Helen looked out of the window and wished to be anywhere else in the world.
The two-hour journey to the Hart by road had never seemed longer, but at last, the Marshalls’ carriage turned into the inn yard, and Helen breathed a sigh of relief. She wondered if she could persuade the Marshalls to stay here rather than Audley Park and suspected Lord and Lady Overton would be grateful if she did.
Any hopes Helen harbored of being able to warn Anne and the Robinovs in advance of the Marshalls’ appearance were swiftly dashed. They strode into the inn first, and instead of sending in cards or asking if Mrs. Robinov could receive them, Philip simply commanded Lily to take him at once to Mrs. Robinov or Sir Marcus Dain.
“Sir Marcus is out, sir,” Lily informed him. “But Mrs. Robinov is in the parlor. If you—”
“Take us there immediately,” Philip interrupted, and Lily, with a quick glance at Helen, obeyed.
However, either Philip’s voice had been recognized, or they had already been seen from the windows, for when Lily knocked and opened the door, everyone looked as if they were on stage.
Anne stood facing the door, flanked by Kenneth and a rather pale Carla. Although trying to look defiant, she was quite clearly scared.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, ma’am. And Miss Milsom,” Lily announced and effaced herself.
Nearer the fire, Mrs. Robinov rose from her chair, smiling pleasantly as she came to meet them, her hand held out. “How delightful! I have been longing to thank you for the loan of your charming daughter, who has been keeping mine company these few days. I am Dorothea Robinov.”
The Marshalls, both slightly taken aback by the widow’s confident welcome, shook hands with her.
“Thank you for looking after her,” Philip said loftily. “Well, Anne? Have you no words of welcome for your parents?”
“Papa. Mama.” Anne bobbed a curtsey and came forward warily to kiss the cheeks of each. “These are my friends, Mr. and Miss Robinov.”
“How do you do.” Philip spared them a mere glance, his wife not even that much. She was looking at the elegant Turkish rug before the fire. It had not been there on Helen’s last visit and looked too fine to belong to the inn.
“Please sit down,” Mrs. Robinov invited. “Will you have tea?”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said. “We hoped to see Sir Marcus, too.”
“He went riding,” Mrs. Robinov told her. “He does not like to be cooped up.”
Mrs. Marshall’s smile was not quite pleasant. Helen, hating the tension that seemed to follow in the Marshalls’ wake, offered to ask Lily for tea.
When she returned, Anne seemed to have found her courage. She sat on the sofa, flanked once more by Kenneth and Carla, who perhaps lent her the strength to make easier conversation with her parents.
“I expect Sir Marcus was astonished to see you here,” Philip remarked.
“I expect so. I was surprised to see him, too, but I didn’t know then that he was the great friend Mrs. Robinov was waiting here for! Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Certainly,” Phoebe agreed.
They had almost finished tea, and Helen had begun to think about returning to Audley Park, when she heard Sir Marcus’s voice somewhere in the inn. He was only making some casual, bantering remark, presumably to one of the Villins, but something in the timbre of his voice seemed to vibrate through her, so that she was almost holding her breath when he finally came in.
The Villins, clearly, had warned him about the visitors, for he looked neither surprised nor appalled as he walked in, bowed to the room at large, and shook hands with Philip and Phoebe.
He turned to Helen, a faint smile in his eyes that melted her bones. But before he could speak, Phoebe said archly, “I hear you have been my girl’s chief protector these last few days!”
Kenneth narrowed his eyes, which was interesting. But Sir Marcus merely raised one eyebrow. “I cannot claim such an honor. It’s Dorothea and Kenneth who provide such protection as is necessary! But I’m very glad to get to know Miss Marshall a little better.”
“Will you have tea, Marcus?” Dorothea asked calmly. “The pot is empty, but Lily will bring more.”
“No, I’m fine without,” Sir Marcus said cheerfully. “So, what is your plan, Marshall? Are you putting up here? I’ll have to inflict myself on Kenneth’s privacy if you do!”
“Oh, no, we are the guests of Lord and Lady Overton,” Phoebe replied for him.
“I see. Then do you take Anne with you?”
“Oh, no,” Anne protested with an alarm that hardly flattered the Overtons’ hospitality. “That is, I am quite comfortable here, and Carla is not quite well.”
Her mother laughed. “Naughty puss! I see you have hundreds of excuses lined up to sway me. Well, as long as Mrs. Robinov is here and happy with your company…”
As long as Sir Marcus Dain is here, Helen corrected wryly.
Rising from her quiet corner of the room, she took a letter from her shabby reticule and crossed to give it to Mrs. Robinov. “Lady Overton wished me to pass on her regards and her hope that you will join her for dinner tomorrow evening. With your family, of course, and Miss Marshall.”
“Am I not invited?” Sir Marcus asked lightly.
“I imagine you are, sir, but I have not read the letter.”
“Of course you are,” Phoebe declared. “Dear Lady Overton distinctly mentioned you to me.”
“Please thank her ladyship for her kindness,” Mrs. Robinov said to Helen. “And tell her I shall send up a note tomorrow morning. Does this mean you are about to depart?”
“It is getting dark,” Helen pointed out. “And we are expected for dinner. Thank you for tea.”
The Marshalls, who had clearly planned to stay longer in order to indulge in a bit more heavy-handed matchmaking, could only rise and follow her, although neither of them seemed very pleased to be doing so. Sir Marcus caught her eye with a faint, crooked smile that seemed to both understand and admire her achievement in removing them.
But Philip had the last word. “Come early tomorrow,” he invited. “I shall paint you!”
*
Philip was as good as his word. Without even asking the permission of his hosts, he took over the ground floor reception room that looked onto the terrace and the lawn, and set up his easel and paints.
Lord Overton went out on estate business and then shut himself in his study until almost dinner time.
Lady Overton worried about paint spilling on the refurbished floor.
The children were fascinated, but when they wandered in with Helen on their way for a walk, they were told sharply not to touch anything.
“Will you paint us?” Horatio asked eagerly, peering from a distance at Philip’s half-painted landscape. It was rather good, Helen had to admit, although she wasn’t sure his talent had grown much in the ten years since she had last seen his work.
“No,” Philip said crossly. “I don’t paint children.” He paused frowning, looking from them to Helen. “Although I suppose I might do a group of you with your governess. What do you say, Helen?”
“No, I thank you,” Helen said at once. “I am not paid to sit for portraits. Come, children, let’s go out. Richard is waiting for us.”