One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,33

too able—to imagine herself restlessly wandering the endless corridors of Foxhaven.

But as her mother occasionally reminded her, Philip needed a wider scope for his energy, space to run and climb and ride, and the fresh, clean air would do Jamie good. Besides, he ought to be familiar with the ancestral home of the earls of Kingston. Foxhaven was his, after all.

And after last night, a change of scene would have the added recommendation of distracting her from the intrigue over that silly book and Langley Stanhope.

Most of all, she did not believe George would follow them into the country unless invited. And she had no intention of inviting him.

But wouldn’t such a trip also hint at a sort of a last hurrah? Possibly their final weeks fully as a family, before first Jamie and then Philip went away to school at their guardian’s insistence and she… She what? Finally gave up and gave in to her mother and to George? Reluctantly became Lady Dulsworthy?

Oh, of course it was not as if she would never see her sons again. There would be school holidays—though even now she could picture in her mind’s eye Philip’s ill-spelled (because quickly dashed off) missive begging her to let him spend those few precious weeks at the home of a friend. She could see Jamie, older, thinner, paler, retreating further into himself, refusing to speak much of how he fared at school because he did not wish to worry her.

And over it all loomed George, their—their stepfather? oh, God—answering Philip’s note in the affirmative without telling her, or slapping Jamie on the shoulder, urging him to take his nose out of his books. Then, later, laying that same beefy hand on her shoulder, and…

The shudder that passed through her made her teeth rattle.

“Lady Kingston?”

Mr. Hurst’s voice, concerned, bewildered, brought her back to the present: the darkened interior of the Hurst’s carriage, the quiet streets of Mayfair, the wide-eyed expressions on her friends’ faces.

“The night air has grown cool, don’t you agree?” she asked, rubbing her hand over her upper arm. Her cloak had slipped over her shoulder, exposing the narrow strip between the bottom of her sleeve and top of her glove, where her skin was pebbled with gooseflesh, though in fact the evening was still warm. Oppressively so. “No, I have no plans to go into the country this summer. The boys and I are quite content at Bartlett House.”

It rolled into view just as the words left her lips, the gray stone face familiar, impassive, a little like a prison.

“Then you all must come and stay with us in Richmond,” offered Mr. Hurst.

“Yes,” Rebecca agreed. “We shall have picnics on the river.” As the carriage swayed to a stop, she reached for Amanda’s hand. “It would do you good to get away from town for a few days.”

“I daresay you’re right. Given the pleasant spring weather we’ve enjoyed, July is sure to be beastly. Oh, thank you,” she said, squeezing her friend’s fingers. “Thank you for tonight, and for—” For not giving up, she wanted to say. But instead she said, “for everything,” her voice so earnest that the worry in Rebecca’s eyes only deepened.

Fortunately, in another moment, the footman had opened the door and lowered the step, and she could clamber down to the pavement without waiting for Mr. Hurst’s assistance.

“I trust you had a pleasant evening, milady,” Matthews said, bowing her into the house.

“You needn’t have been the one to wait up.” Though the few candles that remained burning could hardly be said to illuminate the entry hall, she could see the dark smudges beneath the butler’s eyes, the lines on his weary face.

“You are too kind, ma’am,” he said with another bow. “Mrs. West insisted.”

She drew in a sharp breath in an effort to contain the words that rose to her lips. But a few of them escaped nonetheless, very similar to the ones with which she’d answered Rebecca Hurst. “My mother can be overprotective, Mr. Matthews.”

To that, of course, the poor butler could offer no reply. He simply held out a hand as if to assist her with her wraps.

Amanda willingly slipped the cloak from her shoulders, but she did not then make the expected move toward the stairs. “Please tell Martha she may retire, Mr. Matthews. And you must follow suit. I’m going to sit for a while in the garden. The night is too fine to waste.”

Something flickered into the butler’s eyes. Surprise, perhaps. But not disapproval. “Very