Finally, Christopher and Ellen moved forward and filled their plates, then took refuge in a quiet corner to wield the tiny supper forks and sample the delicacies the Carstairses’ staff continued to ferry out.
To Ellen’s surprise, Mr. Denton appeared and glibly asked, “May I join you?”
She cut a glance at Christopher; when he simply stared assessingly at Denton, she inclined her head politely. “Of course, sir.”
Denton shifted to stand beside her.
For several seconds, they continued eating, then Denton remarked, “I haven’t seen you at such events previously, Miss Martingale. Dare I hope you intend to delight us with your presence more often?”
Ellen swallowed and lightly shrugged. “As to that, sir, I really can’t say. Much of my time is taken up with household matters.”
“Be that as it may,” Denton persisted, “I hope we can persuade you to join our company more frequently. I understand you’re relatively new to the area. If I might suggest, a picnic on the Downs is a pleasant way to see more of the county. If you’re interested, I would be happy to arrange a party of like-minded souls to make the most of the day.”
“I fear, Mr. Denton, that at present, my time for such excursions is limited.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Martingale. All work and no play—”
“Denton.”
Ellen’s blinked at Christopher’s low growl.
Sadly, Denton appeared impervious; he arched his brows haughtily and met Christopher’s gaze. “Yes, Cynster?”
Ellen looked from one to the other.
“There you are!” Mrs. Kirkpatrick swanned up, a plate in her hand. She halted beside Christopher and, smiling, met his eyes. Then, belatedly, she let her gaze drift to Ellen and Denton. “I must admit I hadn’t expected such a crush in this backwater. So difficult to find those one wishes to speak to with so many crammed into such small rooms.”
The relief Ellen had felt at the interruption evaporated, but before she could think of a rebuttal for the idle insult to their hostess, another thought struck. “Actually, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I was hoping I would have a chance to speak with you.”
Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “Indeed, my dear?”
Ellen ignored the insufferably superior tone and plowed on. “Although I’ve been at Bigfield House for several months”—she glanced at Denton, smiled slightly, and prayed he would remain silent—“as I was just discussing with Mr. Denton, I haven’t yet had much chance to look about the neighborhood and assess its amenities.” She schooled her features to an expression of innocent inquiry and looked at Mrs. Kirkpatrick. “However, I understand you’ve lived at Goffard Hall for several years, and I was hoping you might share with me the places you deem worth visiting and, of course, which towns have the better shops—Hastings? Rye? Tunbridge Wells, perhaps? Oh, and I’ve heard of Romney Marsh—do you think it worth a visit? Do you know anything of it?”
Keeping her eyes innocently wide, Ellen willed Mrs. Kirkpatrick to answer, thus revealing with which of the local areas she was familiar.
Instead, that lady laughed dismissively. “My dear Miss Martingale, when it comes to the locality, I have absolutely no information to share. While I have lived at Goffard Hall for over two years, I continue to shop in London and, occasionally, Paris, of course.” She, too, opened her eyes wide. “I haven’t even stopped in Tunbridge Wells, much less towns farther south—exploring provincial regions has never been of interest to me.”
Pretending to be oblivious to the lady’s barbs, Ellen heaved a disappointed sigh. “I used to live in Belgravia and grew accustomed to having nice shops all around. I suppose I just assumed there would be shops of similar style somewhere near here.”
This time, Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s laugh was brittle and distinctly cynical. “No, my dear—none, not one, I do assure you. For London quality, you need to go to London.”
Ellen recalled the lace adorning her gown, but held her tongue on that subject and, with every appearance of resignation, inclined her head. “Thank you for the advice—at least I won’t waste precious time searching for what isn’t there.”
Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s lips quirked, making it plain she hadn’t intended to be helpful. With the distraction of Ellen dealt with, she turned to Christopher.
Only to discover he was reaching to relieve Ellen of her now-empty plate. “Your aunt just signaled from the parlor—I believe she wishes to speak with you.”
“Oh, thank you.” Ellen watched him add her plate to his and deposit both on the tray of a footman he’d summoned with a look.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick blinked, faintly nonplussed.
“Permit me to escort you to your aunt.” Christopher offered Ellen his arm.
She took it and smiled easily at Mrs. Kirkpatrick, then at Mr. Denton. “Pray excuse us.”
With a nod to Mrs. Kirkpatrick and a curter one to Denton, Christopher bore Ellen away.
As he guided her into the parlor, she asked, “Is Aunt Emma really looking for me?”
“No,” he admitted, “but I’d had enough of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s company. I can bear with Denton for at least ten minutes, but the lady wears out her welcome remarkably rapidly.”
Ellen smiled.
In the drawing room, the dancing was starting up again, but only the younger guests were taking part in the country dance. Their elders were, by and large, sitting in the parlor, fanning themselves.
The drawing room had heated, and the parlor was almost as bad; even though the windows had been opened, there was not a breath of cool breeze to be had. Other couples had ventured onto the terrace, seeking relief in the moonlit night.
Christopher steered Ellen toward a spot by the parlor wall. “Reviewing our conversations, we’ve learned quite a lot. I’d like to revisit the facts and fix them in my mind.” The better to craft his report to Drake.
From her beaded reticule, Ellen extracted a fan, predictably composed of feathers tied with ribbon. She wielded it energetically. “It’s terribly warm in here.”
“And insufficiently private to risk a discussion of our observations.” He knew the house. He debated, then said, “There’s a small conservatory—we can reach it via the door in the corner.”
She looked at him—once again in that measuring way—then asked, “Does this conservatory have openable windows?”
“From memory, yes.”
“In that case”—she snapped her fan closed—“lead on.”
He guided her across the room, then lowered his arm, closed his hand around hers, opened the narrow secondary door, and led her through.
The short corridor beyond was unlit, but at its end, the door to the conservatory stood open, and silvery moonlight lit the space.
He shut the door behind them, then hand in hand, they walked on and into the conservatory—into blessedly cooler fresh air. The windows were open and, on this side of the house, caught a slight breeze. No lamps had been left burning, but the moonlight streaming through the glass panes of roof and walls provided more than enough illumination for their purpose.
As they strolled down the center aisle between rows of potted plants, Ellen looked down and observed, “The tiles must help to keep the place cool.”