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In the other wing chair, sat Martin’s wife Kit busy drawing. To be precise, she was sketching him. She had told Robbie he must submit since his older brothers had been quick to give their consent.

“I drew Emily and the countess before you arrived in the parlor. It’s my thought to sketch everyone before we return to London and give the sketches to William and Emily as a remembrance of our visit.”

“A thoughtful gift,” said Robbie. Considering Kit’s talent, known to everyone in the family, it was an exceptional gift.

Her pencil made faint scratching noises as she worked, her blue eyes darting between the sketchbook and him.

“You have an interesting face, Robbie.”

“You have guessed right.”

“I did not guess.” Her upturned nose rose a bit higher. “You must remember, I have observed you and Nash on other occasions, enough to be pretty certain it was you. There is much more to you than appears at first glance. Your face speaks to me of your own character, different than Nash’s.”

“But Nash and I are just alike,” he protested, hoping Martin’s talented wife did not see too much. “Even our mother has trouble telling us apart.”

“Perhaps under some circumstances, I, too, would have difficulty.” She paused to incline her head while carefully regarding him, then resumed her sketching. “An artist notices small differences others might miss. I often see people as animals.”

“Do you?”

“For example, I see you as a playful otter, while Nash, to me, is the silent jungle cat, more dangerous than he might appear at first.”

“Perhaps beneath the otter is a lion.”

She laughed. “Oh yes, I see that, too.”

Robbie hoped others did not observe all his sister-in-law saw. He and Nash staked their lives upon the fact people could not tell them apart.

An aged hand rested on his shoulder. Robbie looked up to see the silver-haired Lady Claremont, peering at him through her quizzing glass. On her face was a sober expression. He felt like an insect under a magnifying glass.

She straightened, dropping her glass. “You do wear a mask, young man. A charming one, I grant you, but still a mask.”

“See?” said Kit. “I am not the only one who sees the otter before the lion.”

Robbie held his tongue, afraid anything he might say would speak of hidden truths.

“Mark my words,” the countess went on, “I know your type well. You will be snatched from your bachelor state in the wink of an eye.” Then she gave out a “Humph” and muttered, “A rogue seldom sees his fate coming.”

He grinned and tried to make light of it. “Who am I to argue with The Grand Countess?”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Very wise, Mr. Powell.”

“Would you care to sit down? I would happily give you my chair.”

“No, thank you. I am tired of sitting.” Her head swiveled toward the door. Robbie’s gaze followed. “Ah, the mighty hunters return,” she announced.

Kit set her sketchbook and pencils on the table where her glass of sherry rested and stood. “I’ll finish this later.”

Robbie got to his feet to welcome the hunters back. They came toward the fireplace, reaching their hands toward the flames. “How was it?” he asked Ormond.

Hugh rubbed his hands together. “Cold enough to freeze fire.”

“Not for a Scot,” replied William, looking askance at his friend. “I can see the comforts of London have made you soft.”

“We shall see about that, my friend,” Hugh tossed back. “Our time together has only begun.”

Kit kissed Martin on his cheek. “Welcome home.”

“I missed you, Kitten.” He drew her into his arms. “You’re warm.”