What Happened at Midnight(6)

Mary’s scent hadn’t changed, but her eyes had. Once, they’d sparkled. Now, they looked flat. All that hidden mirth that he’d seen in her—it was as if it had been wiped clean and replaced with stark gray slate.

Well. He’d not expected her to smile when she was caught. As methodically as she’d gone, she returned, seating herself at the table next to Lady Patsworth.

She’d not said a word in greeting to him.

“What does the fashion column have to say?” she asked, her low tones directed to the lady near her.

Lady Patsworth lifted a monocle and peered at the paper. “It describes a day gown with well-fitted sleeves of sarcenet, embellished at the wrists with cord of silk.” Lady Patsworth frowned. “Cord of silk. I have never been fond of cord of silk, and at the wrists?”

“Indeed,” Mary said. “It is too shiny.”

Too shiny?

John glanced over at Mr. Beauregard, but apparently he found nothing strange in this exchange. He’d gone back to talking fields and drainage with Sir Walter as soon as the introductions had been made.

John made appropriate noises at what he hoped were appropriate times. But apparently, he’d done a poor job of hiding his true interest, because when Beauregard left to ready their horses for their next visit, Sir Walter caught his eye.

“Mr. Mason,” he said stiffly. The other man looked him up and down, from head to toe. “By the looks of you, you spend much of your time out of doors.”

John gave him a curt nod.

“I hear you’re staying at Oak Cottage.” Sir Walter’s mouth compressed into a thin, squashed line. “That’s not even half a mile distant.”

Beauregard had offered the tiny outbuilding as a potential shelter rather halfheartedly; John had accepted it with gratitude.

“Mm,” John said.

“Beauregard implied you were a gentleman.” Sir Walter looked dubious. “You’ll excuse me, then, for speaking so directly. You’ll understand that a gentleman must protect his own.” He paused again and licked his lips. “The ladies of this household are entirely under my protection.”

John swallowed. This conversation must have been audible to the women, but neither one so much as glanced in their direction. It was disorienting—as if perhaps this wasn’t really happening.

Perhaps he had been looking at Mary overmuch. She was still beautiful, no matter what he thought of her character.

“I won’t hold with any insult to them,” Sir Walter continued. “That’s why God made milkmaids.”

Neither Mary nor Lady Patsworth blinked at this assertion. It was as if their ears were incapable of hearing the men’s speech. And perhaps it was just as well, because Sir Walter had not only implied that John was one step from pillaging and raping his way through the household, he’d suggested that he pillage and rape his way through the dairy instead.

No doubt men said odd things at uncomfortable times without intending all the implications.

“Never you worry,” John said gruffly. “I have no interest in ladies.”

That got Mary’s attention for the first time since she’d returned. Her head jerked up and her eyes met his in shock.

“No interest in—!” Sir Walter repeated. “I…I’ll not have such things spoken of in this household.”

“Women, yes. Ladies, on the other hand…” John spread his hands and examined his fingernails. “They’re like mistletoe—pretty enough, if you like pale berries and useless greenery. But just let it take hold, and it will choke the entire tree.”

Mary looked away again.

But Sir Walter did not quibble with John’s description. He didn’t even protest it. Instead, he merely chuckled. “You have an extremely dim view of our ladies. I do allow the expense can be considerable. But I find them quite worthwhile, assuming you can afford to protect them.”

“Perhaps.” John shrugged. “Or perhaps not. I have no tolerance for parasites.”

Sir Walter clasped John’s hand. “Then I’ll keep my ladies, and you can stay with your milkmaids.”

“You do that,” John said. He extricated his hand and hoped that Sir Walter had not noticed his failure to accept the milkmaids.

Aside from that one glance, Mary hadn’t so much as looked at him. Her attention was directed far off, her gaze fixed on the purple silhouette of a hill on the horizon.

“A word of warning,” John said. “As a farmer, I pull out mistletoe the instant it takes root. And I won’t rest until I’ve cleared it away.”

She didn’t react to that. But she didn’t need to. Mary had always been quick. She had no doubt known she was doomed from the moment she saw him.

Chapter Three

MARY HAD KNOWN SHE WAS doomed from the moment she saw him.

Somewhere, someone was laughing at the horrid trick of destiny that had brought John Mason, of all people, to Doyle’s Grange. She could almost hear the laughter echoing through the back garden. Sir Walter stood on the terrace, watching John to be sure that he left. Mary stayed, frozen to her chair by a deep despair.

I have no tolerance for parasites.

It was not even as if she could contradict him. She had no defense—certainly not against his hatred, and probably not against any accusation he might level. Lying, thieving, fleeing the scene of a crime… He could have made quite a list of her crimes, and he didn’t even know the half of them. The only ray of hope that she had—and it wasn’t much—was that he hadn’t come with a constable in tow and a warrant for her arrest.