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“Where is Lord Cranford?”

“In the breakfast room.”

“Why?”

“He says he missed breakfast.”

“He ate two hours ago.”

“Yes, miss.”

Judith opened her eyes and looked at Baines. “You see what I endure, Major?”

“I do.”

“And you still consider Blackthorn entertaining?”

“I find it increasingly so.”

She gave him a suspicious look and walked away with Simmons. Baines watched until she disappeared through the doorway. Then he turned slowly towards the rain-darkened windows.

Renforth had given him three days before Miss Finch saw through him, yet ‘twas only a few hours. The Colonel was becoming disgracefully optimistic. More troubling, though, was what Baines had seen in return.

Miss Judith Finch knew far too much about the circumstances surrounding the disclosures, had already conducted inquiries of her own, and stood in the centre of Blackthorn’s household machinery with access no stranger could hope to equal. That did not make her guilty. It did, however, make her interesting.

He looked towards the doorway through which she had vanished. His assignment had begun with a house full of suspects.

Lord Cranford knew too much military gossip. Lady Beckenham knew Renforth and had tested him almost immediately. Mr. Pembroke was politically sympathetic but too careless to conceal his breakfast, let alone a conspiracy. Lady Dunsmore could transport information across counties merely by speaking continuously. Edward Finch was protective of Judith and possibly more observant than he pretended. Sir Lionel himself allowed dangerous conversation beneath his roof with the enthusiasm of a man lighting candles in a powder magazine. Then there was Miss Finch, competent, guarded, quick-witted Miss Finch, with her dreadful caps and captivating eyes.

Baines smiled to himself. He had been sent north to discover how information moved through Blackthorn Hall. He rather suspected the more difficult question would be discovering what Judith Finch knew about it.

CHAPTER 4

Only two hours, Judith thought with considerable disgust, and she had already succumbed to one of his smiles. It was mortifying.

She had spent six-and-twenty years developing what she considered a perfectly sound resistance to handsome gentlemen, idle compliments, and men who believed a well-timed lift of an eyebrow sufficient recompense for being troublesome. She had survived eight Seasons’ worth of her uncle’s guests, two determined widowers, one poet, an Italian count whose title had later proved questionable, and Lord Cranford’s sustained attentions during an entire fortnight without once mistaking charm for character.

Then Major Baines had arrived at Blackthorn Hall and made her laugh before luncheon.

Judith closed the door of her bedchamber behind her and leaned against it for a moment, staring across the room as though the offending gentleman might somehow be held responsible from two floors below. It would not happen again.

“There,” she informed the empty chamber. “That is settled.”

The empty chamber, being far better acquainted with her than Major Baines was, offered no opinion on the likelihood of success.

She crossed to the dressing table and picked up her cap, catching sight of herself in the looking glass. The cap was ugly, and she had always known it to be so, but that had formed part of its usefulness. It was comfortable, required almost no thought, and discouraged those gentlemen who mistook every unmarried woman beneath thirty for an invitation to practise gallantry. Judith had neither time nor patience for gallantry. There were accounts to balance, servants to manage, an uncle to preserve from financial ruin, three male cousins whose childhood exploits had ensured she possessed the disposition of a sergeant major when necessary, and a house full of people who could not, apparently, locate their gloves without consulting her.

The cap had served her faithfully for years. Major Baines had looked at it.

Not merely seen it, which could have been forgiven, but looked at it with a flash of amusement in those infernally expressive brown eyes, and Judith had known at once precisely what he thought.

She replaced the cap and secured it firmly. She would wear it every day he remained at Blackthorn. If possible, she might ask Mrs. Talbot whether an uglier one could be found.

A knock sounded. “Come,” she called.

Her maid entered, carrying a folded shawl over one arm and wearing the expression of a woman who had brought news that would undoubtedly become Judith’s problem.

“Mrs. Talbot says the blue chamber chimney is smoking again, miss.”