Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(35)

Ned felt his sense of humor rapidly evaporating. “Nobody’s collected.”

“Where there’s smoke…” Harcroft trailed off, spreading his hands suggestively.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s arson.” Ned’s hands gripped the rail. “And arsonists will be dealt with. Let me assure you, Harcroft—for all my humor and kindness, I’m not weak. Just slow to anger. I won’t brook any insults. Not even from you.”

Especially not from you.

Harcroft paused thoughtfully. “Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And you know the old saying. Speak of the devil…”

Ned glanced toward the house. Kate was picking her way across the field. She could see that he was talking to Harcroft, and Ned felt a sudden urge to push the man away and disclaim all knowledge of him. Harcroft had made no effort to modulate his tone; she might even have heard him. But her expression did not change, not even in the slightest, and Ned was struck again by what an exquisite, complicated thing she had accomplished. To have had Lady Harcroft brought here, with only a hint of a whisper of talk—and even that, evanescent—was a tremendous thing. To not show her natural revulsion—to welcome Harcroft into her home with so little reaction…Well. She was playing a tremendous role indeed.

Behind that seemingly fragile femininity stood something strong and indomitable.

She walked toward them, sure-footed through the ankle-high grass. She was wearing a sober high-necked walking dress, in a purple so bruised she could have been in half-mourning. The fabric shone subtly in the afternoon sun; the lower hem was darkened with dew.

Ned reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of candies.

“Peppermint, Harcroft?” The man stared at the white blob. His nose wrinkled and he took one, popping it into his mouth.

“Lady Kathleen?”

His wife glanced at him distrustfully, and then reached out and took the candy. She tossed it back and forth, from gloved hand to gloved hand. Then, without once looking at Harcroft, who crunched his treat noisily, she said, “I assume Champion’s licked the peppermints in this batch, as well?”

All crunching stopped. Harcroft froze, a pained expression on his face. Too polite to spit; too fastidious to swallow. Instead, he turned bright red and choked.

Ned swallowed a delighted chortle. Champion hadn’t come close enough to Ned to lick anything, but the look on the earl’s face was too precious to interrupt.

Kate threw her peppermint into the field.

“Excuse me,” Harcroft choked out, his words garbled around the candy in his mouth. “I have to—I have to—” He pointed vaguely, desperately, in the direction of the house.

“Horses have clean mouths,” Ned intoned innocently. “Harcroft, where are you— Ah. Well.” He turned to his wife. “There he goes.”

A slight, satisfied curl to her lips was the only indication she gave that she’d intended to drive the man off. The signs were all there, for anyone to see.

“You,” Ned said, “are…”

“He did speak of the devil,” Kate said. “A little taste of the diabolical, I believe, would do him good.”

“Oh, yes. I have it. ‘Speak of the devil, and he licks your peppermints.’”

Kate snickered. “Something like that.”

“Also, thank you.”

“For driving off your friend?” She looked surprised.

“No. The more I discover about what transpired in my absence, the more responsibility I realize you’ve taken on. I had assumed that Gareth would take on much of it—that was our agreement when I left, you know. But then, responsible as Gareth always has been, he would never have noticed the little things. The human touches. Like Mrs. Alcot.”

Like Louisa Paxton, Lady Harcroft.

Kate nodded regally and held out her hand again. For a tiny instant, he contemplated taking those delicate fingers in his. Stripping off her glove, baring that soft skin to the sun and his touch.

But she wasn’t asking for importunity. He put another peppermint in her palm instead. She didn’t throw this one, though; instead, she weighed it from hand to hand, as carefully as if it were an ingot of metal whose worth she had yet to judge.

Finally, she looked up at him. “What does Harcroft matter to you?” Her eyes were almost silver with refracted light. They seemed to cut through Ned.

He had been so much in sympathy with her, he’d forgotten. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t know he knew. The question wasn’t idle. She wanted to know if he might betray her.

Ned swallowed.

She’d never trusted him with the truth of her competence. He wanted her to tell him the truth, let him into her life. He wanted her to judge him worthy of knowing her—the true Kate, the one she hid away.

“Harcroft is a distant cousin,” Ned said softly. “We were friends, long before, when we were younger. I think we’re rather too dissimilar now to be more than acquaintances.”

“But he’s your family.”

“Half of polite society is my family, if I must count him my relation,” Ned said dryly. “If you must know, my main obligation to Harcroft is that he assisted me with the people I think of as my true family. When Jenny and Gareth married, Harcroft and his wife welcomed Jenny—Lady Blakely—into society. It wasn’t clear at the time that she would take. With his assistance, she did. I am not insensible of my obligations to him. But he’s not true family.”