china. The sun was brilliant through the window, which in this room appeared to be much newer glass, without the ripples and faults of the one in her bedroom. The crystal on the table winked with sunlight, and Mrs. Derbyshire’s snowy hair glowed silver. The light was cruel to Mrs. Hyde-Smith, accentuating the wrinkles on her heavily powdered face, and Mr. Hyde-Smith blinked, owl-like, against the brightness. Lady Whitmore wisely kept her back to the sun, as did her husband. There was only one empty place at the table. Frances had not come down.
Three servants were arranging a series of chafing dishes on a sideboard, lighting small, flat candles beneath them to keep the food warm. The guests took turns leaving their seats to help themselves to various meats and grilled tomatoes.
James said, “Do let me get you something, Miss Allington. Do you prefer ham or bacon? Coddled eggs? I can order a boiled egg for you if you would prefer it.” He looked down on her, a smile on his lean face, his autumn eyes sparkling as if she was just the person he most wanted to see in the world.
His Lordship was in desperate need of Harriet’s remedy. Annis had a bad feeling it would come too late.
Since he was so eager, she asked for bacon and eggs and a slice of toast. When he came back, he brought a bowl of porridge for himself, liberally dotted with chunks of stewed fruit. It looked as if it might be apple and raspberries.
Annis said, “Oh my. That looks delicious.”
He gave her a boyish grin, which made him seem much less stiff. “Favorite of my childhood,” he said. “Would you like some? Our Dorset porridge is famous.”
“Yes, please,” she said.
He set down his bowl and crossed to the sideboard. Swiftly, after a glance told her the other guests were busy with their meals, she plucked the electuary from the handkerchief and added it to the bits of compote on James’s porridge. By the time he came back to the table, she was innocently cutting a rasher of bacon into bite-size pieces.
She watched him from beneath her lowered eyelashes. He ate with good appetite, starting with the porridge. She tried not to hold her breath as he spooned up a mouthful, then another, and a third. By that time the bits of stewed fruit were gone, and with them the remedy.
To distract him, lest he notice that one of his bits of compote tasted different—tasted more like a compote of pine needles than one of apples and raspberries—she said brightly, “Shall we ride again today, my lord?”
His mouth was full, but he turned to her, on the point of swallowing. Suddenly his lips puckered, as if he had tasted something sour. He lifted his napkin, and she feared he was going to spit out the electuary. To stop him she leaned very close, widening her eyes. “Could I ride a different horse, my lord, please? I wish I could ride them all!”
He took a small, choked breath, and she worried he might cough out the remedy. Instead he picked up a water glass, washed down what was in his mouth, and dabbed at his lips before he answered. “I will let you choose, Miss Allington. But please, for the sake of my horsemaster, not the stallion. Jermyn will have a nervous fit if I allow a young lady to mount Seastar.”
She sat back, satisfied. There were no more bits of fruit in his bowl. It was done.
“I wouldn’t want to upset your horsemaster, my lord.” The title was coming more easily to her tongue, probably because everyone else used it all the time. It was still rather silly, in Annis’s view, but that didn’t matter.
With luck the electuary would do its work, and in a few hours the Marquess of Rosefield would be himself again—stiff, old-fashioned, repelled by an American girl with no moral standards. With some luck she would have put him off so thoroughly that she would be set free, allowed to go home to Bits and resume her life.
And, she hoped, learn everything her great-aunt Harriet had to teach her.
22
James
James marveled once again, as he went up to change into his riding clothes, at the abrupt change in his feelings. He had considered Annis Allington a wanton. Shameless. Her disregard for convention went against every principle of ladylike behavior he had ever understood. Annis Allington as the chatelaine of Rosefield Hall had been unthinkable.
Yet now he could hardly