The Secret of Pembrooke Park(69)

“You’re right. Never mind. Shall we go in? I imagine Father is already dressing for dinner. Will you join us, Mr. Chapman? You would be most welcome.”

With another uneasy glance at Miles Pembrooke, Mr. Chapman said, “Thank you, Miss Foster. I should enjoy that. But perhaps another time?”

“Very well.”

“And now I shall bid you both good day.” He made a brief bow toward Abigail, and then turned and walked away, not in the direction of the church and parsonage, but rather in the direction of his parents’ home.

Miles watched him go. “Hard to believe Will Chapman is so grown. Almost makes me feel old.”

Abigail followed the direction of his gaze on William’s retreating back. Then she felt Mr. Pembrooke’s focus swivel to her.

She glanced over, saw another glint of humor in his brown eyes. “That was your cue to assure me I am not at all old, Miss Foster.”

Abigail complied. “You are not old, Mr. Pembrooke. I’d guess you are only, what, thirty?”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “You cut me deeply, miss,” he said, with melodramatic flair. “I shan’t be thirty for two whole months yet.”

“Then I beg your forgiveness,” she said, matching his mock serious tone.

“And I shall forgive you . . . on two conditions.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me how handsome I am and agree to sing for me after dinner.”

“Mr. Pembrooke!” she mildly protested.

He ducked his head and playfully pouted. “You don’t think me handsome?”

“Yes, you are handsome, as you well know. In fact you would be more so if you did not beg compliments.”

“Touché, madam. And you will sing for me? I hear you have a lovely voice.”

“Who told you that?” She doubted either William or Leah would have offered the information to this relative stranger.

“Some lads I met along the way. They asked me who I was and where I lived. When I told them I was a guest at Pembrooke Park, they said, ‘That’s where the lady who sings like the angels lives.’”

“The boys exaggerated, I assure you.”

“Allow me to be the judge of that.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”



William found his father cleaning his guns after the recent shooting tournament.

“Papa, have you heard the news? Miles Pembrooke has returned. He’s staying in the manor as a guest of the Fosters.”

His father’s whole body stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “The devil he is.”

“It’s true. I just met him. In fact, he said he saw you today out at Hunts Hall, but from a distance, while you were shooting.”

“Did he indeed? Good thing I didn’t see him. Though I doubt I’d recognize him after all these years.”

“Dark hair. Dresses like a dandy. He walks with a limp now, and carries a stick.”

“A stick? But he can’t be more than, what, thirty?”

“Something like that. An injury of some sort, apparently.”

“Does Leah know?”

“Not from me. I came to you first.”

“Good. Don’t say anything yet. First we need to know why he’s here and where he’s been all these years. Where is the rest of his family?”

“He said he is only here to see the house again. But I did not demand to know his intentions or the whereabouts of his family upon our first meeting.”

“You should have.”

“Then perhaps you ought to pay a call yourself.”

Mac rose. “I shall indeed.”

William grasped his father’s arm. “I know you have reason to despise Clive Pembrooke. But remember this is not that man himself but his son—who was only a boy when it all happened.”

“I know. But I also know that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”



After dinner, Miles and Abigail adjourned to the drawing room. Her father said he would join them after he smoked his pipe alone, as he always did, since his family had never liked the smell. A short while later, Molly brought in coffee. As she set down the tray, she leaned near to Abigail and whispered that Mac Chapman was waiting in the hall.

The news surprised Abigail, but she said, “Ask him to join us.”

A minute later, Mac appeared at the drawing room door. He’d removed his hat but still wore his Carrick coat. He said, “I wish to speak with Mr. Pembrooke, if you don’t mind.”

“I . . .” She looked toward Miles in concern. “Do you mind?”

“Of . . . course not,” Miles said, then asked Mac, “May Miss Foster stay?”

“You may not want her to hear our conversation.”

“Miss Foster may hear anything I say to you. I would like her to stay.”

“If you wish.”

Abigail resumed her seat, torn between wishing she might have been excused this scene and curiosity to hear more.

Mac remained standing. “Why are you here, Mr. Pembrooke?”

The man’s confrontational stance and glinting eyes reminded Abigail of her first sight of Mac Chapman, gun in hand, ready to shoot any intruder to protect his beloved Pembrooke Park.

Miles appeared slightly nervous, but anyone targeted by that green-eyed glare would be.