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“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked indignantly.

“It means that there are other ways to find information about me, at least ones that you can finally trust,” he said. “Also, hopping from one house to another is terribly inefficient. Louis is one of your better choices, but he is one man, and I can tell you were not entirely convinced by what he said. “The best thing you can do is to attend the village fete at the end of the week. Nearly everyone who has ever served either of our families will be there. You can interrogate half the county at once. Is that not what you want, Lady Rosamund?”

Rosamund narrowed her eyes at him, lines forming between her brows. “Why would you offer me that opportunity, Your Grace? Is this still a game?”

“No. It is not, Lady Rosamund,” he said firmly. “I merely prefer efficient enemies.”

Rosamund held his gaze. Something stirred in his chest at the sight of her looking at him like that.

“Very well, Your Grace. I will attend the fete.”

Twelve

“Is trying on three different gowns a part of your strategy against your enemy, Rosamund?” Alice asked from the doorway.

Rosamund whirled around, the green silk dress still halfway to being removed for yet another dress, the lavender muslin on the chair. Meanwhile, a pink dress lay on the floor. She finally wondered if she had not taken good care of her dresses. There was not much money beyond the amount she still kept in the event the Duke finally agreed to sell Ashbourne Hall.

“I am not planning an invasion wherein I would be crawling into ditches.” Rosamund countered. I am attending a fete. I believe that there is a huge difference.”

“Oh, is there?” Alice pressed, folding her arms across her chest while her mouth twitched in amusement. “From what I know, the village people do not truly care about what you wear, and you also do not care about what they think about your dresses. If you are dressing for someone else, then should I dare say it would be a tall man with a grand title, a lot of coin, and an estate you want to claim?”

“People will be watching me as the disgruntled former owner, Alice. Do you truly want me to look shabby?” Rosamund asked. “The Duke suggested that I attend the village fete so that I can efficiently gather information from the estate workers and tenants. I intend to gain their respect.”

“Gain their respect, intimidate the workers, or ensure His Grace notices you?” Alice teased.

Even as she scrambled to zip herself into the green dress, she grumbled, “Be quiet, Alice.”

“I am merely observing a very interesting battlefield,” Alice said, with a smirk.

The parish green at the Ashbourne estate was already full of color and motion when Rosamund and Alice arrived. Rosamund inhaled the scent of fresh grass, roses, savory meats, and buttery buns, and she shivered with delight. She did not actually believe that she would enjoy the fete from the very beginning of her experience. It must be because she still felt like a huge part of the estate. Or perhaps the sense of anticipation she felt came with something else.

“Lady Rosamund!”

She was strolling peacefully with Alice when someone called her name. It was followed by a crack. She turned to see a table giving way as its leg snapped from its rotten wood and the heavy weight of vases of various flowers. A few villagers screamed in shock as vases shattered and flowers fell into the mud.

“Oh, let us try to save some of the other jars, Alice! Mrs. Higgins! We can also grab the roses to set elsewhere!” Rosamund cried, already running toward the source of the commotion. She grabbed some of the flowers by the stems. The flowers should not stay on the ground lest they be trampled.

“Bless you, Lady Rosamund, and your quick thinking!” the older woman gasped. Her breath was coming in pants. “I told Lionel that it would not hold.

“It is not the end of the world, though,” Rosamund laughed. “Timmy! Andy! Come and bring two empty crates. You will likely find some from behind the baker’s wagon. Let us hurry now!”

The boys seemed very eager to be part of the thrill. Soon, Rosamund, Alice, and the boys had crated a makeshift bench from the wooden crates. They covered it with a linen cloth and reassembled the floral display on top.

“Thank you, boys!” Rosamund said.

“We are happy to help, my lady,” Andy said with a grin.

The rest of the day was fruitful and busy, and made her forget about what she was supposed to do at the fete: ask questions. Young John Foster started weeping when his toy soldier lost its little sword. Rosamund took it upon herself to search the grass for it. When she found it, she wiped it clean for the little boy.

Then, when elderly Mrs. Huntington, who had sold spiced jam preserves at the fete since Rosamund was little, sat in a corner, crying, Rosamund approached her.

“Mrs. Huntington, what happened?” Rosamund asked.

“My daughter has fallen ill,” the old woman lamented.

“Go home to your daughter,” Rosamund said, gently taking the woman’s coin purse and tying it round her own waist. “I know how your preserves cost. I can sell them for you. I know that the honeyed ones are the most expensive, but also the most purchased. Go home now. I promise that I will sell everything for you.”

True enough, Rosamund was able to sell all the preserves before the fete was even over. For the first time in a long time, the grief in her chest was beginning to unknot. But good things often come to an abrupt end.