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Madame’s sharp elbow from speculation upon the cause of her cousin’s sudden interest in her wardrobe, and appalled by Madame’s misinterpretation of that interest, Lady Davenham gasped: “But I do not want—”
    “Zut!” hissed Madame, vowing to award Melly a proper trimming immediately after the showroom was cleared of customers. “Of course you do.”
    Malcolm rejoined them then, scrutinized Madame’s sketches. Covertly, Thea stared at him. Could the milliner be correct in her assumptions? Lady Davenham honestly did not know.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Despite Lady Davenham’s assurances that old on-dits would remain buried, Lord Davenham was even then discovering that the ancient scandal concerning Sir Malcolm Calveley had arisen moldering from its crypt. “What old tittle-tattle?” he inquired, somewhat plaintively, of the gentleman who sought to acquaint him with that distasteful fact. “I thought we were talking of growing plants without using soil, by feeding them on solutions of water and mineral salts. Are you quite sure you’re of sound mind, my dear James?”
    “As right as a trivet!” responded his lordship’s companion, a bluff and plain-spoken country squire. “Everybody is talking about it. I thought I should drop a hint or two. Never have I known such a person as you are for keeping yourself well wrapped in lamb’s woo.
    The perplexity that had appeared on Lord Davenham’s serenely handsome features, as result of his friend’s allusion to Sir Malcolm Calveley’s reprehensible history, magically cleared away. “Yes, let us talk of wool!” he responded enthusiastically. “Will you attend Coke’s clippings this July? What improvements the man has brought about in his flocks and harvests! I am promised for the Woburn sheep-shearings, under the auspices of Bedford, also. Tell me, James, which breed do you favor? Romney Marsh or Border Leicester?” He looked contemplative. “I have decided to revive the use of black-spotted Jacob sheep as ornamental lawn-mowers in my parks. It was such a charming custom. Legend has it that they first arrived in Britain after the defeat of the Armada—swimming ashore from the shattered galleons, you know!”
    “What I know is that you are attempting to pull the wool over my eyes.” The squire had been acquainted with Lord Davenham for the larger portion of his lifetime, and therefore knew that his lordship’s evasive manner stemmed from a sensitive nature and an innate desire for privacy. “I will not let you do so. It is ridiculous, in a man of your rank, to seclude yourself like a hermit—yes, and dangerous.”
    “A hermit, James?” Hermits did not ordinarily possess wives rumored to be running wild over other gentlemen, Lord Davenham reflected, as he responded to his friend’s ominous predictions with a gentle smile. “I am not so secluded as all that. Have we not just departed the spacious auditorium of the Royal Institution of London, where we listened to an erudite speculation upon the nature and propagation of light? Am I not even now walking with you down Fleet Street, en route to the Temple, on some legal errand of your own? You may note, James, that I have not inquired into the nature of that business.”
    “And you wish I would be similarly restrained,” deduced the squire, a short and portly individual with complexion of a ruddy outdoors hue, and a temperament that did not shilly-shally around a point. “I’m sorry I must disappoint you. If you won’t think of yourself, Vivien, at least think of your wife!”
    “My wife?” This advice caused a disquieting gleam to appear in his lordship’s eye. “You would do much better to stick to sheep, James. Or if you do not care for sheep, there are always turnips. Townsend recommends them highly as winter feed.”
    No one who did not love his lordship would ever attempt to engage him in a personal conversation, so much did he dislike them, but the squire knew where his duty lay. A man