The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series) Read Free Page B

drawing room.
    His father's cousin Jane Farthing quickly embraced him with a happy greeting. "I'd like you to meet our neighbor, Mr. Ponsby."
    Keene bowed slightly to the robust man sitting on one of Jane's delicate chairs. The chair looked like it might disintegrate into matchwood at any moment. Jane gestured for Keene to sit.
    "Mr. Ponsby is the local squire."
    "How d'you do?" The squire shifted thick legs stuffed like sausages in his broadcloth knee breeches. "Pray tell, have you located Miss Sophie yet?"
    "I am sure she is just taking a constitutional. I've sent her maid to search the orchards. She will be sad if she misses you." Jane perched on the edge of one of the delicate chairs.
    "The gel needs a couple of children to occupy her so she hasn't the time to gad about the country at whim," said the squire peevishly.
    Keene drew up stiff. Who was this unmannerly man to comment on Sophie's behavior? Not that he was terribly wrong, but criticism should be reserved for family.
    Keene brushed his sleeve and said negligently, "I daresay children should not require a great deal of Sophie's time. I'm sure she might discharge her daily duties to their nanny in the space of a quarter hour. Although I am told one can be done in less time."
    "Quite right, sir, quite right," blustered the squire, taking the not-so-subtle reminder of their difference in stations with ingratiating grace. "I have missed her these last few times I have come calling."
    "We are looking for her. I have sent my maid upstairs to search. I haven't even had a chance to inform her that Keene is to join us."
    So it wasn't on his account that Sophie was impersonating ivy on the house.
    The squire ran a work-calloused finger under his cravat. Keene flicked his gaze over the brocade embroidered waistcoat and tight tailed jacket the squire wore. Although his clothes were clearly of the country, he was very well dressed for an afternoon social call, but he looked uncomfortable, as if the clothing sat ill on him.
    "Mr. Farthing assured me he would speak with her," mumbled the squire.
    Jane's eyes widened. "I'll just check again." She reached for the bellpull.
    Keene settled on the sofa.
    The squire had the ruddy complexion of a man often outside. He looked as out of place as a rusty plow would among the myriad polished rosewood tables scattered around the room, ready to trip up a man of the squire's stature.
    "Do you hunt, sir?" asked Keene.
    The squire looked uncertain, as if a trap lay ready to spring on him. "Why, yes."
    Keene relaxed. "Farthing finds such amusements trivial." Jane's husband found most entertainment frivolous. The man should have been a minister rather than a country gentleman. Although many might have found his sermons on life too dour. "Perhaps you might indulge me in a day of grousing during my stay."
    "Shall you be here long, sir?"
    The conversation digressed into a discussion of hunting, while Jane made several inquiries of her servants as to Sophie's whereabouts, all to no avail.
    Keene doubted she still hovered on the ledge of the house. Although the cherries weren't in season, he had no doubt she was somewhere she shouldn't be and wouldn't be found until she was ready.
    He suffered a momentary qualm as he remembered once pulling her out of the river behind the orchard and another time freeing her dress from a fence that had her feet dangling uselessly above the ground.
    Disappointment covered the squire's face when he finally took his leave.
    "Oh, dear." Jane sank back into her chair with a sigh. "I have no idea where she's hiding."
    Keene resumed his seat on the sofa. "Is she hiding?" Or was she still clinging to the side of the house?
    "I presume. She and Mr. Ponsby were great friends. They often rode together. Of late she avoids him like the plague."
    Had all the upstairs rooms been checked? "What happened?"
    "Mr. Ponsby proposed. Sophie should be married. Of course, you know that. And, well, Mr. Farthing and I thought . . . they seemed