A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) Read Free Page B

like a messy blanket; stubby, needled trees, oaks, some of which still sported leaves despite its being the brink of winter. Smoke spiraled from the chimneys of the few cottages scattered in the middle distance. She moved off the road and stretched and peered: The gray line on the far horizon was the sea.
    Henny followed her out of the carriage and stretched and inhaled mightily.
    And then her driver returned to her and gave a little bow.
    “Lady Wareham, I fear we may have a dilemma. One of the horses has lost a shoe, and it would risk laming him if we continue on the journey.”
    Of course they had a dilemma. Life had become nothing but dilemmas of late. “How far are we from Damask Manor?”
    “A good twenty minutes or so by carriage.”
    Which meant at least double the time walking. She wasn’t incapable of it—God only knew she’d been a country girl a lifetime ago—but it was unthinkable for a woman of Henny’s age and size to undertake that journey on foot.
    Henny took command. “There’s smoke from that chimney.” She pointed. “I’ll see if I can fetch some help, will I? Perhaps a farmer will lend a cart. I’d like to stretch me legs, anyhow, after those torture pews.”
    Evie hesitated. “Well, if you insist. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
    Henny insisted and trudged off, crested a rise, then disappeared over one of those small hills into the little valley, following a narrow beaten path to one of the picturesque little houses with the inviting chimney smoke.
    All was silence. Apart from the shifting hooves and murmurs of her driver and footman, they were entirely alone. Evie scanned the trees again and gave a start.
    Alone apart from a small blond boy leaning out from behind a tree. He was staring solemn-faced and unabashedly, the way children do.
    She crossed her eyes good and proper, taking care to make her expression hideous. Little boys loved that sort of thing, and she wasn’t above reaching for an easy laugh.
    He quite gratifyingly giggled. His front teeth were missing, which for some reason charmed her to her core. He must be seven or eight years old, then, she thought. Seamus at that age had been a devil in short pants. Then again, long pants hadn’t done much to reform him.
    “Spiders aren’t pretty,” the boy said.
    She was accustomed to small boys and non sequiturs. “Well, I don’t know about that. I suspect girl spiders are pretty to boy spiders.”
    This the boy found uproarious. His eyes vanished with mirth when he laughed.
    She smiled along with him.
    “Are girl cows pretty to boy cows?” he wanted to know.
    “Undoubtedly.”
    “And are girl dogs pretty to boy dogs?”
    She pretended to consider this. “In all likelihood, yes. Some girls dogs to some boy dogs, anyhow.”
    “All dogs are pretty to me, too,” he confessed.
    “And to me,” she agreed solemnly.
    The boy went silent, bashful and delighted with their accord.
    “Have you a dog?” she asked.
    “Oh, yes. A hound. Her name is Wednesday.”
    “A fine name for a dog. A fine day of the week as well. Why is she called Wednesday?”
    “ ’Twas the day our neighbor brought her to me to keep forever.”
    “It must have been a special day.”
    “Pauuuuuuuulie! Paul ! Where the devil are you?” A frantic woman’s voice echoed all around them suddenly.
    “Ah. And you must be Paul,” Evie guessed.
    “ ’Twas a special day,” the boy agreed, without even blinking, evidently entirely deaf to his mother’s voice.
    The woman huffed up the hill and sighed with relief when she saw him. “Paulie! What have I told you about running off? Your blessed dog is chasing the chickens and Grandmama is expecting us for—”
    She clapped her mouth shut when she saw Evie. She froze midwalk, stiff-legged as a hunting dog pointing out prey.
    Then her eyes frosted, and her mouth became a tight, horizontal line.
    “See, Mama?” Paulie said cheerfully. “She doesn’t look like a spider. She’s pretty. And spiders