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CHAPTER THREE

Emma Cavanaugh was a handsome woman. Eight or ten years ago, she’d doubtless made a stunning debut, and time had been kind to her. Her figure was impressive, she sat a horse tolerably well, and her small talk stayed on the friendly side of gossip.

Sindri didn’t like her at all. He pranced and snorted and bucked for good measure, shied at an invisible hedgehog, and jumped the merest rill as if it were the mighty Thames.

All the while, Mrs. Cavanaugh’s mare toddled stolidly on, though the poor horse was clearly more in need of a nap than a gallop.

“How do you find your prospective nephew-in-law, my lord?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asked as they ambled down a leafy bridle path. “I cannot say I’m well acquainted with him.”

Why should she be? “Prescott is a fine young man, or he’d not be allowed to so much as glance at Helena’s hems.”

Mrs. Cavanaugh stroked her glove down the mare’s glossy neck. “He and Miss Gavineau aren’t a love match? So refreshing, to find young people willing to take a sensible approach to marriage. Both of my husbands were sensible men, and our unions were cordial and pleasing to all involved. ”

That was plain speaking, which Lysander should have appreciated. “Helena and her swain are devoted, though they are quiet about it. I’m sure they’ll be happy.”

Until one of them died, and then the other would be left to race about the shire after dark, which admission Lysander had had no business making to Lady Cargill. She’d confessed to hugging her mare though, and only her mare.

“Marriage is a happy estate, is it not?” Mrs. Cavanaugh said. “I much prefer it to the freedoms a widow has. It isn’t good for a man to be alone, and one must conclude that Scripture implies woman does not prosper easily in the unwed state either. What a beautiful property you have.”

They’d ridden a path along the perimeter of the park, one Sindri usually took at a dead run. “Thank you. I was fortunate to inherit from a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Where do you bide when you’re not in Town?”

He ought to know. She was a suitable candidate to become his next countess, and details, such as where her sons’ properties were, merited investigation.

“Here and there,” she said, stroking her mare’s shoulder this time. “My family holds land in Surrey and Kent, my boys have properties in Sussex and Hampshire, though of course, those are managed by our factors. Is Marche Hall your largest holding, my lord?”

Sindri shied at a falling leaf.

“Marche Hall is the oldest and largest of my holdings. My horse is in a fractious mood today. Rather than impose on you any longer, I’ll escort you to the stables. His temper tends to deteriorate once he’s reached the limit of his patience.”

“High spirits in a healthy male specimen are to be expected,” she said. “We ladies know to bide our time and wait for a more obliging mood from our escorts.”

Her flirtation was not the giggling, frothy annoyance Lysander endured from very young women, and it wasn’t the hard-eyed pursuit the courtesans turned in his direction when they sought a new protector.

Mrs. Cavanaugh was something in between, determined without being undignified.

A little self-mocking, a little desperate.

And Lysander was more than a little annoyed, which was unfair of him. In his day, men did the pursuing, and the ladies did the choosing. Too set in his ways, as his sister Cassandra had often said.

Mrs. Cavanaugh discussed the activities planned for the next two weeks—Cassandra, as mother of the bride, had all in hand, as usual—and Mrs. Cavanaugh offered repeatedly to assist in any capacity.

Lysander needed no assistance.

Except with Sophronia, whom Mrs. Cavanaugh had mentioned not even once.

Lady Cargill, by contrast, had explained to Sophronia that in the vast bounds of the stable, Octavia, Lady Spider, would have found many ideal places to set up housekeeping. Lady Cargill had held hands with the girl, a familiarity Lysander had stopped indulging in two years ago.

Lady Cargill had also admitted to crying on her mare’s shoulder, and Sindri had taken to her ladyship on the spot—not that a cork-brained gelding was a good judge of who should become the next Countess of Montmarche.

And not that Lysander was considering a contrary, outspoken little widow of a certain age for that office anyhow.

Do not embarrass your son. Do not embarrass your son again.

“Mr. Offenbach, Charles, good afternoon.”

Sophronia, bless the girl, had gone silent beside Daphne. The stink of lit cigars violated the otherwise lovely fragrance of the garden. Thirty yards away, maids worked by the opposite wall, gathering vegetables for the enormous evening meal already in preparation for the guests.

“Mama.” Charles held a cigar, smoke trailing from the tip. He was as pale as the full moon, while Mr. Offenbach exuded the confident air of an aspiring rakehell.

“My lady.” Offenbach swept a bow, leaving a trail of smoke from his cheroot. “We ought not to be smoking in proximity to food stuffs, but the urge overtook us as we strolled the formal garden.”

Which did not explain why hiding behind the walls of the kitchen garden had been necessary.

“The grounds here are lovely,” Daphne said. “Do you gentlemen know Lady Sophronia Marche?”

To his credit, Charles offered the girl a bow.

“My lady. Cargill, at your service.” He sounded exactly like his father, and even his bow was reminiscent of the late viscount.

Charles was growing into his father’s height too, thank heavens, though he still had a boy’s slenderness and schoolroom pallor.

Offenbach cast his cigar into a row of staked beans. “Mr. Absalom Offenbach. Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

Sophronia dipped a curtsey. “You should not have pitched that cigar anywhere without making sure it was no longer lit, Mr. Offenbach. Fires can start from a mere spark.”

Good for you. “She’s right,” Daphne added, because Offenbach’s response was to adjust the lace at his cuffs and look amused.

Charles strode down the row of beans. “Can’t say haricots verts au cigare would be to my taste.” He plucked the smoking cigar from the ground “Will I see you at dinner, Mama?”

Asked a bit too cheerfully.

“Of course, which means I’d best be getting back to the house. Where is your room, Charles?”

Offenbach was positively smirking at that question.

“His lordship and I are sharing quarters. We’re in the bachelor wing, on the family side of the house one floor below Montmarche’s suite.

Fine view of the stables and grounds. Any footman can get word to us if your ladyship should have need of your son. ”

What a supercilious, boorish, self-important young man. “If I require my son’s company, Mr. Offenbach, I will not send a footman to fetch him for an interview, as if he were a tenant behind on the rent. Good day.”

Lady Sophronia gave the cigars in Charles’s hands a brooding look and darted through the garden door.

“Why are men like that?” she asked. “All mean and nasty. Lord Cargill seems like a nice enough sort, but I do not care for Mr. Offenbach. He pitched a lit cigar into Papa’s garden.”

Sophronia’s voice doubtless carried over the garden wall. Daphne made sure hers did as well.

“Young men, particularly young men of no consequence, sometimes try to puff themselves up with arrogance because they have nothing of value to offer the world. They refuse the hard work of learning a trade, they disdain the education made available to them at university, so they idle about, trying vainly to turn sport, fashion, and leisure into gentlemanly pursuits. We should pity them.”

Though Daphne did not pity Mr. Offenbach. He’d been dressed in the height of gentlemanly elegance, right down to the lace brushing his knuckles. He had “bad influence” written all over him, and was just the sort of company Charles should avoid.

“Do we have time to take the path through the woods?” Sophronia asked.

They’d taken a wandering, leisurely stroll from the stables, the fresh air doing much to revive Daphne’s spirits. “We have at least an hour before anybody has to dress for dinner. Why?”

“The maze is that way.” Sophronia gestured toward a hedgerow of elms. “We walk past it on the way to the woods. The maze is out of sight of the house, except for a corner of the east wing, which makes it more confusing. You can barely see anything but hedges when you’re in the maze. I’m not to go there by myself.”

Daphne had been allowed a generous portion of solitude as a child. She’d read in the hayloft, built rock dams in streams, turned climbing trees into ships of the line, and held garden tea parties with her dolls.

“Is it a large maze? ”

“One of the largest in the realm. Papa told George we should cut the damned thing down and put up a glass house, but George says the maze is a family legacy, and we must preserve it for future generations.”

Daphne paused with the girl where a laburnum alley intersected with the walking path. “What do you think?”

Sophronia’s brows, dark like her father’s, drew down making a resemblance to her sire apparent. “What do I think?”

“Surely you have an opinion?” Though being raised as a female in a titled household, she was likely being taught not to have opinions. She was to have small talk, manners, and eventually, children. Phoebe was a product of such an upbringing, and Daphne regretted that.

The laburnum was long past blooming, so the arching branches made an alley of greenery and shade. Benches had been placed at intervals, and a tall privet hedge rose at the end.

“I think Papa worries about keeping up with progress,” Sophronia said, “while George wants to be thought respectful of the past. Nobody needs a maze, Papa says, but then, nobody needs fairytales either.”

Were those her father’s words? “I need fairytales. They inspire me to slay dragons and go on quests. Let’s sit for a moment, shall we?”