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."