know— and will be our prime informant. You
mentioned that funds were not greatly restricted?"
"Hire the chef out of Buckingham Palace if he can appear promptly."
Callie peeked up at him. The only overt signs that he was now a very wealthy lord were
his excellent carriage and elegant dress. He seemed to be traveling without pomp, or any
retinue beyond Jacques. She rather liked him for it, that he had not changed his ways on
regaining his family's riches and titles. Dolly had insisted on every point of ceremony
since her elevation to the Countess of Shelford. Cousin Jasper's vague indifference to the
dignity of his new title only seemed to goad his wife into greater concern for his position.
She made certain that the smallest mark of respect toward the earl should not be
overlooked.
It was a relief to escape, even for an hour, from the stifling atmosphere that had been
established at Shelford Hall. High form and etiquette always made Callie feel as if she
should consult Burke's Peerage to make certain her name was actually in it, and discover
how she ought to address herself in letters.
"I'll pass by the Antlers on my way back," she said, on a more comfortable subject,
"and have them send over a hot dinner by noon. That must suffice for now, but their
victuals are very plain, and I think it best to have a cook in the kitchen, so that Madame's
appetite can be tempted with more delicate fare."
"Thank you. I hadn't even thought of sending to the inn."
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go up and attend your mother and make her comfortable before
I go."
"Thank you, Callie." He pushed himself to his feet as she rose. "Thank you. I can't
believe—" He shook his head with a baffled sound. "Who are these chuckleheads who let
you slip out of their grasp?"
Callie was conscious of a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. "Hardly that. They were
made to pay handsomely for the privilege of relinquishing my hand, I assure you."
"So I should hope," he said. "Blackguards. Are you a great heiress, then?"
"Well, yes," she admitted. "At least, I suppose I am. After the last settlement—it does
tote up to a rather large sum."
"How much?" he asked bluntly.
She bent her head. "Eighty thousand," she said in a smothered voice.
"Good God."
"So you see," she said, lifting her face, "I'm hardly an object for compassion."
"May I make you the object of my violent and unrestrained ardor?" He made a motion
as if to loosen his neck cloth. "I'm a bit tired, but perfectly willing."
"My calling hours are from twelve to three, if you wish to importune me violently,"
Callie said, drop ping a quick curtsy. "But now I must see to your mother."
"Thank you." He gave a weary snort. "How many times have I said that? I'll try if I can
to achieve some originality when I've had more sleep."
She paused on her way to the door. She had meant only to say that he had no need to
thank her, but something in his tired smile made her touch his arm. "I'm so glad you've
come home," she said softly.
He stood still for a moment. Then abruptly he gripped her hand. "Oh God, I can't even
think how to tell you—" He seemed to hear the desperation in his own voice, and let go
of her with a rueful laugh. "Well. You'd better make your escape immediately, before you
find me pressing kisses to your feet. Or somewhere equally improper."
Callie ducked her head. She lifted her skirts and hurried up the steps out of the kitchen.
The fog still lay heavy when she reached the pasture, softening and obscuring the trees
and hedges. Hubert stood waiting at the gate, a dark shape in the mist. As she came to the
fence, he broke off his placid chewing and lifted his huge pink nose, snuff ling loudly in
expectation.
Callie pulled a loaf of stale bread from her basket. She stepped up on the rail. The bull
nosed gently, tickling her fingers, and took the bread on his long tongue. He curled it into
his mouth. Callie scratched his broad forehead while he chewed
mentioned that funds were not greatly restricted?"
"Hire the chef out of Buckingham Palace if he can appear promptly."
Callie peeked up at him. The only overt signs that he was now a very wealthy lord were
his excellent carriage and elegant dress. He seemed to be traveling without pomp, or any
retinue beyond Jacques. She rather liked him for it, that he had not changed his ways on
regaining his family's riches and titles. Dolly had insisted on every point of ceremony
since her elevation to the Countess of Shelford. Cousin Jasper's vague indifference to the
dignity of his new title only seemed to goad his wife into greater concern for his position.
She made certain that the smallest mark of respect toward the earl should not be
overlooked.
It was a relief to escape, even for an hour, from the stifling atmosphere that had been
established at Shelford Hall. High form and etiquette always made Callie feel as if she
should consult Burke's Peerage to make certain her name was actually in it, and discover
how she ought to address herself in letters.
"I'll pass by the Antlers on my way back," she said, on a more comfortable subject,
"and have them send over a hot dinner by noon. That must suffice for now, but their
victuals are very plain, and I think it best to have a cook in the kitchen, so that Madame's
appetite can be tempted with more delicate fare."
"Thank you. I hadn't even thought of sending to the inn."
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go up and attend your mother and make her comfortable before
I go."
"Thank you, Callie." He pushed himself to his feet as she rose. "Thank you. I can't
believe—" He shook his head with a baffled sound. "Who are these chuckleheads who let
you slip out of their grasp?"
Callie was conscious of a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. "Hardly that. They were
made to pay handsomely for the privilege of relinquishing my hand, I assure you."
"So I should hope," he said. "Blackguards. Are you a great heiress, then?"
"Well, yes," she admitted. "At least, I suppose I am. After the last settlement—it does
tote up to a rather large sum."
"How much?" he asked bluntly.
She bent her head. "Eighty thousand," she said in a smothered voice.
"Good God."
"So you see," she said, lifting her face, "I'm hardly an object for compassion."
"May I make you the object of my violent and unrestrained ardor?" He made a motion
as if to loosen his neck cloth. "I'm a bit tired, but perfectly willing."
"My calling hours are from twelve to three, if you wish to importune me violently,"
Callie said, drop ping a quick curtsy. "But now I must see to your mother."
"Thank you." He gave a weary snort. "How many times have I said that? I'll try if I can
to achieve some originality when I've had more sleep."
She paused on her way to the door. She had meant only to say that he had no need to
thank her, but something in his tired smile made her touch his arm. "I'm so glad you've
come home," she said softly.
He stood still for a moment. Then abruptly he gripped her hand. "Oh God, I can't even
think how to tell you—" He seemed to hear the desperation in his own voice, and let go
of her with a rueful laugh. "Well. You'd better make your escape immediately, before you
find me pressing kisses to your feet. Or somewhere equally improper."
Callie ducked her head. She lifted her skirts and hurried up the steps out of the kitchen.
The fog still lay heavy when she reached the pasture, softening and obscuring the trees
and hedges. Hubert stood waiting at the gate, a dark shape in the mist. As she came to the
fence, he broke off his placid chewing and lifted his huge pink nose, snuff ling loudly in
expectation.
Callie pulled a loaf of stale bread from her basket. She stepped up on the rail. The bull
nosed gently, tickling her fingers, and took the bread on his long tongue. He curled it into
his mouth. Callie scratched his broad forehead while he chewed
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