It happened in the b
link of an eye; Reggie’s amiable, affable, completely unthreatening mask slid into place, admirably concealing any hint of purpose, any sense that he was there with any goal whatever in mind.
“Ah! Good afternoon. Is His Grace about?” Reggie set Anne’s hand on his arm and conducted her up the steps, airily chattering. “We’ve just been wandering the countryside—it’s been such a pleasant day. Met His Grace at m’parents—a dinner, you know—some time ago. The pater heard I was headed this way and asked me to call in and remember him to His Grace.”
They reached the porch, and the butler stood back to allow them to enter. Anne beamed at him and swept in. Reggie followed, still declaiming, “Quite wonderful, these old places. Gather m’father thought there might be something of news His Grace might wish me to bear home again.”
The butler bowed low. “Indeed, sir. And the name?”
Reggie smiled idiotically. “Oh, didn’t I say? It’s Carmarthen. Well, that’s my name, but the pater’s Northcote, don’t you know.”
Anne smiled sweetly. To give the butler his due, he merely bowed again.
“I shall inquire if His Grace is available, sir. If you and Miss…?”
“Ashford,” Reggie supplied.
“If you will wait in the withdrawing room I will inquire of His Grace.”
The butler showed them into the drawing room, then shut the door. Reggie immediately halted. “No footmen in the hall, thank heavens!”
Gripping Anne’s arm, he swung back to the door. “Stay close.” With that whispered injunction, he eased the door open again.
The butler was just disappearing into the mouth of a corridor leading from the main hall.
Reggie whipped out of the drawing room, anchored Anne’s hand on his sleeve, then stepped out, strolling quickly and all but silently in the butler’s wake. Any footman who chanced to see them would assume they’d been summoned to His Grace’s presence.
They hung back far enough for the butler to remain unaware of them; accustomed to guests of quality and their rigid adherence to accepted rules, it would never occur to him that they might flout them and follow.
The butler went to a door, opened it, and entered.
Reggie halted just before the doorway; they listened.
“Your Grace, there are two persons—”
Reggie’s mask slid away; jaw firming, he stepped into the doorway, then strode into the large room beyond.
The butler, facing the area before a huge fire place in which a healthy blaze crackled and roared, did not immediately see them.
His Grace of Portsmouth, a massive figure with a wild mane of startlingly white hair and a heavy face that despite the lines of age still bore the unmistakable Caverlock features, seated in a large wing chair to one side of the hearth, did.
As did the two boys, slumped like tired puppies on the rug before the fire; they’d been poring over a large book, turning the heavy pages, but had looked up at the butler’s words.
Their faces were so alike—nearly identical; their coloring was stunningly similar.
One face remained merely curious, wide, dark eyes fixed on them.
The other face—Benjy’s face—lit with a smile.
“Miss Ashford!”
He scrambled to his feet as the butler swung around with an audible gasp. The butler took a step toward them, raising his arms as if to shoo them back, but Benjy held out a hand. “No, Cooper. They’re my friends.”
Benjy stepped forward, his delight dissolving into uncertainty, his gaze fixing on Anne’s face. “I know it wasn’t right to go off like that.” He glanced sideways at Portsmouth. “I did say as you’d be worried, but you see he’s my granddad, and he said as I should come and live here with Neville, and learn to be a Caverlock. That’s my surname, he says. He did say we’d send a message…”
He stopped, clearly fighting the urge to look to his newfound grandsire for assistance; he swallowed and fixed Anne with a beseeching look. “Is that all right then? Can I come here and live with my grandfather?”
Anne had kept her face blank, unwilling to react until she knew and understood. Now she relaxed, and beamed, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course, you can, Benjy—of course.”