As she ambled through the pasture, the long summer grasses seemed to undulate on the rolling hills. Their fresh scent tickled her nose. It was quiet out here, the silence broken only by the occasional bleat of the sheep. When a lamb came toddling up and butted his head against her skirts, she reached down to let him lick her hand.
“Lady Greystone?”
“Yes.” She turned and smiled at the shepherd; no apple-cheeked nursery rhyme boy, but a grown man much older than she. “I trust the sheep are doing well?”
“I…” Lifting one weathered hand, he removed his cap and rubbed his bald head. “Do you know anything of sheep, my lady?”
“No. No, I don’t. But—”
“That youngster there has bluetongue.” He kicked a pebble and pulled the cap back over his brow. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Sorry?” She looked down at the fluffy animal nuzzling her hand. “Bluetongue?”
“An illness. Swelling of the nose and lips, bleeding in the mouth, and—”
“Mucous,” she finished for him, wiping her palm on her skirt.
“My lady!” Benchley rushed to unearth a handkerchief and thrust it into her hands.
The shepherd knelt to pry open the lamb’s mouth. “See?”
“Bluetongue.” Amy took a deep breath and wadded up the sticky handkerchief. “Or bluish-tongue, anyway. What does it mean?” She ran her fingers through the animal’s thick wool. “Are they all ill? Surely we can still shear them come time?”
The man rose slowly. “Those that still live.” With a sad smile, he patted the lamb on the head. “More than half of the ill ones have died already, and more fall sick every day.”
“What?” Amy’s heart sank. The profit she’d calculated depended on projected income from the wool. She’d assumed the production would be consistent with last year’s. “Can’t you make them get better?”
“I know of no treatment.” He shifted on his feet, took the cap off and replaced it again. “Lord Greystone, he keeps up with the newest ideas, but he hied himself off to London and has yet to return.”
“Did he know of this?” Perhaps this was why Colin had seemed so melancholy.
“No. He left before it started. It spreads very quickly.”
“Oh,” Amy said blankly. “Thank you.”
“My lady.” The shepherd bowed and touched his cap. She would never get used to that deference, she thought vaguely as she watched him walk away, the lamb following at his heels.
“Dear heavens,” she breathed, making her way back to the caleche. “Colin will really be unhappy now.”
“Pardon, my lady?” Benchley raised a hand to help her up.
“Nothing, Benchley. Just talking to myself.”
Her stomach felt leaden at the thought of Colin’s homecoming. Now instead of greeting him with good news, she’d be reporting a sure loss of income and the need to replace expensive livestock.
She couldn’t stand it, she thought as she plopped onto the seat. She really couldn’t stand it. After all the work he’d put into this land, now to be saddled with her and a baby on the way, plus unexpected monetary problems…well, it just wasn’t fair.
Colin deserved better than this. After all he’d done for her, was there nothing she could do for him?
She folded her hands over the mound of her stomach.
Yes, there certainly was.
SEVENTY-FIVE
COLIN LOOKED again at the crumpled paper, then up at the street sign. Quai de la Tournelle. And there was the shop, Talbot Joaillerie.
For people driven out of England, the Talbots had certainly managed to land in a luxurious location. A plaque with Louis XIV’s warrant was prominently displayed in the window.
“This is it,” he said, stuffing the paper back into his pocket. At the cabbie’s blank look, he uttered a quick “Merci” and thrust a few coins into his hand.
He pushed on the door, but the shop was locked. Was it past six o’clock already? Colin absently patted his surcoat, looking for his pocket watch, then froze as he remembered.
The accursed highwaymen had taken it. What a journey this had been—one disaster after another. He should never have returned to this loathsome country.
He plucked the sleeve of a passing pedestrian. “Excusez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous l’heure exacte?”
The man walked past as though he hadn’t seen him. Accursed Parisians literally wouldn’t give you the time of day. Colin couldn’t wait to get home. No matter if the crossing were as rough on the return as it had been on the way here—he could puke his guts out and be happy for it.
He pounded on the door. And pounded. And pounded. Five minutes passed before a petite, attractive middle-aged woman pressed her nose against the window.
“Il est six heures et quart, Monsieur,” she scolded, pointing to the sign that listed their business hours.
“I wish to speak with you,” Colin called through the glass.
“Good heavens, you’re English!” she exclaimed, moving to unlock the door. She ushered him inside. “Come in, come in! I’ve nothing on display, but—”
“It’s you I wish to see, not jewelry, madame. You’re Elizabeth Talbot, I presume?” She nodded her dark head, clearly puzzled. “I’m Colin Chase—”
“Earl of Greystone and my Amy’s husband,” she finished for him. Delight lit her blue eyes. “I should have guessed. She described you in her letters as devastatingly handsome.”
Colin felt his face heat. “Madame Talbot—”
“You must call me Aunt Elizabeth,” she said, wrapping him into an embrace.
Following an awkward moment, Colin hugged her back, feeling a personal connection for the first time in weeks.
She smiled when she pulled away. “Will you come upstairs and have a cup of tea?”
“Tea?”
“Oh, I know it’s a frightfully expensive delicacy, but a stuffy marquis gifted me with a supply after we designed a diamond collar for his poodle. These French!” she added with a laugh as he followed her up the staircase.
“I’M SO GLAD you saw fit to call on me,” Elizabeth said after she’d hung a kettle of water over the fire. “But you didn’t bring my Amy, did you?” She said it with mock disapproval, craning her neck as
