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C rispin had been two weeks at the Harringtons’ and was in no hurry to leave, even though it was halfway through July, and Wellington was expecting an answer about Paris by mid-August. Rationally, he knew he was no less adrift than he had been in London.

Perhaps he was more so, seeing as he was postponing decision making by masquerading as a manservant.

He told himself he was practicing being a civilian, to see if he was suited for it.

However, knowing the ease with which he lied, he obviously could not believe himself.

More likely it was inertia tying him to the Harringtons.

His self-assigned duties were not taxing.

He got the colonel dressed in the morning and prepared for bed at night.

He took him to the water closet when needed.

And he spent a couple hours each day keeping the man company so that Miss Harrington could have some time for herself.

He’d noticed she would often escape to her flower garden and return with dirt on her hands, smiling.

Serene. He admired that. Misfortune had not embittered her.

As he understood it, she had taken care of her mother, then her father, for five years or so. And then, her brother had come home like this. She must know Old Harry’s condition would never improve. No wonder she wore nothing but black. Which was unfortunate—she would be stunning in red.

Although he felt he was being useful, Crispin had no desire to be one of those annoying houseguests who was always underfoot, requiring entertaining.

He took himself off riding almost every morning, exercising Mercury and exploring the environs.

He’d been into the village of Tonbridge on errands and had also wandered into three of the neighboring towns to see what was there.

Two days earlier, in Wheatfield, he’d stopped at a tavern for a cup of cider.

The red-headed barmaid who’d brought it to him pressed her hip against his shoulder and said, “There’s rooms in the back.

” He considered it. It had been a long while since Lizzie.

Nevertheless, he’d told her next time . Hopefully, his disinterest was not a harbinger of returning ill-health.

He had succumbed, twice, to the temptation of bread rolls at supper before summoning up enough will and fear to resist.

He was now on his way back from Tonbridge village.

Again. He drove the cart pulled by Trotty, bringing whatever had been on the list Mrs. Clay had given him to take to the grocer.

He’d ignored Miss Harrington’s crass instruction to put it on her brother’s account.

If she was trying to hide the fact that she and the colonel were in damned low water, she was failing.

In addition to foodstuff, he’d purchased a bit of lumber to try his hand at building a ramp over the back stairs. He was no carpenter, but he didn’t think it would be difficult. And he knew Miss Harrington wanted to be able to take her brother out to her garden.

While in the village, he had also stopped at the post. There was no response yet from either Mr. Cooper or Adam.

He did have a letter from Jasper, a reply to his own note thanking him for the use of his carriage and informing him he would be the guest of Colonel Harrington for a while.

He gave no details. Jasper was likewise brief.

Olivia and Benjamin were back at Chaumbers.

Reg and Georgiana had returned to Cambridge and Mother had gone with them.

Vanessa suspected Georgiana was with child again.

That was news! They would likely all reunite at Chaumbers next month when London’s heat became unbearable. They wanted Crispin there.

Surely he would have taken charge of his life by then. But it was so much easier taking charge of the colonel’s.

*

The Harringtons had a guest. A guest besides Crispin. When he’d entered the house, Mrs. Clay sent him into the receiving room to greet the man.

“Ah, Major Taverston,” Harrington said, “this is my neighbor, Sir Manfred Bodwell.”

Bodwell rose slowly. He looked elderly the way Harrington did. A man old before his time. He was of medium height, but stooped. His hands had a very noticeable tremor.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Major. I understand you helped Camellia bring Neville home.”

Camellia and Neville? So Sir Bodwell was a close friend. And he wanted Crispin to know this.

“Yes, I did.” He offered nothing more. Harrington could tell it however he wanted.

Bodwell sat down again. Crispin followed suit.

“We grew up together,” Harrington said. “Neighbors. Eton. Oxford.”

Bodwell nodded. “But not the army. I haven’t seen Neville in years. It’s good to have him home. Isn’t it, Camellia?”

Crispin watched her nod. Her expression was guarded.

“And good to have you back as well, Camellia.” Bodwell cast his glance around, then settled it upon Crispin. “She didn’t like London.”

Crispin faced her. Why was she letting the man put words in her mouth? “Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t see much of it beyond the hospital.”

He raised an eyebrow. Her eyes widened and she went a bit pale.

She would be remembering that he had seen her at the Temple of the Muses.

Unchaperoned. Something she must not want them to know.

“That is too bad. London has a great deal to offer.” Now, she owed him for his silence.

Or would if he kept track of such things.

Harrington changed the subject, likely returning to the conversation they’d been having before Crispin arrived.

Old friends. Old memories. Crispin was soon bored.

From time to time, Bodwell tried drawing Miss Harrington in, talking of more recent events in Tonbridge, memories that they shared that Harrington did not. And that Crispin did not.

Aside from a mild territorialism, and a strange flatness of countenance, Bodwell was perfectly pleasant.

Crispin would have been disposed to like him, except that Miss Harrington seemed uncomfortable.

Not frightened. The man was not overbearing or aggressive.

But she was uncomfortable. He continued watching their interactions until the answer came to him: Bodwell had been a suitor.

Clearly an unsuccessful one. Possibly a persistent one.

It amused Crispin to think that Bodwell might be wondering if he should be jealous. Of him .

Mrs. Clay finally reappeared to announce that supper was ready. Miss Harrington extended the obligatory invitation to Bodwell, but he excused himself graciously. When he left, Miss Harrington visibly relaxed. Harrington let out a long sigh.

“A good fellow, Manfred.” He turned to Crispin. “A widower. No children, unfortunately. His property is entailed.” He waved a hand. “You know how that goes. A vulgar cousin will inherit.”

“A shame,” Crispin said. He didn’t let his gaze go to Miss Harrington.

The whole plot of this piece was too obvious.

Lady needs security, man needs heir. Still, he hoped she would continue to refuse Sir Bodwell.

He might be a good fellow, but Miss Harrington deserved a husband, not another sick man to nurse.

They took their accustomed seats at the small table.

Mrs. Clay brought out a tray and served them each a plate of whitefish.

The colonel’s was covered with a cream sauce.

Miss Harrington’s and Crispin’s were plain.

He could tell she was watching him and trying to pretend she wasn’t.

He’d refused a number of dishes over the fortnight, and although no one said anything, he was aware of their curiosity—Miss Harrington and Mrs. Clay’s; the colonel did not care.

Crispin cut off a piece of fish and ate it.

Miss Harrington’s expression turned from sly to triumphant, as if she had solved a particularly difficult puzzle.

Not yet, she hadn’t. He was still trying to solve it himself.

Normally, scrutiny of his diet annoyed him, but…

he took another bite and gave her a wink.

It pleased him enormously when she laughed.

*

Crispin spent two days building the ramp. Measuring the sideboards was trickier than he expected. He wished he’d had Georgiana with him, or Reg, to do the geometrical calculations. They were both mathematically gifted. But with trial and error, it turned out well, sturdy with a gentle slope.

It was a fine afternoon, not too hot, so he and Miss Harrington took Old Harry outside, down a brick path to the garden.

Miss Harrington’s time spent tending it had been to good purpose.

It was beautiful and fragrant. They passed the afternoon in the shade of an elm, enjoying the setting.

Miss Harrington read aloud from the book he’d given her.

She read expressively—she would make a fine actress.

The colonel fell asleep, but when she would have put the book down, Crispin begged her to go on.

“You like novels?” she teased.

“I like this one.” He did, but more so, he enjoyed the company. They laughed at the same scenes, and groaned indignantly together at other ones.

When her voice began to grow hoarse, he took the book from her and read one more chapter before the colonel woke, grumbling, breaking the spell.

It was nearly suppertime, so they went back inside, with Crispin pushing the chair up the ramp.

He made no comment on the poor quality of the wheels.

He’d learned his lesson pointing out that the pianoforte needed tuning.

Supper that night looked like a meat pie. He refused his portion, and took only potatoes and beans. Miss Harrington pursed her lips, miffed.

“It is hake, not beef.”

He repeated, “No, thank you.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Wrong again. No, don’t tell me.”