The Secret of Pembrooke Park(61)

“I don’t claim a close acquaintance with my elder niece, living distantly as we do. I gather her previous regard for Mr. Chapman was genuine, but she is only recently widowed, so . . .” She shrugged. “Time will tell.”

“Yes,” Abigail murmured. “I suppose it will.”

Mrs. Webb sent her a sidelong glance. “So, how goes life at Pembrooke Park since I saw you last?”

“Very well. My father has rejoined me from London. I confess I feel more at ease with him there. And we have a houseguest.”

“Oh?”

“He just turned up today, without warning. Used to live there, I gather.”

Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. Who is it?”

“Miles Pembrooke—son of the previous occupant.”

“Miles . . . Pembrooke?” She blinked. “I am surprised.”

“As were we. We feared he’d come to reclaim the house for himself and cut short our lease.”

Mrs. Webb looked into her empty glass. “I thought everyone in that family was long gone from the area.”

“So did I. But he’s recently returned from abroad and says he just wanted to see the old place again. Father invited him to stay.”

Her brows rose again. “Did he indeed? That is . . . unexpectedly gracious of your father, isn’t it? To invite a stranger to stay? With an unmarried daughter under the same roof?”

Abigail shrugged. “He is family, after all. Though granted, we are only distantly related.”

“It does not . . . worry you?”

Abigail inhaled thoughtfully. “I confess the timing does give me pause. That he should happen to return just after we’ve opened up the house again—when it had been shut up for so long. But he seems harmless. Quite polite and charming, really.”

“Be careful, Miss Foster. Appearances can be deceiving.”

Abigail turned to look at the woman, surprised at her somber tone.

Gilbert approached and bowed. “Miss Foster. It is time for our dance, I believe.”

Abigail dragged her gaze from Mrs. Webb’s concerned face to Gilbert’s smiling one.

“Oh, yes.” She lifted a hand and began introductions. “Mr. Scott, have you met Mrs. Webb, Andrew Morgan’s aunt?”

“I have not had that pleasure. How do you do, ma’am?”

“Very well. Thank you,” Mrs. Webb drew herself up, cool distance returning to her expression. “You two enjoy your dance.”

Gilbert and Abigail joined the line of couples as the woman at the top of the set called for a country dance.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Abby?” he asked.

“I am. And you?”

“I hope you weren’t sorry to see me here.”

“Surprised, yes, but not sorry.”

“Good. You seem to have made many friends here already.”

“I have been fortunate in that, yes.”

“Mr. Chapman seems quite taken with you.”

Abigail looked away from Gilbert’s inquisitive gaze. “I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, come. Even a thick-skulled male like me could instantly see he admires you. I would be jealous, if . . . I had any right to be.”

“You, jealous?” Abigail forced a laugh. “Don’t talk foolishness. I’ve never seen you jealous in my life. Let’s talk of something else. I notice you have been quite in demand tonight.”

“Only because there are many ladies in want of partners and Mrs. Morgan is determined to remedy that.”

“I don’t know. . . . She is very exacting, and if she singled you out for the honor of dancing with her young daughter, you must have done something to earn her regard.”

“It’s not her regard I’m concerned about.” He looked at her earnestly. “Are we all right, Abby, you and I? Susan boxed my ears after my going-away party. Charged me with being insensitive and selfish. You are very important to me, and I hope we are still . . . friends?”

“Of course we are, Gilbert. Now hush and let’s dance.”

After he danced with his sister, William offered to fetch her some punch, but when he returned with two glasses to where he’d left Leah minutes before, he could not find her. Looking all around the ballroom without success, he then went out to the hall. He finally found her in a quiet corner of the vestibule, still wearing her mask.

“Leah, what are you doing back here? Come in with the others.”

She shook her head. “I need a few minutes alone. So many people staring. Whether because they are trying to figure out who I am, or because they cannot figure out why Leah Chapman has been invited, I don’t know. But . . . I should never have come.”

“Leah, you are too sensitive. You imagine stares and criticism, when there are only looks of curiosity or admiration for a beautiful woman. A moment later everyone has returned to his or her own thoughts—his empty glass, or unpaid bills, or gout . . . Not you, my dear, I promise.”

She tried to chuckle, but it fell flat. “Did you see how Mrs. Morgan greeted me? She could not have expressed her disapproval any more clearly without saying the words aloud. Why did Andrew invite us? Why expose us to such mortification?”

William took her hand. “I don’t think Andrew puts as much stock in birth and rank as others do. I am sure he had no intention of hurting you. He merely wished to spend time in your company.”