Alicia frowned. “They’re used to being together, but David is twelve.”
Mrs. Swithins nodded. “We can leave it to them to decide what’s most comfortable.”
With a grateful inclination of her head, Alicia allowed herself to be led on to view the bedrooms for Fitchett and Jenkins.
“So they’ll be close enough should the boys have need.” With an airy wave, Mrs. Swithins sailed on.
The rooms on the first floor that had been prepared for her and Adriana filled Alicia, not with surprise, for she’d expected something of the sort, but with a sense of having stepped into a fairy tale, or, more specifically, into her own dreams.
Her room lay in the central wing of the mansion, above the long ballroom and overlooking the rear gardens. A wide, spacious chamber, it possessed a sitting area with two chairs before the fireplace, a delicate escritoire against one wall, a bank of large windows with a padded window seat beneath, a gigantic armoire, and a huge four-poster bed hung with pale green silks and covered with an ivory silk coverlet embroidered in green.
“The master mentioned your maid was not with you, so I’ve assigned Bertha.” Mrs. Swithins beckoned to a young girl, who came forward and shyly curtsied. “She knows her way around a lady’s wardrobe and is quick with her hands.”
Alicia returned Bertha’s smile, a trifle shy herself. She’d never had a maid, just Fitchett, not quite the same thing.
“I’ve hung your gowns in the armoire, ma’am.” Bertha’s voice was soft, carrying a country burr. Greatly daring, she glanced up and met Alicia’s eye. “Absolutely stunning, they be.”
“Thank you, Bertha.” Alicia hesitated, then added, “I’ll need you this evening to help me dress—we’ve a dinner and two balls to attend.”
“Oh?” Miranda pricked up her ears; she came forward to link her arm in Alicia’s. “What’s this? Tony gadding about in society? Whatever next? You must tell.”
Alicia laughed. She thanked Mrs. Swithins, then let Miranda sweep her back downstairs.
The others arrived just in time for luncheon. Emerging from a room Alicia took to be the library, Tony joined the melee in the front hall, then shepherded her family into the dining room, where Miranda waited with her daughters.
Introductions between children could sometimes be awkward; in this case, the arrival of the luncheon dishes cut short any difficult moment. Quickly wriggling onto the chairs to which Tony and Miranda directed them, both her brothers and Miranda’s girls were at first on their best behavior, their responses stilted. That lasted only until the platter of sausages was uncovered. Thereafter, needing to ask each other to pass this or that, they quickly lost their shyness in the quest for sustenance.
Margaret and Constance were sturdy young ladies with long blond plaits; both ate heartily, showing no overt sign of consciousness of the boys. That piqued David’s and Harry’s interest enough for them to extend an invitation to go kite flying in the park.
The girls exchanged looks, then agreed.
When three faces turned up the table to Alicia, and two to Miranda, at the table’s other end, the ladies exchanged pleased glances and nodded permission; with just one whoop—from Harry, valiantly smothered—they all pushed back from the table, bobbed curtsies or bowed, then, dismissed with nods, they headed in a bumbling crowd for the door, and Maggs, Jenkins, the park, and the sky.
“Well,” Miranda said, turning back from watching them go, “they seem to have fallen on their feet.”
Tony shrugged. “Why not?” His gaze went to Alicia, sitting beside him, lingered, then he looked down the table at Adriana, seated beside Miranda. “The others should be arriving any minute.” To Miranda, he explained, “We’re holding a council of war, so to speak, in the library this afternoon, to discuss the latest developments in our search for A. C.”
Miranda’s eyes opened wide; she glanced at Alicia. “Is this a private meeting, or can I listen in?”
Tony grimaced. “All in all, it might be as well if you did.”
A knock sounded on the front door, and he rose. He didn’t trust A. C., not on any level; given Miranda was here with her girls, sharing his roof with Alicia and her family, it was only fair she knew the whole score.
He ushered the three ladies, all determined to attend the gathering, into the front hall as Hun
gerford opened the door. Members of the Bastion Club streamed in. Tony nodded in greeting; beside him, Miranda murmured, “Well, well—you didn’t mention them. And they are?”
The introductions took a few minutes, by which time Tristan and Leonora, Geoffrey, and, most importantly, Jack Hendon and Kit, had arrived. Once everyone was comfortably seated in the library, the large room looked unusually full.
A knock fell on the front door; it opened. A deep voice, not Hungerford’s, was heard. An instant later, the library door opened, and Charles walked in. Seeing all eyes on him, he raised his brows. “Am I late?”
Tony waved him to a chair. “I thought you were away.”
“No such luck.” Charles drew up a chair and sat. “Merely a visit to Surrey with my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mama. I got back”—he glanced at the clock—“two hours ago, but matters are so fraught in Bedford Square, I dared not remain. I took refuge at the club, and Gasthorpe told me of the meeting.”
His dark gaze, along with a piratical smile, swept the room. “So, what do we have?”
Alicia followed that sweeping glance around the faces, saw in each an impatience, an eagerness, a determination to get on with the business of unmasking A. C. They were quite a crowd, five ladies and eight gentlemen, an intelligent and talented company focused on their common goal.