Page 19
Baines glanced down. “Ah. I wondered why you were all staring at me.”
“You are losing.”
“I prefer to establish false confidence.”
Cranford laughed. “You army men cannot admit defeat in anything.”
“On the contrary. We admit defeat constantly. We merely rename it strategic withdrawal.” He took the shot and deliberately missed by an inch. Pembroke applauded. People spoke freely when they believed themselves more intelligent than the man beside them. He had cultivated that advantage for years.
A servant entered and murmured something to Edward. Edward groaned.
“What is the trouble?”
“Lady Dunsmore has discovered mud upon her spaniels and is in hysterics.”
“Can the grooms not deal with them?” Baines asked.
“They have taken a dislike of everyone but me, it seems,” Edward answered as he surrendered his cue. “Judith will murder someone before dinner.”
Cranford grinned. “Your cousin is terrifying.”
“She likes you.”
“Good God.”
“That was my reaction.”
Baines glanced between them. “How does one determine Miss Finch’s affection?”
Edward considered. “She stops correcting you.”
Pembroke shook his head. “Nonsense. She corrects everyone.”
“Yes, but if she likes you, she looks disappointed whilst doing it.”
Baines laughed. “Does she ever leave Blackthorn?” he asked casually.
Edward’s expression changed slightly. “Not often beyond the village.”
“Why?”
The answer came from Pembroke. “Because Sir Lionel would be bankrupt by Michaelmas.”
Cranford chuckled. Edward did not. “She has had opportunities,” Edward said. “She prefers it here.” There was defence in the words.
Baines inclined his head. “I can see why.”
For all its disorder, Blackthorn possessed life. Noise moved through every room. Doors opened and closed. Dogs appeared everywhere underfoot. Guests quarrelled and broke ornaments. In a quieter house, Miss Finch’s usefulness might have diminished. Perhaps she liked being necessary.
From the billiard room he went to the drawing room where he was introduced to Lady Stanhope. She was a tiny widow of nearly sixty, all white curls, sharp black eyes, and expensive shawls, with the fragile appearance of a porcelain shepherdess and none of the disposition. A Cumberland woman by birth, she had survived one husband, three sons, and forty years of Society without learning to lower her voice.
Next to her was Lady Dunsmore, who sat near the window surrounded by embroidery and grievances. Lady Dunsmore was a compact, comfortably plump Scotswoman in her middle fifties, with iron-grey threaded through dark hair and bright blue eyes.
The drawing room suited her theatricality: pale blue silk covered the walls, gilt-legged sofas gathered around a white marble hearth, and tall windows overlooked the east lawn between curtains heavy enough to repel both draughts and artillery.
Within five minutes Baines had learned that she distrusted the government, English weather, London doctors, Whig politicians, Highland merchants, Lowland whisky, French fashions, Irish servants, and boiled potatoes. He also learned that she kept absolutely nothing in confidence because she had never encountered a confidence she could resist repeating.
The probability of her being the source of organized intelligence exchange was low.
