“My lady.” He bent and brushed his left hand over the top of his boot, sheathing the knife. “Naturally I’m honored to have your company, but I’m also surprised. What are you doing in my cottage?” He shut the door behind him and walked to the fireplace, picking up the burning candle on the way.

She stepped aside as he crouched by the hearth. “I fear I detect some sarcasm in your tone.”

“Do you?”

“Mmm. And I am at a loss to understand why. After all, it was you who walked away from me this morning.”

The lady was peeved.

Harry’s lips curved as he lit the already laid fire. “I apologize most humbly, my lady.”

“Humph. A less humble man I have yet to meet.” From the sound of her voice, she was wandering the room behind him.

What did she see? What did this little cottage look like to her? In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the inside of his cottage: a wooden table and chairs, well made but hardly the cushioned luxury of the manor’s sitting rooms. A desk where he kept the record books and ledgers of his job. A set of shelves with some coarse pottery dishes—two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. A door off to one side that was no doubt open, so she could see his narrow bed, the hooks that held his clothes, and the dresser with the earthenware washbasin and pitcher.

He stood and turned.

Lady Georgina was peering into his bedroom.

He sighed silently and walked to the table. On it sat a crock covered with a plate. He lifted the plate and looked inside the pot. Mutton stew left by Mrs. Burns, cold now, but welcome nonetheless.

He went back to the hearth to fill the iron kettle with water and swing it over the fire. “Do you mind if I eat, my lady? I haven’t had my supper yet.”

She turned and stared at him as though her mind has been elsewhere. “Please. Do go ahead. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of withholding food.”

Harry sat at the table and spooned some of the stew onto a plate. Lady Georgina came and looked curiously at his supper and then moved to the fireplace.

He watched her as he ate.

She examined the animal carvings lining his mantel. “Did you make all these?” She gestured to a squirrel with a nut between its paws and glanced back at him.

“Yes.”

“That’s how Lord Granville knew you’d made the hedgehog. He’d seen your work before.”

“Yes.”

“But he hadn’t seen you, at least not for a very long time.” She pivoted fully to look at him.

A lifetime. Harry served himself some more stew. “No.”