Shaldon had seated his daughter so that the painted over bruise on her face was away from the Baronet’s eye. Fox saw all of that, along with the man’s intense interest in Perry. The creeping feeling that slithered along his spine could not be ignored.

Perry sat taller and shared one long glance at Fox, and then her gaze returned to her father, as if she were studiously avoiding Sir Richard.

Shaldon patted her hand and squeezed it. “Will you go down to the kitchen, my dear? Have the maid bring up a tray so you ladies may break your fast.”

Color flooded her cheeks and she rose. “Certainly, Father.”

Sir Richard’s gaze trailed her as she left and he exhaled loudly. “That is your daughter, Shaldon? Spitting image of Felici…er, her mother.”

Shaldon didn’t so much as blink, but Fox sensed a prickling in the man at hearing his dead wife’s Christian name trip off the oaf’s tongue.

Lady Jane cleared her throat and glanced at Shaldon, who seemed disinclined to take any hints, and then to Fox.

Well, he was the lowest in their noble pecking order, wasn’t he, even lower than the silent Kincaid, but he was the resident tenant here. He made introductions.

“Sir Richard,” Lady Jane said. “We met, many years ago, though I’m sure you do not remember.”

The man studied her. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I don’t. Though beauty such as yours should not—”

“Don’t be silly,” she waved a small hand at him.

Not inclined to accept flattery was the lady, though Sir Richard was right—there was beauty in the contours of her face. The shallow crinkles around her eyes and mouth looked to be the marks of a truly gentle woman who smiled often and looked kindly on many. In her younger days, she wouldn’t have been a fashionable beauty perhaps, but she would have turned some heads.

An interesting face. He would have to sketch her, if she would allow it.

“It was a ball many years ago.” She pinned a clear gaze on Sir Richard. “As I recall, you left early.”

Sir Richard shifted in his chair.

Ah, so, Lady Jane was perhaps not always kind. She could also wield the velvet-clad blade of a society lady, and the fact that she’d parry and thrust with Sir Richard meant Fox’s instinct about the man was correct.

If Sir Richard but laid another long look on Perry…

“I dare say, I don’t remember,” Sir Richard said. “May I inquire how long you will grace the neighborhood with your presence, Shaldon?”

“Our plans are not certain.”

“Surely you must be back in London for the coronation. The King cannot do without you, eh?” He chuckled and sipped at his coffee.

Shaldon did not answer.

Perry and Jenny entered, both setting trays on the sideboard. Perry seated herself and Jenny served the two ladies.

“Bring a plate for Sir Richard, girl,” Lady Jane said.

Jenny ducked and bowed with proper servility—another clever woman—and did as asked.

Sir Richard ignored her, his attention thoroughly fixed on Perry. He wanted an introduction, and damn him if Fox would oblige him when it came to Perry.

“I’m hosting a bit of a fête for the local society to celebrate the coronation, for those of us who cannot attend, and I’d thought to invite Mr. Goodfellow here. But imagine the stir if the great Lord Shaldon would deign to appear?”

Was that sarcasm under that hearty bluffness?

“You are the highest-ranking neighbor around, sir, and one so frequently absent the neighbors would love to meet you, and of course, your guests, and your lovely daughter.”

“When is this event?” Lady Jane asked.

Sir Richard took a bite of toast, chewed, and sipped his coffee. “Next week. ’Twill be a small affair, I fear. Dinner and, er, perhaps a bit of dancing.”

“I fear we cannot promise you next week,” Shaldon said.

“Well, then. You and the ladies must come for dinner. Tomorrow night. I’ll not take no for an answer.”

Shaldon leveled a steady gaze on him. “We shall be honored.”

“Excellent.” Sir Richard caught Perry’s eye. “And I shall particularly like to make your acquaintance, my dear.”

Perry’s eyes narrowed. She set down her fork.

“Your mother was a childhood friend. Used to gallop across my land whenever the notion took her. Always a horsewoman, wasn’t she? Do you share her interest in horses, my lady?”

Perry washed down a bite of toast and glanced at her father before answering. “My brother runs the equine operations.”

“Well,” Sir Richard said. “Of course. No doubt finer than my own, though I dare say there are a few fine mounts in my stable. I should like you to feel welcome to come over any time to ride, and, er, Lord Shaldon, I’d be happy to have you ride any of my mounts.” He stood. “Well then, tomorrow night. Though I am but a widower, I dare say I have one of the best cooks in the county and can spread a fine table. I shall be happy to see you then.”

Fox walked out with him. At the door, Sir Richard turned on him. “Bit of a surprise, eh, his lordship showing up?”

The skin on his neck prickled again. Shadows hid Sir Richard’s expression, but he’d lowered his shoulders in a threatening stance. A tall man he was, about Fox’s height, and the flabbiness around him was, Fox realized, merely an excess of linens and coats crowned with a mask of stupidity. Strip him down to a dark jumper and one would find muscle and brawn and a keen intelligence.

The man tilted his head, the rabbit waiting to see what the fox would do.

Only, who was the rabbit and who was the fox here?

Fox nodded. “And good day, Sir Richard.” He held the door until the man passed, and then snicked it quietly shut, turning the lock.

Perry would not be going to that dinner, at least, not without him, not without Kincaid and Farnsworth, though none of them had been expressly invited.

Well, Sir Richard’s cook would just have to stretch the fare a little further.