Page 26

T here was a time, not so long ago—and Crispin knew this—that he’d had the ability to evaluate a situation, make a decision, and act.

He was known for, and prided himself on, being able to take quick and total control, no matter how chaotic the circumstance.

That was how he’d risen so rapidly in rank.

How he’d caught Wellington’s attention and that of the War Office.

How he’d “browbeaten” his brothers into marrying their ideal mates.

He’d always despised men who hemmed and hawed. Now he was one. Despite his resolution to leave the Harringtons after Tunbridge Wells, he was back at the farm, turning over the soil in Miss Harrington’s flower garden, when he should be in London purchasing furniture for his cottage.

He sniffed. Purchasing furniture. Good God. When had the stakes in his game of life become so low?

And tonight, Sir Bodwell would come prattling about farming, with his “Nevilles” and “Camellias.” Crispin had meant to be gone before suffering through that again.

What he should do tonight was make a trip to Wheatfield. Visit the tavern and hire a girl. He hadn’t had a girl since Lizzie. Since Lizzie! He didn’t dare count the months.

No, what he should do was go to Paris and see if Wellington still had use for him.

He dragged the shovel through clods of dirt and tangled roots to break them up. What he would likely do would be to ask Miss Harrington’s advice about what to put in his garden in Binnings.

There. He laid the shovel against his shoulder like a blunderbuss to return it to storage.

The barn was damp and smelled of rotten grass and neglect. The disquieting thought sneaked up on him—the Harringtons could use Bodwell’s intervention. The man knew farms.

He entered the house through the kitchen. Mrs. Clay was not there. He pinched a radish and strode, crunching, into the receiving room, where he found Miss Harrington on one of the worn blue brocade couches. She had a pile of pink cloth in her lap.

“Your garden is tilled.” He gestured to her project. “What are you working on?”

“Thank you.” She raised the edge of the cloth. “An old dress of my mother’s. I thought…” She grabbed it all up in a bundle and laid it beside her. “The style is ridiculous. Panniers. I thought I could alter it, but I haven’t the skill for such an undertaking.”

He recalled a letter Olivia had sent him when she was preparing for her London Season. She’d been infuriated by the hours she’d had to spend with dressmakers, the ungodly number of gowns she’d been obliged to have made. He’d been amused by her dilemma. He was not amused by Miss Harrington’s.

“Neville is still feeling poorly.” She sounded out of sorts. “Mr. Diakos says his muscles are not as stiff. The baths helped, but all the excitement did not. He’s overtired.”

Crispin did not know how to respond, seeing as he’d organized the excitement.

She said, “I thought we should postpone our supper with Manfred. Mrs. Clay has gone to give him word.”

Thank God. “That sounds wise.”

She tilted her head and looked at him strangely. Her eyes were tight. Hesitant. “Should we have supper in the dining room? Neville has asked for a tray in his chamber.”

“If you like.” Something must be bothering her. Beyond her brother’s weariness.

She sighed. “I put a great deal of effort into renovations. I didn’t ‘mutilate the house.’ I think the dining room looks nice.

Though it is shaped a bit oddly where they took down walls.

And there is a parlor upstairs, too. But we only ever sit down here.

” She added hurriedly, “Which is fine. It’s where Neville can join us. ”

Mutilate? Surely she couldn’t be brooding over Castor’s idiotic comment. The man hadn’t even seen the refurbishments beyond the all-purpose receiving room. “I would love to eat in the dining room. We could also have tea in the parlor if the colonel is indisposed.”

She smiled wryly. “I suppose I seem silly to you. Worrying about a few unused rooms.”

“No. Not silly.” But yes. Entire wings at Chaumbers went unused, and no one was concerned.

“Well,” she said, drawing herself up. “Then let me pose a question.”

“Go on.”

“What shall I have Mrs. Clay serve for tea? And supper?”

A soft groan escaped his lips. She’d lured him into a trap. He sat heavily on a short-backed chair facing her. “Generally, for tea, I have only tea. People tend to serve cakes or biscuits, which I do not eat.”

“If you were to eat something?”

“Fruit. Nuts.”

“And for supper?”

“Plain things. No gravy. No bread. Nothing from a cow.”

“No flesh?”

“Sometimes flesh.” He grimaced. “When I am hungry enough.”

“Eggs?”

“Yes.”

“Rice? Potatoes? Peas?”

“Yes. Any garden greens or roots, but cooked plain.”

They were quiet for a moment, as she was probably concocting a menu in her head. Then she said, “No wine. Or only occasional wine. But what about ale or small beer? You’re not likely to get bosky on small beer.”

He shook his head. “I prefer it, but I cannot drink it.”

She grinned at him. “Gin? Rum? Snuff?”

“No.”

Then she laughed. “Have you no vices, Major?”

“My crimes are unspeakable ones.” She would think it a joke, but it was true.

Rattling noises came from the direction of the kitchen.

“Mrs. Clay must be back. I’ll go tell her we’ll be dining upstairs.”

*

They had tea and sliced pears in the parlor, a spacious room, but sparsely furnished.

The paint and paper on the walls had a very new, untouched appearance and the air smelled stale.

They discussed Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage , which he had bought for her on a whim.

Crispin thought it was overwrought, but that was the very reason Miss Harrington loved it.

When she learned that he knew Lord Byron—not well, they’d played commerce at the same table at Prinny’s ball—she said, “My word! Did you save any of the cards he played?”

“ What ?”

“Never mind.” She put a fingertip to his wrist. “I’ve touched the hand that touched the cards that Lord Byron touched!” She pretended to swoon.

“If you’d been there, you could have joined the dozen other young ladies sprawled on the ground.”

“Were there really?” she asked greedily. “I’ve heard women faint when he walks into a room.”

“Yes, it is a true liability for the London hostesses. They’ve taken to strewing cushions on the floor. Of course, it makes dancing a challenge—”

Her eyes lit. “I know you’re lying, but I do so want that to be true.”

After they parted, he went to the guest bedchamber to read his letters that Mrs. Clay had brought back with her from Sir Bodwell’s—Bodwell had retrieved their mail from the post in Tonbridge, thinking to bring it himself.

Which was either thoughtful or overstepping. And didn’t that sum up poor Bodwell?

There was a letter from Jasper and one from Hazard.

Both were concerned with Wellington’s increasing unpopularity in France.

There were even threats against his person.

Liverpool and his cabinet were searching for a dignified way to withdraw him.

He might be sent to America to conclude the war there.

Jasper’s letter included an aside stating that Crispin’s decision not to go to Paris was wise and he should congratulate himself on his foresight.

But, of course, the news had the opposite effect.

Threats, subterfuge, ferreting out assassination plots—he should be in Paris, not…

cultivating his own garden as per Voltaire.

Conscience was a luxury a soldier could not afford.

With a groan, he went down to share some of the news with the colonel.

But since the colonel was sleeping, he went to the barn to curry Mercury.

Then he fetched two buckets of well water and bothered Mrs. Clay to let him heat them on the stove.

He carried the hot water up to his chamber.

There was no washtub to sit in, but he made do.

While he was at it, he took out his shaving kit and scraped the stubble from his cheeks and chin.

He daubed himself with Spanish Leather, then put on clean clothes.

Linen shirt, fawn trousers, Carmelite-Brown jacket, cravat.

As he tied his garters around his stockings, it occurred to him he was taking an inordinate amount of care for a country supper.

However, when he walked into the dining room and saw Miss Harrington, he was glad he had done so, because she had also taken great care.

He would have felt he was insulting her had he come in shabbily dressed, smelling of the barn.

Her hair was pulled back into a twist, revealing an elegant neck.

She wore a ruby-red satin dress. It was modestly styled with sleeves from shoulder to wrist and a hint of decolletage.

“Another dress of my mother’s,” she said, obviously aware of his regard. “It is out of date—”

“It’s stunning. You are stunning.” She would invade his dreams again.

She blushed. “It is bold of me to wear red when you said I should. It rather forces you to flatter me.”

“Compliment, not flatter. And no force is required.” He watched her gaze drop and her blush deepen.

He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.

Or himself uncomfortable. In his brain, he had always kept women neatly separated behind sturdy fences.

In one pen, there were ladies —whom he might like and admire, but who did not stir him.

And in the other, there were women for hire—who did.

Miss Harrington belonged to the first category.

But it seemed she had slipped out the gate.

“So this is the mysterious dining room?” he said quickly. “Explain your renovations if you would. What you’ve done and why. My lake cottage has been sorely neglected and needs work, and I am quite at a loss where to start.”