the time—had taken Fletcher's presence in her home as a matter of course and had never registered surprise when he greeted her in the morning. If she viewed Sam Stedman's offspring as an intemperate influence on her son, her opinion remained her own, for she never voiced an objection to their close friendship.
Fletcher spread wide his arms and arched his neck and back, stretching his tight muscles from their long rest. Yawning deeply, he threw his arms over his face and wondered if he might fall back to sleep. He was reluctant to leave his downy cocoon. The only thing missing was a voluptuous, beguiling female to share it with. As he contemplated beguiling females, his mind wandered to Kyndee, and he frowned. He would never be able to drift back now.
With a sigh of resignation, he threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his feet to the floor. A paroxysm of dizziness caused him to grasp the bedpost and rest his tousled head against its wooden sturdiness. Unfortunately, his hastily muttered oath did nothing to stop the room from spinning.
He donned the dressing robe someone had been kind enough to leave on the chaise. Running his hand over his eyes, he decided it had to have been Caleb. Fletcher now vaguely recalled someone having been in his room after he'd gone to bed. The person had whispered something about Fletcher never having a robe when he needed one. He chuckled. While the statement was true, he was touched that Caleb, the consummate host, would have remembered the minor detail. A sudden knock startled him as the door was thrown open.
"Are you decent?" Caleb strode into the room. "Well, it's about time you woke up, you lazy dolt. I waited downstairs to break fast with you but my hunger was past endurance. I see you found the robe. Keep it. The women will think it goes devilishly well with your eyes—had a feeling you didn't have one."
Caleb was already dressed in coat, breeches and boots and looked anxious to be in the saddle. He moved to the window and glanced out and, turning, leaned against the sill. He rubbed his hands together rapidly with an expression of boyish mischief.
"What's your pleasure today?" he asked. "Shall we gallop to Seabrook and challenge Buck to a duel? I'll be certain his second forgets to load his pistol. Or shall we have him slow roasted over an open pit? Come to think of it, I favor the idea of having him hung, drawn and quartered. Have you given it any thought, Rasc? Pray tell, what's the plan for his demise?"
Fletcher shook his head and glinted his friend a one-sided grin. "And to think I was just musing on your excellent manners as a host! But what host barges into his guest's room before that guest has yet to gather his brains from the pillow?"
Caleb shrugged. "I don't consider you a guest."
"Ah yes. Well that accounts for it then." With one hand, Fletcher pushed his hair from his eyes. With the other, he poured a glass of water from the crystal pitcher and downed it in three gulps to relieve the dryness in his throat. He poured himself another glassful.
Swinging the glass by the rim, and leaning against the bedpost, he folded his arms and smiled at his friend. "In answer to your delving questions: one—yes, I'm decent, but I highly doubt you would have cared if I weren't; two—I didn't know it was this late; three—I planned to break fast with you; four—thank you for the robe; I didn't have one; and five—I have no plan whatsoever because I must make inquiries first." Fletcher gasped for air, having shoved out the entire statement on a single breath.
Caleb lifted one eyebrow in an expression of amused incredulity. "Well said, Rasc. I remember any number of mornings when you'd have been hard pressed to put together a coherent thought. Obviously your mind has improved with age." On his way to the door, he jabbed Fletcher's shoulder with his knuckles. "Sorry I can't say the same for your looks. Do try to appear presentable. I believe, due to the hour, Mother will be joining us."
Fletcher immediately sobered. "Caleb, your mother will know me immediately. She has the eyes of a bird of prey—"
Caleb pivoted on the threshold and interrupted him. "No need to be all in a nettle, Rasc. I'll seat you at the far end of the table. Mother's mellowed a bit, and her hawk eyes aren't what they used to be. Besides, it's not as if she's expecting you. I'll tell her you're a friend I met on my last trip. She's grown accustomed to me bringing home all manner of stray animals—" He grinned. "—and with that scraggly hair on your face, that's exactly what you appear to be. Don't take overly long to dress, old boy; Mother hates to be kept waiting."
Fletcher dipped his fingers in the glass and flicked a spray of water across the room. "As I said," he chimed, chortling. "The consummate host!"
Caleb dodged the spray with a dignified wave of his hand and remained in the doorway. His jaw was tight as if he had something important on his mind. Then his face crinkled into that wide boyish smile, and he shook his head. "Bantering with you like this, Rasc; it's as if you were never gone."
"I trust you mean my showing up here is a pleasant reoccurrence?" he asked with a whimsical lift to his brows.
"You're incorrigible, Stedman," Caleb replied as he turned to leave. "I'll wait for you downstairs."
* * *
After the sumptuous meal, the table was cleared and Fletcher and Caleb lingered over their coffee. Fletcher noted that Rachel Jenkins, dignified in dark silk, had indeed mellowed since he'd last seen her. To his immense relief, she had not given him more than slight scrutiny, and she'd kept the conversation within the confines of the weather and the upcoming ball.
"As our guest you will, of course, join in the festivities, I hope," she said; her hair, pulled taut into a chignon, added to the severity of her expression. "Ella Marshall has the most elegant balls. I'm sure she'll be all agog knowing there's another eligible bachelor in town." She rolled her eyes. "The way that woman dangles her daughter, one would think she considers spinsterhood a fate worse than death. Her daughter, Sirrah, is pleasing enough to the eye, but she is a bit of a gaby. One would have more success conversing with a papier-mâché‚ mask."
Her austere expression gave way to a charming frown. "Thank the Lord I was blessed with a son. Now I need only find a woman of good breeding to catch his fancy so that I might live to see my grandchildren—"
"Mother," Caleb hissed. "I'm certain Mr. Brown would rather not be bored with—"
"On the contrary, Caleb," Fletcher interrupted with a grin. "I agree with your mother that it is time you settled down. While I'm here, I'll put my nose to the ground and see if there's not a lovely maiden waiting to be honored by your proposal." He chuckled and cast Caleb a knowing glance.
"I'm afraid 'twould be to hunt the gowk, Mr. Brown. My son is an incurable romantic. He will not marry except for love."
"Enough!" said Caleb, throwing his hands in a gesture of frustration. "Mother, should I have the carriage brought 'round? You don't want to be late to your meeting."
"Quite right," she replied. Fletcher and Caleb rose as Rachel Jenkins prepared to take her leave. "Mr. Brown, you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of our home for as long as it pleases you. With Mr. Jenkins away, I feel safer with two gentlemen for my protection."
"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins," Fletcher said with heartfelt sincerity. "Honored to be of service to you. You are most generous to a stranger dragged home by your son."
She gave him a sideways glance. "You do so remind me of another of Caleb's friends." Her face softened. "He was an impudent devil and could try the patience of the saints themselves, but he was also a fine young man."
"You said was, Mrs. Jenkins?" Fletcher asked, ignoring Caleb who had moved behind his mother and was shaking
