When Willicombe was gone, Nicholas said to Sophie, "His head-it near to blinded me."
Ryder said, "He was lucky to have that slash of sunlight hit it exactly right when he bowed. You see, my lord, Willicombe prides himself on a high shine. He is not bald, he shaves his head twice a week. He informed me this morning he applied a new recipe."
Nicholas laughed, still paying no particular attention to Rosalind. But he was aware of her, oh, yes, particularly of her rich deep red hair piled so artlessly atop her head this morning, lazy curls reaching down to brush her shoulders. Rosalind was an exotic name, he was pleased with it, but yet, somehow, her name didn't seem right. He would be patient; he would learn everything about her soon enough.
Because he was polite he took only one bite of a nutty bun. After he'd chewed that one bite he wished desperately he could stuff the entire bun into his mouth.
Ryder Sherbrooke said, "Where have you been for the past fourteen years, my lord?"
He said, without hesitation, "Many places, sir. For the past five years, though, I have lived in Macau."
Grayson sat forward on his chair. "The Chinese own it but the Portuguese administer it, do they not?"
Nicholas nodded. "The Portuguese landed in the early six-teenth century, claimed the peninsula even though it borders China. It was a major hub of Portuguese naval, commercial, and religious activities in East Asia for several hundred years." He shrugged. "But a country's fortunes change as al-liances and trade markets shift. Macau is merely an outpost low, of little importance in the big scheme of things."
"What did you do there, my lord?"
At last, Nicholas thought, and turned to face her. "I am in trade, Miss-" He stalled, on purpose, hoping she would give him her last name.
She did. "I am Rosalind de La Fontaine."
A dark brow shot straight up. "By any chance are you a fabulist?"
She beamed at him. "So you have read the fables by Jean de La Fontaine, sir?"
"My grandfather read many of them to me when I was a very young boy."
"Do you have a favorite?"
"Yes, 'The Hare and the Tortoise.'"
"Ah, a patient man."
He smiled at her. "And your favorite is?"
" 'The Cicada and the Ant.'"
A black brow shot up. "Which one are you?"
"I am the ant, sir. Winter always comes. It's hast to be prepared because one never knows when a storm might strike when least expected."
"That made no sense at all," Grayson said.
"I fear that it did," Ryder said, and Sophie nodded, and there were shadows in her eyes. "I had no idea, dearest, that you-"
They saw so much, Rosalind thought, too much, not, of course, that she hadn't just dished her biggest fear up to them on a platter. She laughed. "It's only a fable, Aunt Sophie. I truly would like to be more like the cicada, but there appears to be too much Puritan blood in my veins."
Nicholas said matter-of-factly, "Rosalind's virtue is prudence and mine is patience. What is yours, Grayson?"
"I hate flattery," Grayson said, "thus I suppose that I like 'The Crow and the Fox.'"
"Ah," Rosalind said, and poked Grayson's arm. "The fox flatters the crow, and the crow drops the food in his mouth to preen."
"Exactly."
Rosalind stuck out her small plate for a nutty bun.
Nicholas looked at that nutty bun, sighed, and slipped one of the remaining two off the plate onto hers.
"It is always so" Sophie said, grinning at him with only a dollop of sympathy, since she wanted the other bun. "Nutty buns are at a great premium in this household. The recipe comes from Cook at Northcliffe Hall. Because my husband prostrated himself at her feet, swore he would sing her arias beneath her window, she deigned to pass the recipe along to our cook."
"If you should show me to the kitchen, ma'am, I will prostrate myself as well. However, I don't know any arias."
"Neither does my husband. He is so charming, however, that it doesn't seem to matter."
Laughter. It felt good, Nicholas thought, surprised. He couldn't remember very much laughter in his life.
"It is a lovely morning," he said. "As I recall from my boyhood, this is a precious spectacle that shouldn't be squandered. May I ask Miss La Fontaine to walk with me in the park?"
"Which park?" Ryder asked.
"Hyde Park, sir. I have a carriage outside. I hired it, since the ones remaining at Wyverly Chase are from the previous century."
Grayson leaned forward. "Wyverly Chase? What a phenomenal name. I should like to hear the history behind it. It is your family seat?"
Nicholas nodded.
Rosalind knew Grayson's brain was already spinning a tale about Wyverly Chase, so she said, "I understand there is a small artists' fair this morning. Perhaps his lordship and I could see what is happening with that."
Grayson nodded and rose. "I shall accompany you."
Rosalind wanted to smack Grayson, but since he had to be a hatter choice for chaperone than either Aunt Sophie or Uncle Ryder, she nodded. She rose as well, and smiled. "I should enjoy that very much."
Ryder Sherbrooke, seeing no hope for it, slowly nodded.
It was the rare sort of English spring day-a blue sky so bright, a breeze so light and scented sweet with the blooming spring flowers, thatit brought a tear to the jaded English eye. They discovered that the small artists' fair meant to take place in one corner of Hyde Park had turned into an event.
Hundreds of people milled through Hyde Park to stop at he food and drink vendors and the artists' stalls, or sit on the trampled grass to watch the jugglers and mimes come to share in the fun and profit. There was a good deal of laugher, some good-natured fisticuffs, perhaps a bit too much ale, and pickpockets who smiled happily as they adroitly worked through the crowds.
"There is more food here today than artists," Nicholas said. Both he and Grayson held Rosalind by an arm, not about to let her get pulled away in the boisterous crowd.
"And drink," Grayson said. Suddenly Grayson stopped still, stared off into the distance.
"Oh, I see," Rosalind said and poked him in the arm. 'Bookstalls, a whole line of them."
Grayson was eyeing those bookstalls like a starved mongrel. Rosalind, seeing freedom within her grasp, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Off you go. I'll be perfectly safe with Lord Mountjoy. Go, Grayson. We will be just fine."
Nicholas's grin turned into his most responsible nod. "I swear to keep her safe." After but a moment of indecision, Grayson was off like a comet.
"He can move very quickly when properly motivated," Rosalind said.
Nicholas looked down at her upturned face. "What makes you think you'll be safe with me?"
She smiled up at his dark face, those black eyes of his. "Truth be told, I'd be perfectly safe by myself, as are you, I imagine." She eyed him up and down. "Were you to dare take liberties with my capable self, I should make you very sorry. I'm very strong, you know. And wily."
"And if you take liberties with me, then what am I to do?"
"Perhaps you could ask me to sing and that would distract me from those liberties."
He couldn't help it, he burst out laughing. Several people turned his way, smiling with him. One, Nicholas suspected, was a pickpocket, one a housemaid with lovely thick black hair, and the third a matron with the look of a baker's wife, what with the streak of flour down the bodice of her gown, three children clinging to her skirts.
"It is his passion," Rosalind said, watching Grayson gracefully weave his way through a group of military men singing ditties at the top of their lungs, their voices well oiled with ale. "Grayson is immensely talented. He began telling ghost stories when he was a little boy. He never stopped."