The Secret of Pembrooke Park(55)

“Yes. I have come to realize how much you enjoy teasing me.”

“It is quite bad of me, I know.” He swallowed. “But if we stay huddled out here alone much longer, I shall be tempted to do much more than tease you.”

She flashed a look up at him from beneath her lashes. What did he see there? Alarm, fear . . . hope?

He cleared his throat. “Come, Miss Foster. The rain has let up a little. Allow me to walk you home before I lose my head.” Or my heart.

Again, that nervous little chuckle. “I cannot imagine the respectable clergyman doing anything improper.”

“Your confidence is misplaced, Miss Foster. I daresay you are safe with me, yes. But though I may be a clergyman, I am still a man. And you, as I hope you know, are a very attractive young woman.”

She blushed and averted her gaze.

He grinned. “I shall never see a mulberry again without thinking of you.” He angled away and offered her his arm. “Come.”

With a wobbly smile, she put her arm through his, allowing him to escort her home.



When she returned, Molly greeted her at the door. Abigail wondered briefly where Duncan was.

“Miss Foster. There you are. There’s a caller come. Your father asks that you join them in the drawing room as soon as may be.”

It reminded Abigail of a similar summons when Mr. Arbeau had first come to them in London. Had he returned?

“Who is it?”

Eyes wide and expectant, the girl lowered her voice and said, “A Mr. Pembrooke, miss.”

Abigail started and felt her pulse race as though a ghost had been announced or a man come back from the dead. Foolish girl, she chastised herself. Not Robert Pembrooke. Hopefully not his long lost brother either, but some other more distant relation.

She met the housemaid’s curious gaze as evenly as she could. “Mr. Pembrooke?” she repeated, needing to confirm the name.

The girl nodded almost frantically.

“Very well. Thank you, Molly.” She thought again of Mac’s warning, and the letter writer’s plea that she send away anyone named Pembrooke. But he had arrived while she was out. Was it too late?

Molly helped her remove her wet things and brought a cloth for her hands and face. Then Abigail stepped to the hall mirror and tidied her hair.

The drawing room door opened, and her father came out, flushed and harried looking.

“Abigail! There you are. Thank heavens.” He closed the door behind himself. “You won’t believe it. A Mr. Pembrooke is here. I fear he may be the rightful owner of the place and has come to tell us he wants his house back.”

Abigail’s heart pounded. Oh no . . . Had he really come to ask them to leave when they had barely settled in? After all the work to ready the place—was someone else to enjoy the fruit of their labors? But if he was the owner, whose estate funds had paid for the renovations and servants, who were they to complain? Would they have to begin their house search all over again? It would be a rude awakening indeed to have to move into some small cottage or townhouse after living in magnificent Pembrooke Park.

Abigail whispered, “Has he said that’s why he’s come?”

“No, he hasn’t stated his business, and I haven’t asked him, truth be told. Didn’t give him the chance to speak. I seated him, ordered tea, asked the housemaid to look for you, and then excused myself to see if you’d been found. I left him with the tea tray, no doubt set with his own china!”

“Calm yourself, Papa. We were offered this house, remember. Asked to agree to stay for a twelvemonth at least. Perhaps this isn’t Mr. Arbeau’s client at all. Which Mr. Pembrooke is it?”

“Said his name was Miles, I believe.”

The name meant nothing to her. At least it was not Clive Pembrooke—the brother Mac had warned her about.

“All right. Well, let’s not keep him waiting any longer or he will think us very rude indeed.”

“Right.” Her father opened the door and ushered her inside.

The gentleman seated at the tea table rose when she entered. He looked to be about thirty years old. He was of average height and impeccably dressed with brown hair swept over his forehead and sharply defined side-whiskers coming forward to a point, which emphasized his cheekbones. His eyes were dark and framed by long lashes. He was handsome, if a bit dandyish, with a quizzing glass hanging by a ribbon from his waistcoat, and a walking stick near at hand.

“Mr. Pembrooke, may I introduce my daughter, Miss Foster.”

“Charmed, Miss Foster, charmed.” He bowed with gentlemanly address.

Abigail curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pembrooke. Please, be seated.”

He pulled out the chair beside him. “You will join us for tea, I hope.”

“Thank you.” Abigail sat in the proffered seat, Mr. Pembrooke reclaimed his seat next to hers, and her father sat across from them.

She asked, “Shall I pour?”

“If you would.” Mr. Pembrooke nodded. “Ladies always seem to do so with such impeccable grace.”

“Now that you have set such a high standard, Mr. Pembrooke, I shall no doubt spill it all over myself.”

“I doubt that. But if you do, it shall be our secret.” He smiled at her, revealing a narrow space between his front teeth. His smile lent his face a boyish quality she found disarming.