unsuitable in every other way, don’t you think? While Rachel’s capable of fending off such an insensitive soul herself, it would probably ruin her stay, and you would let her pick out her own suitors.’
‘Rachel’s chaperon will be in for a surprise if you let her expect meek agreement with her every whim,’ Serena persisted.
‘No, she won’t. You know her too well for that.’ He held up his hand when she gathered breath to condemn his high-handed assumption that she would agree to his scheme. ‘I don’t want Rachel to be upset by battling over every detail from the cut and colour of her gown to how many steps she can take in the park with a beau without causing a scandal. Together you can both ease yourselves back into the polite world and actually enjoy yourselves,’ he replied, so reasonably that Serena had to remind herself she was in danger of being manipulated by a master.
‘I refuse to tell my best friend how to run her life,’ she said doggedly.
‘Little chance of that—which is why this arrangement will suit so well, if I can bring it about,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘Do you always arrange the lives of your family and friends in the way you feel is most likely to do them good, Sir Adam?’
‘Whenever I can,’ he replied, with an unrepentant shrug.
‘Lord, how I pity them.’
‘Lady, you have no need to,’ he told her, and suddenly there was an infinity of promises in those intriguing eyes of his, and she felt a shiver run down her spine that had to be apprehension—didn’t it?
‘So you say,’ she managed to reply, steadily enough.
‘So I know,’ he said quietly, and this time there was a steadfast intent in his gaze that worried her more than anything that had passed between them so far.
Serena made a determined effort to put everything else aside and concentrate on Rachel’s well-being. ‘I’m not sure I could stop the staidest two-in-hand racing out of control,’ she admitted ruefully, ‘let alone keep Rachel from being overwhelmed by unsuitable gentlemen.’
Rachel Langthorne was a considerable heiress and, even if she was far too shrewd to fall for a fortune-hunter, would find the ton at play intimidating after so long at Marclecombe, caring for her grandparents and more lately her ungrateful brother. For Rachel’s sake Serena supposed she had to take this idea seriously, even if going to London for the season in Sir Adam’s company was the last thing she should do if she had any sense at all.
‘You’d soon get back into the way of it,’ he said with remarkable gentleness. And Serena didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was referring to driving a pair of spirited Welsh greys around Hyde Park.
‘Not if I stay here, I won’t,’ she replied stubbornly.
‘Faint heart,’ he accused her lightly, as if he was supremely confident she would see things his way if he persisted long enough.
‘If you like,’ she told him steadily, striving for the appearance of indifference, even if she couldn’t quite manage the fact.
‘I’m not one to meekly give up on an enterprise likely to succeed so well, Lady Summerton,’ he warned her, with a mildness she refused to mistake for wavering of purpose—he was altogether too dangerous to her peace of mind for such leeway.
‘And that enterprise is?’ she demanded frostily.
He had the effrontery to laugh at her imitation of an affronted aristocrat before sobering. ‘My sister’s future happiness, of course,’ he told her seriously. An underhand statement if ever she’d heard one—for how could she argue with such a motive?
‘I’m not convinced going to London would enhance it,’ she argued stubbornly.
‘We’ll see who’s right when we get there, then.’
‘No, for I’m staying here, remember?’
‘Of course,’ he agreed, with a smug smile that was enough to try the most patient of saints as they approached Burgesses’ rather perfunctory front garden at last, and Serena was forced to swallow a less than polite reply.
‘Oh, my lady and Sir Adam—what a pleasure to see you both,’ Mrs Burgess declared rather breathlessly as she bustled out of the front door.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Burgess, and how are you today?’
‘None too stout, I fear, Lady Summerton.’ The worthy lady faltered, and Serena sent Sir Adam a reproving look when she saw his broad shoulders shake—for Mrs Burgess was very far from slender after her many pregnancies.
‘I’m very sorry to hear it. Perhaps we could all take a glass of your delicious cowslip wine while you tell us all about it, Mrs Burgess?’ said Serena.
Which would serve him right, she decided. The idea of Sir Adam Langthorne choking down this good lady’s home-made wine when he was reputed to have the finest cellar in the county made her long to laugh out loud.
‘None of that potent brew for me thank you, ma’am, I need to keep a clear head for whatever business your husband has with me,’ he informed their hostess with an engaging smile—the slippery rogue. ‘But there’s no reason you and her ladyship can’t have a comfortable coze before I see her home.’
‘I can find my own way, thank you, Sir Adam.’
‘Normally I’m sure you would, Lady Summerton, but after indulging in Mrs Burgess’s famous cowslip you might go astray. We can’t have her ladyship spending the night in a ditch, can we, Mrs Burgess?’
Serena might have been tempted to argue for the ditch if her hostess’s eager ears had not been taking in every word. Instead she sent Sir Adam a pallid smile that promised revenge, and allowed herself to be led into the parlour and fed plum cake and gossip while she cautiously sampled her wine. It really was quite pleasant, she decided, and she was thirsty. But when Mrs Burgess would have topped up her glass she managed to refuse.
‘I have no wish to become tipsy and prove Sir Adam right—delicious as this is, Mrs Burgess,’ she excused herself, and sipped gratefully at the cup of tea she was offered instead. ‘Now, tell me all about this ghost the sexton saw the other night. It sounds a most unlikely tale to me, and I can’t help but wonder if he hadn’t been at your excellent wine.’
‘I wouldn’t waste it on the likes of him,’ Mrs Burgess declared with a disgusted sniff. ‘That ne’er do well would drink the dregs out of the chalice of a Sunday if he could get hold of them. The drink has got to him well and truly at long last, and I dare say he’ll be found laid in one of his own graves one morning, stone-dead. I’ll believe in that there ghost when I set eyes on it and not before, my lady.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, as all sorts of wild tales are doing the rounds. A voice against it is most welcome.’
If rather surprising, Serena added in her head. Mrs Burgess usually believed every wild rumour that went around, and added a few embellishments before passing them on. She had several times told Serena that the French were stealing Burgess’s turnips and the eggs from her hen-house, despite the fact that Red Bridge Farm was seventy miles from the sea.
‘And that daft besom he’s married
