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A decent night’s sleep would have had Sir Frederick riding at dawn but at least he managed to catch sufficient to appear for breakfast at what he considered a respectable hour.

Not that there were many in the dining room when he seated himself for morning chocolate and the smoked haddock and eggs that were on offer. In fact, it appeared most of the ladies had chosen to while away the morning on whatever it was ladies did in the morning.

If his sister was anything to go by, there was a great deal of time spent on dressing and checking one’s appearance, perhaps writing a letter or two, and then more time at the dressing table.

Caroline had always been a good girl but since Mr. Greene had been on the scene, she’d been impossible.

And he knew that Mr. Greene was the cause of her altered disposition.

His ridiculous compliments and excessive attention had quite gone to her head.

Fortunately, Miss Fairchild’s very judicious words had poured water on the flames. Perhaps Caroline would rally sufficiently in the next day or two so that she’d countenance some of the other charming and much more suitable potential suitors.

Hopefully, Mr. Greene had not decided upon a different tack to win whatever it was he was after.

“Are you amongst those piqued to learn that Lady Pendleton’s little ghost game was just that: a game?”

Sir Frederick glanced up to see that Lord Thornton had just addressed him from the other side of the dining table.

“Miss Fairchild is determined that it isn’t.” Sir Frederick was aware that he was smiling. Strange, for he wasn’t usually inclined to talk in the mornings but the thoughts of Miss Fairchild that had come immediately to mind seemed to have lightened his spirits.

“Indeed, you were in the sleuthing trio together with Miss Playford.”

“That’s right.” Sir Frederick was surprised that Lord Thornton had paid sufficient attention to remember the details, for he’d been roaming the castle that evening, assisting their hostess in her little game. “Miss Fairchild proved herself quite adept at recognizing each clue.”

“And Miss Playford?”

“Oh, she was much quicker than I’d have given her credit, though it was Miss Fairchild’s deep mind that brought us the results and the final prize.”

“Indeed.”

“She’s quite the bluestocking, isn’t she?”

“A bluestocking?” Sir Frederick considered the matter.

She was obviously intelligent and enjoyed reading.

Indeed, he’d once attached to her that moniker.

But did that really make her a bluestocking which, really, was not a particularly flattering term for a lady?

He shrugged. “Miss Fairchild is a young lady of surprising depth who enjoys discussing a range of affairs.”

He felt it only right to champion her in view of Lord Thornton’s perceived slight.

Lord Thornton nodded as he attacked his food.

“Yes, and not too hard on the eye, though she’s no longer in the first flush of youth.

Miss Playford and her entourage are a lively lot.

Perhaps one of those young ladies would suit, once you’re more thoroughly acquainted.

I can’t imagine Miss Fairchild is in the running.

She’s not exactly the type you usually favor. ”

Sir Frederick paused, teacup in midair, and stared.

What was Thornton on about? He glanced about him, but they were, right now, the only ones in the room.

The little he knew about his companion did not seem to accord to the way he was speaking to Sir Frederick now.

Besides, what would he know about the type of young lady Sir Frederick favored?

So he said stiffly as he returned his attention to his breakfast, “I have not narrowed my pursuit of potential wife to any particular type of young lady and Miss Fairchild is as suitable as any other.”

“Yes, but I wonder if she’d be content with the life of a baronet’s wife, given her scholarly pursuits.”

Good lord! Sir Frederick didn’t say those words, but he drew himself up and said, “It’s quite a stretch from admiring a lady’s mind to making her an offer of marriage.

Not something I’m planning on doing in the near future, at any rate.

” Nevertheless, he added, for he also did not wish to make it sound like he was too quick to dismiss Miss Fairchild, “She is, however, a surprising young lady whom I’d not thought I would admire so greatly. ”

There. He’d said it. He’d championed fair Miss Fairchild when Lord Thornton looked as if he were denigrating ladies with intellectual leanings.

With intellectual leanings?

Yes, that summed her up, though she was so much more than that.

Finishing his breakfast, he rose. “The groom will have my horse ready now, so I’ll bid you good day.”

*

The sun was high in the sky by the time Amelia opened sleep-laden eyes.

Hearing the chime of the clock announcing an hour that only the worst of lie-abeds would, with any self-respect, sleep until, she leapt out of bed, washed and dressed, and was about to dash out of the room to present herself for breakfast.

But a strange compulsion called her back to her dressing table.

She sat down and, for the first time in a very long while, studied her reflection.

It was usual that a quick brush of her hair, which was then twisted into a serviceable knot on top of her head sufficed.

She understood the need for a fashionable appearance and had perfected this style a year or so before, refining it so that it could be effected with speed and efficiency.

Now, with her elbows on the table, she frowned at her appearance before unpinning her hair so that it hung past her shoulders. How could she bind it so that she didn’t appear so…spinsterish?

And her gown?

It wasn’t shabby. In fact, it was of a very fine fabric, but the style was assuredly outdated. Not that it mattered when she would soon be living in the country.

Except, would she?

She hitched in a breath and contemplated her uncertain future with a beating heart as she considered the feelings Sir Frederick had evoked last night in the library.

And this was the man she was trying to marry off to another in order for her to achieve her so-called dream future?

He was charming and handsome, and he’d proved excellent company. At the memory of some of their exchanges, her heart gave a little flutter. Could it even be that he harbored some modicum of admiration for her?

She recalled the amused lift of his eyebrows in the library last night, his concern at other times.

After repinning her hair, teasing out a few tendrils of her naturally wavy hair which, she thought, looked rather fetching, she chose a more flattering spencer, and then made her way downstairs. The murmurs of a couple on the landing below caused her to stop and lean over the bannisters.

The feather of a fashionable bonnet was swaying with the emphasis of what its wearer was saying, while Sir Frederick nodded, his smile indicating he was attending with great interest.

A girlish giggle suggested it was one of the Miss Ps who was making the most of this opportunity to so impress the baronet, but when she tipped her head to the side, Amelia realized with a jolt that it was in fact Mrs. Perry.

And the widow was making fun of someone.

“I can understand the desire to come to such an entertainment as Lady Pendleton’s, but if one’s most modish attire was from the age of the woolly mammoth, surely it’s worse to be on display as an object of ridicule. Of course, ladies notice these things.”

Amelia froze. She glanced at the spencer into which she’d just buttoned herself, thinking the line was flattering and little matter that it was three years old. It was not shabby, so who would notice?

Clearly Mrs. Perry did.

Mrs. Perry who was now saying, “And I hear she can’t wait to retire to the country? So why accept an invitation that would deny someone else the opportunity to take up Lady Pendleton’s offer clearly designed to facilitate the meeting and mingling of those serious about making a match—”

Amelia froze. Mrs. Perry was talking about her? Her heart began to thunder while shame burned her from within. Was everyone talking about how shabby and sad Amelia was?

Did Sir Frederick think it but simply humored her as he was humoring Mrs. Perry?

Except that it looked as if he were doing more than that for when Amelia next glanced at him, Mrs. Perry’s little hand was hooked in the crook of his arm and he was escorting her from the room.

Amelia felt her mouth hang open. Were the two of them laughing at her behind her back? Or was it only Mrs. Perry—though Sir Frederick had said not a thing to champion Amelia.

Slowly, she continued down to the next level. A knot of guests was at the far end of the gallery on the floor below her and when a voice called out from somewhere, they dispersed, Mr. Greene bringing up the rear. Amelia thought they’d all gone until she saw that one figure remained.

Miss Caroline.

She stopped, curiosity replacing her earlier shame for Caroline was reading a note?

Yes, she was sure of it, for she was bent over something, devouring the words that someone, just now, had clearly given her.

Mr. Greene? It was surely him.

Amelia didn’t know what to do. Should she seek out Sir Frederick and inform him? Or was that too peremptory, considering Amelia was acting only on suspicions? Anyone in that group could have handed Caroline the note she was reading.

Frowning, Amelia continued to fix her gaze on the young girl as she decided what to do. And then, before her eyes, she saw Caroline take out a pencil from her pocket, write something on the note, and then, with a furtive glance about her, slip it into a crack in the wall between two stones.

The sound of another voice intruded. It was Caroline’s chaperone, calling her, and immediately the girl resumed her ingenuous manner, smiling as she straightened, and calling out that she was on her way.