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A baronet might have such contacts. Sir George had more opinions than Baines had originally thought. He filed the possibility away.
By ten o’clock he had moved into the morning room, where Lady Beckenham sat near the windows with a letter open on her lap and every appearance of wishing not to be disturbed.
On principle, he disturbed her. “My lady.”
She looked up. “Major Baines.”
“I hope I do not intrude.”
“You do.”
“Excellent. I feared I had lost my touch.”
She folded the letter without haste and placed it beside her. “You appear very cheerful for a gentleman who has travelled half England to attend Sir Lionel’s house-party.”
“Perhaps I enjoy Sir Lionel’s house-parties.”
“No sensible person enjoys Sir Lionel’s house-parties.”
Baines sat down opposite her and crossed his legs. “At last, something upon which we agree.”
Lady Beckenham smiled. She was handsome in a composed fashion, with dark hair beginning to silver at the temples and eyes which suggested she had spent much of her life watching men make avoidable errors.
Baines approved of her immediately, which did not mean he trusted her. “I gather you know Colonel Renforth well,” he said.
She looked amused. “You are subtle, sir.”
“I have never claimed subtlety.”
“You asked me yesterday.”
“I am persistent.”
“Indeed you are. Yes, I am acquainted with Colonel Renforth.”
“In London?”
“Where else?”
“Paris… Brussels… Vienna… a shrubbery in Surrey.”
“Does Colonel Renforth frequent many shrubberies?” Baines found himself quite invested in the answer.
“We were young.” Her mouth twitched.
“Did you know him during the war?”
“No, not well.”
“But well enough to recognize his associates?”
Her gaze sharpened slightly. “There are not so many men like you.”
Baines endeavoured to look wounded.
“You all possess the same habit.”
“Indeed?”
