"Theo, I detest eating in bed," Sylvester protested, half laughing at this enthusiasm.

"Oh, do you? I like it."

"Crumbs," he said succinctly. "In the sheets, sticking to your skin."

"Oh, pah! We'll shake the sheets out afterward." Theo headed toward the connecting door between their bedchambers in search of a wrapper on her own side of the door. "We can have a bottle of the ninety-nine burgundy. You can bring it up. It's in the fourth rack on the left-hand side of the first cellar three rows in."

Sylvester raised his eyebrows. "One of these days you must draw me a map of the cellars."

"Oh, you don't need a map. If I'm not here to help you, Foster will be. He knows them as well as I do."

She disappeared into her own room and didn't see Sylvester's frown. He did not intend to be dependent on the knowledge of his wife and his butler. But his wedding night was not the moment to tackle the issue. He shrugged into a dressing gown.

In the courtyard his lordship's servant was leaning on a rapidly emptying keg of ale, deep in discussion with the itinerant peddler, a fellow Londoner who had been as pleased as Henry to meet one of his own kind among the country bumpkins.

"So he's been doin' a bit o' cradle snatchin', this bloke of your'n," the peddler observed, peering at the level in his tankard.

Henry squinted up at the sun. "Not what I'd call it. That Lady Theo seems to know what's what. Bright as a button, she is. Knows her way around this estate like the back of her hand."

"But still she's a babby compared with 'er husband."

"What's it to you, any road?" Henry demanded, his sense of privacy and personal loyalty violated by these observations from a stranger.

The peddler shrugged. "Nothin' really. Just interested. Folks in the village 'ave been talkin'."

"Loose-tongued gossips, the lot of 'em," Henry declared.

"There's talk about 'ow the lass is a Belmont and his lordship's some other family and 'ow there's bad blood between the two of 'em," the peddler persisted, bending to refill his tankard at the tap of the keg. The flow was sluggish, and he swore softly, putting his shoulder against the keg to tip it up farther.

Henry grunted. "Don't know about that. Seems to me everyone's well satisfied with the arrangement. His lordship's got himself a wife, the wife's family stay put on the family estate. Suits everyone, stands to reason."

"Mebbe so." The peddler nodded gravely. " 'Is lordship much of a hunter, is 'e?"

Henry shrugged. "Much as most gentry, I reckon. Takes his gun out on a good morning."

"There's good duck huntin' on that Webster's Pond, I've been told," the peddler mused. "Village folks like to keep it to theirselves, so I've been told, so I reckon as 'ow yer bloke don't know that. Pass it along, I should." He pushed himself away from his leaning post. "Well, I'll be on me way. Nice talkin' to ye."

"Aye." Henry raised a hand in farewell, not too sure that he cared for the stranger, fellow Londoner or not. There was something unpleasant about a man who listened to gossip. But his lordship might be interested to hear about the duck hunting on Webster's Pond… once he'd become sufficiently accustomed to the marital bed to leave it early in the morning.

Grinning slightly, Henry strolled across the yard to where a group of dairymaids were giggling among themselves. He'd had his eye on that Betsy for several weeks – a rosy-cheeked girl with a nice buxom figure that a man could really get his arm around.

"He's comin' over." One of the girls nudged Betsy in the ribs, whispering vigorously. "I told ye he'd got 'is eye on you, Betsy."

"Get away wi' you, Nellie." Betsy jabbed her elbow into her sister's ribs, but her cheeks were redder than ever.

"Fancy a walk, then, little maid?" Henry winked, noting her blush with satisfaction. "I'll buy you a glass of porter down at the inn."

"Oh, me dad would kill me," Betsy exclaimed in genuine shock. "I can't go into no inn. It's not decent fer a maid to be seen in a public taproom."

Country folk, thought Henry with a derisory head shake. "Well, how about just a walk, then?"

"Go on, our Betsy." Nellie pushed her friend forward. "Our dad won't mind. Mr. Henry's a fine gentleman with a good position."

Betsy looked doubtful, and Henry began to wonder if he was getting in too deep. A simple walk didn't commit a man to anything, and he certainly wasn't interested in following his lordship to the altar. Not yet awhile, at least.

"Oh, well, all right then." Betsy spoke before he had time to withdraw the offer. "Jest a stroll to the village… but on the main road, mind." She took his arm with a confidence that caused Henry to doubt the earlier maidenly blushes. Perhaps these country folk were less simpleminded than they appeared.

While Henry was strolling down to the village with Betsy, the peddler was walking around Webster's Pond. The ducks were settling down for the evening, sitting on the water or hiding in the tall marsh grasses. It was, indeed, a likely hunting spot.

From which direction would a man appear from the manor? The stranger walked the circumference of the pond, decided the most natural approach would be from the south, and pushed through the undergrowth looking for likely positions for his man traps.

A man picking his way through the wet undergrowth on a misty early dawn, a gun over his shoulder, a game bag at his belt, wouldn't be looking for the evil teeth of a trap, particularly on his own land.

Chapter Twelve

"Theo… Theo! Theo, where are you?" Emily burst through the front door two days later, her urgent cry ascending the stairs to the long gallery where Theo was waiting for Sylvester to join her. He'd agreed to a friendly bout of unarmed combat, but with some reluctance, and she was beginning to suspect he was looking for a way to postpone the engagement.

At Emily's cry, however, she ran from the room, her heart thumping with sudden premonition. It was the first visit by any of her family since the wedding, and as her mother had said the duration of the honeymoon was hers to dictate, she knew that only something desperate would have brought Emily in this unceremonious fashion.

Her sister's face confirmed her fears. Tears poured down Emily's distraught countenance, and her appearance was a far cry from her usual crisp elegance. It had rained heavily in the night, and she was hatless, her hair disheveled, her linen gown splattered, her shoes muddied from where she'd splashed through puddles on the drive.

"What is it?" Theo hurtled down the stairs.

"Edward!" Emily gasped. "It's Edward -"

"Killed?" Theo felt the blood drain from her cheeks, and a sick, leaden dread settled in her belly.

Emily shook her head, but she was crying so hard now that she couldn't speak.

Theo seized her by the shoulders and shook her with desperate urgency. "What happened to him, Emily? For God's sake, tell me!"

"Easy now." Sylvester strode across the hall from the front door. He'd been talking to the head gardener in the shrubbery when his sister-in-law had pelted past them up the driveway, her distress so obvious that he'd followed immediately.

"Easy, Theo," he repeated, taking her waist and moving her to one side. "What's happened?"

"It's Edward," Theo said, now almost as distraught as her sister. "Something's happened to him, but Emily won't tell me."

"Well, screaming isn't going to do anyone any good," he declared, taking Emily's arm and ushering the sobbing girl into the library, leaving Theo to follow.

His firm authority for the moment had a calming effect, and Emily struggled to control her sobs, accepting the large handkerchief he pressed into her hand.

Theo was hopping from foot to foot in despairing impatience as her sister finally controlled herself sufficiently to be coherent.