They didn’t move, didn’t shift, and continued to watch him with the patience of a three-headed sphinx.
Eventually, he drew breath and grumpily admitted, “I’m from the firm—the Foreign Office. I was sent to stick close to your uncle and guard him.” He omitted saying against what.
Jamie nodded. “That’s what we thought.”
Lottie said, “Uncle Christopher told us some French agent had been following him in London, which is why he’s here now.”
Drummond blinked again, faintly shocked that their uncle had told them that.
“Does he truly need a guard here in Little Moseley?” His gaze on Drummond’s face, George tipped his head. “It’s not as if French agents are likely to appear down here.”
Drummond frowned. “He shouldn’t have told you about the French agent.”
“Well,” George said, “he didn’t specifically tell us. He told Grandmama, but we were there, so we heard as well.”
“Oh.” Not knowing what else the three had overheard, Drummond felt on uncertain ground.
“Do you usually spend your days guarding people like Uncle Christopher?” Jamie asked.
Trying to figure out what he should do with the three and sensing no danger in the question, Drummond replied, “No, not usually.”
“So what do you usually do?” Lottie asked.
How much should he tell them? “I usually pretend to be a businessman or Squire Jones or something similar.”
“Here in England?” George asked.
“No. Usually somewhere on the Continent. I’m generally over there.” More to the point, what was it safe to tell them?
“But what about your family?” Lottie asked. “Wouldn’t you rather be with them for Christmas?”
While trying to work out how much of a disaster the three knowing too much might be, Drummond heard himself reply, “I’ve only got a brother and sister-in-law, and with any luck, this nonsense with your uncle will be over before Christmas, and I’ll be back in London in time to join them for Christmas Day.”
Jamie studied him rather censoriously. “Why do you call the threat to Uncle Christopher ‘nonsense’?”
Drummond hissed through his teeth. That was what came of trying to think while being interrogated by three children too precocious for their own good. “Look, the threat isn’t nonsense—I assume it’s quite real. When he was in London, it was real. But I can’t see any foreign agent getting at him here.” He dropped all pretense. “I admit I didn’t think much of the idea of him hiding away down here, but now I’ve seen the place, they were right—it’s the perfect place for him to sit and wait it out. All he and I need to do is sit tight here, and whoever was after him in London will give up and go away. With the current state of affairs on the Continent and how rapidly things are changing, they won’t have time to hang about. They might try for someone else—although there isn’t anyone with your uncle’s particular expertise—but more likely, they’ll slink back across the Channel, and that will be the last we’ll hear of them, whoever they are.”
The words falling from his lips registered, along with the children’s intrigued expressions. Damn—I’ve said too much. He frowned. “Here, now, you’d better let me get on. Your uncle might be wanting to change his shirt for dinner.”
The three didn’t immediately move but, instead, eyed him assessingly—as if debating whether they might winkle more information from him.
Then Jamie stepped to one side, and the younger two followed his lead.
Drummond swallowed a sigh of relief and quickly strode past and on down the corridor. “Precocious, just like I said,” he muttered. “And far too personable with it!”
The following morning, having realized that the London news sheets wouldn’t reach the village until later in the day, Christopher consented to drive his mother in his curricle to visit Mrs. Woolsey at Fulsom Hall.
The children had assured him that it was likely he would find Henry and the other young gentlemen at the house, and given the circumstances, Christopher felt it might be wise to further his acquaintance with them.
He’d forgotten that his mother had a keen eye for quality horseflesh; he and she traded comments on his blacks as he steered the pair up the village lane.
The sight of the sleek horses and the elegant carriage, with the children clinging on behind, drew quite a few eyes, smiles, and waves, to which his mother regally—and the children gaily—responded.
Christopher turned as directed up the Fulsom Hall drive and, eventually, drew up in a graveled forecourt before the steps leading up to the Hall’s front porch.
No doubt alerted by the rattle of wheels, a young groom came running to take charge of the horses. The boy halted, his eyes widening at the sight of the pair, with their glossy hides, big chests, and proudly arched necks.
Christopher stepped down and handed the boy the reins. “I believe we’ll be here for an hour or two.”
“Right, sir.” The boy snapped off a salute. “I’ll take good care of ’em.”
Given the look of awe on the boy’s face, Christopher didn’t doubt that. He rounded the horses’ heads, but Jamie was before him, handing Christopher’s mother down.
George and Lottie jumped from the rear seat, then Lottie shook out her skirt and came forward to confidently take his mother’s hand.
Smiling fondly at the children, his mother waved toward the porch. “Shall we? George, dear, please ring the bell.”
George ran ahead to do so, and by the time Christopher stepped onto the porch beside his mother, the door stood open, revealing a large butler, perfectly attired, who bowed very correctly to them. “Your ladyship—it’s a pleasure to see you.”
“Good morning, Mountjoy.” Christopher’s mother smiled serenely. “Is Mrs. Woolsey receiving?”
“Indeed, she is, ma’am. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you and the children, too.” The butler unbent enough to flash a smile at the children. “If you would care to come in, I’ll fetch her.”
“Thank you, Mountjoy.” Releasing Christopher’s arm, his mother swept forward. With a wave, she indicated Christopher. “This is my son, Mr. Christopher Osbaldestone. The children and I are introducing him to the village.”
Mountjoy bowed to Christopher. “Welcome to Fulsom Hall, sir.” Straightening, he waved toward an open doorway. “If you will wait in the drawing room, I’ll inform Mrs. Woolsey—”
“Oh! It’s you, dear Lady Osbaldestone. Such a joy to see you.”
With everyone else, Christopher turned to see the lady he’d met on the church lawn, once again sporting countless scarves—some diaphanous, others knitted—come fluttering down the stairs. On reaching the tiles, she hurried across, the ends of the scarves flapping about her.
“Good morning, Ermintrude,” his mother said. “I see you’re in excellent health.”
“Dear me, yes!” Mrs. Woolsey beamed at the children and lightly touched each of the three heads. “Such a delight to see you and the young ones.” She turned her myopic gaze on Christopher, then recognition dawned. “And you’ve brought your son along as well. Excellent.” She whirled, scarf ends flying, and said to Mountjoy, “The tea tray, I think, Mountjoy, and perhaps some scones?”