“Maybe you’d care to share your amusement, Olivia,” she said spitefully. “It’s the height of ill manners to enjoy a private jest in public. Portia may not know this, but you most certainly do.”

The merry glint died out of Olivia’s eyes. She murmured, “There’s no jest, m-madam.”

“Well, something seems to be pleasing you,” Diana pressed. “Pray do tell us.”

“The baby, madam, produced her first smile this morning,” Portia said, buttering a slice of barley bread. “I believe we both found it infectious.”

Olivia glanced up from under her eyelashes and caught Portia’s mischievous wink from across the table. She had the urge to giggle, and Diana’s malice lost its bite. She helped herself to the compote of mushrooms and kidneys, took a sip of her ale, and composedly continued her breakfast.

Cato was fond of his infant daughters, but they barely impinged on his present preoccupations. However, he could see how a baby’s first smile might interest women. He smiled with vague benignity around his warlike table and remarked, helping himself to sirloin, “I trust you’re finding life in Castle Granville to your liking, Portia.”

“I am most grateful for your kindness, my lord,” Portia responded.

“You are managing to occupy yourself pleasantly, I trust.”

Portia’s green gaze flickered toward Diana before she said, “Delightfully, Lord Granville.”

“Good… good…” he said briskly. He hadn’t expected anything else, after all. He drew a packet of letters out of his coat pocket. “A letter from your father, my dear,” he said to Diana. “And one from your sister, Phoebe, addressed to Olivia, I believe.” Here he smiled at his daughter as he handed her the wafer-sealed sheet of paper. Olivia always brightened at correspondence from Diana’s sister.

Portia saw Olivia’s eagerness as she broke the wafer, and waited curiously to hear the contents of the letter. She remembered Phoebe as being rather round and refreshingly blunt. A soft pretty face with tight blue eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. It would be interesting to see how much she’d changed in the three years since their encounter in the boathouse.

Cato broke the seal of his own letter and immediately frowned. It was from his stepson, Brian Morse, the son of Cato’s first wife, who had been a widow, nine years older than Cato. Theirs had been an alliance of convenience, and Elizabeth had come with a ten-year-old child in tow.

The marriage had lasted barely six months before Elizabeth had succumbed to typhoid fever. On the death of his mother, the boy had been claimed by his father’s family, and Cato had seen nothing of him until a few years ago when the young man had descended upon Granville Castle, claiming his stepfather’s hospitality after he’d been sent down from Oxford for unpaid gambling debts and his father’s family had refused to take him in.

Cato did not like Brian Morse. The young man appeared to be personable, friendly, amusing, a good sportsman, altogether well versed in all the arts of a noble gentleman with a sizable inheritance awaiting him. But Cato felt there was something shifty about him, something not quite true.

And now Brian was writing to tell his stepfather that he had business with the Cavalier army in the north and would visit Castle Granville at the earliest opportunity. He had obviously not heard that his stepfather had turned against the king’s cause.

Cato folded the parchment again and looked up. Diana was rather pale and her long fingers were trembling slightly as she held her father’s letter.

“Is something the matter, madam? Is your father well?”

“I don’t know,” Diana replied.

“May I see the letter?” He extended his hand, the request a mere polite form. A man had every right to read his wife’s correspondence. Diana handed it to him and he read it in comprehending silence. His father-in-law, it seemed, was beginning to have his own doubts about the divine rightness of the king’s cause. He had not yet declared himself for Parliament, but he was withdrawing from the court at Oxford for a spell to think matters over. Poor Diana, a passionate devotee of the court, and of King Charles and Queen Henrietta Maria, had barely recovered from the shock of her husband’s defection, and now she had to contend with her father’s.

He handed the letter back to Diana without comment and said matter-of-factly, “And how is Phoebe, Olivia?”

Olivia immediately passed her letter across to her father, who cast a brief eye over it before handing it back. “Not exactly easy to read, but Phoebe at least is delighted to be leaving Oxford and the court,” he observed.

“My sister has never possessed the least social grace,” Diana declared. “She has no sense, no conduct, no idea of when she’s well off… of how very lucky she is.”

Diana rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have matters to attend to.”

He nodded affably, refusing to notice her angry flush or the fiery darts in her eye, and Diana left the parlor, closing the door behind her with something remarkably approaching a slam.

Portia was reading Phoebe’s letter, considerably amused by the helter-skelter rambling as the lines were crossed and recrossed. The haphazard, enthusiastic style of the letter perfectly matched her memory of the writer. She became suddenly aware that Olivia was sitting bolt upright across the table, her great black eyes fixed on her father.

“You remember Brian, of course, Olivia,” Cato was saying. “It seems he’s coming to visit us again… at least that was his intention. He may change his mind when he discovers Castle Granville is held for Parliament. I don’t know…” He broke off, looking startled at his daughter. “Is something the matter, Olivia?”

“No, sir,” Olivia said, but her eyes were curiously blank. She pushed back her chair. “P-please would you excuse me, sir.”

Cato looked disapproving, but he gave permission with a small nod and returned to his letter from Brian.

Olivia cast Portia a look of entreaty and then hurried from the parlor, leaving the door slightly ajar in her haste.

Portia half rose, with a questioning look at Cato, who after a second said with clear displeasure, “You had better go to her. I assume she’s unwell. I can’t imagine what else could cause her to behave so oddly.”

Portia whisked herself from the parlor, and Cato regarded the deserted breakfast table with annoyance, wondering just why he found himself alone with the bread crumbs.

Olivia’s bedchamber was empty. Portia stood in the doorway, tapping her teeth with a fingernail while she tried to think where Olivia could have gone. Her cloak was still hanging on its hook behind the door, her gloves lying carelessly on a low armless chair beside the window, so she didn’t seem to have gone out. As Portia turned to leave, she heard a faint sound coming from the deep fireplace, almost like the scuffling of a mouse.

“Olivia?” She stepped up to the fireplace. The fire was contained in a basket in the middle of the stone hearth, and on either side stone benches were set into the recessed walls.

Olivia was curled up in the farthest corner of one of these recesses, her whole body scrunched into a tight ball, her head turned away, buried in her hands against the wall.

Portia slipped onto the bench beside her. It was very hot, the stonework holding the fire’s warmth, and she had a fleeting moment of envy. If her own hearth had been so constructed, she’d have slept right inside it and maybe been really warm for once.

“So, what is it about this Brian fellow that’s upsetting you, duckie?” Portia asked cheerfully, laying a hand on Olivia’s averted shoulder.

“How d’you know?” Olivia raised her head and half turned toward Portia, although she remained hunched into the corner.

“Shrewd deduction,” Portia said. “One minute you’re eating your breakfast, merry as a grig, and the next, at the mere mention of this Mr. Morse, you’re beating a retreat as if all the devils in hell were on your heels.”