Lastly, and this was something that he was realizing over the course of the meal, she was rather . . . opinionated. Right now she was bickering with his factor-cum-secretary as vigorously as any man in a pub, and on a subject usually considered a male purview: horses.

Featherstone was quite heated and his face had turned a dull crimson at something she just said. “You are hardly an expert on such matters, Serena, for all that you are willing to share your opinions so freely. Well here is my opinion: Leeland is one of the best breeders in Yorkshire.”

Mrs. Lombard gave an unladylike snort and took another mouthful of soup before deigning to answer. “No doubt. But we are speaking of his horses, not the man himself.”

Gareth froze, his spoon a few inches above his soup. Had she just said what he thought she said? He looked across at her. She met his stunned gaze, a tiny smirk curving her lips before she took another mouthful of food.

Even Featherstone couldn’t help laughing, a braying sound as irritating as his voice. “You haven’t changed a whit, Serena. You still have no governor on what comes out of your mouth.”

She shrugged, unperturbed by what was obviously meant to be insulting.

Gareth looked from one guest to another, something occurring to him which should have occurred much earlier—if he paid attention to such things. He lowered his spoon. “You two have a prior acquaintance?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lombard and I are cousins.” Featherstone punctuated this statement with a slurp of wine and a footman stepped forward to replenish his glass. Gareth had never noticed before what a prodigious drinker the man was.

“My husband was his cousin, twice removed,” the woman corrected in her low, accented voice, daubing her wryly smiling lips with her napkin.

“You do not agree that Mr. Featherstone’s cousin’s horses are of good quality, Mrs. Lombard.”

She turned away from Featherstone, who was openly glaring at her now. “Mr. Featherstone is correct, Mr. Lockheart—I am not an expert on horses of any sort. I should not speak so forthrightly of Leeland Bowles. I have not seen him for quite a few years and I have never visited his stud farm in Yorkshire.”

“Where would you purchase horses?”

The woman slid an uneasy gaze toward Featherstone. Gareth looked at his factotum and noticed there was an uncharacteristic tightness around his eyes. This time there was no mistaking the look of hostility he shot the woman.

A suspicion was beginning to form in Gareth’s mind, but he placed it to one side for examination later. He looked from his red-faced secretary to the woman and deliberately changed the subject.

“Tell me, Mrs. Lombard, how is it that you came to become a sculptor in addition to landscape gardening?” Even Gareth, with his woeful ability to read the expressions of others, could see the relief on her face.

“I was trained as a sculptor in France. My father, Peter Veryan, was an Englishman. He went to France before the troubles to work under a well-known French sculptor, Jean Favel. My mother was Henriette Favel, his daughter. My mother died giving birth to me, so I was raised in a rather unconventional household—two artists who saw no harm in teaching me their craft.”