Replacing the salver’s cover, Wallace glanced at Gyles.
Lips thinning, he looked at his wife. “Francesca-”
The door opened; Irving entered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Harris has arrived with the ale. You wished to be informed.” He bowed to Francesca. “And Mrs. Cantle asked me to tell you, my lady, that Mrs. Duckett has arrived with her pasties.”
“Thank you, Irving.” Laying aside her napkin, Francesca rose. She flicked a hand at the salver. “Dispose of it, please, Wallace.”
She glided up the table, heading for the door. Gyles reached out and shackled her wrist. “Francesca-”
“It’s nothing but a ruined cap.” Leaning closer, she twined her fingers with his and squeezed lightly. “Let be. We’ve so much to do, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”
There was a plea in her eyes. Gyles knew how much she’d invested in the Festival, how much she needed the day to be a success. He held her gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”
She smiled gloriously and slipped from his hold.
He rose and followed her-into the chaos of the day.
He followed her for most of the day, not on her heels, but she was rarely out of his sight. The more he considered her shredded cap, the less he liked it. He’d never played host at the Harvest Festival yet the role was second nature. He strolled the lawns, greeting his tenants and their families, stopping to chat with those who leased the village shops. He passed his mother and Henni doing likewise, then went down to the archery butts to check on Horace.
While there, he presented the prizes thus far won, promising to escort his countess thither to bestow the major prizes later on. Leaving the butts, he watched Francesca chatting animatedly with Gallagher’s wife.
Informality was the order of the day. Today was the day when the lord and lady rubbed shoulders with their tenants, meeting them man to man, woman to woman. It was not a challenge every gently reared lady met well, but Francesca was enjoying it. Her hands danced as she talked; her eyes sparkled. Her face was alive with interest, her expression focused. Gyles wondered what topic she found so engaging, then she looked down and smiled. He shifted and saw Sally’s youngest child clinging to the front of her skirt.
The little girl was fascinated by Francesca; smiling, Francesca bent down to talk to her.
In a walking dress in green-and-ivory stripes, Francesca was easy to spot among the crowd. As she laughed, straightened, and parted from Sally, others stepped forward to claim her attention. Gyles would have liked to claim it for himself; instead, he turned to greet the blacksmith.
Only those connected with the estate were present. Gyles didn’t, therefore, need to watch for Lancelot Gilmartin and his theatrical posturings. He did, however, wonder if Lancelot was in any way connected with Francesca’s ruined cap.
Finally, Francesca was free. Gyles caught her hand, linked her arm with his.
She smiled up at him. “Everything’s going perfectly.”
“With you, Wallace, Irving, Cantle, Mama, and Henni supervising, I don’t see how anything could go otherwise.”
“You’re doing your part admirably, too.”
Gyles humphed. “Has Lancelot Gilmartin called since our excursion to the Barrows?”
“No-not since then.”
Gyles stilled. “He’d called before?”
“Yes, but I’d instructed Irving to deny me, remember?”
Gyles drew her on; those waiting their turn with her could wait a moment longer. “Could Lancelot have had anything to do with your ruined cap?”
“How? The cap was in my room.”
“You thought it was in your room, but you might have left it somewhere. The Castle may be fully staffed, but it’s so huge it’s easy for someone to slip in undetected.”
Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. He might have been angry, but attacking my cap seems such a silly-”
“Childish thing to do. Precisely why I thought of Lancelot.”
“I think you’re making too much of the incident.”
“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough. But if not Lancelot…”