She gasped.
Anne is carrying a child. And we all know it cannot be Richard’s. He has been away for two months. Two months. I am afraid for her. He is furious. But she will not reveal the truth.
“Reveal it,” Hyacinth ground out. “Reveal it.”
“Enh?”
Hyacinth slammed the book shut and looked up. Lady Danbury was stirring in her seat.
“Why did you stop reading?” Lady D asked groggily.
“I didn’t,” Hyacinth lied, her fingers holding the diary so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t burn holes through the binding. “You fell asleep.”
“Did I?” Lady Danbury murmured. “I must be getting old.”
Hyacinth smiled tightly.
“Very well,” Lady D said with a wave of her hand. She fidgeted a bit, moving first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again. “I’m awake now. Let’s get back to Miss Butterworth.”
Hyacinth was aghast. “Now?”
“As opposed to when?”
Hyacinth had no good answer for that. “Very well,” she said, with as much patience as she could muster. She forced herself to set the diary down beside her, and she picked up Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron in its stead.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, turning to the first page of chapter Eighteen. “Ahem.”
“Throat bothering you?” Lady Danbury asked. “I still have some tea in the pot.”
“It’s nothing,” Hyacinth said. She exhaled, looked down, and read, with decidedly less animation than was usual, “The baron was in possession of a secret. Priscilla was quite certain of that. The only question was—would the truth ever be revealed?”
“Indeed,” Hyacinth muttered.
“Enh?”
“I think something important is about to happen,” Hyacinth said with a sigh.
“Something important is always about to happen, my dear girl,” Lady Danbury said. “And if not, you’d do well to act as if it were. You’ll enjoy life better that way.”
For Lady Danbury, the comment was uncharacteristically philosophical. Hyacinth paused, considering her words.
“I have no patience with this current fashion for ennui,” Lady Danbury continued, reaching for her cane and thumping it against the floor. “Ha. When did it become a crime to show an interest in things?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just read the book,” Lady D said. “I think we’re getting to the good part. Finally.”
Hyacinth nodded. The problem was, she was getting to the good part of the other book. She took a breath, trying to return her attention to Miss Butterworth, but the words swam before her eyes. Finally, she looked up at Lady Danbury and said, “I’m sorry, but would you mind terribly if I cut our visit short? I’m not feeling quite the thing.”
Lady Danbury stared at her as if she’d just announced that she was carrying Napoleon’s love child.
“I would be happy to make it up to you tomorrow,” Hyacinth quickly added.
Lady D blinked. “But it’s Tuesday.”
“I realize that. I—” Hyacinth sighed. “You are a creature of habit, aren’t you?”
“The hallmark of civilization is routine.”
“Yes, I understand, but—”
“But the sign of a truly advanced mind,” Lady D cut in, “is the ability to adapt to changing circumstances.”
Hyacinth’s mouth fell open. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined Lady Danbury uttering that.
“Go on, dear child,” Lady D said, shooing her toward the door. “Do whatever it is that has you so intrigued.”
For a moment Hyacinth could do nothing but stare at her. And then, suffused with a feeling that was as lovely as it was warm, she gathered her things, rose to her feet, and crossed the room to Lady Danbury’s side.
“You’re going to be my grandmother,” she said, leaning down and giving her a kiss on the cheek. She’d never assumed such familiarity before, but somehow it felt right.
“You silly child,” Lady Danbury said, brushing at her eyes as Hyacinth walked to the door. “In my heart, I’ve been your grandmother for years. I’ve just been waiting for you to make it official.”
Chapter 20
Later that night. Quite a bit later, actually. Hyacinth’s attempts at translation had to be postponed for a lengthy family dinner, followed by an interminable game of charades. Finally, at half eleven, she found the information she was seeking.
Excitement proved stronger than caution…
Another ten minutes and Gareth would not have been there to hear the knock. He had pulled on his jumper, a rough, woolen thing that his grandmother would have called dreadfully uncouth but which had the advantage of being black as night. He was just sitting on his sofa to don his most quietly soled boots when he heard it.
A knock. Soft but adamant.
A glance at the clock told him it was almost midnight. Phelps had long since gone to bed, so Gareth went to the door himself, positioning himself near the heavy wood with a, “Yes?”
“It is I,” came the insistent reply.
What? No, it couldn’t be…
He yanked the door open.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, pulling Hyacinth into the room. She went flying by him, stumbling into a chair as he let go to peer out into the hall. “Didn’t you bring someone with you?”
She shook her head. “No time to—”
“Are you mad?” he whispered furiously. “Have you gone stark, raving insane?” He’d thought he’d been angry with her last time she’d done this, running through London on her own after dark. But at least then she’d had some sort of an excuse, having been surprised by his father. This time—This time—