“Nothing of import, my lady,” Weatherly said. “Two of the housemaids are dressing them and they are keen for the experience so are not talking out of turn. All that has been said is that the widow is frail and the sister most attentive. The general sense seems to be one of sympathy. Other than that, there is some general discontent regarding Mrs. Ellis-Brant’s demands.”

“Well, sympathy is better than curiosity, I suppose.” I sat back in the chair. “We are rather crowded here, Weatherly,” I said ruefully. “Not what we expected to encounter or what we need.”

“No, my lady. Is the plan to stay?”

“As yet, undecided.” I offered the sealed packet. “Please take this to Lord Evan.”

Weatherly received the note with unusual diffidence. “I would, my lady, but Lord Evan has ridden out with Lord Davenport and Mr. Ellis-Brant. There is a boxing match in the village and Lord Davenport has insisted on their company. They are to be gone most of the day.”

“A boxing match, in this weather?”

“It is in a barn, my lady.”

I stared down at the table. Damn. Would it be too marked to send Weatherly or John Driver to the boxing match with the message? I had to reluctantly conclude that it would.

“Give it to him as soon as he returns, then.”

“I will, my lady.” He paused, the moment holding enough weight that I knew he had something else to say. Something that was not quite proper to volunteer.

“Is there anything else I need to know, Weatherly?”

“The mail has arrived, my lady. I have just delivered a letter to Lady Julia.”

“Do we know who it is from?”

“I could not say. Although Lady Julia seemed delighted to see the direction written by that particular hand.”

Ah, Mr. Kent.

I met Weatherly’s worried gaze: we both knew that was a storm yet to break.

He bowed. “Lady Julia is in the library, my lady,” he said. And on that intelligence, he departed the room.

•   •   •

I found my sister in her favorite seat in the Davenports’ impressive library. It was tucked away at the far end of the large book-lined room, a leather armchair in a small nook that she had found early in our visits and claimed as her own. She sat with her letter in her hands, staring at it in some consternation, but looked up as I approached.

“There you are,” I said.

“Here I am,” she responded, smiling a little at the childhood greeting. “I suppose Weatherly told you I had a letter from Mr. Kent?”

“Not in as many words.”

“He does like to be discreet,” she said dryly. “As it happens, I was about to look for you.” She held out the single sheet of paper.

“I can read it?”