There was a plea in her eyes. Gyles knew how much she’d invested in the Festival, how much she needed the day to be a success. He held her gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”

She smiled gloriously and slipped from his hold.

He rose and followed her-into the chaos of the day.


He followed her for most of the day, not on her heels, but she was rarely out of his sight. The more he considered her shredded cap, the less he liked it. He’d never played host at the Harvest Festival yet the role was second nature. He strolled the lawns, greeting his tenants and their families, stopping to chat with those who leased the village shops. He passed his mother and Henni doing likewise, then went down to the archery butts to check on Horace.

While there, he presented the prizes thus far won, promising to escort his countess thither to bestow the major prizes later on. Leaving the butts, he watched Francesca chatting animatedly with Gallagher’s wife.

Informality was the order of the day. Today was the day when the lord and lady rubbed shoulders with their tenants, meeting them man to man, woman to woman. It was not a challenge every gently reared lady met well, but Francesca was enjoying it. Her hands danced as she talked; her eyes sparkled. Her face was alive with interest, her expression focused. Gyles wondered what topic she found so engaging, then she looked down and smiled. He shifted and saw Sally’s youngest child clinging to the front of her skirt.

The little girl was fascinated by Francesca; smiling, Francesca bent down to talk to her.

In a walking dress in green-and-ivory stripes, Francesca was easy to spot among the crowd. As she laughed, straightened, and parted from Sally, others stepped forward to claim her attention. Gyles would have liked to claim it for himself; instead, he turned to greet the blacksmith.

Only those connected with the estate were present. Gyles didn’t, therefore, need to watch for Lancelot Gilmartin and his theatrical posturings. He did, however, wonder if Lancelot was in any way connected with Francesca’s ruined cap.

Finally, Francesca was free. Gyles caught her hand, linked her arm with his.

She smiled up at him. “Everything’s going perfectly.”

“With you, Wallace, Irving, Cantle, Mama, and Henni supervising, I don’t see how anything could go otherwise.”

“You’re doing your part admirably, too.”

Gyles humphed. “Has Lancelot Gilmartin called since our excursion to the Barrows?”

“No-not since then.”

Gyles stilled. “He’d called before?”

“Yes, but I’d instructed Irving to deny me, remember?”

Gyles drew her on; those waiting their turn with her could wait a moment longer. “Could Lancelot have had anything to do with your ruined cap?”

“How? The cap was in my room.”

“You thought it was in your room, but you might have left it somewhere. The Castle may be fully staffed, but it’s so huge it’s easy for someone to slip in undetected.”

Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. He might have been angry, but attacking my cap seems such a silly-”

“Childish thing to do. Precisely why I thought of Lancelot.”

“I think you’re making too much of the incident.”

“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough. But if not Lancelot…”

Gyles halted; Francesca glanced at him, then followed his gaze. He was looking at the pit where a whole ox was roasting under Ferdinand’s exacting eye.

“It makes even less sense to suspect Ferdinand. He’s not the least bit angry with me-or you.”

Gyles glanced at her. “He wasn’t annoyed that you weren’t receptive to his impassioned pleas?”

“He’s Italian-all his pleas are impassioned.” She shook Gyles’s arm. “You’re worrying over nothing.”

“Your riding cap-a favorite possession-was found deliberately ruined and hidden in a vase. Until I discover who did it, and why, I will not let the matter rest.”

She exhaled through her teeth. A farmer and his wife were tentatively approaching. “You’re so stubborn. It’s nothing.” Smiling brilliantly, she released Gyles’s arm.

“It’s very definitely not ‘nothing.’ “ Gyles nodded urbanely to the farmer and stepped forward to greet him.

They separated. Despite her intentions, Francesca found her thoughts returning to the mystery of her ruined cap. There had to be a simple explanation.

After fifteen minutes with a bevy of giggling housemaids, she was certain she’d found it. When Gyles came to escort her to the archery range, she smiled and took his arm. “I have it.”

“ ‘It’ what?”

“A sensible explanation for my cap.”

His gaze sharpened. “Well?”

“For a start, if someone wanted to ruin my cap to make me sorry-to pay me back for something I’d done or not done-then they wouldn’t have hidden it in that vase. It might not have been found for months, even years.”

Gyles frowned.

“But,” she continued, “what if I’d left it somewhere and it was accidentally damaged-say with furniture polish. Any maid would be horrified-she’d be certain she’d be dismissed even if you and I know that wouldn’t happen. What would a maid do? She couldn’t hide the cap and take it away-their dresses and aprons have no pockets. So she’d hide it where no one would find it.”

“It was mangled and pulled apart.”

“That might have happened when the maid tried to put the branches in the vase. I was just speaking with her. She said the cap was tangled in the ends of the branches when she pulled them out to see what the problem was.”

Francesca smiled as they neared the crowd gathered about the improvised archery range. “I think we should forget about my cap. It was only a scrap of velvet, after all. I can always get another.”

Gyles got no chance to reply; she slipped her hand from his arm and stepped forward to present the prizes for the men’s archery competition. He stood back; his mind continued to dwell on her cap.

A scrap of velvet and a flirting feather. It might have had little real worth, but despite her comments, it had been a favorite possession of hers. He’d grown fond of it himself.

Propping his shoulders against a tree, he watched her, careful to keep his expression easy, impassive. Her explanation was possible-he had to concede that. Other than Lancelot and Ferdinand, he could conceive of no one who might want to upset her. Even imagining such a thing of them was extrapolating wildly.

According to the staff, Lancelot had not been sighted on the estate since being warned to keep away, and despite her strictures, Ferdinand seemed as worshipful of Francesca as he’d ever been. Even more telling, while Lancelot or Ferdinand might be enamored of dramatic gestures enough to destroy the cap, they wouldn’t, as she’d pointed out, have hidden the result-where was the gesture in that?

So… the destruction of the cap was an unfortunate accident. All they could do was shrug and forget it.

That conclusion didn’t ease the tightness about his chest, nor the compulsion to remain watchful and alert.

Amid laughter and cheering, Francesca turned away from the archery butts. He stepped to her side. She smiled and allowed him to take her hand, set it on his sleeve. Allowed him to keep her with him for the rest of the day.


The Harvest Festival was a resounding success. When the sun sank low and the tenants finally rolled home, Francesca and Gyles joined their staff, helping to strike the trestles and return the perishables inside before the river mists spread through the park. Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace helped, too. When all was done, they stayed for supper-just soup followed by a cold collation.

Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace were driven home by Jacobs, and the entire household fell exhausted into bed.

It was midday the next day before things got back to normal.

Gyles and Francesca were seated at the luncheon table, serving themselves from the dishes Irving and a footmen offered, when Cook popped her head around the door, then sidled in. Francesca saw her and smiled.

Cook bobbed a curtsy. “I was just bringing this to Irving.” She held up a glass bottle with a silver top. “Your special dressing.”

Francesca’s eyes lit. “You found it!” She held out her hand.

Cook handed over the bottle. “It was stuck away on a shelf in the pantry. I came across it just this minute when I went to put some of the jam away.”

“Thank you.” Francesca smiled delightedly. Cook bobbed her head and retreated.

Gyles watched as Francesca shook the bottle vigorously, then sprinkled the liquid over her vegetables. “Here.” He held out a hand when she finished. “Let me try it.”

She handed the bottle over. It had a conical lid with a hole in the top.

“What’s in it?”

She picked up her knife and fork. “A mixture of olive oil and vinegar, with various herbs and seasonings.”

Gyles did as she’d done, dribbling the shaken liquid over his potatoes, carrots, and beans. He lowered his face and sniffed-he sat back.

He looked at the bottle, still clasped in his hand-looked at Francesca, raising a sliver of carrot to her lips-

He lunged over the table and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t eat that!”

Eyes wide, she stared at him.

He was looking at the piece of carrot speared on her fork; it gleamed with a light coating of dressing. He forced her hand down. “Put it down.”

She released the fork. It clattered on her plate.

“My lord?”

Irving was at his shoulder. Easing back, fingers still locked about Francesca’s wrist, Gyles held the bottle out to his butler. “Smell that.”