as we’d see you this week, young master.”
Harry grinned. “Good evening, Grimms. Is my aunt at home?”
“Aye—that she is—and right pleased she’ll be to see you. Evening, miss. Miss.” Grimms doffed his cap to Lucinda and Heather.
Lucinda’s answering smile was distant. Hallows Hall stirred long-forgotten memories of life before her parents had died.
Harry descended and helped her down. After helping Heather to the ground, he turned to see Lucinda looking about her, a wistful expression on her face. “Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda started. Then, with a half-grimace and a frosty glance, she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her up the steps.
The door was flung open—not by a butler, although a stately personage of that persuasion hovered in the shadows—but by a gaunt, angular-featured woman a good two inches taller than Lucinda and decidedly thinner.
“Harry, m’boy! Thought you’d be here. And who’s this you’ve brought?”
Lucinda found herself blinking into dark blue eyes, shrewd and intelligent.
“But what am I about? Come in, come in.” Ermyntrude, Lady Hallows, waved her guests into the hall.
Lucinda stepped over the threshold—and was immediately enveloped in the warm, elegant yet homey atmosphere.
Harry took his aunt’s hand and bowed over it, then kissed her cheek. “As elegant as ever, Em,” he said, scanning her topaz gown.
Em’s eyes opened wide. “Flummery? From you?”
Harry pressed her hand warningly as he released it. “Allow me to present Mrs Babbacombe, Aunt. Her carriage broke a wheel just outside town. I had the honour of driving her in. She had some idea of staying in town but I prevailed upon her to change her mind and give you the benefit of her company.”
The words tripped glibly from his tongue. Rising from her curtsy, Lucinda shot him a chilly glance.
“Capital!” Em beamed and took Lucinda’s hand. “My dear, you don’t know how bored I sometimes get, stuck out here in the country. And Harry’s quite right—you can’t possibly stay in town during a meet—not at all the thing.” Her blue eyes switched to Heather. “And who’s this?”
Lucinda made the introduction and Heather, smiling brightly, bobbed a curtsy.
Em put out a hand and tipped Heather’s chin up the better to view her face. “Hmm—quite lovely. You’ll do well in a year or two.” Releasing her, Em frowned. “Babbacombe, Babbacombe…” She glanced at Lucinda. “Not the Staffordshire Babbacombes?”
Lucinda smiled. “Yorkshire.” When her hostess only frowned harder, she felt compelled to add, “I was a Gifford before my marriage.”
“Gifford?” Em’s eyes slowly widened as she studied Lucinda. “Great heavens! You must be Melrose Gifford’s daughter—Celia Parkes was your mother?”
Surprised, Lucinda nodded—and was promptly enveloped in a scented embrace.
“Good gracious, child—I knew your father!” Em was in transports. “Well—I was a bosom-bow of his elder sister, but I knew all the family. Naturally, after the scandal, we heard very little of Celia and Melrose, but they did send word of your birth.” Em wrinkled her nose. “Not that it did much good—stiff-necked lot, your grandparents. On both sides.”
Harry blinked, endeavouring to absorb this rush of information. Lucinda noticed, and wondered how he felt about rescuing the outcome of an old scandal.
“Just fancy!” Em was still in alt. “I never thought to set eyes on you, m’dear. Mind you, there’s not many left but me who’d remember. You’ll have to tell me the whole story.” Em paused to draw breath. “Now then! Fergus will get your luggage and I’ll show you up to your rooms—after a dish of tea—you must be in need of refreshment. Dinner’s at six so there’s no need to hurry.”
Together with Heather, Lucinda found herself hustled towards an open doorway—a drawing-room lay ahead. On the threshold she hesitated and glanced back, as did Em behind her.
“You’re not staying, are you, Harry?” Em asked.
He was tempted—sorely tempted. His gaze not on his aunt but on the woman beside her, Harry forced himself to shake his head. “No.” With an effort he shifted his gaze to his aunt’s face. “I’ll call sometime during the week.”
Em nodded.
Prompted by she knew not what, Lucinda turned and re-crossed the hall. Their rescuer stood silently and watched her approach; she steadfastly ignored the odd tripping of her heart. She halted before him, calmly meeting his green gaze. “I don’t know how to thank you for your help, Mr Lester. You’ve been more than kind.”
His lips slowly curved; again, she found herself fascinated by the movement.
Harry took the hand she held out to him and, his eyes on hers, raised it to his lips. “Your rescue was indeed my pleasure, Mrs Babbacombe.” The sudden widening of her eyes as his lips touched her skin was payment enough for the consequent hardships. “I’ll ensure that your people know where to find you—your maids will arrive before nightfall, I’m sure.”
Lucinda inclined her head; she made no effort to retrieve her fingers from his warm grasp. “Again, you have my thanks, sir.”
“It was nothing, my dear.” His eyes on hers, Harry allowed one brow to rise. “Perhaps we’ll meet again—in a ballroom, maybe? Dare I hope you’ll favour me with a waltz if we do?”
Graciously, Lucinda acquiesced. “I would be honoured, sir—should we meet.”
Belatedly reminding himself that she was a snare he was determined to avoid, Harry took a firm grip on his wayward impulses. He bowed. Releasing Lucinda’s hand, he nodded to Em. With one last glance at Lucinda, he strolled gracefully out of the door.
Lucinda watched the door shut behind him, a distant frown in her eyes.
Em studied her unexpected guest, a speculative glint in hers.
Agatha’s been with me forever,” Lucinda explained. “She was my mother’s maid when I was born. Amy was an under-maid at the Grange—my husband’s house. We took her with us so that Agatha could train her to act as maid for Heather.”
“Just as well,” Heather put in.
They were in the dining-room, partaking of a delicious meal prepared, so Em had informed them, in honour of their arrival. Agatha, Amy and Sim had arrived an hour ago, conveyed by Joshua in a trap borrowed from the Barbican Arms. Joshua had returned to Newmarket to pursue the repairs of the carriage. Agatha, taken under the wing of the portly housekeeper, Mrs Simmons, was resting in a cheery room below the eaves, her ankle pronounced unbroken but badly sprained. Amy had thus had to assist both Lucinda and Heather to dress, a task at which she had acquitted herself with honours.
Or so Em thought as she looked down the table. “So,” she said, patting her lips with her napkin then waving
