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T he leaves on the trees had turned brilliant orange and yellow, compensating somewhat for the faded blooms in the garden.

It was still a calm and lovely place for Neville to doze.

However, Camellia mused, pulling together the dangling threads of her thoughts as she strolled down the rows, deadheading the flowers, nothing made up for Major Taverston’s absence.

His short visit had cast a long shadow. Even Neville had remarked that their subsequent guests were dull, and he wished the major had not gone.

“Why the devil does Manfred think I care about the yield of his apple orchard,” he’d groused after supper and cards last night.

Camellia had agreed that she didn’t know, but in truth, she suspected Manfred was trying to be helpful.

It was harvest time, yet they had nothing to harvest. Moreover, they hadn’t seen tuppence yet from Neville’s pension.

When spring came, she would have to swallow her pride and ask Manfred for help in hiring men to till and plant.

In the meantime, if need be, perhaps she could sell the pianoforte.

Manfred might be dull, but tonight’s guests would be worse.

Mr. and Mrs. Castor. It was customary for the local rector to dine occasionally with gentlemen farmers, yet Camellia had put off issuing an invitation as long as she could.

Mr. Castor had once tried wooing her. His response to her rejection had been worse than Manfred’s.

He’d been certain she would be grateful for his attentions, and was stunned to anger when she was not.

But she wouldn’t waste the day fretting over things she could not control.

It was one of those perfect, sunny, October afternoons, a last gasp return of summer, and she was out in the garden enjoying it.

And she was wearing a jonquil dress from her trunk that had needed no alteration.

Neville had been right about color. She felt far more optimistic in yellow than in black.

While Neville napped, she reread her most recent letter from Marianne. It was full of titillating gossip. Wellington was having a torrid affair with an opera singer in Paris. La Grassini . The same woman had once been a paramour of Napoleon. Camellia felt wickedly awed.

She heard a crunching of leaves, signaling someone’s approach. It could not be the Castors. It was too early. It was not Mr. Diakos’s plodding gait. And whoever it was walked more briskly than Mrs. Clay. Camellia tore her eyes from the letter to look up.

“Major!” she cried. Her heart started to race. He was here. Why was he here?

He grinned. “Pardon me. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” Did he mean to remind her of their meeting at the Temple of the Muses? She played along.

“That’s all right. I was reading.”

His grin widened. “But not a novel, I don’t think.

” He came right up beside her bench. Her stomach flipped over.

He was handsomer than ever. He was not in uniform, but wore a dark-blue jacket and fawn trousers.

His hair was no longer unfashionably shoulder-length, but styled in close-cropped loose curls that peeked out along the edges of his hat.

He lowered his voice and gestured to Neville. “Is the colonel well?”

“He is.” She had to crane her neck to look up while they talked. “As well as can be. Bringing him home was the right thing to do. We are indebted to you—”

“Oh, bosh , as my sister would say. Friends don’t tally debts.”

He was standing in the sun, making her squint, so she shifted sideways on the bench and patted it, inviting him to sit. She folded her letter and tucked it into her reticule.

“What brings you back to Tonbridge?” she asked, trying to sound calm. He swooped off his hat and laid it over his knees. His cologne was unusual. Earthy. It blended well with the scent of an autumn afternoon.

“I had business in London.” He rubbed his hand in his hair, mussing it more than he straightened it. “I have to furnish my house in the lake district.”

“And you got very lost along the way?”

“I have my own unique sense of direction. How are the colonel and Adam getting along?”

“Is it true that Neville would have shot Mr. Diakos for a spy if you hadn’t spoken for him?”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Adam told you that?”

“No, Neville did. He sounded chastened. So Mr. Diakos must please him well enough.”

“Good.” Major Taverston averted his gaze to peer about their surroundings, drumming his fingers on his knees. Then he shot a sideways glance at her. “You look very cheerful. Your dress, I mean.”

A little warmth stole into her cheeks. “Neville asked me to stop wearing black.”

“Ah. Well, cheerful suits you.” She thought a little red crept into his cheeks as well.

“Is Mercury with you?”

He nodded. “Yes. No. I left him at the Fitzhenrys’ inn. Do you like to ride? I can hire a mount for you if—”

“I don’t ride. We had carriage horses. I never learned.”

His jaw sank. “Never learned? Miss Harrington, that is criminal.”

She laughed, though she thought he might be serious. In his world, all ladies must ride.

“I’ve taken a room at the inn—”

“Oh, no! You must stay with us. Neville would insist.”

Neville echoed, gravel-voiced, “I do insist.” She started, embarrassed that he’d been listening, even though they had said nothing private. He said, “It is good to see you, Major. What brings you?”

“Business in London. It’s not far, so I thought…”

Neville harumphed. “It isn’t close.”

“We used to march this far in a day,” the major pointed out. “And I have a very fast horse.”

Neville shifted in his chair and grunted. “True, true. But you needn’t march back into the village tonight. Since you are here, you’ll stay for dinner. And we’ve had the pianoforte tuned, so I imagine you’ll want to hear Camellia play.”

“Neville, you do recall the Castors are coming to dine with us?” She’d already told her brother she was not going to play for them.

Neville scowled. “Damn. They are.”

“I don’t want to intrude.” The major looked a bit panicked.

“You are not,” Neville said. “You’ll make the evening bearable. Castor is a bore.”

Camellia rose from the major’s side. “I’ll leave it to Neville to persuade you.

Although, Neville, telling him his dinner companions will be boring might not be the best strategy.

” Major Taverston’s lips curved into a smile.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have a word with Mrs. Clay about the menu.

And see to the guest room. Mr. Diakos will likely be along soon, but if he is not, Major, would you bring Neville in if he wants? ”

“Yes, of course.”

She stepped away, hearing Neville behind her speaking in a loud, excited voice.

“What the devil do you think the duke is doing? All I hear is he is squiring La Grassini about and antagonizing the French citizenry.”

“The French are easily antagonized. And unfortunately, there are both Bonapartists and Bourbonists in the city who don’t take kindly to occupation by a conquering army—”

She didn’t hear the rest. But how could there still be Bonapartists in France after all the devilment the man had caused? And shouldn’t the Bourbons be grateful?

*

She spoke with Mrs. Clay to ensure there would be rice and peas for the major, and some of Mrs. Faraday’s goat cheese.

This was the best she could do on short notice, but at least he would know that she tried.

Then she took a pitcher of water up to the guest chamber and set it beside the wash basin on the bed table.

She opened the windows to air the room. Fluffed the pillows.

She couldn’t think of anything else to do to make him feel welcome.

She went into her own room, debating whether to change clothes for supper. Her red-plaid gown was finer, but donning it felt too obvious. The major had complimented the yellow. She didn’t want to appear to be seeking more praise.

From her chamber, she could not hear what was happening below, so she went down to the receiving room.

It was not the jumble of furniture Major Taverston would remember.

With Mr. Diakos’s help, she had removed a few of the excess chairs and tables.

She’d moved two tea tables together into one corner, with the rest of the furniture directed away from it, to carve out a space for a dining area.

It was a little thing, but it made her feel better. More settled.

She heard the back door to the kitchen open, and men’s laughter. When he was most amused, Major Taverston had a whooping laugh that caused everyone in earshot to laugh along. Even here, in the next room, she found herself snorting and wondering what the joke was.

The men spilled out of the kitchen into the hallway. Camellia went to greet them. She smiled to see the major carrying a valise, which meant, despite his protests, he’d come prepared to spend the night. Mr. Diakos pushed Neville’s chair.

“If I may,” the major said, “I will go change. I fear I smell of horse.”

He didn’t, but Camellia thought better of announcing she’d enjoyed his scent.

“I should clean up as well,” Neville said.

Mr. Diakos nodded and wheeled him off to his chamber.

That left Camellia in the receiving room to await the Castors.

They arrived before Neville or the major returned.

She welcomed them with false good humor, and they made awkward conversation while the Castors shot disdainful glances around the room.

Mr. Castor wore a somber black jacket and trousers, appropriate to his calling, but had a diamond pin in his cravat.

It was known in the parish that he liked to think he cut a fine figure.

However, he was nearly bald and had a large wart on his chin, so jewelry didn’t help.

Mrs. Castor was jowly with small eyes and a mean smile.

Camellia wanted to feel sorry for her, married to Mr. Castor, but the woman acted so superior it was impossible.