“Amor vincit omnia, Diana,” he whispered. “Love conquers all. I do hope I haven’t got that wrong.”
HE HEARD THE stable bell ringing out one o’clock as he pounded across the drawbridge. The huge door swung open as he arrived and he prepared, hot and breathless, coat tails flapping, to face the butler.
To his dismay, her ladyship had bustled into the hall to bother her butler and enquire as to her guest’s whereabouts. Instead of drawing back discreetly and allowing him to recover, Cecily stalked forward, an expression of barely contained amusement on her face.
“Take the gentleman’s hat and coat, Styles, and give them a good brushing. Hunnyton warned us you were taking the scenic route through the woods.” She looked wonderingly at the stains of foliage and smears of body paint the King of the Woods had impressed on the pale fabric of his coat where Joe had clamped his head against his side. “He didn’t tell us you were going to take time off for a roll in the hay en route. Styles, have a word with that new dairy-maid will you?” Her eyes came to rest on Joe’s bloodstained cheek. “I see she defended her honour. Styles, we’d better have a wet flannel and a sticking plaster for our guest. And I expect he’d welcome a nice dry sherry after his adventures.”
Joe grinned. Perhaps lunch was not going to be the painful episode he’d envisaged. “She told me her name was Diana, madam. She’s five feet tall and irresistibly lovely. When she recovers from the surprise of the kiss I planted on her cool virginal mouth, she’ll probably come after me with vengeance in mind. You may well see me turn into a stag before lunch is over.”
“Indeed? I’ve never witnessed a transmogrification before. One of your party tricks, Commissioner? I shall look forward to it—one can always find a use for a healthy young stag,” she finished with an inscrutable smile.
The butler led him to a nearby washroom, where Joe removed the traces of the forest floor and accepted a rather over-sized plaster to put across his wound before rejoining her ladyship.
Styles gave them a strange look as, arm in arm and chuckling, they went into the dining room.
CHAPTER 13
The soup, as predicted, was green in colour, though made not from nettles but from peas picked in the garden that morning and introduced to a few herbs, some excellent chicken stock and a pint or two of cream from the home herd. The “dog biscuits” that accompanied the cheese were Bath Olivers from Fortnum’s in Piccadilly. A taste not yet acquired by Hunnyton, evidently. “A light luncheon,” the dowager had announced. “You will want to save yourself for dinner. We have an excellent cook.” He managed a bowl of pea soup, a token slice of game pie with a plentiful salad and nibbled at a biscuit, cursing the superintendent for his skittish humour. Her ladyship took his refusal of dessert as an admirable masculine trait and for that he was grateful.
They ate companionably together, attended by one footman who withdrew the moment he had finished serving and clearing away. “My son Alexander is about the place somewhere, probably still in his room. He won’t be joining us,” she had explained. “He is one of those creatures who prefers to flee the daylight. The Romans had a word for that I think. London life proved too much for him, I’m afraid, and he’s come home to recuperate and gather his strength before he relaunches himself on society. Energetic and useful chap that I see you are, Sandilands, you will not find much to admire in Alex.”
Apart from this bitter remark, conversation flowed easily. His hostess was very knowledgeable about the state of the nation, and she could talk about London affairs—political and scandalous—with understanding as well as an ironic asperity which Joe found entertaining. She listened to Joe’s stories of his days in India and on the North West Frontier, some of them flattering to Sir George Jardine, his friend and mentor, some sharp and comic. Cecily seemed to prefer the latter.
When the footman brought in a tray of coffee things, Cecily dismissed him. “That’ll be all for now, Benjamin.” Joe had noted the familiar use of the Christian name for the attentive young man. Perhaps Cecily was not the old-fashioned stickler for correctness he had assumed. “The Commissioner will preside at the coffee pot.”
Joe obliged and, uninterrupted and unobserved, they settled to their coffee, free to speak their minds. She said abruptly, “So you got my message then?”
“Message, madam?” Joe said, smiling. “Would that be the anonymous letter penned by your maid and dictated by you? The letter sent to the Yard with the object of luring me down here to take issue with the man who could perhaps have had a hand in the alleged murder of your daughter-in-law?”