Therese hadn’t yet called at Fulsom Hall since returning to the village. The last time she’d made her way up the drive had been at least a decade ago, during one of her and Gerald’s short visits to the manor.

“Other than a university-aged Mr. Henry Fitzgibbon,” she mused as she steered the mare up the gravel drive, “Tooks mentioned only a Miss Fitzgibbon. Sir Harold and Lady Fitzgibbon were alive when last I was here. Now, what was her name?” Unsurprisingly, Jamie, George, and Lottie, although listening attentively, couldn’t supply it. “Ah yes! Lucinda. The first thing we need to do is to determine the situation here and learn who’s in charge.”

She glanced at her assistants. All three solemnly nodded.

She looked ahead to where the drive ended in a neat forecourt. It was oddly flattering to have three such bright and inquiring minds hanging on her every word.

After drawing the gig to a halt, then handing the reins to a young groom who came pelting around the side of the house, Therese descended and started walking toward the front porch.

The day had been overcast, and the light was fading, the afternoon waning toward evening. The cold was intensifying, but they were all well rugged up in thick winter coats and had scarves wound about their necks.

Somewhat to her surprise, she felt small fingers slide into her free hand. She looked down to find Lottie pacing beside her; the little girl’s gaze was fixed on the front door.

Therese held Lottie’s hand a trifle more firmly as, with her other hand, she gripped her cane and caught up her skirts and climbed the two shallow steps to the porch. There, she paused to consider Jamie and George, who had halted at the bottom of the steps. After a moment, she suggested, “Perhaps, boys, you might do better waiting outside.” She glanced around, then brought her gaze to rest on the archway in the hedge that stretched past the corner of the house to the right. The archway gave onto the gardens and was on the same side of the house as the stable and presumably any other outbuildings near the house. Raising her eyebrows, she met Jamie’s and George’s alert gazes. “Who knows what you might stumble upon?”

The boys didn’t know whether to grin or not. They exchanged a swift glance, then, with lips not entirely straight, eagerly bobbed bows. “Yes, Grandmama,” they chorused.

Jamie clarified, “We’ll go and look around.”

“And keep out of mischief,” she added. “I’ll call for you when Lottie and I are ready to leave.”

With ducked heads, the boys vanished in a soft clatter of feet on gravel.

Turning to the door, Therese grasped the bell chain and tugged.

A minute later, the door was opened by a tall, stately butler; to Therese’s eyes, the man looked strangely tense. Her well-trained memory supplied a name. “Mountjoy, isn’t it?”

Instantly gratified, the butler bowed low. “Indeed, ma’am. How may I assist you?”

“I am Lady Osbaldestone. I’ve taken up residence at Hartington Manor—you might have heard. I wonder if I might speak with Sir Harold or Lady Fitzgibbon.”

Mountjoy’s face clouded. “Sadly, my lady, both Sir Harold and Lady Fitzgibbon have passed on.”

Therese sighed. “I feared that might be so. In that case, I believe I need to speak to whoever is in charge.”

“That will be Miss Fitzgibbon, my lady. Sir Harold’s daughter—Miss Eugenia.” Mountjoy stepped back, holding the door wide. “Please come inside, and I’ll fetch Miss Fitzgibbon.”

Mountjoy showed them into an unremarkable drawing room.

Therese sank onto one of the twin chaises set at right angles to the fireplace and drew Lottie down to sit beside her. Once Mountjoy had departed to seek his mistress, Therese glanced at her golden-haired granddaughter and murmured, “Something strikes me as odd. There’s no reason that, even at your age, you can’t observe and learn.” When Lottie looked at her inquiringly, Therese went on, “Miss Eugenia was in pigtails the last time I was here—I doubt she can be more than twenty-five years old at the most. So there should be a guardian, a chaperon at the very least, yet Mountjoy didn’t mention any such person.”

Lottie’s eyes conveyed that she was duly drinking in those facts.

Footsteps in the hall, swift and light, drew their eyes to the door. It opened, and a young woman in a morning gown of blue kerseymere walked into the room. Golden-blond hair streaked with light brown was piled in a loose knot on the top of her head. Her blue eyes, wide and long lashed, with a definite frown swimming in their depths, met Therese’s with a directness she rarely encountered in young gentlewomen. “Lady Osbaldestone?”

“Indeed.” Gripping her cane, Therese rose. She was tallish for a woman; Eugenia Fitzgibbon was several inches shorter. “Miss Fitzgibbon, I take it.” Regally, Therese extended her hand. “I knew your parents and was saddened to hear of their passing.”

Recalled to her manners, Miss Fitzgibbon blushed faintly, endeavored to banish her frown, politely touched fingers, and bobbed a curtsy. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“As to that,” Therese said, “I’m not entirely sure. I have only recently returned to the village, and as you’ve no doubt heard, village communications being what they are, I have settled at Hartington Manor, which was my late aunt’s house.” Therese glanced at Lottie, who had popped to her feet beside her. “This young miss is my granddaughter, Lady Charlotte Skelton, who is visiting the manor.”

Without further prompting, Lottie executed a wobbly curtsy.

Her features softening, Miss Fitzgibbon solemnly bobbed in response, then with a gesture invited Therese and Lottie to resume their seats and moved to sit on the chaise opposite. “I had heard you had taken up residence at the manor. Would you care for some refreshments, ma’am?”

“Thank you, my dear, but no. This is not, strictly speaking, a social call.”

“Oh?”

“I learned not an hour ago that Farmer Tooks’s flock of geese, the one the village relies on for their Christmas dinners, has vanished. Apparently into thin air.”

Eugenia Fitzgibbon’s frown returned. “Vanished?”

“So it seems.” Therese waited until Eugenia raised her gaze to her face. “Fulsom Hall is the nearest holding to Tooks Farm. I’ve come to inquire whether anyone here—staff, family, or guests—have seen anything of the birds. I understand there are twenty-three in the flock, and all are missing.”

Eugenia’s gaze fell. Her lips compressed, and her frown deepened. After a moment, she glanced up and met Therese’s eyes. “As I daresay you might have heard, my brother, Henry, has four friends staying at present.”

“Four, is it? I hadn’t heard the number.” Therese waited a heartbeat, then offered, “Young gentlemen down from Oxford—I well know what such groups are like. My sons, all three of them, went through that stage.” When Eugenia searched her eyes, Therese smiled in steely fashion. “They can be quite a handful to rein in.”

Eugenia studied her for a second more, then blew out a breath. “You could say that.” The starch seemed to go out of her. “Although I don’t believe I can claim to have yet mastered the art. Of reining them in, I mean.”

“They can be a challenge. But as to the geese…?”

Eugenia sighed. “While I admit that on the face of it that seems just the sort of prank Henry and his friends might get up to, I seriously doubt they had anything to do with the geese going missing.”

Therese opened her eyes wide. “You seem very sure.”

Eugenia’s lips tightened. “Indeed, I am, for the simple reason that they’ve been half drunk or worse ever since they arrived and couldn’t catch or even round up a flock of geese to save themselves.”

“Ah.” After a moment, in a matter-of-fact tone, Therese offered, “You might ask Mountjoy to water the wine. I’ve even been known to order that a few drops of vinegar be added. That tends to fairly quickly wean them off the claret and on to ale, and they need to drink far more of that to reach the same level of intoxication.” Therese glanced down to find Lottie’s big blue eyes fixed on her face. She inwardly shrugged and looked at Eugenia, to find that young lady regarding her with a mixture of hope and awe.

Tripping footsteps pattered in the hall, then the drawing room door eased open. A faded lady with pale, wispy hair, her thin, not to say gaunt, figure clad in an unseasonably filmy gown in a very pale pink with a thick, knitted maroon wrapper wound about her bony shoulders, peered myopically around the door. “Eugenia? Have we visitors?”

Eugenia seemed to stifle another sigh. She rose. “Cousin Ermintrude.”

Therese rose as the vision in pastel draperies drifted across the room. Lottie, apparently viewing the apparition as strange and therefore more dangerous than Eugenia, slipped off the sofa and pressed close to Therese’s skirts.

Eugenia indicated Therese and Lottie. “Lady Osbaldestone has returned to the village to live at Hartington Manor, and her granddaughter is visiting.” To Therese, she said, “Mrs. Woolsey is my father’s cousin and acts as my chaperon.”

“I see.” Therese nodded politely to Mrs. Woolsey, who dropped into a twittering curtsy.

“My lady! It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Fulsom Hall.” Mrs. Woolsey’s expression abruptly blanked, and she glanced around. “Eugenia, dear—where are your manners?” To Therese, she gabbled, “I’ll send for refreshments right away.”

Therese held up a commanding hand. “No need, I assure you. We only called to inform Miss Fitzgibbon of a village matter.”

Eugenia looked relieved that Therese hadn’t mentioned the geese.

Heavier footsteps sounded in the front hall, then the door, which Mrs. Woolsey had failed to close, was thrust open, and a young gentleman, nattily dressed in what, Therese suspected, was the latest style for Oxfordians-in-the-country, strolled in. “I say, Genie.” He was a robust-looking specimen of average height, with curly brown hair, his countenance faintly and rather suspiciously flushed. He didn’t quite slur, but it was a near thing. “You can tell old Mountjoy we won’t be keeping him from his bed tonight—we’re off to Romsey to find some…”

The gentleman’s gaze had slowly swung past Mrs. Woolsey to take in the fact that his sister was entertaining visitors. His gaze encountered Therese’s, and his voice petered out.

Behind the gentleman—presumably Henry Fitzgibbon—four others somewhat unsteadily tripped in, jostling shoulders as they pushed through the doorway.

“We’re off to find some fun and frolics!” one of the four—a dark-haired, long-limbed, distinctly pale gentleman—announced.

Then he noticed Therese and came to a weaving halt. Close behind him, the other three stumbled on his heels.

A muttered oath, imperfectly suppressed, reached Therese’s ears.

In the pocket of her gown, her fingers closed about the handle of her quizzing glass. She hadn’t thought to use it in the country; she carried it out of habit rather than design. As a sudden silence engulfed the room, she withdrew the glass and slowly raised it to her eye.

Leveling the quizzing glass on the first of the four, the dark-haired one who had finished Henry’s sentence for him, Therese scanned the young man’s aristocratic features. “Dagenham, I believe.”

The young man rocked back a trifle, weaving in shock that she had pulled his name from thin air.

Therese held him skewered with her gaze. “I will be sure to let your mother, the countess, know that I ran into you when next I write to Carsely.” Leaving Viscount Dagenham goggling in near terror, she looked at the next young man’s paling face and humphed. “Kilburn. Venetia will be pleased to hear of you, also.” She passed on to the next now-horrified young sprig. “A Carnaby, obviously. Hmm—I believe you must be Roger.”

Slowly, as if frightened to move quickly, the young man nodded.

“Yes, I thought so. Gertrude is your mater, as I recall.” She swung her glass to take in the last of the four, a tall, thin young gentleman now holding himself rigidly still at the rear of the small crowd. Her eyes narrowed. “Good heavens. I hadn’t realized any of Letty’s offspring were of such an age. But you’re the eldest, I take it. George, isn’t it? Viscount Worth’s heir?”

George Wiley managed to unhinge his jaw sufficiently to croak, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Indeed.” Therese swept her magnified gaze over the group one last time, then lowered the glass. “I am Lady Osbaldestone. I live nearby. And as you’ve just realized, I’m well acquainted with your families, most especially with your mothers.” She paused, then added, “I trust you will henceforth bear that in mind.”

A chorus of “Yes, my lady,” “Indeed, my lady,” and “Of course, my lady” was accompanied by four rather wobbly bows.

Therese arched her brows in supercilious fashion. “I believe you were about to take your leave of Miss Fitzgibbon and Mrs. Woolsey.”

The four, joined by a distinctly subdued Henry, did so, performing the simple task with the exemplary manners of which they were entirely capable. Satisfied, when they glanced her way, Therese dismissed the five with a sharp nod. With barely concealed relief, they quit the room, and an instant later, the front door opened and shut.

Mrs. Woolsey fluttered her hands. “So delightful that you knew the young gentlemen’s families, dear Lady Osbaldestone.”

Eugenia had simply stared, wide-eyed, throughout Therese’s performance. Now she turned to Therese and said, “Thank you. That was”—she looked back at the door, now neatly closed—“amazing.”

“Nonsense, my dear.” Therese reached for Lottie’s hand; the little girl had watched the proceedings from the safety of Therese’s side. “Dealing with impulsive young gentlemen becomes second nature after a while. One simply has to ensure they recollect that the names they carry bring with them a certain responsibility. Reminding them of that responsibility is really all it takes.”

Noticing that twilight had descended and from the corner of her eye catching Mrs. Woolsey’s vaporous gestures, before that lady could invite them for dinner, Therese fixed her gaze on Eugenia’s face. “My dear Miss Fitzgibbon, to return to the matter that brought me here, I would ask that you permit me and my helpers to check through your outbuildings, purely to ensure you are not unwittingly harboring any feathered fugitives.”

Mrs. Woolsey blinked and frowned, entirely at sea.

Eugenia glanced at her chaperon and quickly nodded. “Yes. Of course.” She gestured to the door. “I’ll come with you myself.”

Swiftly, Therese took determined leave of Mrs. Woolsey, giving that lady no chance to further engage. With Lottie skipping beside her, she followed Eugenia from the room.

Eugenia led the way into a morning room and, via a set of French doors, out onto a terrace. She waited for Therese to join her, then walked down a set of stone steps to the lawn. “We only have the stable, a barn, and a toolshed and workshop, and our stableman and groom and the gardener have said nothing about any geese.”

“Indeed. I gather Tooks spoke with a Billings and a Hillgate. They reported no sign of the birds, but they hadn’t until then known the flock was missing, so couldn’t have searched.”

“Billings is Henry’s groom, and Hillgate is our stableman. I would think they would know if we’ve had a visitation in the stable.” After a moment, Eugenia glanced at Therese. “Does this mean the entire village will not have goose for Christmas?”

Therese nodded. “The entire flock has gone missing, which does not auger well for Christmas dinners in Little Moseley.”

Jamie and George must have seen them coming. The boys duly presented themselves when Therese and Lottie, with Eugenia, reached the stable yard. Therese introduced the pair, who politely made their bows. The boys had spoken with the young stable lad who had been hauling bales of hay, and together, the three had checked the barn and found no trace of the missing geese.

Eugenia led them to the toolshed with its adjoining workshop, but that, too, was devoid of all signs of feathered occupancy.

“Geese make rather a mess, as I recall,” Eugenia said. “If they had been here, there would be some sign.”

They all agreed.

Just to be certain, and given they were there, they entered the shadowy stable. From a hook, Eugenia collected a lamp, lit it with the tinderbox left ready, then held the lamp high as they walked down the central aisle.

Jamie and George helped search the boxes, most of which were occupied by horses, but there was no sign of geese—not even a feather—to be found.

The aisle led into an open area in which various carriages and curricles were stored. Therese noticed three curricles of recent vintage.

Seeing her take note, Eugenia explained, “Our visitors drove down with Henry from Oxford.”

Therese nodded her understanding.

“Oh—that doesn’t look good.”

Therese and Eugenia, along with Lottie, turned to see Jamie, with George, staring at a rather dashing, bright-blue curricle with fine gold-paint trim. The boys were staring at the side not lit by the spill of light from the lamp.

Eugenia’s lips set. She strode quickly around to play the lamplight over the curricle’s side, illuminating a long, deep gouge across one side panel and a crushed section at the rear corner. “Damn!” Recalling who she was with, she colored and shot an apologetic glance at Therese and Lottie. “My apologies, ma’am. But…” Her voice faded, and she gestured at the damage. “That’s Henry’s curricle.”

Therese sighed commiseratingly. “Sadly, my dear, that saying that boys will be boys is entirely true, even when the males in question are long past boyhood.” She turned to Jamie and George. “I hope you two are taking note. What do you do if you damage something—a curricle, for example?”

Jamie glanced at George, then volunteered, “Confess immediately?”

“Correct.” Therese nodded approvingly. “It’s always best to get such things off your chest, and waiting to be found out later is just asking for more trouble.” She turned to the stable doors. “Come along. I saw our gig tied up outside. It’s getting dark, and we really should get home.”

Home. By which she meant Hartington Manor.

She gathered the children, sent them ahead, and followed, Eugenia by her side. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Fitzgibbon. We’re sure to meet again in the village now that I’ve decided to take up residence, at least for a time.”

Eugenia’s gaze was on the three youngsters, now scrambling up into the gig. “Are you entertaining your grandchildren for the season?”

“Yes. Their parents are sadly indisposed, so the three will be celebrating Christmas with me.”

“I—ah—heard of their exploits.” Eugenia’s lips twitched, and she shot Therese a glance. “The bells were…interesting.”

“I’ve been given to understand that was a serious experiment, apparently, in discord.” She added, “I’ve been assured that, having once been conducted, said experiment will not need to be attempted again.”

Eugenia chuckled, then her amusement faded and her frown returned.

They reached the gig. Therese climbed to the seat and took the reins from Jamie, who’d been carefully holding them. She reached for the brake and met Eugenia’s eyes. “Should you require any further assistance with your four guests, by all means, send to the manor, and I’ll come. That said, I doubt you’ll have more trouble with them, at least not directly. And don’t forget about watering the wine.”

“I won’t. Thank you for all your help.”

“Not at all. And if we manage to find Tooks’s flock, I’ll send word.”

Therese turned the gig and, with a flick of the reins, sent the mare trotting smartly down the drive.

Once in the lane, she said, “Jamie, George—report, if you please.”

The pair wriggled with eagerness, and Jamie quickly said, “We checked all over—in the shrubbery and the dovecote and all over the place. That was why we hadn’t yet checked in the stable. But we didn’t find anything, and like Miss Fitzgibbon said, geese do make a mess.”

“We found no mess.” George shook his head. “Not anywhere there.”

“All right. So it seems that, despite Farmer Tooks’s suspicions, we must cross Fulsom Hall off the list of possible places the flock might be.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the three, even Lottie, who to that point had said very little. But she did seem to be highly observant, spongelike in absorbing all she saw and heard.

As if feeling Therese’s gaze, the angel’s face turned up. Lottie met Therese’s eyes, then in her high-pitched voice piped, “Miss Eugenia’s very worried, isn’t she?”

Therese reviewed all she’d seen and heard. Slowly, she nodded. “Indeed, she is.”

“She’s running that big house all by herself,” George said. “The stable boy, Terry, said the groom, Billings, said she’s at her wit’s end, what with her brother still being at the stage of playing larks rather than taking on the running of the place.”

“Hmm” was all Therese returned. Deftly, she swung the gig out of the Hall’s drive and into the lane that led through the village. Yet as they bowled down the village street—referred to as the High Street—on past the village green and the Cockspur Arms public house with its windows now shining as the evening’s gloom took hold, past the vicarage and the Church of St. Ignatius on the Hill and around the wide bend and into the drive of Hartington Manor, she was very much of the opinion that with respect to Miss Eugenia Fitzgibbon’s situation, something needed to be done.

* * *

After dinner, to which Therese had sat down with her grandchildren as a family at the country hour of six o’clock, she led her three young assistants to the library. There, they hunted, and eventually, George found the map of the village Therese had been sure had to be there somewhere.

“Excellent.” She carried the rolled map to the round table in the room’s center and spread it over the polished surface. A cheery fire crackled in the grate, and the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows; with the weighty presence of the packed bookshelves all around, the room felt comfortably cozy.

She held the map down and leant over it. The children quickly drew chairs up to the table, scrambled up, and lent their assistance in holding the map flat.

“Right, then.” With one hand freed, Therese pointed out Tooks Farm, to the north of the village proper. “First, let’s consider the possibility that while Farmer Tooks was away to market, someone drove a cart into his barnyard, loaded up the geese, and drove them away. If the cart headed south—either down the High Street and through the village or via the more direct route past Swindon Hall and Crossley and Witcherly Farms—it’s hard to imagine the cart not being seen.”

“Or heard,” George put in.

“Quite.” Therese pointed in the other direction. “But if the geese were loaded into a cart and taken north, along the road to Romsey, well—”

“We were there.” Jamie met Therese’s eyes. His were alert and interested. “The geese went missing on Tuesday, and that was the day we went walking toward Romsey.”

“Indeed. And you were out along that road for most of the day until that farmer returning from market brought you home.” Therese surveyed her three adventurers. “I take it you encountered no squawking cart on your excursion.”

All three shook their heads. “There were some carts,” Lottie offered, “but none had any geese.”

Therese nodded solemnly and looked back at the map. “In any venture, it’s usually wisest to follow the most likely track. While one doesn’t wish to imagine the geese were stolen, perhaps there was some other reason to account for their removal. Regardless, at this point, as all we want is to have our goose for Christmas dinner, our principal aim is to find the flock—explanations can come later.” She studied the map, wondering where on earth the birds might have gone.

Jamie, also surveying the map, crossed his forearms and leant on them. “We should ask around. If the flock is anywhere near, someone will see or hear them—or see feathers or their mess if they’ve continued to move.”

Therese switched her gaze to him.

George stirred. “We need to ask everyone on all these estates.” He waved a still-pudgy hand over the village and surrounding land. “Not just the owners—they might not know. But there are sure to be workers and grooms and gardeners—they’re the ones who are out and about in the fields and meadows and woods.”

“There are lots of woods.” Lottie pointed to the stylized trees denoting woods that were liberally dotted around the village.

“You all make good points.” Therese straightened. “Right, then. Milsom Farm is perhaps a little too far south. Let’s start at Dutton Grange tomorrow morning. If we learn nothing there, we can work our way northward along the village street.”

Jamie nodded and pointed. “Until we reach Fulsom Hall and Tooks Farm again.”

The sound of the door opening had them all turning to see Mrs. Crimmins, the housekeeper, and Orneby, Therese’s dresser, walk in. Both women halted just inside the door. “It’s time for you three scallywags to head for your beds,” Mrs. Crimmins said. “You’ve had a big day, and you’ll need your rest.”

“Indeed.” Therese looked meaningfully at all three as they glanced at her. “If you want to continue our investigations in the morning, you’ll need to get a good night’s sleep. Off with you now.”

All three grinned at her. It was the happiest—the most openly happy—she’d seen them since they’d arrived.

“Goodnight, Grandmama.” Lottie came close, caught Therese’s hand, and tugged on it.

It took Therese a second to realize the child wanted her to bend down. When she complied, Lottie placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Therese felt her face soften. “Sweet dreams, my poppet.”

George had sidled closer, and before she could straighten, he stretched up and kissed her cheek, too. “Goodnight, Grandmama.”

“Goodnight, George,” she murmured as he scampered off.

Jamie, with the weight of all his nearly nine years on his shoulders, hung back, clearly uncertain. Therese smiled; she had three sons and vaguely recalled this awkward stage. She reached out, wrapped an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, and hugged him to her side. “And you, too, Jamie. Sleep tight.”

He grinned up at her, then tipped his head against her for an instant before moving out of her hold. “Goodnight, Grandmama.”

Mrs. Crimmins and Orneby—the former a round, comfortable, motherly sort, the latter a prim, starchy, rigid female who to everyone’s surprise had readily taken on the task of helping Mrs. Crimmins with the children, especially with their washing and dressing—gathered the trio and herded them out of the door. Orneby reached back and closed the door behind her.

Therese stood for several minutes, staring at the door, then she collected the map, now rolling onto itself again, and returned it to its place on the shelves.

Her three imps seemed to be settling in; previously, they’d been more fractious about retiring, but tonight, they’d gone willingly. Even eagerly. No doubt it was the prospect of potential excitement on the morrow.

Smiling to herself, Therese walked to the wing chair angled to the hearth and sank into its padded comfort. Despite the poor start to the day, once she’d accepted her responsibilities, she felt she’d acquitted herself rather well. Hopefully, incidents like the tying of the bell ropes would remain in the past.

A tap on the door heralded Crimmins. “Did you want anything else, my lady? A nightcap, perhaps?”

She considered, then shook her head. “No, thank you, Crimmins. Nothing else.” A thought occurred, and she amended, “Or at least, nothing of that nature. You might, however, be able to help me with some information.”

After Gerald’s death, while Therese, with Harriet Orneby in tow, had traveled hither and yon, Crimmins and Mrs. Crimmins, along with Mrs. Haggerty and John Simms, the coachman-cum-groom, all of whom had been a part of the Osbaldestone household for decades, had repaired to Hartington Manor to put everything in order for Therese’s eventual arrival.

All four could have continued at Osbaldestone House in London—Therese’s eldest son, Monty, now Lord Osbaldestone, was shrewd enough to recognize the worth of such experienced and loyal staff—but all were middle-aged and had elected to leave the bustle of London and follow Therese into the country.

Crimmins closed the door and came to stand nearer. “It will be my pleasure, my lady. On what subject?”

“Dutton Grange. I haven’t called there for years, and as was borne in on me today, with the years, people die, and others inherit. The last time I was at the Grange, Lady Longfellow was already long dead, but Leslie, Lord Longfellow, was alive, and I believe he had two sons, although I only met the elder. As I recall, the younger son was away with our troops in the Peninsula.”

“Indeed, ma’am. The current Lord Longfellow is the younger son. The elder son—I believe his name was Cedric—died about four years ago, a little before we came to the manor, then Lord Longfellow died last year. A stalwart old gentleman, he was. The whole village turned out for his funeral. The younger son—Christian, the new lord—couldn’t attend as he was still in hospital recovering from wounds he received in Spain. When he was released, Lord Longfellow sold out and returned home, but by then it was last summer. Since then, I understand he has been busy getting the estate running smoothly again.”

Therese angled a questioning look Crimmins’s way. “No rumblings?”

“None, my lady. I gather the staff and tenant farmers are relieved to have someone at the helm again, and I’ve heard nothing against the new Lord Longfellow’s ability to steer, as it were.” Crimmins paused, then went on, “The only thing I have heard about his lordship is that he’s a recluse—that because of his injuries, he eschews local society and remains inside the house.”

“A wounded recluse.” Therese considered the prospect. “I wonder how severe his injuries are?”

“As to that, my lady, I cannot even speculate. Since his return, few in the village have set eyes on him, although apparently, he is definitely in residence.”

“Hmm. Well, the imps and I will call on him tomorrow, and no doubt, we shall see.”

“Yes, my lady. Shall I tell Simms you’ll need the gig again?”

“Please. Although the Grange is within walking distance, I think arriving in a carriage, albeit a gig, puts a visit on a more formal plane.” Therese glanced up at Crimmins. “Tell Simms to bring the gig around just before eleven.”

“Very good, my lady.” Crimmins bowed, and when Therese smiled faintly and nodded a dismissal, he retreated.

The door quietly shut, leaving Therese with the soothing warmth of the fire playing over her hands and face and the peaceful sounds of her house, occupied but calm, wrapping about her.

Relaxed and at ease, she reviewed the events of her day—a long-ingrained habit after a lifetime of events, functions, and political maneuverings by Gerald’s side.

After several moments, she murmured—and she really could not say to whom she was speaking, yet it felt very much as if Gerald hovered near, and it was to his shade she said, “Who knows? This matter of the missing geese has already helped with managing the children. They really are such an alert and observant lot—very like Celia when she was that age, interested in everything that was going forward. If I’m any judge at all, our hunting of the geese has fired their blood—with luck, that purpose will keep them occupied for several days yet. And me as well, of course. Although in my case, I can see another benefit to chasing the geese—namely as a way to reintroduce myself to the village and the local families. If I am going to make this my home henceforth, then establishing my place among them is something I need to do.”

She’d been a pillar of society for too long not to feel that need.

The need to be an active participant, to be known, to have influence—to carve out a place and make it her own.