Appreciatively viewing the regal tilt of his hostess’s golden head as she glided beside him through the waiting throng, her small hand resting lightly on his sleeve, Jason waited until they had reached the relative quiet of the hall before murmuring, “As I was saying, Miss Lester, I have become fascinated by an instance of what I believe might best be described as artful deceit.”
Lenore was having none of it. “Artful deceit, Your Grace? To what purpose, pray?”
“As to purpose, I am not at all sure, but I intend to find out, Miss Lester.”
Lenore risked an upward glance, insensibly annoyed at the feeling of smallness that engulfed her. She was used to dealing with gentlemen eye to eye; Eversleigh’s height gave him an unfair advantage. But she was determined to end his little game. Elevating her chin, she adopted her most superior tone. “Indeed, Your Grace? And just how do you propose to unravel this conundrum of yours, laying all bare?”
Even as the words left her tongue, Lenore closed her eyes, stifling a groan. Where had her wits gone begging? Then her eyes flew open, her gaze flying, in considerable trepidation, to Eversleigh’s hard countenance. Any hope that he would not take advantage was wiped from her mind the instant her eyes met his. Silver gleamed in the grey, white fire under water.
“My dear Miss Lester.” The tenor of his voice, velvety deep and heavy with meaning, was a warning in itself. “Would it surprise you to learn that I consider myself peculiarly well-qualified to tackle this particular conundrum? As if my prior existence were nothing more than preparation for this challenge?”
The dining-room loomed ahead, a sanctuary filled with polished oak and silver, crystal goblets winking in the light from the chandelier. The sight gave Lenore strength. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, Your Grace. You must be sure to tell me when you have solved your puzzle.”
The smile she received in reply made her giddy.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Lester, you’ll be the very first to know when I lay my conundrum bare.”
By rights, Lenore thought, she should at least be allowed a gasp. Only her determination not to dissolve into a witless heap under Eversleigh’s attack allowed her to keep her head high and her composure intact. “Indeed?” she replied, her voice not as strong as she would have liked. As she assumed her chair at the end of the long table, she tried for dismissive boredom. “You intrigue me, Your Grace.”
“No, Miss Lester.” Jason stood beside her, one long-fingered hand resting lightly on the back of her chair, his eyes effortlessly holding hers. “You intrigue me.”
Others milled about, taking their places along the polished boards. Noise and chatter engulfed the company. Yet Lenore heard all through a distancing mist, conscious only of the intent in the grey eyes holding hers. Then, slowly, Eversleigh inclined his head and released her, taking his seat beside her.
Shaken, Lenore hauled in a quivering breath. Eversleigh was in pride of place on her right; she had purposely installed young Lord Farningham, an eminently safe young gentleman, on her left.
Watching as the company settled and the first course was brought forth, Lenore felt her nerves flicker restlessly. It was Eversleigh and his disturbing propensity to reach through her defences that was the cause of her disquiet. Quite what it was he did to her normally reliable senses she did not know, but clearly she would have to cope with the problem for the next few hours.
To her relief, Mrs. Whitticombe, seated beyond Lord Farningham, monopolised all attention with an anecdote on turtle soup as served by a certain Mr. Weekes.
Taking the opportunity to scan the table, Lenore noted her aunt seated a little way away with Gerald beside her to help. In the middle of the table, Jack and Harry, one one either side, kept the conversation flowing. A good deal of laughter and general hilarity was already in evidence as her brothers and their guests settled in. At the distant head of the table, her father and his old crony, Mr. Pritchard, were deep in discussion. Horses or reminiscences of a more ribald sort, Lenore sagely surmised, her eyes on the two grey heads.
“I have heard, Eversleigh, that there’s plenty of grouse down your way this year?”
Lord Farningham’s question, uttered in the tones of one well aware of the hazards of approaching one of the lions of the ton, jerked Lenore to attentiveness.
But Eversleigh’s reply, a mild, “Yes, it’ll be a good season, so my gamekeeper assures me. You’re in Kent, are you not?” relieved her of anxiety. With every appearance of interest, she listened as Eversleigh discussed game and the keeping of coverts with Lord Farningham.
When the subject ran dry, halfway through the first course as the soup was replaced by turbot in cream sauce with side dishes of mushroom florettes and tongue in port wine, Lenore was ready with a blithe, “Tell me of Eversleigh Abbey, Your Grace. I have heard it is even bigger than the Hall.”
The look Eversleigh directed at her was unfathomable but he replied readily enough.
“It is rather large. The original abbey dates to just after the Conquest but my family has made numerous additions over the years. What remains might best be described as a semi-Gothic pile, complete with ruined cloisters.”
“No ghost?”
Lenore bit her tongue, steeling herself for his rejoinder. A skeleton or two in the cupboard, perhaps?
Manfully, Jason resisted temptation. Sorrowfully, he shook his head. “Not even a wraith, I’m afraid.”
Letting out the breath she had held, Lenore inclined her head and opted for caution in the person of Lord Farningham. Lady Henslaw, seated beside Eversleigh, claimed his attention. As the second course was laid before them, Lord Farningham turned the talk to horses. Mentally, Lenore sat back, pleased to see her father and Aunt Harriet both coping well. Taking a moment to cast her eye over the company, she saw that all was proceeding smoothly. Her staff was experienced; the meal was served and cleared and glasses filled with a minimum of fuss.
She was turning back to the conversation when a commotion in the hall drew all attention. Smithers immediately went out, to return a moment later to hold open the door. Amelia, Lady Wallace, Lenore’s cousin, hesitantly entered, her companion, Mrs. Smythe, trailing in her wake.
Jack rose. With a murmured, “Excuse me,” Lenore put her napkin aside and went forward.
“Hello, Jack. Lenore.” Amelia bestowed her hand on Jack and exchanged an affectionate kiss with Lenore. “I’m sorry to arrive so late but one of our horses went lame.” Shielded from the table, Amelia grimaced up at them. “And I had no idea this was one of your ‘weeks’.”
With a brotherly smile, Jack squeezed her hand. “No matter, m’dear. You’re always welcome.”
Lenore smiled her agreement. “Don’t worry. You can keep me company. I’ll put you near Papa until you get your bearings.”
“Yes, please,” Amelia returned, blonde ringlets bobbing as she exchanged nods with those of the company already known to her.
While Jack played the gallant host, Lenore oversaw insertion of another leaf at the head of the huge table. Once Amelia and Mrs. Smythe were installed, Lenore paused to tell Smithers, “Her ladyship in the rose room, with Mrs. Smythe in the room further down the hall.”
Smithers nodded and departed.
Lenore returned to her seat, idly wondering what brought Amelia, now widowed, to Berkshire. Picking up her fork, she glanced up to find Eversleigh, his chair pushed slightly back from the table, his long fingers crooked about the stem of his goblet, watching her, an entirely unreadable expression in his eyes. Lenore frowned in what she hoped was a quelling manner.
Jason’s pensive attitude dissolved as he smiled, raising his glass in silent toast. He toyed with the idea of informing his hostess that the ability to remain unflustered in the face of the