The Secret of Pembrooke Park(64)

“Em, no,” Abigail said. “I was thinking of my blue walking dress.”

The maid turned in surprise. “Going out again?”

“I am expecting a caller this afternoon.”

“Oh? One of the gentlemen you danced with last night, paying a call? How romantic! I’ll do your hair up nice again.”

“It is only an old friend of mine from London.”

“A gentleman friend?” Polly’s eyes glinted mischievously.

“Don’t go seeing romance where there is only friendship,” Abigail said to the maid, silently reminding herself to heed her own advice.

When Abigail went down to breakfast twenty minutes later, she found her father and Mr. Pembrooke seated in the dining room lingering over coffee, tea, and conversation.

Her father saw her first. “Good morning, Abigail.”

Miles Pembrooke rose abruptly. “Good morning, Miss Foster. A pleasure to see you again.”

She dipped her head. “Good morning, Mr. Pembrooke. I hope you slept well?”

“For the most part, yes. Except for the ghosts I heard rumbling about all night.”

Abigail drew up short. “Ghosts?”

He smiled playfully. “Only in my mind, I assure you. No need to be alarmed. Being here has stirred many memories.”

She helped herself to tea and toast from the sideboard, and then took a chair across from his.

He sipped his tea, eyeing her with amusement over his cup brim. “Don’t tell me I frightened you, Miss Foster. You do not strike me as the sort of female to believe in ghosts or gothic tales.”

“I . . . don’t. But this old place makes many noises that might be mistaken for nighttime visitors of some sort. I do hope you were able to sleep, considering.”

“The first night in a new bed is always a struggle. I’m sure I shall sleep better tonight.”

Abigail shot a quick look at her father.

Miles apprehended her surprise and said, “Your kind father has invited me to stay on longer. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I . . . Of course not,” Abigail faltered, but she felt suspicion trickle through her mind and pinch her stomach.

She nibbled her toast and collected her thoughts. “Have you . . . specific plans while you are here? Former acquaintances you wish to visit?”

At that moment, Molly knocked softly on the open door and entered, bobbing a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, miss, sir. But a messenger from Hunts Hall delivered this for Mr. Pembrooke. He’s outside, awaitin’ his answer.”

“For me?” Miles asked in surprise. He accepted the folded note and read it. His dark eyebrows rose. “I’ve been invited to call at Hunts Hall at my earliest convenience.”

He looked up at Abigail. “You must have mentioned me to your hosts.”

“I don’t recall mentioning you to the Morgans, though I may have done. I hope that doesn’t pose a problem?”

“Not at all.”

Abigail said, “I did not realize you were acquainted with the Morgans.”

“Neither did I.” He smiled and rose to leave. “If you will excuse me, I shall let my horse remain in the stable and go directly with the messenger. That way I can pay my respects without delay.”

Surprised, Abigail watched him go. Her surprise increased when she noticed him limp and use his walking stick for support—the implement not merely a dandy’s affectation as she’d originally assumed.

Her father followed her gaze, then said, “War wound, he told me.”

“Ah.”

“Did you have a good time last night?”

“I did, Papa. Thank you. And you’ll never guess who was there. . . . ” At the raising of his eyebrows, she supplied, “Gilbert Scott.”

His mouth momentarily slackened. “You don’t say.”

Abigail explained Gilbert’s connection to the Morgan family through his new employer.

Her father nodded in understanding, then said, “I hope you invited him to call on us while he’s here.”

“I did. He seemed eager to see you again, and the house as well.”

“Emphasis on the latter, no doubt, and who could blame him? I’m surprised we haven’t had more people showing up, asking to tour the place.”

Abigail managed a weak grin and nodded her agreement, thinking of Miles Pembrooke. Strangers showing up for tours was not what worried her.



Abigail situated herself in the drawing room ten minutes before two o’clock. She had forewarned Mrs. Walsh she would likely be asking for a tea tray. She didn’t wish to appear as though she’d been eagerly awaiting Gilbert’s visit, but she knew better than to request any baked goods without giving Mrs. Walsh proper notice.

Arranging her skirts around her, she picked up a book, a biography of architect Christopher Wren, but found it difficult to concentrate.

Her palms were damp. She felt jumpy and nervous, quite unlike her normal reserve.

Stop being foolish, she told herself. This was Gilbert, plain old next-door Gilbert, whom she’d known through his awkward, pudgy days, his blemish days, his voice-changing days. Whom she’d played with and argued with and studied with and . . . loved. She began to perspire anew.

Two o’clock came and went. Two thirty. Three. Abigail’s heart deflated, and her stomach sank. She’d been nervous for nothing. Worn a pretty dress and had Polly arrange her hair . . . for nothing.