In fact, Laura and her charge had met “Uncle Beau” every single afternoon. Always delighted to see the earl—who seemed to take equal delight in his niece, Laura noted with approval—Catherine had no qualms about monopolizing Lord Beaulieu’s time and attention. Laura was able to observe him and indulge in the heady thrill of his company, freed of the stomach-clenching anxiety that normally afflicted her in his presence.
Since Catherine had confided her uncle planned to meet her after their walk to take her riding, Laura was not surprised when, soon after she and Catherine seated themselves on their favorite bench beside a fragrant hedge of late-blooming damask roses, Lord Beaulieu approached.
Awareness of him flashed over her nerves like a wind-driven ripple across a lake’s calm surface.
“I saved you a tart!” Catherine cried, running over to offer him the crumbling remains of a pastry.
Ignoring the grubbiness of the jam-stained fingers, the earl accepted the treat. “Kind of you, princess. And I must thank the little wizard who coaxes the squire’s cook to come up with these delicacies for tea every day.”
“Not me,” Catherine pointed out with scrupulous fairness, munching the last bit of her tart. “Laura does. Cook likes her. I do, too. Don’t you, Uncle Beau?”
The earl turned his smiling face toward Laura—and caught her staring. She felt the warmth of embarrassment flood her cheeks and tried to look away, but his smile fading to something deeper, more intimate, he held her gaze … one minute, two. “Very much indeed,” he said softly before turning his attention back to his niece.
While her cheeks burned hotter and fluttery wings beat within her stomach, Catherine continued, “Uncle Beau, I have a secret! Only Mama said I could tell you and Laura, so it’s all right to share, isn’t it?”
“If she said you could, poppet.” The earl flashed Laura a brief but oddly intense look. “I love secrets, and I never tell anyone.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she grabbed her uncle’s coat sleeves. “It’s wonderful, and you’ll never guess. Mama said next Easter, I might get a new brother or sister!”
So Lady Elspeth had confessed, Laura thought, pleased.
“That’s indeed wonderful news,” Lord Beaulieu said. “Which should you prefer—a sister or a brother?”
“I don’t suppose it matters. I’m ever so much older, it shall have to mind me. Mama says getting a baby is a curious sort of game. Playing it makes her sick sometimes, but if she wins, she gets to keep a baby. But not everyone wins, so I should not be disappointed if we don’t get a baby after all.” Lady Catherine wrinkled her brow. “It’s a very odd sort of game, don’t you think?”
Lord Beaulieu laughed. “I wonder what your papa would say to that?”
“Well, I much prefer ball and spillikins, but Mama says I can’t play the game anyway until I’m a lady, and married. If we should get a boy, he can ride and play catch with me. And if it’s a girl, I shall give her my old dolls and my dresses when I outgrow them. But only pretty ones. Not ugly ones like Laura’s aunt Mary gave her.”
Laura stifled a gasp, and Lord Beaulieu caught his breath. “That was very rude, brat!” he said after a moment. “Apologize to Mrs. Martin at once!”
A little daunted, Catherine raised pleading eyes to her uncle. “It’s all right, Uncle Beau. Laura knows they’re ugly—she told me so herself, didn’t you, Laura?”
Her cheeks pinking, Laura merely nodded, carefully avoiding the earl’s gaze.
“See?” Catherine turned back to her uncle. “Laura told me she wears the dresses even though they’re ugly because her aunt Mary gave them to her, and she loved Aunt Mary. But I shall give my sister only pretty ones, so she’ll love me even better.”
“How could she resist?” Lord Beaulieu said, with a rueful glance at Laura.
Focusing her attention on Lady Catherine, Laura said, “I expect your uncle came to tell you the horses are ready. Since we’ve finished our snack, you’d best be off before it’s too late to ride.”
“Can you not ride with us?” the child asked.
Laura hesitated. “I—I have no horse.”
“Uncle Beau can get you one. He knows all about horses. He brought me the wonderfulest pony.”
“Another time, perhaps. You mustn’t keep your mounts waiting, so off with you now.”
“Go to the stables, and make sure Manson had your pony ready,” Lord Beaulieu said. “I’ll be right along.”
“Can we race today?”
The earl rolled his eyes. “Perhaps—it depends on how wet the fields are. I make no promises!”
Lady Catherine angled her chin up and grinned at him, a mixture of precocious coquette and childish charm. “Bet I’ll beat you.” Evading the earl’s mock punch with a giggle, she scurried off down the path.
The earl sighed and turned to Laura. Knowing their chaperone was even this moment racing out of sight, all her nerves alerted.
“I must apologize once again for my niece. She has a deplorable tendency to say exactly what she thinks.”
“I’m not offended, truly.” She attempted a smile, a difficult matter when her lips wanted to tremble and her heart was beating so hard she felt dizzy. “Children usually do speak the truth as they see it, even when it might be better sugar-coated.”
At that he turned his face to once again snare her with a searing gaze that would not allow her to look away. “’Tis always wise to tell the truth. Especially when those who hear it are friends who seek only our good.”
Laura’s breath caught in her throat and her lips went dry. He was speaking of much more than hand-me-down gowns, and they both knew it.
Trust him, a small voice deep within her whispered. He will be that sort of friend.
But the legacy of fear and a now-ingrained compulsion for concealment drowned out the voice. “No, my lord,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “’Tis not always wise. Enjoy your ride.”
Pivoting on her heel, she made herself walk back to the house, calm and unhurried. Feeling with every step the weight of his thoughtful gaze heavy upon her back.
Chest tight and mind seething with frustration, Beau watched Mrs. Martin escape to the house. In her expressive face, her guileless eyes, he’d read how very close he’d come to breaking through that wall of silent reserve. So close he could feel the acquiescence trembling on her lips, and now tasted the bitter sense of loss.
Still, the very fact that he had come so close was cause to hope that very soon the remnants of her reserve would crumble.
He could assemble all the small clues she’d let drop, add them to the information he’d extracted from the squire, set his team to work on it, and probably within a fortnight be able to reconstruct the whole of her life up to now. He could, but he didn’t want to.
With a determination that grew daily more intense, he wanted Mrs. Martin to come to him, confide in him, trust him of her own free will.
He really ought to be making plans to leave. The information in the latest dispatches confirmed the careful theories he’d previously constructed, and if events continued in the same manner, he’d soon have enough evidence to complete the dossier and turn it over to Lord Riverton. Perhaps he ought to do that immediately and then return, free to devote as