Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

They worked, heads together, until late afternoon when Angela knocked on the estate room door. She heard some arguing, laughter, solid silence, and she frowned as she knocked. She didn’t open the door until she heard Jason call, “Enter.”

“Children,” she said to them, quite on purpose. They were sitting too close together, but on the other hand, neither of them looked the least bit guilty or embarrassed, a huge relief.

“Yes, Cousin Angela?”

“Now, my boy, you may call me simply Angela. I’m here to fetch you both so you may beautify yourselves for dinner. I believe Petrie was moaning over the state of your clothes, Jason. Martha told him to get a grip on himself, his whining didn’t set a good example for the staff. And what, she said, would our new housekeeper, Mrs. Gray, have to say about it?”

Hallie said, “What did Petrie say to that?”

“I didn’t hear, but I’ll wager his mouth closed and his shoulders straightened right out. You’ve met Mrs. Gray. She’d straighten the shoulders on God.”

For a moment, Jason frowned down at his tapping pen. He looked toward the far wall, its big window now sporting lovely new pale golden draperies. He heard the rain slapping in windy gusts against the clean glass panes.

He rose quickly, smiled at Angela, and said, “It’s nearly five o’clock. I had no idea. We have accomplished nearly everything we set out to accomplish. Thank you for fetching us, Angela. I won’t be here for dinner this evening. Hallie, let’s put away our new record books. We’ve worked hard enough.”

Hallie sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest. “That is the truth. You are very good at mathematics, Jason, excellent indeed. I’ve always done much better with musical notes.”

“Your entries are much neater than Jason’s, dear,” Angela said. “You could also set your entries to a jaunty tune if you wished. Jason couldn’t.”

Hallie laughed. “I had my knuckles rapped by my governess if every line and curl wasn’t perfect. However, I’ll get the hang of all of it. Jason, where are you going tonight? To Northcliffe Hall?”

“No,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ve an appointment in—Well, that’s not important. I will see you ladies in the morning.”

“But look, Jason, it’s still raining hard.”

He nodded and left the estate room.

“How very odd,” Hallie said to Angela. “He suddenly seemed very distracted. I wonder why. I also wonder who would agree to an appointment on this perfectly dreadful evening, and where it is.”

“You could follow him, I suppose,” Angela said.

“Hmm,” Hallie said. “I could, but this time I don’t think I will. With my luck, he’d see me—”

“—and toss you in a ditch to drown.”

“I was thinking something else, but no matter. I’m starving, Angela. What did Cook prepare for dinner?”

“Lovely baked sole, I believe, and some fresh green beans. It’s a pity Jason won’t be here. I do believe Cook excels when he is present.”

“He toadies up to her.”

“No,” Angela said. “He’s polite and he smiles at her. That’s all it takes. She told me that looking at him made her recipes take wing.”

Hallie said slowly, nodding, “I heard that every cook in Baltimore wanted to feed him; it was a competition of sorts to gain his attention. Absolutely ridiculous. They did the same thing for my father. Genny always said she couldn’t believe he never became fat as a stoat. He doesn’t gain flesh, you know. I hope I am like him.”

“You are his female image. Ah, two such glorious men, that’s the truth.”

Hallie grunted.

Angela said, “It’s better I don’t speak to Cook. Maybe she won’t find out Jason’s not here, and we’ll enjoy the fruits of his bonny self. Also, I must tell you that Petrie was telling Martha that her English is not what a lady maid’s should be, and thus she should keep her mouth shut until it improves.”

Hallie laughed. “Did Martha smack him?”

“It was close, but she said smartly that she could only continue to improve if she practiced all the time, and why wasn’t he smart enough to figure his way to that conclusion? And if he was going to continue as an old trout-tooth, she might forget her lessons on purpose. Then she flounced off with Petrie huffing and puffing behind her, without a word to say. Poor Petrie, a misogynist all these years—though he isn’t old at all, is he?”

“No, Petrie isn’t old at all, just a trout-tooth, Martha’s right about that.” As she walked upstairs to her bedchamber to change—and why should she bother anyway?—she wondered yet again where Jason had taken his bonny self. It must have been dreadfully important for him to go out in this weather. Maybe she would ask Petrie. She excelled in subtlety. He didn’t stand a chance.

She saw her prey just before she went into the dining room, coming out of the drawing room, humming, oblivious of his looming surrender. “Petrie,” she said, all smooth