“If she’s your mother’s elderly cousin, then presumably she came from France.”
“Presumably. And what happens when dear Nicholas asks around, innocently or otherwise?”
She kept her gaze forward. “Until recently, Cousin Emily has been staying with other relatives—she only arrived two days ago to spend some time here, in warmer climes—”
“Warmer climes being recommended for her stiff joints, I suppose?”
“Precisely. However, Cousin Emily still prefers to converse in French, and considers herself too old to socialize, so she’s something of a curmudgeonly recluse, and not at home to callers.”
“How convenient.”
“Indeed. Your Cousin Emily is the perfect chaperone.”
She felt his gaze, scimitar-sharp on her face.
“What is it about Arbry that sent you to the Abbey?”
She exhaled, but knew he’d simply wait her out. “I don’t trust him.”
“On a personal level?”
His tone was uninflected, perfectly even; latent menace shimmered beneath. “No,” she hurried to say, “it’s not personal. Not at all.”
They rode on; su
re of what his next question would be, she strove to find words to explain her suspicions without revealing their cause.
“Is Arbry the person you’re protecting, or the person you were following, or both?”
She glanced at him, eyes widening. How had he seen, deduced, known all that?
He met her gaze, his own steady. And waited.
Lips setting, she looked ahead as they slowed for the bridge over the river. She knew him; correspondingly, he knew her. The noise as they clattered over the wooden bridge gave her a minute to think. As they set out again along the well-beaten lane, she replied, “He’s not who I’m protecting. He is who I was following.”
That said, she urged Gilly, her mare, into a gallop. Charles’s gray surged alongside, but Charles took the hint; as they rode on through the fine afternoon, he asked no further questions.
She escaped him in the stables, leaving him holding both their horses. He cast her a dark look, but let her go. She reached the house, glanced back, but he hadn’t made haste to follow her.
Just as well. Last night, after leaving him in the kitchen, she’d gone to bed, but memories had swamped her, claimed her; she hadn’t slept well, but neither had she analyzed. She desperately needed to think, to put together the information she’d gathered and decide what it might reveal, especially to someone used to dealing with such matters, like Charles. Telling him…she accepted she would ultimately have to, but if there was a way to present the facts in a more favorable light, she needed to find it first.
Entering the house through the garden hall, she halted, wondering where to hide to gain the greatest time alone. She might wish to have the rest of the evening to assemble the facts and cudgel her brains, but of that she held little hope. Charles had never been renowned for patience.
Persistence, yes; patience, no.
“The orchard.” Grabbing up her habit’s train, she whirled, reopened the door, and peered out. Charles hadn’t left the stables; he was probably brushing down her mount. Slipping outside, she ran for the shrubbery, then used the cover of the high hedges to make her way to the orchard, currently a mass of pink and white blossom effectively screening her from the house.
An old swing hung from the gnarled branch of an ancient apple tree. She sank onto the seat with a sigh and turned her mind to her troubles. To all she’d learned over the last months, to all she now suspected.
And to all that in turn suggested.
Charles found her half an hour later. The house was huge, but it hadn’t taken him long to check in her room and discover neither she nor her riding habit was there. So he’d returned to the gardens; there were only so many places she could hide.
She was facing away from the house, apparently looking out over his fields. She was slowly swinging, absentmindedly pushing away from the ground with one booted toe; she was thinking, and didn’t yet know he was there.
He considered going near enough to push the swing higher, but he didn’t think he could get so close without her knowing. Not that she’d hear or see him, but she’d sense him the instant he got nearer than two yards.
That had been the case for as long as he could remember. He could effectively silence enemy pickets, but sneaking up on Penny had never worked. He’d only succeeded the previous night because, unsure of her identity, he’d kept his distance until the last.