required, Mr. Bates,” Elly answered distractedly, clearly still trying to absorb his news. “I never knew the horrible man, I’m happy to say.”
Alastair longed to take Elinor Dalrymple’s slim throat in his hands and crush the life out of her. Smiling through gritted teeth, he responded, “Then may I offer my congratulations to your brother and yourself, for surely the two of you have fallen into one of the deepest gravy boats in all England. The late Earl was known, after all, for his great wealth.”
“That’s not all the late Earl was known for,” Elly said, sniffing. “He was a profligate, useless drain on society, if half the stories I have heard are to be believed. If you wish to talk about painted ladies, you should have been here for his memorial service. There were more butterflies at Seashadow that day than this, if you take my meaning.”
This time Alastair could not suppress a grin. “Lots of weeping and gnashing of teeth, was there? There’s many a man who would relish such a send-off. Was there a redhead among them? I’d heard the late Earl had quite a ravishing redhead in keeping.”
Elly’s spine stiffened once more, most probably, Alastair supposed, more in self-censure at her own loose tongue than at his daring response to her indiscreet chatter. “Be that as it may be, if he leased a returning veteran a cottage in which to recuperate, he did at least one good deed in his wasted lifetime, and I shall not take this one vestige of goodness from his memory by refusing to honor his wishes.”
“You are kindness itself, Miss Dalrymple,” Alastair cooed, longing to throttle her.
“The sea air will doubtless be salutary to your wounds,” she continued. “As a matter of fact—as a small way of showing you Seashadow’s hospitality—may I tell my brother that you are to join us this evening for dinner?”
Alastair smiled, succeeding in splitting the three-week growth of beard so that his even white teeth sparkled in the sunlight. “Madam,” he said sincerely, “I should be delighted!”
THE EVENING WAS comfortably cool, with a slight breeze coming off the sea as Elly stood just outside the French doors watching the sea birds as they circled the beach. Raising a hand to her throat, she adjusted the cameo that hung from a thin ivory ribbon, wondering if jewelry—even such simple jewelry—was proper during her supposed time of mourning for her cousin, the late Earl.
“Oh, pooh,” she said, allowing her hand to drop to her side, where it found occupation smoothing the skirt of her silver-grey gown. “What does it matter anyway, now that you’ve been so stupid as to express your true feelings about the man to a relative stranger—a relative stranger you have invited to dinner, and then dressed yourself up like some man-hungry spinster at her last prayers?”
She should have invited Lieutenant Fishbourne to join them as well, considering the fact that his warning to her was the main reason she had invited John Bates to dine. “Report any strangers to the area and any goings-on that appear peculiar,” the Lieutenant had cautioned her, and Elly had every intention of reporting John Bates and Hugo to the Lieutenant just as soon as she was sure if they were smugglers or spies. She only needed to squeeze a bit more pertinent information from Mr. John Bates so that she wouldn’t disgrace herself by turning in an innocent man.
“John Bates couldn’t be innocent,” she told herself reassuringly, hearing the brass door knocker bang loudly in the foyer, announcing her dinner guest’s arrival. “Nobody that handsome—or forward—could possibly be innocent.”
Stepping into the drawing room, she looked around to see that Leslie, who had been dutifully sitting in the blue satin striped chair when she had left the room, was nowhere to be found. “Leslie?” she hissed, looking about desperately as she heard footsteps approaching the room. “Leslie! You promised! Where are you?”
“Lose something?” a voice inquired from behind her just as she was peeking through the fronds of a towering fern in hopes of discovering her brother hiding behind it.
Straightening, Elly pasted on a deliberate smile and turned to greet her guest. “Lose something?” she repeated blankly. “Why, yes, I seem to have misplaced, um, my knitting. Mrs. Biggs, our housekeeper, appears to delight in hiding it from me.”
“You don’t knit, Elly. Never could, without making a botch of the thing.”
Elly swung about, to see Leslie down on all fours behind the settee. “Leslie!” she gritted under her breath. “Get up at once. What are you doing down there?”
Leslie Dalrymple, Earl of Hythe, rose clumsily to his feet, his pale blonde hair falling forward over his high forehead, his knees and hands dusty. “I was sitting quite nicely, just as you instructed, Elly, when a breeze from the doorway sent the loveliest dust bunny scurrying across the floor. See!” he demanded, holding up a greyish round ball of dust. “I think it’s just the thing to complete my arrangement of Everyday Things, don’t you?”
Elly didn’t know whether to hit her brother or hug him. He looked so dear, standing there holding his dust bunny as if it were the greatest treasure on God’s green earth, yet he was making the worst possible impression on John Bates. John Bates! Elly whirled to face her handsome guest, daring him with her eyes to say one word—one single, solitary word against her beloved brother.
Her fears, at least for the moment, proved groundless. John Bates, who had indeed witnessed all that had just transpired, only advanced across the width of the Aubusson carpet, his golden hair and beard glinting in the candlelight, his cane in his left hand as he favored his left leg, his right hand outstretched in greeting.
“My Lord Hythe, it is a distinct pleasure to meet you,” he said, his tone earnest even to Elly’s doubting ears. “I wish to thank you for agreeing to honor the rental arrangement made between the late Earl and myself. And, oh yes, please allow me to offer you condolences on your loss.”
Leslie looked down on the dust bunny. “But I didn’t lose it. See, I have it right here.”
“Mr. Bates is referring to our libertine cousin Alastair’s untimely death,” Elly corrected sweetly even as she glared at John Bates. He already knew how she felt about her late cousin. Why was he persisting in bringing it up again and again? Anyone would think they had killed the stupid man, for pity’s sake!
The dust bunny disappeared into Leslie’s coat pocket as he took John’s hand, wincing at the older man’s firm grip. “A strong one, aren’t you? Oh, you meant m’cousin, of course. Please excuse Elly. M’sister’s taken a pet against him for some reason, ever since his mourners wouldn’t stay to tea after the service, as a matter of fact. Rather poor sporting of her to my way of thinking, as the fellow’s dead, ain’t he—leaving the two of us as rich as Croesus into the bargain.”
“Leslie, please,” Elly begged quietly, steering the two men toward the settee and seating herself in the blue satin chair.
But Leslie was oblivious to his sister’s pleading. Seating himself comfortably, one long, skinny leg crossed over the other, he informed his guest, “I have been considering composing a picture to honor the late Earl and his accomplishments—only, I can’t seem to find that he actually accomplished anything, except a few things best not remembered. I’m an artist, you understand.”
“You wish to do a portrait?” Alastair asked, to Elly’s mind, a bit intensely.
Leslie waved his thin, artistic hands dismissingly. “No, no. Never a portrait. That’s so mundane—so ordinary. No, I wish to execute a chronicle of Alastair’s life, with symbols.
