“Essie, you’re outrageous,” Imogen exclaimed, pouring herself tea. “I’m not going to open a letter that’s not addressed to me.”
“Even though it’s from Charles?” Her sister’s eyebrows inched upward.
“Yes,” Imogen declared, reaching for the toast rack. “If Charles has business with Duncan, then that’s none of my business.”
Esther looked as if she found this hard to believe, but silently passed the cut-glass marmalade jar across the table to her sister, who was vigorously slathering butter on her toast. Then she laughed as she saw Imogen’s eyes dart to the kettle of hot water steaming over a spirit lamp on the sideboard.
“Go on,” she encouraged. “You know you want to.”
Damn, Imogen thought. That was exactly what Charles had said below her window the night before. You know you want to. “I don’t know why I should be so easy to read,” she muttered, taking the letter again. She held it over the gentle steam issuing from the kettle and the seal lifted. Delicately, she pried it open with a long fingernail and extracted the card.
“Well?” Esther asked impatiently.
“It’s an invitation to luncheon,” Imogen said. “For today.”
“Who for?”
“All of us. Duncan, his guests, and his sisters.” She slid the card back into the envelope and pressed the seal. “It doesn’t really close again properly.”
“Well, Duncan’s not going to mind,” Esther said carelessly. “Throw the envelope in the fire and put the invitation by his plate. He’s not going to think twice about a missing envelope.”
“True enough,” Imogen agreed. “I still feel guilty, though. You’re a very bad influence, Esther.” She grinned and they both laughed. After a minute, she said, “A strange thing happened last night, Essie.”
“Oh?” Esther lifted her teacup and regarded her sister with close interest.
Imogen hadn’t been sure whether she would tell her sister about that strange interlude on the frozen lake, but she could never keep secrets from her sister for long, and Esther was so close to the whole situation, it would be unnatural not to tell her.
“Go on,” Esther prompted, seeing her sister lost in thought. “What happened last night?”
She listened in stunned silence. Imogen omitted any description of the kiss, but Esther was more than capable of filling in the gaps. She exhaled deeply as Imogen finished her tale with a tiny, self-deprecating smile and a shrug. “So are you going to get engaged again?” she asked bluntly.
“No,” Imogen denied, rather more vehemently than she’d intended. “No . . . it was an aberration, Essie. Nothing more than that.”
“Hmm.” Esther did not sound convinced. She went on slowly, “After what you’ve been through these last weeks, Gen, I do think you need to be careful. You don’t want to find yourself back at square one. Maybe it was an aberration, but if there’s the slightest possibility that it wasn’t, please don’t rush into anything. Nothing’s changed about why you decided not to marry Charles, has it?”
“No,” Imogen said with a frown. “No, of course it hasn’t, and of course you’re right, Essie, I don’t intend to put either of us through that hell again.” She offered a rueful smile. “I do know, love, that it was probably as bad for you as it was for me, and I’m a brute for inflicting it on you.”
“That’s nonsense, and you know it,” her sister said briskly. “But the fact remains that whether you want to or not, you are going to be running into Charles either here or in town . . . and . . . well, maybe you should have some kind of strategy for the unexpected . . . like last night,” she added somewhat unnecessarily.
Imogen considered for a moment before saying thoughtfully, “Avoiding the situation isn’t a good strategy, and it isn’t going to help me work out what is, so what do you think about going back to town sooner than we’d thought?”
Esther shrugged. “I wouldn’t object to it. We’ve been here for three months. I could do with a change of scene.”
“Me too. Let’s plan on opening the London house at the end of next week. We’ll tell Sharpton and he’ll make all the arrangements. When Duncan comes down here for sport, Mrs. Dalton’s sister will manage things for him.”
“Well, that’s settled. What are you going to wear to this luncheon with your erstwhile betrothed?” Esther could feel that her sister was returning to herself. The last three months, Imogen had tried to behave in her usual easy, cheerful fashion, but she seemed to cast a shadow wherever she went, her lively personality weighted down by a burden of unhappiness. Maybe the answer was to stop running now, and for Gen to tackle the situation head-on. Gen had always thrived on a challenge, so with any luck, returning to London would give her all she needed to return to her old self.
“What’s wrong with what I have on?” Esther brushed at her navy and white striped skirt.
“It’s not very frivolous,” her sister observed.
“And why, pray, should I wish to appear frivolous? It’s only a luncheon in the country . . . and besides,” she added, “that Mr. Warwick might be there. And I won’t feel in the least frivolous in his company, I can assure you.” She pushed back her chair, a sudden frown drawing her dark arched eyebrows together. “There’s something familiar about that man’s name. . . . I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere, but I can’t place it. Does it mean anything to you, Essie?”
Esther shook her head. “I expect your fury over the shot stag so burned itself into your brain that you’ll never forget the man. Anyway,” she added, pushing back her own chair, “it’s not that unusual a name.”
“No,” her sister agreed as she left the breakfast room.
Duncan emerged blearily from his bedchamber close to eleven, just as Sharpton had predicted. He encountered his sisters in the morning room, engaged in putting together a rather complicated jigsaw puzzle. “Morning,” he muttered, slumping into a chair by the fire.
“You don’t look at all well,” Esther observed solicitously. “Did you not sleep well?”
“Like a log,” her brother returned. “But I feel like the very devil. Is anyone else up?”
“Apart from us, no, we haven’t seen a soul,” Imogen replied. “Have you had breakfast?”
Duncan shook his head and winced at the thumping pain. “Don’t feel like anything.”
“Oh well, there’s a card by your plate in the breakfast room. An invitation from Charles to lunch at Beringer Manor,” Esther informed him. “For all of us. We weren’t sure what to do about it.”
Duncan’s eyes seemed to lose a little of their glaze. “Well, we have to go. Of course we must.”
“Why must we?” Imogen inquired, without raising her eyes from the jigsaw as she inserted a piece of blue sky.
“It’s only polite,” he said, regarding his sister with a flicker of alarm. “A neighborly invitation.”
“Yes, but remarkably short notice,” his sister persisted, selecting another piece of sky. “You don’t think that’s somewhat impolite . . . inconsiderate, at least?”
“Neighbors don’t stand on ceremony,” Duncan declared, heaving himself up. “I had better send a reply posthaste.” He hesitated at the door, his hand on the latch, as he seemed to nerve himself to speak. “You are coming, Gen, aren’t you?”
“Is there any reason why I should in the circumstances?” she asked, resolutely ignoring Esther’s quivering lip. “It’s an awkward situation, Duncan, you have to admit.”
He looked discomfited. “Yes, I understand that, but you have to rise above it, Gen. It’s over and done with, and you can’t go through life ignoring a neighbor just because of a past awkwardness.”
Duncan never failed to astonish her, Imogen thought. “You call a broken engagement a mere awkwardness?” she queried, looking up finally, a jigsaw piece held delicately between finger and thumb.
“Well, it can’t dominate our social lives,” he protested. “People will have forgotten about it by now.”
Imogen shrugged and let it dr
op. “Perhaps, you’re right. I’ll come. What about your houseguests? Will they feel up to a luncheon party?””
Duncan could not conceal his relief. “Of course they will,” he declared. “We’ll ride over, that’ll put us all to rights. A breath of cold fresh air. You know you’ll enjoy that, Gen.” So saying, he left the morning room to retrieve the invitation.
“I wish I knew why he’s so anxious not to offend Charles,” Imogen said. “I mean, they barely know each other, and even during the engagement they didn’t move in the same circles. One would think he’d steer well clear of Charles instead of cultivating him.”
“One would,” Esther agreed. “But still, you didn’t have to tease him so, Gen. You have every intention of going.”
Her sister smiled ruefully. “You’re right, of course, but sometimes I feel we have a duty to try to get Duncan to look at the world through other people’s eyes occasionally. Are we riding or walking?”
“I fancy the ride,” Esther replied, getting up from her chair. “It’ll only take half an hour.” She went to the door. “I’ll tell Sharpton about our plans to return to London next week.”
Imogen stared down at the jigsaw puzzle, not really taking it in any longer. The prospect of returning to London and behaving with Charles as if nothing had happened was not realistic, however blithely she’d spoken earlier. There would be whispers and nudges, hints and both overt and covert disapproval however they behaved towards each other. Maybe it would be better to stay in the country and hone her strategy for dealing with him in public away from Society’s prying eyes.
But Charles could not leave his practice indefinitely. He had recently been elevated to the position of Queen’s Counsel and as such was in even more demand in the law courts. And she knew he would not leave his chambers for more than a week or two at the most. He loved his work far too much, and she could hardly expect him to stay in the country just so that she could become word-perfect in her public performances in his company.
Were Mrs. Symonds and her child still in the picture? Had Charles been seeing his mistress since Imogen had left London? Of course, since she’d broken off the engagement he was entitled to see whomever he pleased, but Imogen needed to know exactly where the relationship between Charles and his mistress stood before she could even begin to decide how to conduct herself in his company. Aberrations like the previous night’s were not to be thought of without that clarification.
Was she actually considering the possibility of repeating such an aberration?
Oh, the whole thing was impossible, she thought, standing up so abruptly that her knee caught the edge of the low table and the almost finished jigsaw tumbled in a scattered muddle of pieces to the carpet. “Damn,” she said out loud, staring down at the jumble. She and Esther had been working on the puzzle for the better part of the week, and now it was in ruins. Damn Charles for being so seductive, so attractive, so witty, so everything she could ever want in a man . . . a lover . . . a husband.
And so damnably infuriating and opinionated and blind about so many things. She dropped to her knees to retrieve the pieces of the puzzle, scrambling around until she was sure she had them all. There was nothing worse than coming to the end of a puzzle and finding pieces missing.
On her way upstairs to change into her riding habit, she bumped into Duncan and his friends in the hall. “We’re bidden at Beringer Manor for twelve thirty, Gen, so we thought we’d start out at noon,” her brother said. He was looking somewhat recovered, and the faint scent of ale on his breath indicated that he’d resorted to the age-old remedy of the hair of the dog. The same miasma of fermented yeast hung around his guests, who, although bleary-eyed still, seemed cheerful enough.
It was just then that the front door opened and Harry Graham came in, stamping frost off his boots. He showed no ill effects of a late night’s drinking: His dark blue eyes were clear, his complexion glowing with health and the brisk cold air. Zoe accompanied him and ran up to Imogen, her tail wagging furiously.
“There you are, Harry,” Duncan exclaimed. “We wondered where you were.”
“I took a long walk across the heath,” Harry said, unwinding his muffler. “Beautiful countryside around here. Hope you don’t mind, Miss Carstairs, but I took the puppy with me. She seemed anxious for a run.”
“She always is,” Imogen agreed, bending to stroke the dog. “I trust you found some breakfast, Mr. Graham, if you were out so early.”
“Oh, yes, one of the parlormaids was good enough to bring me some porridge from the servants’ breakfast. Very good it was too.” He shrugged out of his coat, which was swiftly removed by a hovering footman.
“I wish you’d told me you were going for a walk,” Duncan said. “I’d have come with you. I was wondering where you’d got to.”
Harry laughed and threw a careless arm across Duncan’s shoulders. “I looked in on you before I went, but you were snoring like a hippopotamus, m’dear fellow. Robbie said you wouldn’t wake for at least two more hours.” He lightly patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’m an early riser, I’m afraid.”
“We’re bidden to Beringer Manor for luncheon. We’re riding over at noon,” Duncan told him. He was looking a little aggrieved, Imogen thought.
“Excellent. I trust you have a horse up to my weight.”
“Sahib will suit Mr. Graham admirably, Duncan.” Imogen turned to the stairs. She looked over her shoulder, one hand on the newel post. “He’s spirited, even a little frisky, Mr. Graham, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle him.”
“Of course he will,” Duncan stated. “Harry’s a bruising rider.”
Imogen merely smiled in response and headed up the stairs, Zoe bounding ahead of her. She suspected that Harry Graham, with his slight frame, was probably more of an elegant rider than a bruising one.
Chapter 9
Beringer Manor was built in the Tudor style in the mid-1880s, and Imogen had always privately considered it to be a singularly ugly house, although set in beautiful gardens. Lady Ivins, the wife of the previous owner, had loved her gardens and had spent countless hours, not to mention countless of Lord Ivins’s guineas, creating a pastoral paradise. But since most of his lordship’s fortune had been brought to the marriage by his wife, it was said she had no scruples about spending it at will.
On Lord Ivins’s debt-ridden death, his childless widow had been obliged to put the house on the market, where it had languished for six months. The gardens were showing signs of neglect as a result, but Imogen noted several men clearing out an overgrown shrubbery, and a fresh layer of gravel lay thick on the wide driveway. Charles seemed to be taking his landowner’s responsibilities seriously.
“The house looks in good order,” Esther observed, chiming in with her sister’s thoughts. They were riding side by side a little behind the men, who had started out ahead of them. The mullioned windows were gleaming, the brick- and chimney work looked newly pointed, and there was a smell of fresh paint in the air.
“How long ago did Charles buy the place?” Imogen wondered. And how, she also wondered, had the news not reached Beaufort Hall earlier?
“In early January, according to Martha,” Esther told her. Martha was her maid, and an inveterate village gossip.
“Mmm.” Once again, Imogen wondered why. But only Charles could answer that question.
A groom came running from behind the house as they reached the front door, which opened directly onto the driveway, no stately flight of steps to separate them. The groom took the horses’ reins, and as Imogen prepared to dismount, Charles came out of the house. “Your brother and his guests are already arrived.” He reached up and lifted Imogen to the ground as he was speaking, and, again, his hands at her waist were so familiar she didn’t think twice about it, until her feet touched the gravel and she watched him hold up his hand to Esther to assist her to dismount in the generally accepted manner of a courteous gentleman. Her guard went up instantly. Signs of intimacy appropriate enough between a betrothed
couple were no longer appropriate, and Charles knew that perfectly well, so what was he up to?
“I’m so glad you agreed to come,” he said cheerfully, pecking Esther’s cheek in a familial way, “and also managed to persuade your sister.” His dark brown gaze seemed to stroke Imogen as she stood in front of the door. “Come inside out of the cold.” He extended an arm to encompass both sisters and swept them ahead of him into the square hall, its walls paneled in dark oak. A huge log burned in an inglenook fireplace at the far end, and a narrow staircase led up to a minstrels’ gallery. A massive circular chandelier hung from the beamed ceiling, gaslight glimmering in its imitation torch sconces.
“How familiar are you with the house?” Charles inquired of the sisters as a footman helped them out of their coats.
“We’ve been here a few times,” Esther answered, handing her gloves and crop to the footman. “Lady Ivins was something of a recluse, but she always held a garden party in the summer. Her garden was her pride and joy.”
“So I understand. I’m doing my best to prepare it for a spring seeding and general refurbishment. . . . Imogen, let me unpin that very fetching hat.”
“It’s already done, thank you,” Imogen said with a touch of ice, lifting the hat from her head and handing it to the footman. Charles was being too familiar again.
He seemed not to notice, however, and gestured to the drawing room doors. “Will you come and take a glass of sherry with the rest of my guests?”
Imogen wondered how many guests he had invited at such short notice. She stepped ahead of him into the drawing room and realized she had walked into an ambush. Half of Hampshire County society was gathered there, and it was as clear as day that they had not been invited at short notice. But at least there was no sign of the odious Mr. Warwick.
She held her anger in check as she moved forward, hand outstretched, to greet people most of whom she had known all her life, all of whom, she could feel, were agog with curiosity at her presence here, under her jilted fiancé’s roof. Her brother’s little party were dispersed around the room, playing their own parts to perfection despite hangovers. What they lacked in sophisticated conversation they more than made up for in the social graces. It would take more than a thumping headache to cause William Markham to neglect a lady’s glass, or Sir Gregory to fail to make comfortable small talk with a timid debutante. Harry Graham was gallantly conversing with the very deaf Lady Carew, whose ear trumpet never seemed to be correctly positioned, having a fairly constant droop towards her shoulder that rather defeated its purpose.
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