“None the worse for wear, excepting my clothes, of course. It’s a bit muddy now that the snow’s melted, but I don’t mind mud if it means the sun is shining.”
“Yes, the weather is rather lovely, isn’t it? I saw Marena yesterday. I thought she must have been out for a walk with you.”
His smile faltered. “We … we haven’t been seeing so much of each other lately,” he said, the slightest flush creeping up on his cheeks.
I realized that I had made some sort of error; that was what I got for assuming.
“Oh,” I said faintly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’ll be all right. We love each other, and that’s what matters in the end. We’ll settle things.” He offered me an unconvincing smile.
“There you are, Phipps,” Milo said, striding into the stables, his spotless jodhpurs, shining black boots, and crisply pressed white shirt in marked contrast to Bertie’s soiled attire.
“I’ve sent Geoffrey off with Hades, so you can take Gwendolyn. She’s never been one for hedges.”
“Right away, Mr. Ames,” he said. He turned, tipping his head to me, the lock of blond hair flopping forward. “Good day, Mrs. Ames.”
“Good day, Bertie.”
He left the stables and Milo turned to me. “Do you think you should be out here?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Horses can be unpredictable. I shouldn’t like to see anything happen to you.”
I sighed. I supposed I was simply going to have to put up with being treated like a porcelain doll until the baby arrived. “I don’t intend to throw myself in the way of any trampling horses.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
I glanced at the door just in time to see the departing figure of Bertie Phipps disappearing into the sunlight. “Have he and Marena Hodges parted ways?”
Milo shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
I was not at all surprised that Milo had failed to keep up with the shifting sands of village romance.
It was curious. Marena had looked so radiant yesterday. Certainly there had been nothing to mark her as a woman who had recently had her heart broken. I suspected the end of the romance had been more her idea than Bertie’s.
“Were you looking for me, darling?” Milo asked, recalling my attention.
“Not particularly. Winnelda was stifling me, and I felt the need to escape.”
“You’d think in a hundred odd rooms you might have evaded her.”
He was right, of course. Thornecrest was large enough that one could avoid human contact indefinitely if one had a mind to do so. But rooms full of antiques, however lovely, were no substitute for fresh air.
“I needed to breathe,” I said simply.
He studied me, then neatly summed up what I was feeling in that easy way of his. “You’re worried about that girl.”
I nodded. “Among other things.”
“You rang the inn?”
“No. I’ve been avoiding it.”
“You’ll likely find she’s gone when you do. I’d wager we’ll not see her again.”
“Perhaps not,” I answered. I didn’t know whether to hope he was right or wrong. A part of me supposed it would be better if that were the case, if Imogen had been hoping to get something from me with her lie and, having failed, would not come back. Another treacherous part of me hoped that there was some sort of mischief afoot.
While I was enjoying this first phase of motherhood, I had to admit that the past few months had also held something akin to tedium. Despite my increasing maternal feelings, my streak of adventure had not been quelled. And things had been exceedingly quiet since we had returned home from New York in November.
“Come, darling,” Milo said, sliding an arm around me. “I’ll frighten Winnelda away and you can keep me company while I answer some correspondence. I’ve been neglecting responding to some letters; you know how I hate it.”
“All right.”
We walked back toward the house in companionable silence. I glanced at Milo as we went. He looked relaxed and happy. He usually appeared that way after he’d spent time with his horses. I felt some of my own tension leave me, as though his contentment was contagious. His arm was still around me, and the solid warmth of him against my side was comforting.
I was growing accustomed to it, I realized—of finding comfort in his presence. Our marriage had not always been this way; in the past we had been at odds nearly as often as we were in tune. I was immeasurably glad that, with a baby on the way, we were closer than we had ever been.
We entered the house through the front door and were greeted by Grimes. For the second time in as many days, his normally imperturbable countenance had slipped ever so slightly, and I could tell something was wrong.
“What is it, Grimes?” I asked as Milo helped me off with my jacket.
“There is a … gentleman asking to see Mr. Ames.”
“Who is it?” Milo asked.
Grimes hesitated. “He refuses to give his name.”
How very odd. I didn’t know what to think. Everything was normally so quiet here at Thornecrest, and now we were having all manner of excitement.
Milo let out a short, irritated breath. “It’s probably one of those Americans with the nightclub. They all seem averse to revealing their identities.”
Since Milo had thrown in his lot with American bootleggers to open a nightclub in London, I didn’t think he had much room for complaint on their unconventional and secretive behaviors.
“Where is the fellow?” he asked.
“He’s in the morning room, sir. He … declined to leave until he had spoken with you.”
“Thank you, Grimes.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said. “You know I enjoy meeting your underworld friends.”
Milo gave me a look but did not protest as I followed him toward the morning room. He motioned for me to precede him as we reached the door, and I caught sight of the gentleman standing before the fireplace and looking up at the painting on the wall.
He turned at the sound of our approach, and I blinked. The strange young man standing in our sitting room looked so much like Milo that I thought for a fraction of a moment Milo had done some feat of magic and entered the room before me without my noticing.
Milo, it seemed, must have noticed the resemblance as well, for he dispensed with any formalities. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded.
The young man smiled Milo’s smile. “My name is Darien Ames. I’m your long-lost brother.”
4
I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I must have gaped at him, so startled was I by this announcement. A brother? Surely not. And yet, the proof seemed to be before my eyes as I studied him. He was a bit younger than Milo, but it was uncanny how much he looked like him.
He smiled at me, and a dimple appeared in one cheek. “Mrs. Ames, I presume?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. I was still uncertain as to how to proceed.
“I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve seen your pictures in the society columns. You’re even lovelier in person, if possible.”
“Thank you,” I said vaguely.
I turned to look at Milo for some cue as to how I should react.