One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,76

London.

She vowed to make the most of it.

Turning away from the window, she went to the bell and rang for hot water. The maid who brought it helped her dress. Langley had insisted that none of the Bartlett House servants accompany them, rather a difficult proposition to explain to her mother, who relied on Sarah’s artistry. Once the girl had gone, Amanda brushed her own hair and arranged it loosely, then made her way downstairs.

In the breakfast room, she found Mama and Rebecca, lingering over their coffee.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” she her mother, lifting her cup to her lips. “I suppose I should not wonder you slept so late, given how you tossed and turned half the night.”

“Dear Mrs. West, I do apologize for the cramped accommodations.” Though Rebecca rose and turned toward the sideboard as she spoke, Amanda still saw the blush of mortification that stained her cheeks. “The workmen were to have been done already, as workmen always are, it seems, or I should never have extended the invitation to Lady Kingston.”

Coming downstairs, Amanda had passed all the evidence of the refurbishing being done to two of the house’s four bedrooms—tools, ladders, paint and brushes, rolls of wallpaper, and bolts of fabric. No sign of the men whose trades those tools represented, however. She half wondered whether Langley or even General Scott had seen to it that there would be no strangers in the house.

Amanda’s note to the Hursts had left very little room for her friends to decline, though Rebecca’s answer, received just as the last boxes were being loaded onto the baggage cart, had hinted that a fortnight’s delay in the visit would not be amiss. Amanda had read the note, perfectly understood her friend’s dilemma, and had ushered her family into the carriage and come anyway.

What choice did she have?

“Say nothing more of it, Mrs. Hurst,” Mama insisted, waving away Rebecca’s apology. “You certainly cannot be held responsible for either workmen’s recalcitrance or my daughter’s…restlessness.” She gave off her usual air of softness, clad in her favorite flowing stuff, with her hair perfectly arranged despite the absence of her maid. But she fixed Amanda with a look of pointed curiosity. “I can’t think what’s come over her.”

Amanda gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Rebecca and sat down. “Excitement, I suppose,” she said, letting her gaze drift toward the windows and the fencing lesson beyond. “I hated to waste a minute of our visit.”

“Then let’s not,” declared Rebecca. “Since the weather is so fine, shall I have Cook prepare a picnic lunch for us? We can enjoy it in one of the shady spots along the river.” She looked eagerly between her guests.

“Oh, yes.” Amanda nodded. “That sounds lovely.” Then she glanced hesitantly toward her mother, who generally avoided even the sheltered garden at Bartlett House. “Don’t you think, Mama?”

Before her mother could answer, Jamie and Philip burst into the room, both out of breath, their faces gleaming with perspiration and triumph. “Mama,” Philip almost shouted, “Jamie’s not hopeless after all!”

“Why, thank you, Pip,” Jamie retorted, giving his brother a good-natured nudge with one shoulder. “And if it came from anyone but you, I’d treasure the compliment.” But he was grinning with pride, nonetheless.

Amanda jumped to her feet and came toward them. At the same moment, Langley crossed the threshold of the breakfast parlor behind her sons. He drew up short and cleared his throat gruffly, all stern tutor now, properly clad once more in coat and spectacles.

But behind those spectacles, his eyes glittered with barely suppressed amusement, and there was something more than appealing in the way the knot of his cravat had worked loose. “Remember,” he said, fixing the boys with a firm look, “gentlemen do not boast.”

“Don’t they?” Amanda smiled. “Then I must say, I have met very few gentlemen. Are you hungry?” she asked her sons. “Mrs. Hurst was just suggesting a picnic by the river.”

“Brilliant,” declared Jamie.

Philip gave an eager nod. “I’m famished.”

Amanda tousled his damp hair. “Of course you are.” She glanced toward the doorway. “Will you join us, Mr. Stanhope?”

The amusement in his eyes hardened into wryness as he met her gaze. “I—”

I never eat luncheon. She watched the words form in his thoughts before they formed on his lips. As if to ward off their blow, she turned slightly toward her chair before he could speak the rejection.

“I should be delighted, your ladyship.” She spun back in time to watch him bow, first to her