A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(29)
Author: Tessa Dare

“Ames and I went to see the Cerne Abbas carving in Dorset,” Harry went on. “The giant depicted on their hillside is magnificently pagan. He has a horrific grimace on his face, and he’s waving a big, knobby club in his hand. Not to mention, sporting a monumental erection.”

Lord Drewe frowned. “Really, Harriet. That’s enough discussion of phalluses. I don’t see why you and Ames should even care.”

Harry sent her brother a look. “It’s an artistic appreciation.” She gestured at the ancient carving on the slope. “This one’s just an outline. No facial expression whatsoever. Rather rigid and staid-looking, isn’t he? And confined, locked up between those two lines.”

“I think they’re staffs,” Kate suggested. “So perhaps that’s some consolation. He’s missing the monumental erection, but he does have two impressive staffs.”

Harry took the cheroot from her mouth and gave her a shocked look. “Why, Miss Kate Taylor.”

Kate knew a moment of pure distress. What had she been thinking, to overstep and speak so crudely? The Gramercys were the aristocracy. She was their poor relation at best, and a complete stranger at worst. Just because Harry could make scandalous jokes, that didn’t mean she should do the same.

Harry turned to her brother. “I like her. She can stay.”

“She stays, whether you like her or not.”

“I suppose that’s right,” Harry said. “If amiability were a requirement for inclusion in this family, Bennett should have been handed his permanent exile years ago.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t cease marveling at the notion that she might be a part of this. This wild, impolitic, eccentric, creative assortment of individuals. They liked her.

Now, if only Thorne would join in. The pagan figure carved on the distant hillside was a more active participant in the conversation.

He’d separated himself from the group, on the excuse of letting Badger tumble through the heather. As she looked closely, Kate thought he had the dog engaged in a training exercise. However, she couldn’t follow quite what he was training Badger to do, because she kept getting distracted by the flexing of his thighs whenever he crouched to praise or correct the pup.

It wasn’t only his physical firmness that drew her attention. His character was solid, too. She’d long known him to be stern and immutable, but since their engagement party, Kate was beginning to glimpse the good qualities his silence masked. Patience, confidence, steadfastness. Such traits didn’t clamor for attention. They just quietly . . . existed, waiting to be noticed.

She’d made it her hobby these past few days—noticing. And the more she noticed, the more she yearned to know more.

“Well, that’s a lovely view for a picnic,” Aunt Marmoset said, joining them. “I do enjoy gazing upon a well-carved man.”

“He’s called ‘the Long Man of Wilmington,’ Aunt Marmoset.” Lark scribbled in her journal.

“How odd. I’d been under the impression his name was Corporal Thorne.” Aunt Marmoset came and put her hand in Kate’s pocket. “My dear, hold onto that one. Tightly, and with all four limbs.”

Kate blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. We have similar tastes.”

The old lady withdrew her hand, leaving Kate’s pocket oddly heavier—full of spice drops, she assumed.

“Remember what I told you,” Aunt Marmoset whispered. “Strong. Overwhelming at first. But with a bit of work, you arrive at the sweetness.”

Kate had to laugh. “I am coming to adore you, Aunt Marmoset. Even if you’re not truly my aunt.”

Over the past few days, she had begun to sort out the web of Gramercy family relationships. She knew Harry had meant it as a joke the first night, but she secretly had made herself a chart. Aunt Marmoset was Evan’s mother’s sister, come to live with the family when their father took ill. Therefore, the old lady was not a Gramercy and no potential blood relationship to Kate whatsoever. But that fact didn’t seem to diminish Aunt Marmoset’s efforts to welcome her with warmth and good humor and a great many spice drops.

All the Gramercys had blended in with Spindle Cove life. Drewe had rightly pointed out that the village was a haven for unconventional ladies—and Harry, Lark, and Aunt Marmoset certainly met the standard. They’d been enjoying regular activities with the other ladies: country walks, sea-bathing, making decorations for the fair.

But today the family had decided on an outing—not only to satisfy Harry’s curiosity about the Long Man, but to give them time alone. In the village, they’d still kept the possibility of kinship a secret. Here, they could speak freely.

Kate haltingly approached Lord Drewe. As always, his aristocratic presence and sheer male splendor humbled her. His gloves alone . . . they held her rapt. They were things of seamless, caramel-colored perfection, encasing deft, elegant hands.

“Any news from your men of business?” She hated to pry, but she knew from Sally that he’d had several expresses since arriving in Spindle Cove.

“No information of value at Margate,” he said regretfully. “No information at all.”

Kate only wished she could claim surprise.

“But now they’re canvassing the area around Ambervale, looking for any servants from Simon’s time. Perhaps one of them would remember Elinor and the babe.”

“That sounds like a possibility.” If a slim one.

His gloved fingertips touched her elbow, drawing her gaze up to his face. “I know the uncertainty is difficult to bear. For us all. Lark, in particular, is growing very attached to you. But today we should simply enjoy the outing.”

“Yes, of course.”

On the flat green, two liveried servants had been working hard to erect a canvas pagoda, topped with red banners gaily striping the blue sky.

The Gramercys did nothing without a certain degree of pageantry, Kate was coming to understand. From the carriages, the footmen unloaded two large hampers stocked with a variety of savory dishes and freshly baked sweets provided by the Bull and Blossom. This might be a picnic, but it wasn’t a rustic affair.

As she and Lark helped unpack and arrange a tray of jewel-bright jam tarts, Kate realized there was one question her charts hadn’t helped her settle. “Who is this Ames that Harry’s always talking of? Another cousin? A family friend?”

“No,” Harriet called back, overhearing them. “Not a cousin and certainly no kind of friend.”