He looked around to find an elegant little whiskey drawn by a glossy bay pulling up beside him. The small carriage’s body and the spokes of its two wheels were painted bright yellow and, as if in careful coordination with her carriage, the slender, attractive gentlewoman seated on the single padded bench and handling the reins wore a blue-and-yellow-striped spencer and a yellow chip hat tied beneath her chin with a saucy blue satin bow. The only off note came from the shaggy, overgrown mutt seated beside her, its tongue lolling out happily, its curly brown fur shimmering in the late-afternoon sunshine.
“I do hope you’ll pardon my forwardness, my lord,” she said, smiling sweetly as she shifted both reins to her left hand so she could hold the right out to him. “I’m Lady Seaton, of Northcott Abbey.”
He knew who she was. An ethereal woman with fine, fair hair and pretty features, she’d been born Grace Middleton, the daughter of a prosperous Yorkshire baronet. Married at seventeen to Leopold, Lord Seaton, she’d managed to present her lord with a son and two daughters before he died, leaving her a widow before the age of twenty-five.
Seaton had been dead some fifteen years now, which meant his widow must be close to forty. But her carefully guarded complexion still glowed with the dewy softness of a new rose petal, and her form was as slender and supple as a young girl’s.
“How do you do?” said Sebastian, taking the tiny gloved hand she offered him. “Won’t you come in and meet my wife? Perhaps join us for a cup of tea?”
She gave him another of those radiant smiles and wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the dog at her side. “Why, thank you. And I truly wish I could. But I daren’t leave Barney out here alone to get into mischief. My daughter Georgina left him to his own devices a few weeks ago, and I’m afraid he stole a link of sausages from the butcher’s and then ‘christened’ some half dozen tombstones in the churchyard before the vicar managed to collar him. The truth is, his origins are shockingly plebeian, and he’s no notion of how to behave in polite society.”
Sebastian laughed. “I understand entirely.”
She gave the dog an affectionate shake. “My purpose in hailing you in such a shamefully vulgar fashion is because I would like to invite you and Lady Devlin to dinner at Northcott Abbey—shall we say, tomorrow evening?” She leaned forward. “Oh, do say you’ll be able to come.”
The truth was that Sebastian had his own reasons for wishing to visit Northcott Abbey and study a certain seventeenth-century painting hanging in its portrait gallery. He bowed and said, “We should be delighted.”
“Wonderful. I have some houseguests I believe you’ll find most interesting: Senator and Madame Lucien Bonaparte, the estranged brother of the Emperor Napoléon himself.”
“I’d heard he’s staying with you this summer.”
“Yes; I fear the noise from the repairs on his estate in Worcester was interfering with his poetical composition. He’s writing an epic about Charlemagne, you see.”
“Is he? I understand he’s already published a novel.”
“He has, yes—La tribu indienne.” She pulled a wry face. “Although I must confess I’ve yet to read it.”
“Has he allowed you to see his epic?”
“No. But he spends every morning at the Roman temple by the lake working on it. He’s very dedicated.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
Her smile flashed wide. “Excellent!” Then she assumed a more somber expression and said, “I would also like to thank you for agreeing to help our young Squire deal with that unfortunate woman’s death.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“I did, yes. She came to tea at Northcott just last Saturday. She was such a lovely young woman, neither painfully shy nor too forward. I suggested she might be interested in visiting the priory ruins, and she said she was eager to do so.” Lady Seaton hesitated. “Was it truly a murder, do you think?”
“I’m afraid so.”
A quiver of what looked very much like fear convulsed her delicate features, then was gone, carefully hidden away. “How absolutely ghastly. I keep thinking . . . I mean, if I’d known when I saw her at the ruins yesterday, could I perhaps have said something—done something—to prevent it?”
“You saw her?”
“I did, yes. I was taking Barney for a walk and came upon her by chance. She was sketching the west wall of the old priory church. It’s quite beautiful, you know.”
“What time was this?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended.
“Around two, I suppose. Perhaps a tad later.”
“Did you speak with her?”
“I did, yes. I complimented her work. She truly was an exceptionally talented artist. She thanked me for suggesting she visit the ruins and said something about how lovely they were.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, let’s see. . . . We discussed some of the other picturesque sites in the area. I asked if she’d visited Northcott Gorge yet, and she said she’d arranged to have a guide take her there in a day or two. And then she said something about hoping it wouldn’t come on to rain again, because she wanted to sketch the river at sunset.”