Lady Eve's Indiscretion

and… trapped in their ornate robes and elaborately carved little boxes.

And still Sloane sat there, quivering like a fat, beautifully attired hare waiting for the fox to pounce.

“Lie to me again, Sloane, and I will have your vowels. I will use them to discredit you from one end of the kingdom to the other. You will have no mistress, no stable at all, no fancy clothes, and very likely no family worth the name. You have two weeks before the damages will start to toll. Get out.”

Sloane’s relief was a rank, rancid thing. The odds of the man making a delivery in the next two weeks were not good, but Dolan built slack into every schedule he negotiated, then added more slack, because most of the time, it did rain like hell in Dorset in the spring.

When Dolan was sure Sloane had vacated the entire premises, he grabbed hat, gloves, and cane and left the office, locking the door behind him.

A clerk glanced up from his desk as Dolan passed. “I’m away until tomorrow’s meeting with Ruthven, Standish. Have the files on my desk first thing, send out for crumpets, and dust the damn place before I get here.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dolan.”

The day was glorious, almost warm, and brilliantly sunny because the trees weren’t leafed out yet. Dolan strode along in the direction of Mayfair, when what he wanted was to enjoy the day amid the graciousness and privacy of Whitley.

At home more work awaited, a short interlude with Georgina to tuck her in, then more work over a solitary dinner. How was it a quarry nabob felt just as much a slave as if he were still a five-year-old boy, his fingers perpetually cold and muddy from tending the tatties?

The memory was never far from his awareness, which explained in part why he almost plowed over a slight woman carrying some small parcels down the street in the oncoming direction. The parcels scattered, the woman stumbled, and Dolan grasped her by both of her upper arms as she pitched against him.

She righted herself with his assistance, and Dolan found himself looking into a pair of fine gray eyes. “Miss Ingraham. I beg your pardon.”

“Mr. Dolan. My apologies.”

She tried to draw away, but he held her steady. “The fault is mine. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Her slightly frayed collar and less-than-pristine gloves added to her usual air of constrained dignity. He let her go and bent to pick up her packages. “I gather today is your half day?”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll just pass me those boxes, I’ll be on my way.”

“Nonsense. Where are you going?”

Her ingrained manners wouldn’t allow her to entirely withhold the information, but she was a female. She could prevaricate, and he couldn’t stop her. Instead, she did the most peculiar thing: she blushed, and she smiled. “I was going to the park.”

The park, a monument to England’s democratic leanings, a place where anybody could enjoy fresh air and sunshine. Dolan cast back and could not recall seeing that quiet smile on any previous occasion. That smile went well with her fine gray eyes and exceptional figure. “Then we’ve a bit of a walk ahead of us.”

He tucked her packages under one arm and winged the opposite elbow at her, and damned if the infernal woman’s smile didn’t fade to be replaced by a look of reproach.

“Mother of God, it’s simply a courtesy, Miss Ingraham. It isn’t as if you’re the scullery maid.”

Her spine straightened, she wrapped her hand around his arm, and they moved off, leaving Dolan with a rare opportunity to observe his daughter’s governess outside the child’s presence.

“Have you been shopping?” Inane question, of course she had. Dolan wished again his late wife might have spent more time teaching him the difference between interrogation and small talk, for he’d yet to grasp the distinction.

“Just a few personal things. This really isn’t necessary, sir.”

He did not reply—let her be the one to demonstrate some conversational skills. He was sure she had them, though whether she’d take pity—

“I like the French soaps.” She said this very quietly, glancing about as she did. “They’re very dear, but the scents are such a pleasure. And there’s a particular tea at the Twinings shop. Everybody should have a favorite tea.”

She had fine gray eyes, a lovely smile, an excellent figure, and she could make small talk.

“I quite agree, Miss Ingraham. My preference is Darjeeling. What’s yours?”

* * *

For an entire day, Eve tried to study the welter of thoughts and emotions roiling through her.

At breakfast she listened to Aunt Gladys prattle on about how pretty the gardens were—while Eve contemplated ripping up every tulip on the property.

She endured a social call from Louisa and Kesmore, trying not to see the concern in either of their gazes or to allow them to see in her own eyes the nigh overwhelming desire to smash the teapot on the hearthstones.

She held Jenny’s yarn and considered strangling her sister the very next time the word “dearest” was uttered aloud.

After tossing away half the night, Eve overslept and woke up ready to discharge the entire senior staff for allowing it. She was eyeing all the pretty, proper demure clothing in her wardrobe with a view toward burning the lot of it when her gaze fell on an old outfit she’d had for years.

It would still fit her.

While she studied the ensemble, an insight—dear God, at long last, an insight—struck her: what was wanted was not destruction per se, but action.

No more weeping, wondering, and wandering the house. She yanked the dress out of the wardrobe and tossed it on the bed, then pulled her chemise over her head and regarded her naked body in the mirror.

She bore no visible scars, deformities, or disfigurements as a legacy of her fall. She could walk, she was healthy, and by heaven it was time to start acting that way too.

Her hair went into a practical braid that she coiled up into a bun at her nape. From under the bed, she pulled a pair of boots she hadn’t worn in seven years. She dressed without assistance, dodged the breakfast parlor and headed for the kitchen, there to cut up some apples.

She left the kitchen, realizing for all she’d had an insight, it had been only a limited insight: it was time for action, yes, but what action?

“I don’t suppose you have any answers?” She fed Meteor an apple slice without receiving a reply.

While Grendel sidled closer, she scrambled over the fence to give Meteor’s withers a scratching. “I feel like I am going to explode with indignation, horse. Like having a tantrum nobody will be able to ignore, like starting a fire in the formal parlor…”

Like what?

She fed him another apple slice then attended to the spot behind his chin that had him stretching out his neck. “You are no help. I come here for wisdom, and I get horsehair all over my outfit.”

Grendel came within a few steps, and Eve realized the pony wasn’t going to allow her to entirely ignore him. She held out an apple slice to him.

Ponies were not prone to insights. They usually lived a scrappy life among larger animals and inconsiderate children, or casually negligent former owners. A pony was generally left to manage as best it could, and the average pony managed quite well.

Grendel did not take the treat. He regarded Eve out of eyes that seemed at once knowing and blank.

“Eat your apple, you idiot. Meteor won’t stand for it to go to waste.”

Grendel took a step closer while Eve held the apple slice a few inches from his fuzzy, whiskered muzzle.

“You are no kind of pony if you can’t see a perfectly lovely treat—oof!”

He’d butted her middle with his head, once. Stoutly.

“That was rude.” She passed the apple slice over her shoulder to Meteor and stood there, hands on hips, feeling as if the pony were glaring right back at her. It was enough to drive an already overset woman—

Yes.

Yes, yes, and yes.