How embarrassing for you,’ Mrs Trimmett remarked with ill-concealed relish as she leaned forward in an encouraging manner.
‘It was a trifle awkward, but he acquitted me of trespass. Oh, you mean the refreshments? Just a cup of tea on the lawn with one of the female staff in attendance. I would not have gone inside, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ they chorused, obviously dying to do just that themselves.
‘Do tell us,’ Mrs Gordon urged, ‘what is the earl like? My husband has left his card, of course, and they have met, but he has not yet called.’
‘He was perfectly punctilious and civil, but I found him arrogant, you know. Perhaps it is just those devilish flyaway eyebrows—’
The two ladies opposite her went very still, their eager expressions frozen into identical stilted smiles. Too late Laura felt the draught from the opening door on the nape of her neck.
‘The Earl of Wykeham,’ the footman announced.
It seemed impossible the earl had not heard, which left two alternatives, once Laura had stifled the immediate instinct to flee the room. She could apologise and probably dig herself even deeper into the hole or pretend the words had never been uttered.
‘My...my lord.’ Even Mrs Trimmett’s self-assurance seemed shaken. ‘How good of you to call. May I make Mrs Gordon known to you?’ The matron managed to utter a conventional greeting. ‘And Mrs Jordan I believe you know,’ she added as the earl moved into the room.
‘Mrs Gordon. And, Mrs Jordan, we meet again. Are you quite recovered from your fall yesterday?’ His voice was silk-smooth, so bland that Laura was suddenly doubtful whether he had heard her faux pas after all. Willing away what she was certain must be hectic colour in her cheeks, she sipped the cooling tea. Thank Heavens he has been seated to one side of me!
‘I have no pain at all now, thank you, Lord Wykeham.’ Laura shot a glance at the clock, mercifully in the opposite direction to the earl. She had been there twenty minutes which meant, by the rules governing morning calls, Mrs Gordon should be departing soon, her own half-hour having passed. ‘I was just telling the ladies that I trespassed in your delightful park yesterday.’ She smiled and shook her head at Mrs Trimmett’s gesture towards the tea pot. She would finish this cup and then could most properly make her escape. Mrs Gordon was obviously determined to hang on now this intriguing visitor had arrived, never mind the etiquette of the situation.
‘No trespass at all and my daughter, Alice, was delighted to meet you.’
Both the older women stiffened and the polite smiles became thin-lipped. He has done that on purpose, Laura thought. It wasn’t thoughtless—he wants to see how they react. Then the realisation hit her. That is my daughter they are pokering up with disapproval over.
‘Miss Alice is a delightful child,’ she said. ‘Such charming manners and so pretty and bright. A credit to you, my lord. I do hope she soon makes some little friends in the area. Do you have grandchildren, Mrs Trimmett?’
The vicar’s wife looked as though she had been poked with a pin. ‘Er...no, they are all in Dorset. Such a pity.’
‘Mine will be coming to stay next week,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘My two dear granddaughters, aged six and eight. Perhaps Miss Alice would like to come to tea?’ Her expression was such a mixture of smugness and alarm that Laura almost laughed. She could read the older woman’s mind—an earl’s daughter...but illegitimate. The chance of an entrée to the Big House...but the risk that her neighbours might disapprove.
Laura told herself that she had defended Alice and perhaps made some amends for her tactless remark about Lord Wykeham, which, whatever she thought about him, had been inexcusable.
‘I am happy to accept on Alice’s behalf,’ he said.
Laura risked a sideways glance and encountered a pleasant, totally bland smile with just the faintest hint of mischief about it. Or was she imagining that? ‘Well, this has been delightful, thank you, Mrs Trimmett. I am hoping to find Mrs Philpott at home,’ she added as she got to her feet. Lord Wykeham stood, looming far too close for comfort in the feminine little parlour.
‘I called on her about an hour ago,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘So you will certainly find her at Laurel Lodge. Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Jordan.’
With a further exchange of civilities, and a slight bow to the earl who was holding the door for her, Laura left, hoping it did not appear such a flight as it felt.
A smart curricle with a groom in the seat stood outside the vicarage. The earl’s, she assumed, sparing the pair of matched bays an envious glance as she passed. The groom touched his hat to her as she set off around the green that led past a group of cottages and towards the turning that Mab had told her led to Laurel Lodge.
Laura dawdled, hoping that fresh air and time would do something to restore her inner composure. She touched the inside of her wrist above the cuff of her glove to her cheek and was relieved to find it cool and not, as she had feared, flaming with embarrassment. What had possessed her? Probably, she concluded, a desire to hear Wykeham abused by the other women, to hear some scandalous gossip about him to confirm her in her dislike of him. And now all she had done was to ensure he would not dream of inviting her to the Manor again. She had quite effectively cut herself off from her daughter.
* * *
‘Very rustic this, my lord,’ Gregg observed, his arms folded firmly across his chest; his face, Avery knew without having to glance sideways, set in a slight sneer.
‘That is one of the characteristics of the countryside, yes,’ he agreed.
‘Hardly what we’re used to, my lord.’
‘No, indeed.’ And singularly lacking in theatres, taverns, pleasure gardens and other sources of entertainment for a good-looking, middle-aged groom with an eye for a pretty girl and a liking for a lively time, he supposed. ‘We’ll be off to London in a week or two,’ he offered his brooding henchman. Tom Gregg had been with him for over ten years and enjoyed a freedom not permitted to any of his other staff.
Gregg gave a grunt of satisfaction and Avery went back to pondering the mystery that was Mrs Jordan. Just what did she find so objectionable about him? Other than his eyebrows, which could hardly be provocation enough to make a well-bred lady express a dislike to two near strangers. Her manner to him had been impeccable, if cool, and yet he was constantly aware of a watchfulness about her and, ridiculous as it might sound, a hostility. Perhaps she was like that with all men. It could be, he supposed, that her marriage had been an unhappy one, but his instincts told him it was more personal than that.
Which was a pity, as well as a mystery. Mrs Jordan was an attractive woman and Alice liked her. And, he supposed, with a wry smile at his own vanity, he was not used to ladies taking against him.
‘You turn right here, my lord.’ Gregg gestured towards a lane leading off the green.
So now he had a choice. He could allow himself to be routed by a sharp-tongued widow in drab weeds or he could endure her dislike for half an hour at Mrs Philpott’s house. No, damn it, he thought, guiding the pair into the lane, Mrs Philpott had young relatives, so he had
