"I must confess," she said, "that I had not really considered the dangers of our going there alone, Judith. But now we do not have to worrry at all, for I am sure that his lordship would only have to level a look at any impertinent fellow for him to melt into the ice. I shall feel quite perfectly safe with him and I shall feel that you and the children will be safe too."
"I cannot like it," Judith said. "He is a stranger to us and has no obligation at all to put his time so much at our disposal."
Amy beamed at her. "I do not know what happened all those years ago," she said, "and I certainly cannot say I am sorry that you chose Andrew, Judith. I would not have
known you else and the children would not exist. But I can see that his lordship is going out of his way to win your favor again. And he is such a splendid and such a very civil gentleman."
"Upstairs, children," Judith said briskly, turning to pull the bell rope to have the tea tray removed. "Nurse will be waiting for you. Amy, you have mistaken his motives quite. He has no interest in me, you know. Why, he did not even speak with me at tea. It is quite as likely that his interest is in you. You must be very close to him in age, after all."
Amy laughed as the children left the room. "What a thoroughly nonsensical idea," she said. "It was perfectly obvious that he had nothing but a purely friendly interest in me, Judith. And I would have to say that age is the only thing the Marquess of Denbigh and I have in common. No, it is you with whom he is trying to fix his interest, mark my words."
"Amy." Judith covered her mouth with her hands. "Don't say so. Please don't say so. He makes my flesh creep."
Her sister-in-law looked at her in amazement. "Oh, no, Judith," she said. "Surely not. He is such a splendid man. But how insensitive I am being. It has been only a little longer than a year since Andrew passed away, has it not? Of course it is a little early for you to think of any other gentleman in that way. But never fear. The marquess is perfectly amiable and civil. He will not press unwelcome attentions on you, I am sure."
Amy had given up hope of matrimonial contentment for herself, but she loved to see those she cared for happy. And she cared for Judith more than for either of her other two sisters-in-law, Judith had not had a good marriage, Amy knew, but she had always remained true to it. She had made Andrew a good wife, and she was a good mother-and a good sister-in-law too. Amy could imagine no greater happiness than seeing Judith well wed. Though of course, she thought a little sadly, when Judith remarried, then she would have to return to Ammanlea.
Judith used the excuse of the removal of the tray to leave the room herself in order to return to her own room.
He was stalking his prey. She could feel it. And he was clever enough to get to her through her unsuspecting sister-in-law and children.
Because after eight years he wanted her back? Because he wanted to fix his interest with her, as Amy seemed to think?
No, not that. There was a certain expression in his eyes when he looked at her. He was not stalking her out of any soft sentiments, of that she was sure. But why, then? Punishment? Had she so wounded his pride and sense of consequence that she must be punished even eight years after the fact?
It must be that, she thought. She had made him feel and look foolish all those years ago. Now she must be punished.
She wondered with some fear and some anger what constituted punishment as far as the Marquess of Denbigh was concerned. Only what she had suffered so far, but at greater length? Embarrassment? Discomfort? Enforced hours in his company?
Or was there something else?
She shivered and despised herself for feeling fear.
Chapter 4
He liked her children. He supposed that it might have been easier if he had not done so, and he had not particularly expected to do so since they were hers-and Easton's. But then in many ways it was not surprising. He had something of a weakness for children.
He liked the sister-in-law too. She was unfortunately plain, with several pockmarks marring her complexion, and she was unusually small. He guessed that she was about his own age, well past the age of marriage for a woman. But there was an amiability about her and a kindness that he sensed. It was a pity that such women were so often denied the fulfillment of husbands and families.
Her friendliness, of course, and that of the children-even the little one could not maintain her shyness when there was something important to be said-could only make his task easier. It would all depend, he supposed, on the amount of power Judith Easton held over them and how well she liked to use that power even against their wishes. Her behavior of the afternoon before had suggested that making them happy was important to her. She had put up no fight against the proposed outing.
The Marquess of Denbigh rode out to the river and across the Blackfriar's Bridge during the morning. The icy fog that had gripped the city earlier was lifting and there was a magical, almost fairytale quality to the view below him on the river. Booths and tents were lined up in close and orderly formation on either side with a wide avenue of roughened ice between. Hawkers were loudly advertising their wares. Shoppers, sightseers, and the curious were wandering from stall to stall. There was a tantalizing aroma of cooking food wafting up to him.
It would do, he thought. He was fortunate that the rare occurrence of the Thames freezing over had happened at such an opportune time. He turned his horse's head for home again.
By the afternoon the fog had lifted right away and the sun was even trying, though not quite succeeding, to break through the high cloud cover. There was no significant wind. It was still cold, but pleasant for an outing. And the Eastons liked daily outings.
They were all ready to leave when he arrived, and came downstairs to the hallway without delay. The boy was openly excited. The little girl clung to her mother's cloak and smiled shyly at him from behind one of its folds until he looked at her. Then she disappeared altogether.
He bowed to them and bade them a good afternoon.
"The air is crisp," he said. "But you are all dressed warmly, I see. And there are warm foods and drinks down on the river, I have heard, and even a fire where meat is being roasted. I could smell it this morning."
"A fire on the ice?" Amy asked in amazement. "Will it not all melt?"
"Apparently not, ma'am," he said. "The ice is very thick indeed."
"Amazing!" she said.
He handed them into his carriage, lifting the little girl and setting her on her mother's knee. The boy scrambled in without assistance. Judith Easton had not said a word beyond the initial greeting and sat quietly and calmly smoothing her daughter's cloak over her knees.
"From my observations this morning," the marquess said, seating himself opposite Judith, his knees almost touching hers, and addressing his words to Amy, "it is quite a festive scene. The sort of excitement such an occasion engenders can also serve to make one quite unaware of the cold."
"To be quite honest," Amy said, "I would prefer extreme cold to extreme heat if I had to make a choice. Very hot summer days can quite sap one of energy."
The two of them carried on an amicable conversation during the journey while Kate stared wide-eyed from one
to the other of them and Rupert sat with his face pressed to the window, watching what passed outside.
"Oh," he said eventually, stabbing a finger against the pane, "there, Mama. There, sir, do you see? Look, Aunt Amy."
And then they were all leaning toward the one window, gazing down from the bridge at London's newest street.