The next morning at eleven o’clock, Therese discovered that neither her name nor her standing, and not even her presence, was sufficient to get her over the threshold of Dutton Grange.

Standing on the front porch with Lottie’s hand once more in hers, Therese stared narrow-eyed at the mountain blocking the doorway. The day was cool, a chill December wind whipping the last leaves from the branches and harrying the thick clouds racing overhead. Together with the children, she’d driven the short distance down the manor drive, then up the graveled track that ended in the forecourt before Dutton Grange, only to encounter this rather large and somewhat unexpected obstacle.

Undeterred, she tried another tack. In her most imperious tone, she inquired, “And you are?”

The man—who was like no butler she’d ever known, garbed as he was in an ordinary hacking jacket, breeches, and boots, with a kerchief knotted about his throat—blinked, then frowned. After a moment, he replied uncertainly, “Hendricks.”

“Very good. And what position do you hold in this household?”

Hendricks’s frown grew blacker; he patently had no idea if ladies turning up on the doorstep and quizzing him in such a fashion was a normal occurrence or not. After another long moment, he said, “I’m Lord Longfellow’s majordomo.”

“I see. In that case, Hendricks, the proper procedure is to invite me into the house, show me into the drawing room to wait, then inform your master that I have called and wish to speak with him.”

Hendricks’s lips set, and he shook his head. “Won’t be any use. Quite aside from the drawing room still being under covers, he won’t see anybody, not for any reason. Those are his orders.”

“Really?” Therese allowed her brows to rise. She wondered if Jamie and George were having any better luck tracking down Lord Longfellow.

On the way there, she’d told them of Crimmins’s belief that Lord Longfellow was a recluse and kept to the house. Neither boy had thought such a thing at all likely and had suggested that as they’d done at Fulsom Hall, they would go around the side of the house in the hope that Lord Longfellow would be in the stables or perhaps walking his rear lawn.

Therese wasn’t about to retreat yet. She skewered Hendricks with her most censorious gaze. “I cannot believe that Lord Longfellow is so lost to the edicts of common courtesy—”

Bang!

A door had crashed open at the rear of the front hall, in the gloomy depths somewhere behind Hendricks. He turned to look; Therese leant forward and peered past his bulky frame.

Cursing freely, a man strode out of the shadows, one leg dragging slightly. His left hand was wrapped around Jamie’s upper arm. Despite his damaged leg, the man half dragged and half lifted Jamie along, all but shaking him as the man demanded in a tone one notch down from a roar, “Who the devil is this little beggar?”

Therese didn’t hesitate; she didn’t even think. She stepped to the threshold, struck the hall tiles with her cane, and in arctic accents commanded, “Unhand my grandson at once, sir!”

The figure’s head jerked up, and he halted. Apparently recognizing the voice of female authority, he immediately released Jamie.

The man—presumably his lordship—stared at her.

Therese glared daggers back.

Apparently unperturbed by his rough handling, Jamie calmly resettled his jacket, drew himself up in a surprisingly relaxed fashion, and in an even, unthreatening tone, said, “If you had allowed me to introduce myself, sir, I would have told you that I am Lord James Skelton, Viscount Skelton, of Winslow Abbey.”

Everyone—Therese, his lordship, Hendricks, and Lottie—looked at Jamie. Not at all rattled, he executed a neat bow to his lordship. Straightening, he looked up—all the way up into his lordship’s face—and inquired, “And you are…?”

Therese felt pride—grandmotherly pride—well and swell. If only Gerald could have seen… Really, Jamie was a true chip off the family block; it was on the tip of her tongue to inform him that his grandfather could not have done better.

But now was not the time. Instead, she followed Jamie’s limpid gaze to Lord Longfellow’s face.

His lordship’s scowl turned his features harsh. Despite the prevailing gloom of the front hall, she could see he had sustained some damage to the left side of his face, but oh, the right side, illuminated by the weak light that fell through the doorway, was nothing short of manly perfection. His features were classical and eye-catchingly striking, as if chiseled by some grateful goddess. Thick, slightly wavy black hair that looked as if he’d been raking his fingers through it contrasted sharply with his very pale complexion; hardly surprising if he’d been an invalid and subsequently had decided to keep to the house. And regardless of the imperfection of his dragging limp, his figure lived up to the promise of his face. He stood more than six feet tall, with broad shoulders and the long, lean build of a cavalryman. He was dressed in topcoat, breeches, and boots, with a cravat knotted about his throat; even in the poor light, the quality of his clothes marked him as a gentleman, as did his stance and the air of command that, even now, brought to book by a mere boy though he’d been, wrapped about him like an invisible cloak.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Christian Longfellow. Lord Longfellow of Dutton.” The words were gruff, as if it had been some time since he’d spoken in polite company. Rather stiffly, he inclined his head; Jamie, after all, outranked him.

Her quarry confirmed, Therese didn’t give him a second to regroup. “Lord Longfellow!” She swept past the mountainous majordomo, apparently rooted by surprise to the floor, and advanced. “Just the gentleman I wished to see. I am Lady Osbaldestone.” She sensed Lottie and then George slip inside in her wake. With the full weight of her years as one of the ton’s most powerful grandes dames, she extended her hand. “I knew your father, my lord. You, I believe, are Leslie’s younger son—you were away with our troops the last time I called.”

Ingrained good manners were wondrous things. No matter how reluctant the present Lord Longfellow might be to welcome her into his home, her presenting her hand in such a way had him reaching for it before he’d realized.

Then he did, yet by then he had no real option but to continue with the courtesy, grip her fingers, and bow over her hand. “Lady Osbaldestone. I…ah, hadn’t realized you were in the district.”

“I have come to take up residence at Hartington Manor. It’s my dower property, but I’ve been visiting the place since I was in plaits—it used to be my aunt’s house. Consequently, I was acquainted with your parents.” She paused in some surprise. Now she was in the hall, she could see that the deep shadows and gloom owed much to the hangings drawn over every window, even the large leadlight window over the half landing on the stairs. “Good gracious! This place is one step away from a mausoleum.” Turning, she surveyed the hall. “I understand, my lord, that you returned to Dutton Grange last summer. I’m amazed that your housekeeper has yet to properly open up the house.”

His lordship’s jaw set; Therese suspected he was gritting his teeth. “Mrs. Wright does as I wish. I have no need of further light.”

Now Therese was closer, she could see why he might think so. The left side of his face was not merely damaged. It was ravaged by scars that had pocked and puckered the skin of his cheek and jaw. His left eye had escaped the carnage by a whisker; it appeared unmarred, as was his wide brow. In that moment, she could sympathize with his wish to hide away.

In some strange way, the riveting perfection of the right side of his face made the wreck of the left side all the more shocking.

She was far too experienced to allow any reactive emotion—not shock and certainly not revulsion—to show in her expression or her voice, much less to allow it to interfere with her direction. She met his hostile gaze directly, noting his understandable tendency to turn his face to the left. “As I said, I knew your parents, and I recently heard of your father’s death. I had not, until then, heard of your brother’s demise. How did he die?”

From between quite ridiculously long and lush black lashes, bright hazel eyes stared—almost glared—at her.

She wasn’t at all sure he would answer, but to his surprise as well as hers, the mountain moved, then the majordomo murmured in his very deep voice, “I’ll fetch a tea tray to the library, my lord, seeing as the other rooms aren’t fit to receive guests.”

Therese allowed her brows to rise in muted incredulity.

His lordship shot the mountain a malevolent glance, but in the circumstances, had little option other than to behave with passable grace. Christian, Lord Longfellow, stepped back and waved Therese toward the rear of the hall. “As you are here…perhaps you will allow me to offer you some refreshments.”

Therese smiled and patted his arm. “Thank you, dear. I’m quite parched. Tea would be very welcome.”

Through the shadows, the mountain met her gaze and almost imperceptibly nodded.

Christian gestured to the library door, which remained ajar. His gaze fell to the children—taking in George, who had been hovering with Lottie in Therese’s shadow. After a moment, still in his gruff, rusty voice, he asked, “Your grandchildren?”

“Indeed. They’re staying with me for the festive season as their father is currently ill.” Therese swept into the library and paused to look around.

Ushering the children before him, when she glanced back at him, Christian waved to a sofa and a lone armchair arranged before the fireplace.

Therese walked forward and sank onto the sofa—in the middle, so the children could sit on either side of her, Jamie to her left and Lottie and George on her right.

Christian limped to the armchair, then slowly lowered himself into its well-padded depths.

She gave him no time to grow difficult. “You were about to tell me what happened to your brother.”

He looked at her as if considering telling her he hadn’t been about to do any such thing. Instead, he eventually said, “Cedric was killed in a carriage accident in ’06.”

“Hmm. Your father was still alive then.” She eyed him. “You didn’t think to return at that time?” Many young gentlemen would have.

His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Neither my father nor I saw any pressing reason for me to leave my regiment and the fight at that time.”

“I understand you were wounded in Spain in ’09.” She eyed his long frame. “I assume at Talavera. You were with Fane’s heavy cavalry?”

He blinked. After a moment, he nodded. “The Fourth Queen’s Own Dragoons.” After another moment of staring at her, this time in puzzlement, he asked, “How did you know?”

“My late husband was in the Foreign Office. Although he passed on in ’07, our eldest son is now with the ministry, and consequently, I saw the dispatches.”

He snorted. “Reading dispatches is one thing. Remembering the details…” He tipped his head to her. “That’s something else again.”

“Gerald—my late husband—maintained that details were the lifeblood of diplomacy.”

He continued to meet her gaze. “Is that why you’re here? Diplomacy?”

She smiled easily. “In a way.”

His chair sat to the left of the hearth; the glow from the flames fell on the right side of his face, leaving the left side wreathed in shadows. Nevertheless, she’d seen enough to appreciate that the disfigurement was severe. The scars ran over his jaw and down the side of his throat to disappear beneath his cravat.

The door opened, and the mountainous Hendricks carried in the tea tray. The tray looked almost ridiculous in his meaty hands. He nudged a small table into place before the sofa and carefully set the tray down.

Therese finished pulling off her gloves. “Would you like me to pour?”

“If you would,” Christian replied.

Therese picked up the teapot; while she poured, she said, “The reason we are here is that we are pursuing a flock of geese.” She prattled on, describing the flock’s disappearance and what that meant for the local families.

At the news that there would be no goose for Christmas dinner, not for anyone, not unless they located the flock, Christian glanced at Hendricks, who rumbled, “Mrs. Wright heard from Tooks this morning. He still hasn’t found the birds.”

“Indeed.” Therese handed Christian his cup, then lifted hers and sat back. “Which is why we are here, doing…er, reconnaissance, as it were.” In response to the children’s expectant looks, with a nod, she gave them permission to help themselves to the three glasses of milk and the shortbread biscuits Mrs. Wright had arranged on a plate on the tray. While they did so, she looked at Christian, then raised her gaze to Hendricks’s face. “We wondered if your people had heard squawking or seen anything—feathers, goose droppings—anything at all that might suggest in which direction we should look for these wayward birds.”

Christian glanced at Hendricks. “Ask around and see if anyone has anything relevant to share.”

“Yes, sir.”

Therese watched Hendricks retreat; the burly man had all but come to attention and snapped off a salute before leaving. “I take it Hendricks was with you in the Peninsula.”

“He was a sergeant in the corps.” Christian sipped, then added, “He helped carry me from the field. When he heard I was selling out, he asked to come home with me.”

Therese studied him over the rim of her cup. “Did you bring any others from the army home with you?”

He shifted. “Only Jiggs—my batman. He’s excellent with horses, and he’d served his time. He’s my groom. Most of the others here hail from my father’s tenure. If any of my people have reported anything of your geese, Mrs. Wright or Johnson, the stableman, will know.”

Setting her cup back on its saucer, she quietly asked, “Do you plan on joining in village life eventually?”

Moving with careful deliberation, he set his cup and saucer down on the tray. His voice had hardened when he replied, “As you might imagine, I’m not comfortable among others, and there’s no compelling reason for me to inflict my presence on the general public.”

She could think of several sound reasons—his own sanity being one—and she could have argued that going about the village in no way equated to exposing himself to the wider public, but on both counts, she held her tongue. She and the children had won their way inside; patience, Gerald had always counseled, was a virtue worth cultivating.

The door opened, and Hendricks walked in. Therese set her cup and saucer on the tray and looked at the would-be majordomo as expectantly as the children.

Hendricks halted by his master’s chair and pulled a glum face. “Johnson likes his Christmas goose—he’d already asked around, but no one on the estate has seen anything of the geese.”

Therese heaved a sigh and gathered her gloves and reticule. “Thank you, Hendricks, and Lord Longfellow, for your assistance and the refreshments.” Smoothly, she rose, bringing a faintly puzzled Christian to his feet; he’d expected her to try to persuade him to change his reclusive ways. “Come, children.” She waited until they had returned their glasses to the tray and bounced to their feet, then she looked at Christian Longfellow, met his eyes, and smiled. “We should leave Lord Longfellow in peace.”

Lord Longfellow looked as if he didn’t know whether to take her at her word or not. He grasped a cane that had been leaning against the side of his chair; using it to steady himself, he limped after them as Therese led her party to the door.

Hendricks had moved surprisingly quickly to hold the door for her. As she drew level, he met her eyes, then inclined his huge head.

Therese swept into the hall, wondering just what it was she had glimpsed in the big man’s eyes. Had it been hope?

Christian saw them to the front door, which Hendricks strode around them to open. When she paused on the threshold and glanced back at Christian—he’d halted several yards from the door, where he remained wreathed in shadows—he tensed, but all she did was smile serenely and incline her head in farewell, then she turned and, with her spine ramrod straight, walked out onto the porch, and, with her small retinue falling in alongside her, crossed the forecourt to where a groom now stood holding the mare’s reins. Presumably Jiggs.

The ex-batman cut a slight figure, lean and wiry, and possessed a sharp-featured face.

Jiggs nodded politely to Therese, handed the reins to Jamie, and came to help her to the gig’s seat. Perforce, that meant his back was to the still-open door. As he helped her up, Jiggs murmured, “You’re the first to win your way across the threshold, ma’am.”

Settling her skirts, she arched a brow. “Is that so?”

Jiggs nodded. “Aye—and if you could see your way to getting his lordship to step over it and outside, we’d all be in your debt.”

“Hmm.” She accepted the reins from Jamie and waited until he’d scrambled up. Then she met Jiggs’s brown eyes and smiled faintly. “Clearly, I’ll need to see what I can do.”

Jiggs stepped back and tugged his forelock. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Therese started the horse plodding, then as they passed out of the forecourt and into the drive, on impulse, she handed the reins to Jamie. “Here—let’s see how you manage.”

Jamie’s eyes lit. He took the reins and, she noted, carefully arranged them between his fingers in the approved manner.

She nodded. “Good. Just let her plod along as she is. She knows the way, and I need time to think.”

All three children glanced at her. As they swayed gently with the movement of the gig, they continued to shoot looks her way, as if expecting to be able to see her thoughts in her face. Eventually, she confided, “I’ve been wondering, you see, whether there would be enough of interest to hold me in such a small village—to give my life purpose for the months of the year in which I will be living here rather than in London or visiting elsewhere in the country.”

George looked questioningly at her. “You mean if there will be enough to do so you don’t get bored?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Exactly.” After a moment, she said, “I suppose it’s the same for you children—you need something to do to fill your days. Of course, for someone of my age, the things I might do are different from the things you would like to do, or even the things people such as Miss Fitzgibbon and her brother and his friends, or Lord Longfellow, would want to do. But regardless, one must have some activity to give one purpose.”

Lottie slid her hand into Therese’s. “What sort of things would you like to do, Grandmama?”

“If you were to stay in Little Moseley,” Jamie said.

“Well, I’m considered a grande dame, and grandes dames organize and manage.”

“Manage what?” George shot her a wary glance.

“Society, mostly, but of course, that means people. People who need a bit of a push to get their lives moving in the right direction, in the right way.” Therese considered that, then went on, “If I’m to establish myself as, essentially, the grande dame of Little Moseley—and I rather think that would be the best thing all around—then one of the first issues on my plate would be to do something about the situation with Lord Longfellow. I can understand his sensitivity over his appearance, but it’s simply not appropriate for him to continue to hide himself away as he is. And as I did know his parents over many years, one might almost say it’s my duty to set him right.”

“To give him a push in the right direction?” Lottie had been listening carefully.

“In a manner of speaking.” Therese thought, then pulled a face. “Doing that, of course, will be easier said than done.”

They’d reached the end of the drive. Therese stretched out one hand and closed it over Jamie’s as he drew the mare to a halt. “Let’s go right and up the other lane toward Romsey. We have time before luncheon, and I want to consult with Mrs. Swindon.”

She removed her hand, and Jamie carefully steered the mare to the right, away from the Hartington Manor drive and on along the lane that led away from the village to eventually join the larger lane that ran north to Romsey and south to the highway connecting Salisbury and Southampton.

The mare judged it was time to trot. The gig had just started to bowl along when George clutched Jamie’s arm and pointed ahead to the right. “Look! That gate’s been smashed.”

“Pull up, Jamie.” Therese put her hand over the boy’s and helped him draw evenly on the reins until the mare somewhat grudgingly halted. She shook her shaggy head as if exasperated. The gig came to rest, gently rocking, almost directly opposite the old field gate that had been dented and crumpled inward.

George leant from the gig and squinted. “Isn’t that paint?” He pointed. “There, along the smashed bit?”

“Yes.” Jamie’s eyes were sharp. “And it’s the same blue as the paint on that damaged curricle at Fulsom Hall.”

Looking over the boys’ heads, Therese confirmed their assessment. “Well.” She faced forward, then murmured, “Fancy that.”

Puzzled by her tone, Jamie glanced at her. “That gate’s on the Dutton Grange estate, isn’t it, Grandmama?”

Still gazing ahead, Therese smiled. “Indeed, it is, my dear.”

After a moment, Jamie ventured, “Shouldn’t we tell Lord Longfellow about his broken gate?”

“Yes, we should.” Therese couldn’t stop smiling. “But that broken gate, my dears, is known as a gift from the gods. A helping hand, if you will, and it’s wise to learn to recognize such useful occurrences as the opportunities they are.”

The children looked at her somewhat cautiously, but Therese couldn’t mute her grin. “You’ll see. But for now, drive on, James, and take us to Swindon Hall.”