, boiled potatoes, carrots.

      Finally, she found a pewter mug and filled it with small beer from the barrel near the door. She should probably find some barley-water. She’d talk to one of the Georges and ask them to provide boiled water for her patient. Perhaps Young George could manage to heave a small cask of beer up there.

      On her way out, she grabbed a handful of candles. Not the best beeswax, because they were carefully counted, but the tallow ones. She had oil lamps somewhere. Perhaps she could find one for him. But with fire an ever-present danger, oil lamps were probably not a good idea.

      During the day, light filtered in through slits in the floor and the walls. She knew, because once she’d hidden there for a whole day when her mother had threatened her with a beating after she’d climbed the big oak tree in the Lower Field. That was when she realized her mother didn’t know about the rooms.

      Grabbing up everything that wouldn’t fit in her pockets

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