Page 9 of Foes, Friends and Lovers
Caitlin stood perfectly still and watched the three painters, aided by Cromwell, rush around the room, chasing the animals.
It was all too much.
She drew in a deep breath, then in a tone that boded ill for any who did not immediately do exactly as she said, rapped out, “Melrose! Tristan!” When both froze and looked at her, she demanded, “What did you catch them with?”
Tristan blinked. “Oh, ah. Yes—right.” He dove beneath the table and extracted a cloth bag. “The stuff’s in here—do you think they’ll come for it again?”
“Try it,” she commanded. “The fox first.”
She crossed her arms, tapped her toe, and watched with an expression that told them just how much trouble they were in.
The fox proved the easiest; they’d used a piece of raw chicken to catch it, and the animal was hungry. Tristan tempted it, and when the fox was distracted, Hugo crept close enough to seize the end of the leash again.
The chicken happily settled to peck at a pile of grain, allowing Melrose to scoop it into his arms, while Tristan stretched out on the floor and reached beneath a sofa to lure the rabbit with a lettuce that was certainly stolen from Julia’s domain. Eventually, Tristan seized the bunny by the ruff and pulled it out into the light.
The young men—all in their mid-twenties—lined up in front of Caitlin, their expressions the very epitome of shamefaced.
She all but glared at them.
“We’re sorry,” they chorused.
They’d been forbidden from bringing animals into the house; she’d put down her foot after an episode with three baby goats. But they were going to be even sorrier shortly.
She drew in a tight breath, unfolded her arms, and nodded at the gentleman who, once the danger had passed, had returned to her side. “This is Mr. Gregory Cynster, the Hall’s new owner.”
Predictably, all three painters’ faces fell; the sight would have been comical had the circumstances not been so dire.
“Ah,” Melrose said.
She’d warned them how terribly important making a good first impression on the new owner would be—especially for them! She had no idea how to reverse the impact of the past minutes, much less how to explain them away. She drew in a breath and forged on. “Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Mr. Hugo Martindale, Mr. Melrose Walter, and Mr. Tristan Fellows.” How was she to cut short the encounter before the three ninnies made things worse?
“Gentlemen.” Polite yet repressively distant, Cynster nodded to the three and turned to Caitlin. “Miss Fergusson, I set out early this morning to reach here and would like to rest before dinner.”
Thank God!Her relief was so profound that she was sure it showed and that Cynster’s sharp hazel gaze didn’t miss it.
Cromwell stepped up and announced, “Mr. Cynster’s room should be ready, but perhaps, sir, if you would remain downstairs until I’ve assured myself all is well?”
Cynster inclined his head and turned toward the door. “I’ll wait in the study.”
After bending a last, warning glare on the three penitents, Caitlin quickly caught up and fell in beside Cynster.
As he walked, Gregory drew out his fob watch and consulted it. “What time is dinner?”
“Six o’clock,” his chatelaine informed him. “The dressing gong is rung at half past five.” She paused, then said, “Unless you would prefer to put dinner back.”
He considered that, then shook his head. “No.” He slanted her a glance. “This is the country, after all.”
Her lips primmed as she held back a no doubt pithy retort.
Facing forward, he allowed Cromwell to lead and the delectable Miss Fergusson to accompany him back to the front hall. What he’d uncovered thus far—a situation only a few steps from a madhouse—was so far removed from what he’d been expecting that he needed to stop and assimilate all he’d seen and heard. He needed to sit quietly so his thoughts could stop spinning.
After the interlude in the conservatory, he also suspected that the denizens of the Hall might benefit from a little time to get themselves organized. He had, admittedly, come upon them unawares. He hadn’t sent word, so perhaps he should reserve judgment until they’d had a chance to prepare.
Regardless, he’d never imagined he’d be assessing businesses; he wasn’t prepared, either.
They reached the front hall, and his pair of keepers steered him on, into the library. Quite firmly. Almost as if neither had noticed that he’d specified the study.
He didn’t argue but instead, once he’d sunk into one of the leather armchairs before the roaring fire and allowed Cromwell to supply him with a well-earned brandy, he dismissed both butler and chatelaine with a nod and an assurance he would be perfectly comfortable until the gong rang.
