“You are a long way from home, Sutherland,” observed Lord Fayth mildly. “What brings you to our patch—if I may be so bold?”
“Not at all, sir. It is a long story—which I shall not presume to inflict on you—but suffice to say that I am thinking of buying a property hereabouts. It is so very cold and dreary in the north. I have reached the time in life where I believe one must have a southern redoubt if one is to survive from one winter to the next.”
“Indeed, sir,” barked Sir Edward, all amiability and smiles. “I could not agree more.”
“If not for the tenants, I would consider a more permanent southern sojourn,” Burleigh explained, almost apologetically. “But with such a great many of them, what with seven towns and villages within the Glen Ardvreck boundaries . . .” He paused. “Forgive me, I am woolgathering. Northern habit, I fear. I am sorry.”
“Think nothing of it, sir,” offered Lord Fayth grandly. “I quite understand. This is a beautiful corner of the world, I say.” He brightened with a sudden thought. “If you are at a loose end this evening, would you like to come to dinner? Nothing fancy, mind, just an informal private supper. Bring Lady Burleigh, of course, and anyone else in your party.”
Lord Burleigh glanced at Lady Fayth and hesitated. “Well, I—”
“Ah, I have sprung it on you. Thoughtless of me. I suspect you have another engagement.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Burleigh countered hastily. “I am so newly arrived I have no other engagements at present. And as for ‘Lady Burleigh,’ well—I am entirely on my own. My dear wife died several years ago, and I have never remarried.” He offered a wistful smile. “I am entirely without encumbrance at present, and I would be delighted to accept your kind offer.”
“Capital!” replied Lord Fayth, moving towards his horse. “We will expect you around half seven.”
“I will be there.”
They left the Earl of Sutherland on the village green. Lady Fayth made a point not to look at him again; there was something about the man she did not trust entirely—a touch of ruthlessness around the mouth, a coldness in his dark eyes . . . something she could not name but which put her on her guard.
Later, when they had returned their horses to the stables and were walking back to the house, Lord Fayth observed, “Good man, that Burleigh.”
“Oh? Really?” She stopped walking. “You had heard of him, then?”
“How should I have heard of him? He said himself he’s only just come south.”
“Indeed!”
“He is an earl, my dear,” asserted His Lordship. “Sits a peg or two above our station, I daresay. A fine gentleman—as anyone can plainly see.” He glanced sideways at his daughter. “Do you disagree?”
“I do not profess to know the man. I fail to see how anyone can form a cogent opinion based on a few pleasantries muttered in passing.”
“Ha!” Her father continued striding across the gravelled yard. “Obviously, you are no judge of character, my dear. Breeding always tells.”
These words were still echoing in her mind when, after their cosy meal of cold mutton and turnip mash, talk turned to families and mutual connections the men might share. The three were sitting in her father’s study where a fire had been laid; the men were sipping brandy and Haven was pretending to occupy herself with a swatch of needlepoint, the same piece she had been working on for over a year to no appreciable effect. She was listening to their talk and trying to decide where to place Burleigh precisely in her estimation—an ordinarily simple matter for a young woman of strong opinion and quick judgement. But for some reason, the earl was proving extremely elusive in this regard. Every time she felt she had gained an understanding, he would say something—a turn of phrase, an observation, a single word even—that confused her and put her usually reliable feminine intuition out of joint.
“Of course,” Burleigh was saying as he swilled his brandy around the rim of the bowl, “as a student of the natural sciences myself, I am sure I would find your work fascinating. I hazard a surmise that we might even share some of the same interests.”
“My work?” Lord Fayth frowned. “I must confess that I do not dabble in the sciences, sir. These modern men of inquiry,” he sniffed, and took a sip of brandy. “Not worth a boot rag the lot of them, if