“Edgar’s condition has worsened, but he refuses to come to London. He says he will die where he was exiled.” Sylvia sighed. “Just to spite a man who is already dead.”

“Exiled?” Annabel’s family had never had a black sheep, or even a slightly gray one, until her father’s recent behavior. Jasper’s family reminded her of a novel or a stage play.

“My father lost his patience with Edgar’s antics and tiny acts of rebellion.” Sylvia’s smile was sad. “He was always good for a laugh, but he never knew when to stop. So Father packed him off to the countryside, never to return.”

“Never?”

“He could have, if he’d apologized and agreed to behave, but Edgar refused.” She stared out the window as though looking into the past. “It was easy to believe that Edgar cared for nothing but himself, but he had his own set of principles that he would not forsake. Not even for his family. We always thought Father lived so long simply because he didn’t want Edgar to have the title.” The countess came back to herself in several rapid blinks. “Enough about that for now. What have you learned today?”

That Edgar sounds very much like his nephew.

“I believe Jane should take up another instrument. Perhaps the violin or the cello?”

Sylvia’s knitting needles clicked at an enviable pace. “I know she’s not a talented pianist, but perhaps with time she’ll at least be passable.”

“She’ll never be as good as Johanna, which will always discourage her.” Rachel had been the same as a child, refusing to read because she couldn’t do it as well as Annabel, even though several years separated them. “A string instrument would complement the piano.”

“The cello is such an unladylike instrument.” The countess glanced up as she turned the row.

“It’s far more acceptable than having a pianist as a son-in-law.”

The needles clacked together as the knitting landed in a pile. “Oh dear. I’d never have guessed.”

“The symphony’s cellist is a lovely young lady just a few years older than Jane herself,” Annabel said. “She’s taking private pupils, all young girls.”

“How resourceful of you.”

The other woman’s laugh rang to the rafters. It sounded so like Jasper’s that Annabel’s heart twinged. “Thank you, my lady.”

“He’s done something thoughtless, hasn’t he?” Sylvia reached for her and tightened her grip when Annabel would have denied it. “I know my son, dearest girl. He doesn’t mean to be cruel, but he’s a creature of the company he’s forced to keep.”

“It’s quite all right, Lady Lambourn. We were both very clear about our expectations before we married.”

“Pish. You two should have gone to the Continent, Parliament be hanged.” Her eyes gleamed. “Which is why I’m taking the girls to the Alfords’ house party. You two need time alone.”

Annabel’s insides quivered at the thought of being alone with Jasper for more than time in a carriage or with less than the length of the table between them. Worse, the scheme ran the risk of her simply being on her own.

Worse still, they could be alone together, and she would begin to believe she was going to be a true part of his life. “About the party. I think Rachel and Rebecca should stay home.”

“Whatever for? The young ladies in their set are quite fond of them, and the Alfords will be excellent hosts. It will be a grand event full of people their own age.”

“And they will be haunted by the ghost of what their sister did at her last house party,” Annabel said quietly. “Jane and Johanna will escape it because we’re not related by blood, and Jasper’s behavior has always been…rebellious. But my sisters will be whispered about every time they leave the room. We’ll undo all your generosity. Or, worse, one of them—likely Rebecca—will misbehave, and we’ll disgrace your family as well.”

“No wonder he likes you.” After a long sip of tea, Sylvia nodded. “So be it. I’ll take Jane and Johanna, but we’ll send your mother and sisters to Bath for a holiday.” She held up her hand to stop Annabel’s protest. “That’s my price, Annabel. Rachel and Rebecca need a treat, as does your mother—as do you. We will go to the Alfords, they will go to Bath, and you and Jasper will go somewhere altogether different. Alone.”

Alone. With Jasper.

Annabel put her needlepoint aside for fear of poking her finger and bleeding all over the sofa cushions.

“You do like him, don’t you?” the countess asked. “I know things didn’t start on solid footing, but you both seemed to be adjusting well. Am I wrong?”

That was the rub, wasn’t it? Despite his teasing—or maybe because of it—Annabel liked Jasper. His manner relaxed her, perhaps too much, and when they were alone, it was easy to believe he might like her as well.

Then there was last night’s kiss. It might have been her first, but she’d heard other girls talk about their experiences and knew that most of them had been unenjoyable. Hers had been something she’d remember when she was old and gray.

She’d remember her time in this house fondly, but Lady Lambourn and her children wouldn’t feel the same. Especially if Reginald Spencer was able to convince those in power that Jasper was conspiring against the Crown.

“Lady Lambourn—”

A knock on the door preceded Stapleton’s arrival. “Lady Ramsbury, I apologize for the interruption, but your assistance is required in the kitchen.”

“Certainly.” Annabel smiled a goodbye to her mother-in-law before walking into the hallway and waiting for Stapleton to close the door behind her.

“Thank you, my lady.” He kept just behind her shoulder as they descended the stairs, and his long stride urged Annabel to quicken her pace. “Facing the French at Waterloo was easier than standing between Cook and Mrs. Wright.”

“Come now. Mrs. Wright wouldn’t hurt a fly.” And Mrs. Elliot, the family cook, was well loved by all the staff, though she did have a sharp tongue when her reputation was on the line.

However, as they reached the hall and went through the staff entrance, screeching floated up the back stairs. Now Stapleton took the lead.

“All of you, back to work.” His command sent wide-eyed maids and houseboys scurrying.

The cook and the housekeeper stood on opposing sides of the table, but their duel stuttered to a stop as Annabel entered the kitchen. “What seems to be the trouble?”

The housekeeper shot a shaking finger at her opponent. “She has accused me of skimping on the food budget and pocketing the difference.”

“I never said you’d pocketed the difference, but you have been skimping on the budget.” Cook lifted a limp, spotted bunch of greens. “I wouldn’t feed these to hogs.”

“They weren’t spotted when I put them in the larder. You shouldn’t have kept them for so long.”

“They were wilted when the grocer brought them,” Cook shouted. “Not to mention the berries. Flats of them that went soft within two days.”

Annabel remembered the berries. They’d been served with every meal during her first week in the house. Jasper had grumbled that his hair was changing color.

“You have the purse and the key to the larder, and I have to make do with what you bring me.” Mrs. Elliot shook the greens to punctuate her sentence, and one ruined leaf landed on the floor with a sickening slap.

Annabel bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, though it was difficult when Stapleton coughed to hide his laughter. It would be easy to fall back on her experience with Jasper as a generous husband, to suspect the housekeeper of skimming. Except for the tears shining in her eyes and what Annabel remembered from the old marquess’s journals in the Kennet Hall library.

“Mrs. Elliot, please make an inventory of the larder. Mrs. Wright, please gather your records and bring them to his lordship’s office.” She nodded to the butler. “Come with me, Stapleton.”

They returned upstairs, and Annabel led the way to Jasper’s study. “Where does Lord Ramsbury keep his ledgers?”

“Your ladyship, I’m not certain—”

She wasn’t either. “I am certain that his lordship would prefer his marchioness handle matters of the household so he can focus on matters in Parliament.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled a key from his pocket and opened the bottom desk drawer. It housed nothing but a heavy red leather ledger identical to the ones in Wiltshire. Annabel lifted it to the desk and flipped to the most recent pages, careful not to topple the pile of unopened correspondence on the corner of the desk.

Mrs. Wright joined them with her records, which she surrendered to Annabel.