Page 36

Peter gazed out of the window of the breakfast room.

The sky was a clear-washed blue after the storm, brief puffs of cloud dusting the horizon.

It was a beautiful summer’s day. He drew in a long, slow breath, feeling relieved.

He had lain awake until the storm had settled, and then fallen into a surprisingly deep, restorative sleep.

He felt energised for the first time since arriving at the manor.

He folded the newspaper, setting it aside. He read it because he ought to, not because the doleful news that it always seemed to carry actually interested him. His gaze fell on an article about an outbreak of cholera in London, mentioning several infant deaths.

“Poor things,” he murmured under his breath.

His thoughts wandered to Master Thomas in the nursery.

He frowned as, along with the little baby’s face, the face of the new maid—with those striking green eyes—drifted into his imagination.

He pushed the memory away, annoyed with himself.

She was a member of his staff. He should not be thinking about her with any sort of interest. And yet, that green-eyed gaze refused to budge from his thoughts.

“My lord?”

Peter looked up, frowning. The butler was in the doorway. Peter did not like to be disturbed at breakfast; a fact everyone on his staff knew. Mr Harris looked up, his long, dignified face a grimace of discomfort.

“Yes?” Peter demanded briskly.

“Beg your pardon for the disturbance, my lord,” Mr Harris said awkwardly. “But Lord Chelmsford is here. He requested to be shown to the billiards room.”

“George!” Peter exclaimed happily. He smiled.

George—or more formally known as Lord Chelmsford—was his cousin on his mother’s side and a dear friend as well.

He was not like Charles, who had been more of an elder brother to Peter than anything else; but he was a welcome, cheerful presence who had kept Peter sane during the months following the death of his cousin.

“Please show him upstairs, Mr Harris. I will join him directly,” Peter replied.

“Very good, my lord,” the butler murmured and withdrew.

Peter gulped his tea, dabbing at his lips with the linen napkin by his plate. He had expected George to arrive at some time during the day, but it was a pleasure to have the opportunity to talk to him.

He stood up and strolled down to the billiards room.

George was just preparing his cue when Peter walked in. He turned and grinned.

“Peter! Good morning, old fellow! Delighted to see you.” He held out his big, squarish hand for Peter to shake.

“George! Grand to see you.” Peter shook his hand, smiling into his cousin’s dark brown eyes with real warmth.

“How do you fare? I trust the journey was pleasant?” he asked, his gaze scanning George’s gentle face.

His cousin was tall—the same height as himself—with thick chestnut-coloured hair and dark brown eyes.

He had a square face, slightly softened, and his eyes were merry and gentle.

One could see straight away that he was kind and friendly.

He also looked a little weary; dark rings around his eyes.

“It was good enough. I slept badly last night. I think the weather here was as bad as fifty miles away?” he raised a brow.

Peter nodded, smiling. “I trust it was every bit as bad,” he agreed. “We had quite a storm last night.”

“Difficult to find rest during a storm,” George commented lightly. His gaze scanned Peter’s face, as if asking a question.

Peter nodded, keeping his expression neutral.

“Quite so,” he agreed. He did not wish to worry his cousin, who knew that Peter hated storms, and why.

Millicent was concerned enough about his welfare—she said that often as her reason for organising a house-party.

He did not want to worry George, whose gentle nature meant that he would take it to heart.

“How fares your sister?” George asked, putting his cue back in its place on the wall.

“Well, I believe,” Peter commented, wandering with George towards the door.

“I have barely seen her since her arrival—she seems always to be busy somewhere in the house, organising the house-party.” He made a wry face.

George was included on the guest-list, which was why he was at Brentdale Manor rather than at his own estate fifty miles away.

“It is planned to be quite the event, I think,” George replied lightly.

Peter inclined his head. “I believe so. I fully expect half the ton to descend on Brentdale Manor on the morrow.” He made a disapproving moue.

George chuckled. “Only half? Would that not be remiss?” he asked playfully.

“Believe me, it probably would,” Peter answered. “Which is why I intend to say nothing about it.”

George laughed. They reached the drawing room and sat down. A fire burned low in the grate—not for warmth, but to keep the room dry and fresh. Sunlight streamed through the tall south- and east-facing windows, quickly warming the space.

The upholstered chair by the hearth was inviting, and Peter sank into it, only to rise reluctantly a moment later to ring the bell for tea.

“And yourself?” George asked as Peter sank back into the comfortable chair.

“Me?” Peter blinked, confused.

“How do you fare?” George asked gently.

Peter lifted a shoulder, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Well,” he said awkwardly. “I suppose,” he added.

George smiled. “I do not believe there is a right or wrong answer to that question,” he said lightly. “I am glad to hear you fare well.”

Peter looked down, reaching for the newspaper. He always felt uneasy when people pried into his business, no matter how pleasant and good-natured the inquiry was.

“My lord?” Mr Harris was in the doorway. Peter looked up, relieved.

“Please bring tea for my guest, Mr Harris. And something light to eat,” he added, glancing at George’s pale, tired appearance.

He suspected that his friend had set out early from whichever inn had housed him the night before.

He would have had to in order to arrive at Brentdale by nine o’clock in the morning.

And that meant he had likely gone without breakfast.

“At once, my lord,” the butler replied and withdrew.

“I believe that Thomas is settling in?” George asked as they waited for the tea.

Peter tensed. He did not like it when people raised the topic of Thomas.

Any discussion about the boy was always, in his mind, tinged with a shadow of his terrible guilt.

He did not understand it himself, but he felt responsible for the death of the child’s parents.

Talking about him always darkened his mood.

This time, however, it brought with it a picture of the new maid, standing with Thomas tight in her arms. That made it easier to bear. He shrugged.

“He seems well enough,” he said lightly. “He has settled in to the Green Room, I believe. Or at least, I have not heard anything to the contrary.”

“The Green Room?” George asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes. The new maid suggested that the west wing was too drafty and damp for a baby.” Peter kept his voice level.

He could not help recalling that wide, green gaze as he thought of the new maid, and imagining her giving orders to the rest of the staff to move the dresser and other things.

He wanted to chuckle. She was certainly different.

“Oh?” George blinked. “Well, she is likely not wrong. The bad weather usually comes from there.” He shrugged.

“Just so,” Peter agreed lightly. He looked up as Mr Harris wheeled the tea-trolley into the room, distracting himself from the uncomfortable conversation.

“She must be quite competent, then,” George said as Mr Harris put the teapot on the table.

“The new maid, I mean. That shows dedication, moving the baby from unfavourable conditions into better ones. To say nothing of taking some courage on her part,” he added, nodding in thanks to the butler as he placed a porcelain teacup on the table.

“I suppose,” Peter said awkwardly. He did not want to think about, or discuss, the new maid. His reaction had been confusing, and he did not want to think about it too much.

The butler gave Peter a teacup and saucer as well, then placed a porcelain plate containing slices of raisin loaf, pound cake and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off on the table. He straightened up and wheeled the trolley out.

“It’s fine weather, eh?” George asked, reaching for a small sandwich.

He bit into it contentedly, shutting his eyes for a moment.

Peter smiled to himself. One thing that had remained true of George since their Cambridge days was that he had an admirable appetite.

He must have been suffering terribly without his breakfast.

“It is very fine weather,” Peter replied, selecting a slice of pound cake. He was not particularly hungry, but it seemed rude to let his guest eat in isolation. Not that George would have minded, he thought wryly. His friend was clearly hungry enough to set etiquette aside for the moment.

“Fine sunshine. Not a cloud up there, eh?” George commented, helping himself to another sandwich. Peter bit back a smile. His sister would probably have been scandalised by George’s unashamed appetite. Peter himself merely enjoyed being able to provide his friend with some much-needed victuals.

“Indeed,” Peter agreed. “Perhaps going for a ride later would be acceptable?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Most acceptable, old fellow. Most acceptable,” George agreed, taking a slice of pound cake.

Peter smiled and looked out of the window. A ride in the afternoon would be very pleasant. It would help to clear his mind. It would also get him out of the house, which was becoming increasingly oppressive as the preparations for the house-party accelerated.