Page 17
It was intolerably engaging. Fortunately, her other attractions were easier to dismiss. Her gown had been practical to the point of insult, some sober shade of blue chosen, he suspected, because it concealed ink, dust, and the consequence of managing fools. Her figure was neatly made, though she seemed determined that no one should notice it, and her chestnut hair might have been quite remarkable had she not imprisoned it beneath the most hideous cap Baines had seen outside a military hospital.
This object was not merely plain. It appeared to have been designed as punishment. One could only assume she wore it deliberately to discourage admiration.
He thought again of her eyes.
Miss Finch was irrelevant except insofar as she knew the household better than anyone else, remembered every guest, and had already investigated a new footman without being asked.
Nothing more than useful.
Sir Lionel cleared his throat. Baines looked back at him.
“You have gone suspiciously quiet, Major.”
“I was thinking.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
He rose and crossed to the window. The rain had eased slightly, leaving the west lawn dark and shining beneath a low sky. Beyond the clipped grass, the country rolled towards the Scottish border, beautiful in the severe northern way that made southern gentlemen speak admiringly for ten minutes before complaining about the cold.
Somewhere among these houses, roads, gatherings, and apparently endless dinners, information was moving. It was not who shouted most loudly about reform, nor who held radical opinions. The interesting person was the one who listened. Baines knew that species because he belonged to it.
“May I wander?” he asked.
Sir Lionel looked alarmed. “About the house?”
“I generally find houses easier to understand when one knows where the doors lead.”
“You sound like Judith.”
“Then I withdraw the request.”
“Go where you please. Everyone else does.”
Baines glanced back. “That may explain several of your difficulties.”
“Almost certainly.”
He took his leave. The corridor outside the study was empty.
To his right lay the library and principal reception rooms. To his left, a narrower passage ran towards the older part of Blackthorn, where uneven stone walls and doors of varying heights betrayed the house’s medieval origins beneath later improvements.
One never learned anything useful by going where one was expected. He chose left. The first person he encountered was a maid carrying an armful of linen almost as high as her chin.
Baines stepped aside. “Good morning.”
She nearly dropped the entire load in her effort to curtsy. “Sir.”
“I beg your pardon. I had no intention of attacking you with civility.”
The maid stared at him uncertainly. “I am looking for the billiard room.”
“It is the other way, sir.”
“Excellent. Then I am making splendid progress.”
A smile escaped her despite herself. “Down the main corridor, sir, then left after the gallery.”
“Thank you. You have saved me from wandering into Scotland.”
