Page 51 of The Lady Knows Best

With a laugh, Alistair whacked his book against Miles’s knee. “I suspect at least one will. Whether it’s the one you’re hoping for remains to be seen, old chap.”

The coach rattled along the gravel drive as it curved between the house and a terraced garden that sloped down to a close-cropped green lawn. The garden was full of roses, a profusion of varieties that would have done the Duchess of Raynham proud. Or perhaps the dowager duchess, he corrected himself, thinking of what Daphne had said about her sister Erica, who was probably not interested in such mundane matters as a flower’s color or scent. Even just passing by with the carriage windows closed, he could catch the roses’ perfume on the air.

Miles leaned forward and reached behind Alistair to slide open the panel that permitted communication with the driver. “Straight to the carriage house, John. We’ll sneak in,” he added with a wink to Alistair.

“Very good, my lord.”

Alistair mouthed the words thank you. Entering the house through the front, where more roses had been trained to grow up the columns supporting the pediment, would have left him in stuffy-nosed, red-eyed agony.

So they entered instead through the oldest part of the house, past the gun room, the still room, the steward’s office. It meant risking seeing the occasional footman out of livery, but it was, after all, Miles’s house, and Alistair was such an old friend he was almost as much at home here as Miles himself.

After a bit of wending and winding, a detour through the kitchen where Cook pretended to squawk when they stole a couple of hand pies, and finally startling a parlor maid who dropped a tin of beeswax on the floor in an awful clatter, they found themselves in the entry hall.

Out of habit, Miles looked up. The high ceilings were adorned with scenes from the twelve labors of Hercules, and he’d always been fascinated by them. Was it vulgar to be enamored of one’s own house? Alistair was watching him with an odd expression.

Miles didn’t really care what anyone else thought. Well, perhaps one person.

“At least I didn’t sing,” he reminded his friend. “Yet.”

The acoustics in the space were magnificent, as he’d proven many times, most infamously by bellowing out a naughty ditty he’d learned in the village pub at sixteen and rousing his grandmother from a sound sleep.

“My lord,” cried the butler, approaching at a brisk pace. “How delightful to see you at Lyneham again—though a bit earlier than expected.” He and Alistair shared a knowing glance.

“We made surprisingly good time, Frost,” explained Alistair, who had still been at his coffee and toast when Miles’s coach had drawn up—for once, just when he’d said he would arrive.

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir. Shall I see to your things?”

“Thank you, Frost,” said Miles. “Put Lord Ryland’s in the usual place, if you please”—which was to say, the nicest bedchamber not overlooking the rose garden. “And as I said in my message, I’m expecting a few more guests. Still can’t say how many, I’m afraid. Or just when they’ll arrive.”

Frost took the news in stride. “We’ll be ready whenever they do, my lord.”

“The very best rooms,” he insisted, then winced at his own eagerness.

“Of course, sir.”

Before Frost could turn to leave, Miles lifted an enquiring brow.

“She’s in the winter parlor, my lord.”

“Naturally,” Miles said with a nod. “The light, I suppose?”

“Just so, my lord.”

“Off you go, then.” He dismissed the butler with a wave of his hand as he turned toward the staircase.

Alistair hung back a step. “If you’d rather, I could—”

“Nonsense. She’ll be thrilled to see you.”

They ascended the stairs together, without further conversation. That was one of the advantages of old friends, those who understood things with no need for words—and just as well, because the thoughts tumbling through Miles’s head frequently seemed reluctant to be formed into sentences.

The winter parlor was a small sitting room on the second floor, with southerly facing windows designed to catch the light during the bleakest months of the year. On a midsummer day, with no heavy draperies to obscure the wall of glass overlooking the rose garden, it was almost too bright, and stuffy to the point of being too warm.

A maidservant sat unobtrusively in a straight-backed chair near the door and would have risen when Miles entered, but he gestured her back to her seat.

He had no difficulty finding what he sought, the frail, black-garbed figure positioned in a softer chair, a blanket over her lap, her chin on her chest, her back to the view. Still, he hesitated for a moment, reluctant to disturb her rest.

Alistair broke the silence by sneezing. Belatedly, Miles realized there were at least three large vases of flowers scattered about the room.