Page 13 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Did you have anything to do with his absence, Captain Ardleigh?”
“In point of fact, I met him last night in the taproom of the inn and we made an engagement to go riding this morning. Capital fellow and quite hardy. Still in his forties. His father lived to be eighty. Not old enough for your plans, my dear.”
An angry pulse thrummed in her head. “I see. Well then.” She pushed at his hands, and he quickly released her, tucking her fingers over his arm.
“You look positively blooming today, Petal,” he said.
If she had her parasol in hand, she would beat him to within an inch of his life.
She mustered a breath and said, “Thank you.”
The front door of the vicarage stood open. She pulled her arm from his and hurried along behind Dulcinea and Cora to the drawing room. While a manservant announced them, the people gathered there rose. The soberly dressed man must be the vicar. A woman of middling years eyed them, and a petite, dark-haired younger woman of perhaps thirty set a toddler in skirts onto the floor before standing.
Fair-haired and blue-eyed, the child looked up with the face of an angel, and then quickly dropped to his knees on the Aubusson carpet and crawled over to a scattered set of blocks.
Mr. Owen greeted Cora and introductions were made.
The French nanny, Miss Du Plessac, watched the boy as he played, looking ready to jump up and protect him. Her gown, though of good quality, was of a style more out of date than those in Fleur’s wardrobe. Where on earth had the vicar found her?
“Mr. Owen,” Dulcinea said, “you and I have met before when you visited my cousin Mr. Quidenham. He was kind enough to invite me to live with him after my husband died.”
“Quidenham was a great correspondent of mine. We shared an interest in St. Paul’s travels in Greece. I was very sorry to hear of his passing. Will you be staying in Reabridge for long?”
“We shall see,” Dulcinea said. “For now, we’re abiding with Mrs. Bicton-Morledge. She’s just learned of the presence of young Sam. As you can imagine, we’re here on her behalf.”
“For what purpose?” Miss du Pessac’s back stiffened and her sharp little chin came up. Cora’s mouth dropped open, and the vicar opened his mouth to speak, but Fleur jumped in first.
“Her daughter, Phyllis Bicton-Morledge, followed the drum,” she said, “and the family hasn’t heard from her since she left three years ago. Sam may be Mrs. Bicton-Morledge’s grandson. Cora might be his aunt.”
The French woman’s terse nod was not a friendly one.
The vicar told them about Sam’s arrival in Reabridge with an English couple and repeated the story Mr. Sherington had shared with him.
“Mademoiselle,” Gareth said, turning the full force of his charm on the French nursemaid, “Mr. Owen. Is it possible for Cora to see the miniatures of the couple believed to be the child’s parents?”
The vicar retrieved a large locket from the mantel, opened it, and handed it to Cora.
“Oh.” Cora’s gaze traveled around the room ending at Fleur. “She looks more like you, Fleur, and Phyllis’s husband looks nothing like this.”
In that moment Sam, wide-eyed and curious appeared at Fleur’s knee and presented her a block. Her heart did a flip, and the wobbly smile on the little face drew a smile out of her. “Thank you, Sam,” she said.
“De rien,” Miss du Pessac said coaxingly, reaching for the boy and drawing him up onto her lap. “He speaks some English but will understand better if you speak French.”
You’re not teaching him English?She closed her mouth on the words, remembering the fear and uncertainty she saw behind the child’s smile. No need to stir trouble, at least not in the little boy’s presence.
Gareth jumped in, conversing easily with Miss du Pessac, so easily he was almost flirting, while Fleur battled her rising irritation.
CHAPTERFIVE
As Gareth escorted the ladies to their gig, Mr. Sherington passed by and hailed them from the window of his carriage. Chuckling, Gareth saluted.
It was astounding how quickly Sherington had discarded his Bath chair. Either Fleur or Lady Ixworth—and Gareth’s money was on the latter—had raised George Sherington from his funk.
In fact, today Sherington insisted on taking the older lady up into his more comfortable equipage, promising to convey her back to Bicton Grange while the younger ones shopped.
“What a lucky thing that Mr. Sherington came along, and Cora met up with a friend equally enthusiastic about ribbons.” They’d tied up the gig and his horse and were strolling the market square. “I’m rather glad you and I have this time alone together,” he added, squashing a smile.
He was alone with an even more silent than usual Fleur.
