focused on the delicate woman dressed as an iris who rapidly approached the group, her dark eyes full of purpose. Carstairs didn’t stand a chance against Miss Lainscott.
“Don’t you think so, Welles?” Carstairs clapped him on the back, nearly putting out one of Tony’s eyes with the antlers strapped atop his head.
“In complete agreement,” Tony replied, having no idea what Carstairs was talking about. Probably something to do with a gun. Or hunting. Maybe the bass he’d caught on his last fishing trip.
Regardless of his friend’s lack of brilliance, Carstairs was a good man. An honorable man—far more so than Tony. He wasn’t especially close to Carstairs and they had little in common outside of shooting or hunting, but Carstairs was uncomplicated and so bloody nice you couldn’t help but like him.
But that didn’t mean Tony wanted to just hand over Miss Lainscott.
Miss Rebecca Turnbull batted her eyelashes at Carstairs while Tony took in her coiffure. He assumed the young lady was attempting to be a tree or a giant bird’s nest, Tony wasn’t certain. Miss Turnbull’s hair was a mass of golden ringlets woven through with twigs, leaves, and small blue ovals which he took to be robin’s eggs.
He felt the brush of Miss Lainscott’s skirts against his legs as she wedged herself next to him. “Miss Lainscott, I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”
“Did you?” She smiled prettily, mostly for the benefit of Carstairs and the others in the group.
Carstairs turned sharply at Miss Lainscott’s arrival, neatly snagging Miss Turnbull’s hair in one of the antlers and pulling free a large portion of the young woman’s coiffure. “Oh, dear.” He gamely attempted to unravel her hair while the young lady struggled at his side.
“Dear God,” Miss Lainscott uttered under her breath. She gamely stepped forward to assist in sorting out the melee of Miss Turnbull’s hair. Her lips remained tight. Tony was fairly certain she was trying not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the moment.
Carstairs swung his head back to Miss Lainscott, who deftly sidestepped the threat of his antlers. “Many thanks for your assistance.” He looked at her with a wrinkled brow as if trying to place her. Carstairs looked at everyone that way. God bless him.
“Carstairs,” Tony said. “You recall Miss Lainscott, do you not? We made her acquaintance at Gray Covington last year.”
His friend’s face remained devoid of any recognition.
Tony often wondered what went on behind those vacant eyes. Nothing, probably. “While we were on our way back from your hunting lodge,” he gently reminded Carstairs. “The trip in which you shot that enormous grouse. Don’t you recall?”
Carstairs’s eyes lit up. He only ever recalled a person or a place if it related to his outdoor pursuits. The man never forgot any small animal or fowl he’d dispatched. “Yes, of course. Miss Lainscott.” He took her hand. “Lovely to see you again.”
Miss Turnbull frowned. Her hair was a mess. One of the pretend robin eggs fell from her hair, bounced off one cheek, and landed in the valley between her breasts. Worse, Carstairs didn’t seem to notice.
Miss Lainscott stepped closer, risking life and limb with Carstairs whipping his antlers about.
Brave girl.
She seemed determined to ignore Tony, not even bothering to acknowledge his help in reintroducing her to Carstairs. He discreetly studied the slender lines of her arms and the way the sunlight glinted off the warm brown of her hair turning some of the strands to amber. He had the strangest urge to pull her to him and ask her to cease this folly.
“How large was the grouse you managed to snag, if you don’t mind me asking?” Miss Lainscott gave Carstairs a pretty smile. She listened in rapt attention as Carstairs regaled her with a description of the bird in question much to the dismay of Miss Turnbull, who was forced to retreat and make extensive repairs to her coiffure.
Miss Lainscott, clever little thing she was, followed up Carstairs’s tale of grouse hunting with one of her own. Apparently, she’d begged her father to take her grouse hunting on the moors and, much to his surprise, had snagged her own bird.
Carstairs was enraptured.
Tony nearly burst into laughter. If Miss Lainscott had ever toted about a rifle in the early morning hours to shoot a grouse, Tony would eat his boots. The fact that her tale was peppered with references to her unknown excellent shooting ability only made the entire story more absurd. She was a very convincing liar.
Just as she was