Christopher nodded.
When Pendleby returned and announced dinner, Christopher rose and ambled beside Toby to the dining room. He’d been thinking of Robert Martingale and that, as far as he recalled, the Bigfield House estate backed onto the plot of land on which Goffard Hall stood.
As he and Toby entered the dining room, Christopher said, “Regarding the card parties at Goffard Hall, I might know someone who—possibly—might know a lot more.”
When Toby looked his question, Christopher waved him to the table. “Leave it with me—I’ll see what I can learn and let Drake know.”
Chapter 3
Christopher rode up the drive of Bigfield House, well aware it was his third visit in as many days. He had his excuse prepared, a reasonable query to disguise his true intent, which was to extract from Robert what he knew about the Goffard Hall card parties.
He halted Storm before the front steps, handed the reins to the groom who came running, then, on impulse, instructed the groom to take the horse to the stables. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“Aye, sir.” The groom knew him; he snapped off a salute and turned away, leading a faintly disgruntled Storm.
Christopher trod up the steps, conscious of a certain eagerness that had nothing to do with pursuing Drake’s investigation. In the wake of the liberty he’d taken yesterday, he was keen to see how the discouraging Miss Martingale would respond to him this morning.
Kissing her fingers had been an impulse he hadn’t been able to resist. Just to see. Just to sense what her reaction would be.
Now he’d confirmed beyond doubt that the visceral attraction he felt toward her—beribboned frills notwithstanding—was fully reciprocated, he felt he stood on firmer ground.
At least he knew and recognized the landscape in which he—they—stood.
Regardless of what she thought of that.
He walked through the open front door, halted just inside, and scanned the front hall, but Partridge was nowhere in sight. Christopher hesitated, then surrendered to the impulse to see Miss Martingale again; it would, after all, be wise to establish his reason for being there before hunting down Robert. He headed for the study, his bootheels ringing on the hall’s black-and-white tiles.
“Mr. Cynster!”
The hail brought him to a halt. He swung to his left to face the drawing room, the doors of which, he now realized, stood propped wide, and saw three older ladies beaming in welcome. Two he recognized; Mrs. Carstairs of Benenden Grange and her dearest friend, Mrs. Folliwell, were seated on a long sofa. The third and oldest lady sat in an armchair facing the sofa; her faded doll-like features bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Ellen Martingale. He recalled she’d mentioned an aunt.
It had been Mrs. Folliwell who had called him; she grinned in expectant delight.
Mrs. Carstairs, also smiling delightedly, beckoned imperiously. “Do join us, Christopher. This will save us from having to call at the manor—we had you on our list to speak with next.”
Wishing he’d seen them before they’d seen him, he reluctantly obeyed. Mrs. Carstairs and Mrs. Folliwell were grandes dames of the local social circle, together with his mother, to whom they were close. Despite escalating wariness, he plastered on an easy expression and walked into what his instincts were insisting was a lionesses’ den.
He stepped into the room before realizing there was a fourth occupant. Ellen Martingale sat in an armchair angled to face all three older ladies. Focused as he had been on the source of impending danger, he’d missed seeing her—which was remarkable considering her pale-green gown, liberally endowed with frills edged with lace and forest-green ribbon. More ribbons and lace had been wound through her golden curls, leaving her looking distractingly pretty, but utterly doll-like.
As his feet carried him toward the older ladies, with her rosebud lips pressed tight, Ellen caught his eye. Her eyes widened fractionally, the appeal in them crystal clear.
For God’s sake, save me!
He looked at the three older ladies and wasn’t at all sure he would be able to save himself.
With faint and desperate hope, Ellen watched Christopher greet Mrs. Carstairs and Mrs. Folliwell, with whom he was plainly acquainted.
Mrs. Carstairs promptly introduced him to Ellen’s aunt Emma. “Since losing her husband many years ago, Mrs. Fitzwilliam lived with her late sister, young Mr. Martingale’s and Miss Martingale’s mother, in London. But after Mrs. Martingale’s passing, Mrs. Fitzwilliam and her niece and nephew came to live here and keep Sir Humphrey company.”
Mrs. Carstairs beamed; Ellen suspected the lady’s joy was in large part fueled by the expectation of having two new candidates—herself and Robert—to add to the local matchmakers’ list.
That was certainly the impression she’d been receiving.
She watched as Christopher did the pretty with practiced ease, bowing over the ladies’ hands, exchanging words of greeting, and welcoming her aunt to the area. Despite the country setting, to Ellen’s eyes, he still looked like a London wolf; he wasn’t even bothering to adopt a disguise—to veil his nature in any way.
She inwardly humphed. She supposed honesty was a point in his favor.
It was, she told herself, ridiculous that she was even noticing.
On the thought, the skin over the knuckles of her right hand heated, brushed by phantom, too-well-remembered lips. She fought down a reactive shiver. Really? She’d hoped she would have got over that moment by now.
The truth was she’d never been so afflicted by a man as she was—so effortlessly—by Christopher Cynster; she was starting to comprehend that meant she couldn’t predict how she would respond to any future interactions.
She’d tried to tamp down her instinctive responses to him and failed.
She’d tried to ignore those instinctive responses, to pretend they weren’t occurring. She’d failed in that, too.
If she’d been able, she would have moved to block all future interactions between them…only she couldn’t afford to cut him, to turn her back on the assistance he could give, to jettison the shield he’d willingly offered.
Her primary, overriding aim was to protect her uncle, her brother, her aunt, and all the staff and workers who depended on the Bigfield House estate. That was her principal duty, her responsibility, and she took it seriously. It currently ruled all her decisions and actions.
And that meant she couldn’t run from or ignore Christopher Cynster.
Life would be so much easier if I could.
Emma had been exchanging pleasantries with their unexpected visitor; now she waved at Ellen and smiled. “And this is my niece, Ellen. She’s been terribly busy helping Sir Humphrey over recent months, but we”—Emma’s wave included Mrs. Carstairs and Mrs. Folliwell—“are determined to prevail on her to join the festivities this Monday evening.”
Christopher turned to Ellen. His eyes met hers; amusement lurked in their depths as he half bowed, then informed the others, “Miss Martingale and I have met.”
“Oh?” came from Mrs. Folliwell in interrogatory tones.
“Indeed.” Christopher’s smile didn’t falter as he moved to claim the armchair beyond Ellen’s, nearer the door. “You might say Miss Martingale and I met over goats.”