LITMIR.BIZ

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turned from his conversation with Mrs Bunting and her bosom bow Mrs Redland to greet the new arrivals and almost stopped in his tracks. This could not be Hester Lattimer, the young lady with her hair half down her back or full of ivy stalks and dust. This was certainly not the impetuous harum-scarum miss who balanced on rickety ladders because she was too impatient to wait for help or who answered her own front door in an apron.

      This was an elegant lady dressed in the first stare of London fashion, her hair coiffed, her jewels sparkling. As he reached her and bowed to her answering curtsy, Guy also recognised with what skill she had chosen her ensemble. The gown was modestly high across the bosom and relied more on cut and fabric than on ornamentation to make its impact. Her diamonds, though fine, were simple, and her skin and eyes were innocent of any aids to beauty.

      She appeared exactly as she no doubt had fully intended— a single lady of respectable means, breeding and good taste. Nothing here to put up the backs of the local dowagers or scandalise the critical.

      He was equally careful how he greeted her. Any hint of familiarity would set tongues wagging and scandal-broth brewing. He was aware of her sharp-nosed companion regarding him nervously.

      ‘Miss Lattimer, Miss Prudhome. Good evening. Now, I believe not everyone here is yet known to you? Mr and Mrs Bunting you know, of course. May I introduce Mrs Redland, Miss Redland and Mr Hugh Redland of Bourne Hall? Major Piper and Mrs Piper of Low Marston.’

      There were nods and greetings, then Mrs Bunting took Miss Prudhome firmly under her wing and drew her into a discussion about the village school.

      Guy watched Hester without seeming to as she passed from one guest to another. Whoever this mysterious young woman was—and he was finding her an increasing mystery and contradiction with every encounter—her social skills were immaculate. She had a pleasant deference to the older guests, but without the slightest hint of shyness. With the Redland son and daughter she was warm and friendly.

      Yet he felt a suppressed watchfulness about her, a wariness as though she was expecting to be challenged or snubbed. Was anyone else aware of it? It seemed not, the group was absorbing the newcomer comfortably. There was curiosity, certainly, and on the part of the gentlemen those subtle changes that come over any group of men in the presence of beauty.

      Startled at his own thought, Guy shifted his position as he stood talking to the major so he could watch Hester. Indeed, she was beautiful. Not conventionally so—and he was sure she would deny any such description—but her skin was creamy, her hair soft and full of springing waves, her figure slender yet womanly. His own body stirred as he recalled the feel of her in his arms. Then she turned, smiling at something young Hugh Redland was saying and he saw the laughter in her eyes and with the movement caught a hint of her scent.

      An unusual scent for a woman, he thought. Almost woody, or perhaps mossy with a hint of citrus. He had not noticed it before; in fact, if anyone had asked him to describe the scent of Hester Lattimer he would have replied, ‘Plain soap and dust.’ This fragrance suited her soft brown looks and the amber lights in her eyes.

      She was becoming more of a puzzle the more he knew her. There were young ladies of his acquaintance who would have fainted rather than get dirt on their hands and others who thought nothing of saddling their own horses or going on long scrambling walks with muddy boots and tousled hair. But he was not used to young ladies who would knuckle down to cleaning the house alongside their servants and yet take the care to dress so exquisitely or choose their scent with such taste.

      Hester Lattimer was becoming dangerously close to preoccupying his thoughts and that was folly. To achieve his aim in coming to Winterbourne St Swithin she had to be removed from the Moon House, and soon. He was already spending too long on this obsession. So far it seemed her discomfort with the mysteries of the house were not sufficient to make her reconsider her vehement rejection of his more than generous offer. He must think again, adjust his tactics.

      ‘Sir Lewis Nugent, my lord.’ His last guest. Guy turned to greet the young baronet, not failing to notice that the attention of the ladies in the room had been instantly caught.

      A personable enough young man he had thought on his first encounters with Nugent, but he certainly appeared to advantage in the formality of evening wear and Miss Redland was positively fluttering. Guy suppressed a smile, then saw Hester regarding the newcomer with well-bred interest. He wondered at the stab of irritation he felt. Of course, if she formed an attachment that would make it considerably harder to dislodge her from the neighbourhood. It would be necessary to distract her; not such a hard task for a man with his experience of women.

      ‘Nugent, good evening! I am sure you know everyone except Miss Lattimer, perhaps? And her companion Miss Prudhome.’

      Hester shook hands with the young man as Guy presented him, finding it hard to resist the look of admiration he directed at her. It would be a rare woman indeed not to be susceptible to those dark good looks or the frank admiration in his green eyes. Jethro had been right: Lewis Nugent did not possess Lord Buckland’s fine physique, but then he was younger and perhaps had some filling out to do still. There was something faintly familiar about him; she sought for it, but it was gone.

      She found her hand was still in his and withdrew it. ‘I must offer my condolences on the loss of your father, Sir Lewis. I understand your sister does not go about much yet, although I have hopes of meeting her the day after tomorrow at Mrs Bunting’s small gathering.’

      ‘Thank you. We do both feel it very much still, my father was a man of considerable character. However, Sarah is gradually getting about more; in such a small and friendly community it is easier, although she does not feel yet that she should go to such a formal occasion as this. You must excuse us for not calling upon you.’

      He hesitated, then asked, ‘And are you comfortable at the Moon House? We wondered that anyone would buy it after it had stood empty for so long.’

      Miss Redland had drifted across to join them. Hester admired the casual way she achieved it. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Lattimer, are you not afraid of the ghost?’

      Hester admired less her rather too obvious flutterings of mock-horror and they certainly did not seem to provoke the protective instincts she had hoped for in Sir Lewis. He frowned and said repressively, ‘You should pay no attention to superstitious village gossip, Annabelle. Just because of a number of strange incidents, there is no need to build up some fantasy of hauntings.’

      ‘So how do you explain them?’ Miss Redland demanded, suddenly reduced from grown-up young lady to the girl who had doubtless played and argued with the Nugents all her childhood. ‘You cannot, can you?’

      ‘Just because I cannot explain something does not mean it is anything to be afraid of.’ Sir Lewis was looking somewhat harassed. ‘I am sure it is quite safe. But you must let me know if you are regretting your decision, Miss Lattimer: I would always repurchase the house. In fact, I feel it my duty.’

      ‘Thank you, but I am perfectly comfortable,’ Hester said firmly. ‘I pay no attention to gossip—why, I am sure any house that is empty for some time attracts some such nonsense.’ All the same, she did wish people would stop trying to reassure her about it—their very words seemed to conjure up phantoms where none had existed before.

      Guy Westrope was within earshot and she realised he was watching her, his face serious. She seemed to read a warning in his eyes. Did he think there was something to be worried about? But in her bedchamber he had said he was sure there was a perfectly rational explanation for both the pearls and the state of the dressing room. Hester gave herself a little shake. Perhaps he was warning her about taking this nonsense too seriously. Which was generous of him, considering that nothing would suit him better than for her to decide to sell up and move. The creeping anxiety about him returned.

      ‘Dinner is served, my lord.’

      The small dinner party sorted themselves out with the ease of old acquaintances, despite being in the home of an unfamiliar host. Hester realised that Guy must have taken considerable pains to make himself known in the neighbourhood in a very short time. He had apparently asked Mrs Bunting

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