Page 76
Judith’s pulse accelerated.
Lady Beckenham was watching her with an expression much too intelligent for comfort.
“Judith?”
“I should like to borrow this, if I may?”
Sir George frowned. “I have not finished it.”
“You have read the important portion,” Lady Beckenham remarked.
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because you have been explaining it to us for ten minutes.”
Lady Dunsmore laughed so suddenly that coffee nearly escaped from her cup.
Sir George surrendered the paper with poor grace.
Judith folded it once, tucked it beneath her arm and rose.
“Where are you going?” he asked indignantly.
“To find Major Baines.” The words escaped her before discretion could intervene.
Silence descended upon the breakfast table. Lady Dunsmore’s smile became positively alarming. Lady Beckenham’s was worse because it scarcely existed at all. Sir George merely looked bewildered. Judith wished, too late, that she had said she was going to the library.
Lady Dunsmore leaned back in her chair. “How interesting.”
“It is not interesting.”
Lady Beckenham rescued Judith with a kindness which was almost certainly deliberate. “If Major Baines has an interest in northern affairs, he may wish to see the report.”
Lady Dunsmore smiled. “Indeed.”
Judith stalked out of the room before anyone could make any further caustic observations.
She found Baines neither in the library nor the morning room. The billiard room stood empty apart from two abandoned glasses and evidence that someone had chalked an insulting caricature of Sir George upon the slate used for scoring. The likeness was not particularly good, though the billiard ball flying through a window established its subject beyond reasonable doubt.
Judith suspected Edward. She also suspected Thomas had assisted. She would deal with them later. At the present time she wanted Baines. The realization irritated her almost enough to slow her steps.
She finally found him in the small gun room adjoining the rear hall, where he stood before an open cabinet, examining a fowling piece with the concentration of a man who understood weapons sufficiently well not to treat them as decoration.
He glanced towards the doorway. His face changed when he saw her. It was becoming distressingly easy to recognize that particular alteration: the immediate warmth before amusement appeared to conceal it.
“Miss Finch. Have you come to confiscate the firearms?”
“I am considering it. Your influence upon my cousins has already produced a broken window.”
“Sir George broke the window.”
“Did you perhaps encourage it?”
“I merely failed to prevent the catastrophe. By Blackthorn standards, I understood that to constitute exemplary behaviour.”
She looked heavenward then thrust the newspaper towards him.
His amusement vanished. “What has happened?”
