Mrs. Cantle nodded in agreement. Gyles turned to find Irving nodding, too.
“And,” Wallace went on, “if Ferdinand wanted to poison anyone, he could do so, very easily and with a great deal less chance of being detected, by introducing poison into the more highly flavored dishes he prepares than by putting bitter almonds into her ladyship’s dressing.”
Gyles looked at them all. Given what he was feeling, it was difficult to incline his head and accept their argument. Eventually, he did so. “Very well. But then who put the poison in that bottle? Who has access to bitter almonds?”
Mrs. Cantle grimaced. “All you need is a kernal, my lord, and the trees are common-there’s three on the south lawn.”
Gyles stared at her.
A knock sounded on the door. Cook looked in. “Your pardon, m’lord, but I thought you’d want to know.” She came in, closed the door, then, drawing a deep breath, faced them all. “I was tipping the stuff down the drain when Ferdinand came up. He saw what I was doing and asked why. Well, he was about to fly into one of his Italian pelters, so I told him. He was shocked-well and truly shocked. Couldn’t say a word, at first. Then he said, ‘oh-but wait.’ Seems he used the last of an old bottle of almond oil-I do remember he hadn’t enough of the olive last time he made the dressing, and I told him where to find the almond. I use it in my sweet crusts, you see. And I remember him telling me he’d had to use the last bit.” Cook clasped her hands tightly. “So you see, it might have been the almond oil going bad that you all smelled.”
Gyles looked at Wallace, then at Mrs. Cantle. She nodded. “Could be.”
Gyles grimaced. “Bring the stuff back…”
Cook blanched. “Can’t, m’lord.” She wrung her hands. “I tipped it all down the drain and put the bottle to soak.”
Francesca was glad to spend the rest of the day quietly, catching up with the myriad decisions necessary to keep a house the size of Lambourn Castle functioning smoothly-decisions set aside while preparations for the Festival were under way. She and Wallace, Irving and Mrs. Cantle met late in the afternoon to make notes on what had worked well, and detail suggestions for next year. Gyles didn’t join them, but retired to the library; Francesca assumed he was sunk in his research.
She woke the next day to discover the sun shining weakly. She summoned Millie and dressed in her riding habit, mourning the loss of her cap but determined to let the matter lie. On reaching the breakfast parlor, she learned Gyles had already gone out riding, as she’d supposed. Finishing her toast, she headed for the stables.
“Aye-she’ll be eager for a run,” Jacobs said when she inquired after Regina. “I’ll have her saddled in a trice.”
He was as good as his word, leading the mare out and holding her steady while Francesca climbed into the saddle. She was settling her feet when she heard the clop of other hooves. Two grooms, mounted on two of Gyles’s hunters, ambled out of the stable.
She smiled, nodded, then, gathering Regina’s reins turned the mare toward the stable arch.
“The lads’ll hang back twenty yards or so, ma’am.”
Francesca halted. She blinked at Jacobs. “I’m sorry… I don’t understand.” She glanced past him to the grooms; they were clearly intending to follow her.
She looked back at Jacobs. The head stableman had flushed. “Master’s orders, ma’am.” He stepped closer so only she could hear. “He said as how you was not allowed out alone. If you wasn’t with him, I was to send two grooms with you.”
“Two?” Francesca forced her lips to relax. Whatever was going on wasn’t Jacobs’s fault. She glanced again at the grooms, then nodded. “As he wishes.”
With that, she tapped the mare’s side. Regina clattered out of the yard.
Francesca heard the grooms following. She’d intended to go up to the downs, to ride free and fast until she met Gyles. He’d be up there somewhere. They could have ridden together…
Frowning, she turned onto the track through the park.
She needed to think.
Gyles joined her at the luncheon table. Francesca smiled and chatted; he answered, but didn’t smile. Not that he frowned, but his eyes remained hooded, difficult to read. His expression said nothing at all.
With Irving and his minions constantly about, she had to bide her time. At the end of the meal, she would ask to speak with him-
“If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’ve a lot to catch up with.”
Francesca stared as Gyles waved aside the fruit platter, dropped his napkin by his plate, and stood.
He nodded her way, his gaze touching her face briefly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Before she could say a word, he walked from the room.
Francesca followed his broad shoulders, then set her knife down with a clack.
It was possible he truly was swamped with work. In the interests of domestic peace, Francesca called for her cloak and went out for a walk.
The clouds had closed in; the sun had disappeared. The leaves lay thick under the oaks, a dense carpet muffling her steps. The air beneath the bare branches was still and cool, waiting for winter.
She tried to decide if she was reading more into the day’s events than they warranted. Was she overreacting? In her heart, she didn’t think so. Logically, she wasn’t sure.
She’d followed a line parallel to the drive, under the trees-where was she going? With a sigh, she stopped. Going to the ramparts might distract her-she could see what sort of view there was on such a cloudy day. She swung around and stopped, staring at the two footmen who’d been ambling in her wake.
They halted. Warily waited.
Lips thinning, she started walking again. They bowed as she passed; she nodded and swept on-she didn’t trust herself to speak. If she opened her lips she would scream, but it wasn’t the footmen she wanted to scream at.
What did he think he was doing?
He was jealous, but it couldn’t be that. On what grounds could he excuse such draconian measures? He’d been bothered over her cap’s demise, but she’d explained that. And the ruckus over the odd smell in the dressing had simply been a mistake.
Reaching the ramparts, she stalked along. She could understand he might harbor some nebulous concern, but did he think she was so helpless he needed to treat her like a child? To be watched over by nursemaids? Two nursemaids?
Leaves crunched beneath her soles. At the point where the river curved, she halted, looking out over a landscape wreathed in gauzy mist. Her eyes saw; her brain did not.
She had a good mind to walk down to the folly and lock herself in-and wait until he came before she opened the door. Then he’d have to talk to her.
That, of course, was what was so irritating-the point that so exercised her temper. He was avoiding her because he didn’t wish to discuss this latest start. He’d decreed, and it was to be, regardless of what she thought or felt.
She gritted her teeth against a nearly overwhelming urge to shriek. Lips compressed, she swung on her heel and headed around the house, then on through the park.
She strode back from the Dower House two hours later. Lady Elizabeth and Henni had welcomed her with praise and congratulations over the success of the Festival and what they were calling the Great Plum Harvest. She’d had to smile, sip her tea, and listen. With barely a pause, they’d moved on to the family, showing her the additions they’d made to the copy of the family tree she’d left with them.
That had distracted her. She’d become absorbed with their explanations, the names, connections, recollections. They’d gone as far as they could. She’d rolled up the family tree with all its addendums and brought it away with her.