“Lord St. Clare tells me that you’ve taken rooms at the Hart and Hound,” she said. “I trust you’re comfortable there?”

“Comfortable enough,” Allendale said. “Where’s that supposed nephew of mine and his mother? They’re staying here, aren’t they? Presuming on some threadbare acquaintance?”

“Indeed. My neighbor, Mr. Burton-Smythe, invited them down for the shooting. They’re out at present, visiting his father, Sir Roderick, at Letchford Hall.”

St. Clare wandered to the fireplace. His gaze drifted around the drawing room. It was a large space, richly carpeted, with silk-papered walls covered in oil paintings of horses and hounds, and furnished with elegantly upholstered sofas, settees, and chairs. Everything was just as he remembered.

But something seemed off.

It was the light. There wasn’t quite enough of it. The heavy plum-colored damask curtains were closed against the midday sun, leaving the room dim and cool.

He looked at Maggie, frowning.

“Burton-Smythe is your guardian?” Allendale asked her.

“Something like that.” She flashed a glance at St. Clare. “Will you not sit down, my lord?”

He walked to one of the rosewood chairs and took a seat.

When contemplating his visit to Beasley Park, he hadn’t considered how strange it would be. How unsettling the intersection of his past and his present. More than that, he hadn’t taken into account how Maggie might feel about his return. She wanted him, he had no doubt. Accepted him exactly as he was. And yet…

And yet the drawing room was as dark as it could possibly be in the middle of a blazing summer afternoon.

Was she so worried about what Fred might do if he recognized who St. Clare really was? If he saw him in the unflinching light of day?

The thought irritated St. Clare to an extraordinary degree.

He was more than capable of handling Frederick Burton-Smythe. Didn’t Maggie know that? Or did she think him still a boy—a servant lad who was in danger of falling victim to a thrashing? Someone she must protect at all costs?

“When will your guests return?” Allendale asked.

“Not for several hours, I expect,” she said.

St. Clare folded his arms. The stitches in his bullet wound tightened painfully. “Perhaps we’ll wait for them.”

Maggie’s smile dimmed. “If you like. Or you could postpone the pleasure until tomorrow evening.”

His brows lifted. “Burton-Smythe will be here?”

“He will,” Maggie said. “And Sir Roderick, as well. They’re coming for dinner. I hope you and Lord Allendale will be at liberty to join us.”

A dinner party, attended by Fred and his father. It would mean arriving after dark to dine in a room illuminated only by flickering candles. A setting almost guaranteed to disguise any hints of his true identity.

“An excellent notion,” Allendale said.

“And Fred has approved of this?” St. Clare asked. “He knows I’ve arrived in Somerset?”