The conservatory was a large one, constructed of glass panes framed in white-painted wood. He spied the top of Sir Humphrey’s gray head rising above the back of a wicker chair set before the wide windows at the end of the room. Gentle sunshine poured in, bathing the chair and its occupant.
Christopher slowed as he neared, instinct prompting him to look before he leapt.
He drew level with the chair and saw Sir Humphrey gazing out at the rolling lawns, bright garden beds, and the green-and-gold patchwork of orchards and fields beyond.
Sir Humphrey’s expression appeared tranquil, and his lips were lightly curved.
Christopher walked farther, to where Sir Humphrey could easily see him. “Sir Humphrey?”
“Heh?” Sir Humphrey looked up at Christopher.
The lack of immediate recognition in the old man’s faded blue eyes sent unease cascading through Christopher. He held out a hand. “It’s Christopher, sir. Christopher Cynster.”
He’d last seen Sir Humphrey a year ago, and the physical change in the man, while obvious, wasn’t enough to raise alarm. But the vacant expression in the blue eyes staring up at him was deeply disturbing.
Then Sir Humphrey’s eyes widened, and recognition flared. Sir Humphrey beamed and clasped his hand. “Excellent! Well met, my boy! Good of you to call.”
Sir Humphrey glanced around, then waved at another chair. “Here—sit down.”
Christopher glanced briefly at Miss Martingale as he moved to comply; she was standing back, out of Sir Humphrey’s sight, and all but wringing her hands.
After tugging the chair closer to Sir Humphrey, Christopher sat and leaned forward.
Sir Humphrey was still smiling. “Good of you to call, Vane.”
Christopher paused, then gently corrected, “It’s Christopher, sir. The pater and Mama are off traveling in America—they called on you before they left.”
And why hadn’t his parents seen what he was seeing and warned him?
“Oh?” Sir Humphrey frowned. “America…oh yes, I remember. Went to visit someone, didn’t they?”
He has no idea and is trying to conceal it. Obligingly, Christopher said, “The pater is looking into farming equipment and techniques, while Mama is purely sightseeing.”
Sir Humphrey nodded. “And you’re holding the fort while they’re away, heh?”
Christopher knew his parents would have mentioned that. He nodded. “Yes.”
“Need some advice, then? Is that what’s brought you here?”
Christopher glanced at Miss Martingale. She now stood with her arms folded; both stance and expression radiated irritated resignation. Carefully, he said, “I came because your goats got loose. I brought them back.”
“My goats?” Sir Humphrey’s gaze brightened. “Why, I’d almost forgotten I had them!” He focused on Christopher. “I say—are they all right?”
The sudden flare of imminent agitation had Christopher saying, “Quite all right, sir…although”—he glanced again at Miss Martingale and was relieved to see she’d lowered her arms and was walking forward—“I thought I should mention that their hooves need trimming.”
“Oh.” Sir Humphrey’s eyes clouded with confused concern.
Miss Martingale placed a firm hand on Sir Humphrey’s shoulder. “No need to worry, uncle. I’ll speak to Hopper. He’ll see that the goats are taken care of.”
Sir Humphrey looked up at his niece, and his features relaxed. Smiling, he raised a gnarled hand and patted her fingers. “Thank you, my dear. I know I can rely on you and the others. Very comforting, it is, and that’s a fact.”
As Sir Humphrey’s gaze swung back to him, Christopher rose and held out his hand. “I’ll leave you now, sir. It was good to see you again.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Sir Humphrey grasped his hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “My thanks to you for calling, Vane. Glad we had time to catch up. I expect I’ll see you at the meet next week, heh? Give my regards to Patience, won’t you?”
Faced with the earnestness in Sir Humphrey’s gaze, Christopher managed a reassuring smile. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at Miss Martingale. “Until next time, sir.”
With that, he walked slowly to the conservatory door. Halting, he turned and saw Miss Martingale bending solicitously over her uncle, settling him again.
Eventually, she straightened and walked toward Christopher. He waited until she neared to quietly demand, “What the devil’s going on?”
Her lips compressed to a thin line, and her gaze grew as hard as diamonds. She studied him in silence, assessingly, measuringly, then said, “As you insist on knowing, come to the study, and I’ll tell you what you deserve to know.”
He nearly humphed at her presumption, but there was a strength in her voice—in her attitude—he hadn’t seen before.
She might look like a doll, but there was steel beneath the distracting façade, and every instinct he possessed warned that treating her dismissively would be a serious mistake.
He stood back to allow her to precede him through the door, and with outward meekness, followed her along the corridor.
Ellen slumped into the chair behind the desk and watched as her unexpected and unwished-for visitor pulled an armchair around to face her and sat—every movement executed with elegant grace. If she had to have a nosy neighbor of her own generation, she deemed it grossly unfair that he was so visually—and in so many other ways—distracting. She had enough on her plate without that.
But he’d seen her uncle and was now as sober and focused as a judge. He would have questions galore, and she needed to decide how much to reveal.
Can I trust him?
She wished she could have sought advice from Hopper or Vickers or even Partridge. But Cynster was there now, in front of her, and she had to make up her mind purely on her own observations.
She studied him openly. After a moment, he cocked a dark eyebrow at her, with a certain languid arrogance asking without words if she’d seen enough.
She grimaced faintly; the impression she’d got from the exchange in the conservatory—and even more, his reaction to her uncle’s state—was that Christopher Cynster was an honorable gentleman and not the sort to take advantage of another’s misfortune.
Who knows? He might even be a help.
Apparently losing patience with her hesitation, he offered, “The last time I saw Sir Humphrey, admittedly over a year ago, he was hale and hearty and striding about his acres, keeping everyone in line. I know my parents visited him before they left, and that would have been not quite two months ago. They spoke with me afterward, yet said nothing about your uncle having…difficulties.” His voice hardened. “Yet now I find him with his mind wandering.”
Ellen inwardly sighed; she wasn’t going to be able to keep much, if anything, from him. “We—my younger brother, Robert, who is Sir Humphrey’s heir, our maternal aunt, and I—came to join my uncle’s household last October.”
Cynster frowned. “Why was that?”
Impertinent, yet… “Primarily because Sir Humphrey wished it. He’s been our guardian—my brother’s and mine—since our father, Sir Humphrey’s older brother, died in ’44. We had a house in Belgravia, and our mother was London born and bred and wished to remain there, for the social whirl above all else. But she contracted a fever in the summer of ’49 and passed away. After our year of mourning, as Robbie is Sir Humphrey’s heir, Sir Humphrey, backed by Vickers, the family’s solicitor, pressed us to sell the London house and, together with our widowed aunt, who’d lived with us for many years and who Sir Humphrey knew well, come to live here, at Bigfield House.” She shrugged lightly. “Robbie and I were agreeable, as was our aunt Emma—none of us were as fond of London as Mama—so we sold up and came down to Kent and became a part of this household.”