Page 94 of A Lord Apart (The Way to a Lord's Heart 2)

“Huh.” Penelope contemplated this new idea.

“Or perhaps he simply met the right woman at last,” Daniel added. “A man can have no interest at all in marriage, and then suddenly, between one week and the next, be determined to wed.”

Penelope smiled. “Indeed, my lord?”

“Oh, yes. There’s no warning. You know nothing until the blow falls, like a thunderbolt from the blue.”

“Thunderbolts knock things to pieces and set fires.”

“Precisely.”

She ran her fingertips over his chest. “Are you calling me incendiary?”

“Utterly. Unprecedented, revolutionary, the dawn of a new epoch.”

“Epoch? How will I live up to such a grandiose label?” She let her hand drift to his ribs, and started tickling.

“Hey!” He retaliated, and their discussion dissolved into an orgy of giggles.

* * *

His cook had certainly outdone herself, Daniel thought a week later as he walked along the row of tables that held the wedding viands. She and her assistants had produced a spread to rival one of the Prince Regent’s banquets. There were terrines and jellies and timbales and other delicacies he couldn’t even name. Piles of tartlets and special breads and macaroons. Roasted meats punctuated the offerings. And at the end, young Kitty stood beside the cake, a tall fantasy of frosting, receiving compliments as if to the manor born. She appeared to find Mrs. Hart’s—Mrs. Foyle’s—astonishment especially gratifying.

Shoals of villagers and Frithgerd servants marveled and ate and chatted and ate some more. Many he knew, but there were others who looked only vaguely familiar. The bride seemed to be acquainted with everybody in the neighborhood—at least well enough to feed them. She looked warmly matronly in a dark-blue gown and satin bonnet. Foyle, standing at her side receiving congratulations, seemed a bit dazed. His craggy face was occasionally split by a smile, but mostly he was glassy-eyed.

“It’s strange to be back here in such a different way,” said Penelope, coming up to join him.

Daniel turned to look at her. He never tired of doing that. Each time he saw her, he seemed to notice a new facet to her beauty.

“I was just making sure the dogs are all right in the barn,” she said.

“With their goat.”

Her smile was wry. “With Jemma.”

“She has a name now?”

“Foyle gave in on that score.”

“So he’s become resigned to her presence?”

“Actually I think he’s grown fond of her.” Her expression grew pensive as she surveyed the wedding guests. “When I first arrived, I thought I’d live here for the rest of my life. Or as far as I could see ahead, at least. Once, I imagined Kitty and me as a pair of gnarled old women, still tending Rose Cottage after fifty years.”

“What a terrible waste!” Daniel exclaimed.

She raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you think of solitary women?”

“Kitty would never have become a baker. We’d have none of those teacakes she sent up on Tuesday. Or the macaroons. No, it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

She laughed.

The champagne was opened, and toasts began. The newly married pair approached the cake, and Dora Foyle picked up a knife. For a moment, it seemed that Kitty would stand in defense of her creation. But then she stepped back with an openhanded gesture, though she did wince at the first cut.

“Delicious,” said Daniel with his first bite. “I suppose Kitty really does make her confections? It’s not some elaborate plot with Cook to pay us back for mocking her Shrewsbury cakes?”

But Penelope didn’t seem to be listening. She held her cake plate as if she’d forgotten it and stared over his shoulder as if she’d see a ghost. Daniel turned.

The two Foreign Office agents sat on their horses on the road in front of the house, watching the festivities. They made no move to dismount, no gesture to acknowledge Daniel’s gaze. They merely sat, solemn and stern, making their presence felt.

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