He smiled at her. “Why, thank you, Miss Ambrose.” He seated himself beside her. “Do you pass on what you learn to your students?”
She listened hard for any sarcasm in his voice, but she could detect none. She also did not see any disparagement or condescension in his face, which gave her heart. “No, I don’t pass it on,” she said quietly, then took a deep breath. “I only wish that I could.” She sat a little straighter then, suddenly feeling herself very much the child of crusading evangelists. “I believe you should receive great credit for what you do, rather than derision, Lord Trevor. Didn’t I read only last week that you had been denied a position of Master of the Bench at Lincoln’s Inn?”
“You did, indeed,” he replied. “Sometimes I imagine that the Benchers wish I had been called from another Inn.” He shrugged. “Even my brother Hugo calls this my ‘deranged hobby.’ ”
The maid came in with coffee, which Cecilia poured. “You are going back to London tomorrow?” she asked.
“I am, as soon as Hugo and Maria arrive. Lowly Magistrate’s Court does not sit during the holiday, but I have depositions to take.” He took a sip and then sat back. “I know my solicitor could do that, but he wanted to spend the week with his family in Kent. I am, as you might suppose, a soft touch for a bare pleading.”
“I am delighted to have met you, Lord Trevor,” she told him.
The housekeeper stood at the door to the sitting room. Lord Trevor rose, cup in hand, and indicated that Cecilia follow her. “She’ll show you to your room. We keep country hours here, so we will eat in an hour.” He winked at the housekeeper, who blushed, but made no attempt to hide the smile in her eyes. “As you can also imagine, there’s no need to dress up!”
Smiling now, the housekeeper led her upstairs. “He’s a great one, is Lord Trevor,” she said to Cecilia. “We only wish he came around more often.”
“I suppose he is quite busy in London,” Cecilia said.
“Indeed he is,” the woman replied, “even though I sometimes wonder at the low company he keeps.” She stopped then, remembering her position. “Miss Ambrose, your pupil is across the hall. You’ll hear the bell for dinner.”
Cecilia decided before dinner that it would be easy to make her excuses the next day when Lord and Lady Falstoke returned, and take the mail coach back to Bath. She would express her concerns about Lucy to the marchioness before she left.
To her consternation, David looked as glum as his sister when he came into the dining room with Lord Trevor, who carried a letter. The man seated himself and looked at his nieces. “I received a post not twenty minutes ago from your parents,” he said.
“They’re not coming home tomorrow,” David said. He looked down at his plate.
“Why ever not?” Janet asked, indignant. “Don’t they know we need them? I mean, really, they took Chambliss with them, and Cook!”
“Chambliss is our butler,” Lucy whispered to Cecilia.
“It seems that your older sister needs them more,” Lord Trevor replied, his voice firm. “Do have a little compassion, Janet. They have promised to be here for Christmas. I’ll be staying until they return.”
Janet turned stricken eyes upon her uncle. “But they are to host Lysander!”
“Perhaps the earth will continue to orbit the sun if he has to postpone his arrival for a few days,” Lord Trevor remarked dryly. “David, eat your soup.”
They ate in silence, Lord Trevor obviously reviewing in his mind how this news would change his own plans. Cecilia glanced at Lucy, who whispered, “I will hardly have any time to be with her, before we must return to Bath.”
“Then the time will be all the more precious, when it comes, my dear,” Cecilia said, thinking of her dear ones in India.
David began to cry. Head down, he tried to choke back his tears, but they flowed anyway. Lord Trevor looked at him in dismay, then at Cecilia. As sorry as she felt for the little boy, she almost smiled at the desperation on the barrister’s face. You can argue cases for the lowliest in the dockets, she thought, but your nephew’s tears are another matter. She rose from the table. I have absolutely nothing to lose here, she thought. No one should be crying at Christmastime.
She walked over to David’s chair and knelt at his side. “This is difficult, isn’t it?” she asked him quietly. “I know your mama wishes she were here, too.”
“She’s only twenty miles away!” Lord Trevor exclaimed, exasperated.
“It’s a long way, when you’re only—are you six, my dear?” she asked the little boy, who had stopped crying to listen to her. She handed him her napkin.