Bradley wasn’t his usual effusive self. They’d hardly seen him throughout the afternoon; Susan suspected he’d lost money on his wagers.
Emma remarked she’d found the experience interesting and fun but uninspiring.
Rebecca was clearly exhausted and looked like she might nod off into the dish of sponge pudding and custard served as the sweet.
After they retired to their room, Susan and her niece continued their whispered chattering long after Rebecca had fallen asleep. Susan confided that she’d placed bets through Oscar and won five guineas.
“Five guineas,” Patsy exclaimed.
“Shhh,” Susan replied. “Our secret.”
Patsy’s grin was the last thing Susan saw before blowing out the candle.
*
Lounging in acomfortable leather armchair in Baron Whiteside’s study, savoring the aroma of an after-dinner cigar, Griff relaxed and blew out a series of perfect smoke rings. “An excellent meal,” he told his host. “I’m grateful not to be stuck at the inn.”
“I’m glad of the company, and the opportunity for good conversation,” the baron replied.
Having listened to Whiteside’s daughter prattle on throughout the meal about one of Handel’s lesser-known operas, Griff understood. He hoped his dismay hadn’t been obvious each time Anthea Coleman-Springer launched into an off-key rendition of the libretto of the plot she’d explained in great detail.
Anthea’s only other topic of conversation was her infant daughter’s apparently astonishing vocal ability. Griff was assured the little girl would, in the very near future, be recognized throughout Lancashire as a musical prodigy. He doubted that would turn out to be true if the child was as incapable of hitting a note as her mother.
Anthea’s husband, whose given name Griff had already forgotten, hadn’t said a word all evening. He sat across from Griff, coughing loudly after attempting unsuccessfully to blow smoke rings.
Bertrand Coleman’s pear-shaped wife had beamed at every word her daughter uttered, clapping pudgy hands enthusiastically after each musical interlude. Griff could only assume the woman had a tin ear.
Reluctant to bring up a worrisome topic at the table, Griff decided now was as good a time as any while the ladies were in the drawing room. Still intent on contorting his mouth into ineffectual ring-blowing shapes, Springer didn’t appear to be listening. “So, Bertrand, the beggar at the inn. You knew her.”
As he’d expected, Springer carried on with his failed mimicry, but the baron stiffened. The brandy he’d been sipping suddenly disappeared in one gulp. “Yes. Tillie,” he replied gruffly.
It was the first time Griff had seen the baron with anything other than a jovial expression on his face. Had he been the sort of chap who paid heed to inner, warning voices, he’d have let the matter drop. “I find it unusual. That you would know her name.”
“There was a spot of bother,” Bertrand replied, his jaw clenched. “She used to be a maid at Thicketford.”
Interesting.
Leather squeaked when the baron shifted his weight. “She’s an inmate at the poorhouse now.”
Again, curiosity got the better of Griff. “And where did she dredge up the temerity to approach you?”
Bertrand heaved a sigh and stared into the bottom of his empty glass. “My son was to blame for her downfall,” he said, his voice cracking. “I confess I give her the token coin now and then.”
Griff finally heard the alarm bells and remained silent. He’d assumed Anthea was the baron’s only child.
Whiteside sipped his brandy. “I had to send Arthur to Jamaica. My brother owns a plantation there. He’s getting my son back on the right track, teaching him self-discipline, which I freely admit I failed to do.”
Obviously, there was more to this story, and it involved a former member of the Earl of Farnworth’s staff. Griff wanted to learn as much as he could about the family at Thicketford Manor but, clearly, the conversation was getting bogged down in shifting sands. He tried another tack. “I met Lady Susan recently.”
The temptation to slap some sense into his own head was powerful. Why had he begun with that? He certainly didn’t want the topic of the trial to arise.
However, Coleman brightened. “Wonderful girl. Watched her grow up. Thought at one point she and Arthur…well, never mind that. Water under the bridge. I was sorry to see her leave.”
“She left?”
“Moved to Somerset. Her late father drove her out. He refused to allow a young woman living under his roof to be involved in, well, anything other than looking for a husband, and sewing.”
From what little Griff remembered of the conservative Matthew Crompton at Eton, he’d clearly been a chip off the old block. “But she’s back now. For good?”