enraged snort, like a bull preparing to charge an unseen enemy. “He’s followed you down here, the blackguard.”
“My cousin has arrived?” Lionel Beresford came into the library. He looked from Maggie to Fred and back again. His normally languid gaze was alive with calculated interest. “And my uncle with him? Now that is unexpected.”
“They had tea here.” Fred’s tone was thick with insinuation, making the act sound like some kind of debauch.
Jane followed not far behind Mr. Beresford. Her bonnet was still in her hand. “There you are.” She went straight to Maggie, plumping down in the chair beside her. “What’s this I hear about Lord Allendale and Lord St. Clare coming to call?”
“They’re staying at the Hart and Hound. I wonder…” Maggie mused. “Do you think they’d be more comfortable here? We could make a house party of it.”
“We’ll do no such thing,” Fred said. “I forbid it, absolutely. The sooner St. Clare returns to wherever it is he came from, the better. I’ll not have him in this house making advances toward you.”
Advances.
Maggie’s blood warmed to recall her early morning meeting with St. Clare on the banks of the stream. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fred. His lordship behaved in a perfectly proper fashion, and I intend to reciprocate. I’ve invited him to dinner tomorrow.”
Fred’s fists clenched at his sides. “You wouldn’t—”
“He’ll be here at seven, along with Lord Allendale.” She gave him a stern look. “And I’ll hear no more on the subject. You’ve fought with him, and he’s won. It’s time to accept your loss with good grace.”
Jane made a strangled noise.
Perhaps that had been pushing Fred a bit too far.
His red face grew redder still, his breath puffing out of him. “My loss? My loss? What do you know of what transpired? These are gentlemen’s affairs.”
“Come, sir,” Lionel said, coaxing Fred away with a hand on his arm. “Let us leave the ladies to their novels. I’ve a matter or two to discuss with you. Perhaps over a glass of port?”
Fred grudgingly obliged his guest, exiting the library—but not before casting one last glower in Maggie’s direction.
“I’ve never seen him so angry,” Jane said. “Is it wise to bait him so?”
Possibly not. Fred’s temper had been getting worse since Maggie arrived in town. The more she resisted him, the angrier and more frustrated he seemed to become. It had culminated in his attempt to kiss her in the carriage, and now, with St. Clare’s arrival, Fred was all but ready to snap.
Maggie supposed she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She was in love. Engaged to be married. And after tonight, she may even have solved the riddle of Nicholas Seaton’s birth. For once, the future looked bright—and the present along with it.
“Fred can’t harm me,” she said, closing her book with a snap. “Today I feel as though nothing can.”
That night, as the longcase clock in the hall chimed the eleventh hour, Maggie slipped out the back door of Beasley Park and made her way to the end of the darkened drive. A rickety two-horse carriage awaited her, driven by a very small man in an oversized greatcoat and hat.
She had but a moment to examine him in the silver glow of the full moon before the door of the carriage open and St. Clare jumped out.
“Is that Enzo?” she asked.
“Never mind him.” St. Clare tossed her into the cab and then climbed in after her, shutting the door behind him. “Did anyone see you leave?”
“No. I don’t believe so.” She’d been quiet as a mouse, only lighting a candle long enough to get dressed in one of her old gowns and her cloak. Only Bessie was aware of what Maggie was doing. The rest of the house had been silent as the grave. Not a trace of Lionel Beresford slinking about, or his equally odious valet.
Or so Maggie hoped.
“Good.” St. Clare sat down in the seat across from her. He was wearing a caped greatcoat, his hat and cane on the dingy cushion beside him.
“It was wise of you to think of hiring a gig for the night,” she said. “No one will remark this vehicle, surely.”
He didn’t reply.
She looked at him in the weak light of the carriage lamps, attempting to make out his face in the shadows. “If you’re going to sulk—”
“I’m not sulking.”
She lifted her brows but said nothing more. What more could she say? He hadn’t wanted her to come with him, which was understandable. She privately acknowledged that visiting a