One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“Obviously.”

Cynthia giggled, reminding him of how sweet and feminine she’d looked the night before. Then he remembered that stricken look when he’d rejected her, and Nicholas turned to watch the gray damp through the window.

“What will you do with your half?” she asked.

He threw her a questioning look.

“Your half of the gold.”

“We’d better see how much it is first.”

Cynthia shrugged her wet shoulders. “You are all doom and gloom today.”

“Yes, it’s strange to be the serious one. I’m not sure I like it.”

“I’m certain I’ll be in a foul mood again soon enough. Enjoy the novelty.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and Lancaster wanted to draw closer. To be part of her joy. Thankfully the carriage lurched to a halt before he could do anything stupid.

“Your cloak,” he murmured, as he shoved open the door before Jackson could descend.

Cynthia pulled her sodden hood back over her head and tugged it low to cover her face.

“Take the blanket too.” He handed her down and watched her scurry toward the kitchen door, her identity safely concealed. His coachman was under the impression that he’d been carrying Mrs. Pell around, and he’d been helped along by a very generous gift of whisky from his employer.

The man dropped heavily to the ground and closed the carriage door.

“Thank you for waiting so patiently in the rain, Jackson. I’ll be heading to the village after lunch. You are free until then.”

“Thank ye, milord.” Jackson touched his hat and glanced toward the door. “Mrs. Pell, eh?”

“I’m sorry?”

The coachman listed slightly to the left before overcorrecting himself right into the side of the carriage. “A bit long in the tooth,” Jackson explained. “But a man likes a bit of soft flesh in his hands, don’t ’e? Nothing wrong with that.”

“Er…” Lancaster didn’t want to impugn Mrs. Pell’s reputation, but what other explanation could he offer for a few secluded hours on the beach with his housekeeper?

“Noth

ing wrong with that at all,” Jackson boomed, punctuating his statement with a firm pat on his master’s back. After providing the lubricant to loosen him up, Lancaster really couldn’t fault the man for his insubordination.

“See to the horses, Jackson. Better ask Adam to help. He needs the training.”

“Right-o, yer lordship.”

Lancaster rolled his eyes and headed for shelter. He needed to dry off and warm up—again—and get some food in his belly before heading to the village. Unless the residents had changed greatly in the past decade, Lancaster was certain they’d be happy to speak of a new visitor and his traveling habits, though they might expect a friendly pint of ale in return.

“Mrs. Pell,” he called as he stepped into the warm kitchen. “May I get—”

“She’s gone out.”

He looked up to find Cynthia filling a teapot with steaming water. She’d formed a new puddle on the floor next to the hearth.

“Gone where?”

Cynthia tilted her head toward the long kitchen table. A tiny scrap of paper lay bright against the golden wood. “Off to buy beef. Though I doubt she’ll walk back in this rain. If I had to guess, I’d say she and Mrs. Painter are holed up in the Painter cottage, gossiping about their friends and sharing a dose of medicinal sherry.”

“Oh.”