Lady Gresham looked pointedly at Lady Marchmont. “Amelia, have you met this paragon?”
Lady Marchmont nodded. “Indeed. A most pleasant gentleman.”
“Good. What’s he like?”
Amy and Kit exchanged glances, then rapidly looked down at their plates. While the men ignored the very feminine question, the ladies fastened their attention on Lady Marchmont.
“He’s tall, just like his father. And he’s got the same odd hair—you remember, Martha. I believe he’s been in both the army and the navy, but that might not be right. It doesn’t sound normal, does it?”
Lady Gresham frowned. “Amelia, stop beating about the bush. How much like his father is he?”
Lady Marchmont chuckled. “Oh, that!” She waved dismissively. “He’s as handsome as sin, but then, all the Hendons are.”
“Too true,” agreed Mrs. Cartwright. “And they can charm the birds from the trees.”
“That, too.” Her ladyship nodded. “A silver-tongued devil, he is.”
Lady Dersingham sighed. “So pleasant, to know there’s a personable gentleman about one has yet to meet. Heightens the anticipation.”
There were nods of agreement all around.
“He’s not married, is he?” asked Lady Lechfield.
Lady Marchmont shook her head. “Oh, no. You may be sure I asked. He’s only recently returned from active service abroad. He still carries a wound—a limp in his left leg. He said he expected to be very much caught up in executing his commission as well as taking up Jake’s reins.”
“Hmm.” Lady Gresham’s gaze rested on Kit, seated at the end of the table. “Thinks he’ll be too busy to find a wife, does he?”
Lady Dersingham’s gaze had followed her ladyship’s. “Perhaps we could help?” she mused.
Kit, busy conveying her compliments to their chef via Jenkins, did not catch their assessing glances. She turned back to see the ladies Gresham and Dersingham exchanging satisfied nods with Lady Marchmont.
As the ladies’ attention returned to their plates, Kit caught a quizzical glance from Amy. Briefly Kit grimaced, then looked down, eyes gleaming cynically. A silver-tongued devil as handsome as sin sounded far too much like one of her London suitors. Just because the man was tall, wellborn, and not positively ugly, he was immediately considered a desirable parti! Stifling an unladylike snort, Kit attacked her portion of crab.
Chapter 4
Shortly after eleven, the coaches rumbled down the drive, well lit by a full moon. Beside Spencer on the steps, Kit waved them away, then impulsively hugged her grandfather.
“Thank you, Gran’pa. That was a lovely evening.”
Spencer beamed. “A rare pleasure, my dear.” Arm in arm, they entered the hall. “Perhaps in a few months we might consider a dance, eh?”
Kit smiled. “Perhaps. Who knows—we might even entice this mysterious Lord Hendon with the promise of music.”
Spencer laughed. “Not if he’s Jake’s lad. Never could stand any fussing and primping, not Jake.”
“Ah, but this one’s a new generation—who knows what he’ll be like.”
Spencer shook his head. “As you get older, my dear, one thing becomes clear. People don’t really change, generation to generation. The same strengths, the same weaknesses.”
Kit laughed and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Gran’pa.”
Spencer patted her hand and left her.
But once in her room, Kit couldn’t settle down. She let Elmina help her from her gown, then dismissed her; enveloped in a wrapper, she prowled the room. The single candle wavered and she snuffed it. Moonlight streamed in, shedding more than enough light. Thinking of Spencer’s dance, Kit bowed and swayed through the steps of a cotillion. At its end, she sank onto the window seat and stared out over the fields. In the distance, she could hear the swoosh of the waves, two miles away.
The odd emptiness remained, that peculiar feeling of lack that had settled deep inside her. In an effort to ignore it, she fixed her senses on the ebb and surge of the tide, letting the sounds lull her and lead her toward slumber. She’d almost succumbed when she saw the light.
A flash of brilliance, it flared in the dark. Then, just as she’d convinced herself she’d imagined it, it came again. There was a ship offshore, signaling to—to whom? On the thought, the muted reflection of an answering flash from beneath the cliffs gleamed on the dark water.