she’d found in the attics. He tossed his riding gloves in a dented but polished copper bowl on the hall table and shook the rest of the rain off like a wet mastiff. “Ho, little sister! I’m home, but not for long,” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“In the parlor with Mrs. Beecham.”
Reyn found the two women industriously bent over lengths of curtain material. Ginny looked up, cheeks pink. “You foolish man, you are soaked through! And before you lecture me, these are for the vicarage, Reyn, so don’t think I’ve spent your coin on stuff we don’t need.”
Actually most of Merrywood’s windows could use new drapes, but he smiled down at his sister, not caring that his lawn shirt was stuck to his chest. “Moving in already? May I remind you, the man has not formally asked you—or me—yet?”
Ginny bit off some thread. “He will. The parish sewing circle is refurbishing the vicarage. It’s long overdue. I thought if I helped too I’d get some say in the decoration. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“You are a cagey one. Poor Mr. Swift.”
“He likes me just as I am,” Ginny replied.
“He must not know you at all,” Reyn teased. “Gin, I’ve some business in London and will be gone for a few days. You can hold down the fort without me, I know.” To his eternal shame, Ginny had gotten along most of her life without his care.
“London? Can’t I go with you?”
Reyn considered for perhaps a second. “You’ve been doing so well. Why risk it? It’s raining, too, in case you want to yell at me some more. I’m not taking the mailcoach. Old Phantom will earn his oats tonight.”
“Oh. You’re probably right.”
“It must have cost you to say that, little sister. I know I’m right. Have you forgotten the filthy air? The smells?” Reyn didn’t mind them a bit. They were the scent of civilization. Of industry. Of money.
And now that he had some, he was going to spend it on the countess he wanted to woo.
Chapter 22
Maris could not stop shaking once she got indoors. The house was warm enough. The fires were lit against the rain and chill, even in her bedroom. Betsy seemed to think pregnancy was some sort of disease and would have wrapped Maris in fur blankets and hot water bottles all day if she could.
Once out of her wet clothes, Betsy clucking and “I told you so-ing” all the while as she divested Maris of her habit, Maris headed straight for her bed and flopped down into it. She was not tired, but simply confounded.
Captain Reynold Durant was her neighbor.
How could she have not known?
Well, that was easy. She’d met no one but Mr. Prall, his sons, and Reverend Swift. She’d deliberately shut herself in—there was even a black wreath on her door—and spread the word she was not to be disturbed.
That had been liberating. She wasn’t in charge of a legion of servants or responsible for making small talk with people to whom she was totally indifferent. Henry had ignored his neighbors for the most part, but Maris had felt obligated to receive them when they dared come to call. And it was remarkable how daring some of them had been, anxious to get a look inside Kelby Hall to examine all its treasures.
When she’d retreated to the Dower House, they still came, ostensibly out of sympathy, but Maris had felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, singed a bit by the sun. She’d never been at ease in social situations, even after being a countess for ten years. She’d caused gossip. She was the young adventuress who’d snared the great man Henry Kelby. His secretary’s daughter. Henry’s eccentricities could be forgiven because of his exalted birth, but she was a nobody.
The fact that she hadn’t conformed to anyone’s idea of a femme fatale had not stopped the talk. Somehow with her plain brown hair and plain brown eyes she’d seduced Henry into losing his good sense and making an imprudent marriage. It was all for an heir, they said, and once she had failed to deliver one, the talk only escalated.
Maris knew she was useful to Henry beyond being a broodmare, and that their partnership had been sincere, their affection for each other real. He had not been an old fool. No one could take away her ten happy years with Henry Kelby.
Except for Reyn.
He’d been scrupulously polite for Stephen Prall’s benefit, speaking to her as if