It didn't take long to deduce that the pair of young people standing shyly by the fireplace were newly betrothed. Amid talk of a ball and a formal announce ment, someone said gaily that Lady Hermione would be wise to order her bride-clothes early from Paris. Trev realized with a slight surprise that this was Callie's sister.
She did not resemble Callie at all. She was some what prettier, to be sure, but it was an ordinary pret tiness, neither objectionable nor memorable. Now that he guessed who she was, he could vaguely recall a prattling and sociable child from his earlier days in Shelford, but little sisters had not interested him very deeply at the time. She seemed tolerable enough now, if perhaps a little too forced and gay in her gestures. Doubtless she was nervous at being the center of attention. A forgivable offense. But no hint of stif led mirth in her expression made him wish to tease a smile from her, as Callie's did.
Callie had mentioned going away with her sister when she married, but he had not understood that it was already a settled thing. He realized that he was frowning, and smoothed his face into a public smile as one of the women finally took notice of him.
She did not immediately move to greet him. He saw her give him the sort of cursory examination that any lady of the bon ton could perform in the f lick of a raised brow. Trev waited with composure while she made certain that he was in all points comme il faut.
Her gaze lingered. He gave a small bow, finely calculated to avoid any presumption that she should notice him if she did not care to do so. She was quite beautiful in an unyielding way, her hair such a pale gold it was almost white, her features as strong and expressionless as some classical statue of Minerva. Her skin seemed so fine and thin that the bones showed too near the surface, as if she might crack like a marble stone if struck.
Trev made a deeper formal bow as she committed to walk across the room to him.
"Monsieur le duc," she said, holding out her gloved hand. "Bienvenue. I am Lady Shelford. Ah-f lowers! Thank you. You must have heard of our happy news. But you shouldn't have left your poor mama. How does she do?"
He found himself giving up Callie's posy, having little choice as she took it from his hand and passed it to the footman. Keeping any hint of irony from his voice, Trev conveyed his mother's heartfelt thanks for the magnificent basket of green apples. He was surprised to find that Lady Shelford condescended to lead him to the tea table and see that he was served. He had not thought he would rate so high in her social calculations. She even lingered with him. He took advantage of it to extend his felicitations on the betrothal and casually hope that Lady Hermione would not go too far away from Shelford when she was wed.
"Oh, they will live in town," the countess said in an uninterested voice. "He has some sort of situation in the Home Office. His duties keep him tied to Whitehall."
"Ah. London." Trev would have liked to pursue this topic, but he could not find a nonchalant way to ask where Callie would pasture her bulls in London. "That will be a gay life for Lady Hermione," he said politely.
"Indeed." She did not appear gratified by the thought. "You're recently come from Paris?"
"No, I went direct to Calais from my home," he lied, avoiding any possible acquaintances of hers who he might have been supposed to encounter in Paris.
"Of course. You did not wish to delay." She touched his arm, allowing her gloved fingers to trail across the back of his hand. "You must tell me anything that can be done for your poor mother. I might send someone to help in the kitchen, perhaps?"
Trev lifted his lashes. He met her eyes and found an unmistakable look there, a f lagrant physical aware ness of him under her impassive smile. He was a great appreciator of women, and he knew well enough that his admiration was generally returned, but he avoided liaisons with females of easy principles. His grandfather and mother had been neither romantic nor reserved in their counsels to a hot-headed and well-favored young boy. Trev had been brought up with no illusions about ladies of society or ladies of the streets.
"You are too kind," he said. "I beg you won't put yourself to the trouble." He kept his voice neutral and his bow respectfully stiff. He felt vaguely insulted that she would make even a delicate advance at the same time she offered assistance. "I only wished to convey my thanks to Lady Callista for her help. She's not at home?"
"It would seem that she is not." The countess looked around as if she had no notion whether Callie was present.
"Perhaps I might write her a note," Trev said, when she did not make the offer.
"Oh. Yes, if you like." She gestured toward a carved secretary and turned away.
He wrote standing up, dipping a pen and helping himself to the paper. Only a sentence, conveying little but his mother's thanks, since he could discover no wafer to seal it. He had a notion that Lady Shelford was just the sort to take a glance at other people's correspondence. When he straightened, he found that she was watching him from the far side of the room. He folded the note. With a little less than courtesy, he gave her a nod and handed his letter to the footman as he departed.
As the porter held the door for him, Trev glanced over the curving drive toward the stable range. A thought occurred to him. He signaled to the postboy to hold his chaise and walked across the gravel toward the outbuildings.
He knew the way. Under the carriage arch, past the dim stall rows smelling of sweet hay and horses, then a goodly distance out along the walled lane with glimpses of a big kitchen garden through portholes in the brick. He was dressed for a drawing room, not a visit to the home farm, but he sidestepped the mud hole at the gate and evaded the importunities of a donkey. A pig watched him hopefully through the slats of its pen. Trev stooped to retrieve the remains of an apple that had rolled out and tossed it over the fence, receiving a grateful grunt in return.
A farm lad was shoveling at the manure pile, sending animal pungency into the air. He tipped his cap to Trev. "Afternoon, sir."
"Would I find Lady Callista here?" Trev asked.
"Aye, sir." The boy nodded toward the bigger cow barn. "M'lady's feedin' the orphan."
Trev had guessed something of the sort. He took off his hat as he ducked under a dangling rope and walked into the shadows of the barn.
He saw her bonnet over a stall partition, the brim bobbing energetically. He paused, looking round the wooden barrier. Callie stood bracing herself against the enthusiastic assault of a large calf on the bottle she held. Under a copious canvas apron, she was dressed in a pink silk gown with a pair of muck boots poking out from beneath the ruff led hem.
"Have you deserted the drawing room, my lady?" he asked.
"Oh!" She started but only glanced aside without showing her face from under the wide brim of the bonnet.
"You had a caller," he said. "I even had my boots polished."
"I'm sorry," she said in a voice he could barely discern. "I didn't expect-I shouldn't have gone away from the party, but-"
Her muff led words trailed off. She kept her face hidden. As he watched, she turned up the bottle to let the calf suck down the last of the milk. Trev took a step nearer. He tilted his head, bending a little, and saw that her chin was wet with tears.
"Callie," he said in dismay. "What is it?"
She set the milk bottle in the straw. The calf nosed it and licked at the nipple. There was a long silence, and then she wiped her cheek.
"My cousin has lost Hubert," she said in a small voice.
"Hubert?" For a moment he was bewildered, and then recollection struck him. "Hubert the bull? The one you're taking to the Hereford show?"
"Yes. Rupert's finest grandson."
"What do you mean, lost him? He's got loose?"