The Secret of Pembrooke Park(56)

She finished pouring, handed round the plate of shortbread, and began, “You are the first Pembrooke we have had the pleasure of receiving. Is it you we have to thank for the opportunity to let this fine old house?”

“Not I, no. I have only recently returned from overseas.”

“Oh . . . I see,” Abigail faltered. “Then, may I ask your connection to the family? My father is keen on genealogy, but I confess, I am not as familiar with my father’s Pembrooke relations.”

“Are we related? Delightful!” He beamed at her. “I am so pleased to hear the old place has family living in it again. About time, I’d say.”

She exchanged a quick glance with her father and felt her anxiety release a bit, like air from a balloon.

Mr. Pembrooke sipped his tea, pinky finger lifted, then set down his cup in its saucer with impeccable manners. “Forgive me. You asked about my family. My parents were Clive and Hester Pembrooke. My father was born and raised here. And later, we lived here for a time when I was a boy. I haven’t been back since.”

Then why are you back now? Abigail wanted to ask, but instead she gently inquired, “And where, if I may ask, are your parents living now?”

“In the ever after, Miss Foster. In the ever after. At least my mother, God rest her soul. She left us last year.”

“I am sorry.”

“Yes, as was I. Especially as I had been out of the country for so long. The war and all, you understand.” He looked about him once more. “Thought I’d like to see the old place again, now I’ve returned. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You are welcome, of course.” Abigail considered her next question, then asked tentatively, “I am surprised Mr. Arbeau didn’t write to let us know to expect you.”

“Mr. Arbeau? Who’s that?” he asked, his expression open and politely curious.

“Oh. I . . . assumed you would know him. Sorry. He’s the solicitor who arranged for us to let Pembrooke Park on behalf of its owner. I thought—”

“Owner?” he asked, looking mildly concerned.

“Ah. Well, he didn’t say owner specifically, now I think of it. Rather the executor of the estate, I believe he said.”

“Ah, yes.” He raised his chin. “That would be Harry. Well good. About time, as I said. None of us has ever wanted to live here. But it would be a pity to let the place fall to ruin.”

“I agree.” Abigail felt the remaining anxiety seep away. Easygoing, friendly Miles Pembrooke had put them at their ease. She supposed Harry was his brother but didn’t ask. She decided she had pried quite enough for their first meeting.

“You say you have been out of the country, Mr. Pembrooke,” her father said, crossing his legs. “May I ask where?”

“Indeed you may. Gibraltar. Have you ever been?”

“No. But I have heard of it.”

“It’s twice as beautiful as they say, and twice as dangerous.”

Mr. Pembrooke went on to entertain them for a quarter of an hour with tales of his time in Gibraltar.

When he finished, her father said, “You must join us for dinner, Mr. Pembrooke. How long are you planning to visit the area?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well then. You must stay here with us.”

Miles Pembrooke held up his hand. “No, now, I didn’t come to beg an invitation. I only wanted to see the old place again.”

“Well, it’s too late to start a journey now. You must at least stay the night. I insist. The servants have recently finished readying the guest room. Is that not so, Abigail?”

Abigail hesitated. Again the letter writer’s admonition flashed through her mind: “If anyone named Pembrooke comes to the house . . . send him on his way.” Yet she found herself liking the man, and though she was not sure how she felt about him staying in the house with them, she found herself unable to politely decline. The estate was likely still in his family. Might even be his one day. She rose. “Yes. If you will give us a few minutes, I will see that all is in order.”

“That is very kind. Excessively kind, I must say. But I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No trouble at all,” her father said. “You are family, after all.”

Miles Pembrooke offered his charming, boyish smile. “We are indeed. Happy thought. Well then, I accept. And gratefully.”

Abigail thought of the masquerade ball that evening. She couldn’t very well extend an invitation to this man. It wasn’t her place to do so. How awkward. “I am afraid, Mr. Pembrooke, that I have a prior engagement tonight. I hate to be rude and desert you, but—”

“Don’t give it another thought, Miss Foster. You go and enjoy yourself. I shall be perfectly fine here on my own. I may poke about just a bit—see my old room, that sort of thing—if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Make yourself at home,” Abigail said, hoping she would not come to regret those words.

Her father spoke up, “I was not planning to attend anyway, Mr. Pembr—”

The man interrupted pleasantly. “Miles, please.”

“Very well . . . Miles.”

She noticed her father did not offer the use of his Christian name in return, but then again, he was quite a bit older than his guest.