Edith Layton by The Return of the Earl Page B

said I’d do as you asked,” Julianne said. “Now I find I want to know just who and what he is for myself as well as you.”
    “I can understand that,” Hammond said with sympathy.
    “So can I,” Sophie said, watching Julianne closely. “But don’t be misled, Cousin. If he really is going to be the next earl, the knowledge of who he is will be the only thing you’ll get. An earl will look higher than a farmer’s daughter for a wife.”
    “I know that,” Julianne said, because she did. “But if he’s really who he says he is, there’s something else for me, too. I’ll have more memories of my brother, and you cannot know how much that means to me.”
    “We do,” Sophie’s mama said. “But so does he. Be very sure he’s counting on that. So. Did you discover anything new?”
    “I did,” Julianne said, keeping the enthusiasm from her voice. “Some things that seem to point to his telling the truth. He remembers our dog and Jon’s favorite food, even going to a Gypsy Fair at home with us, with too many details for him to have made it up.”
    “Dogs and favorite foods,” the squire scoffed. “Such could be learned secondhand from anyone in your village. I’d expect him to have researched things that the true Christian Sauvage would have known. And the Gypsy Fair, what’s that to say to anything? They’re all over England. One comes here, too. It’s the one with the fortune-tellers and fire-eaters, the living skeleton and suchlike, isn’t it? And that acrobat? Ho, Sophie, remember? We thought she’d weep her eyes out when he fell and pretended to be hurt,” he told Julianne. “The next year she couldn’t wait to see him do it again.”
    Julianne closed her eyes. She felt, she realized, very like that acrobat who fell. Because she’d been so high, and the wind had been knocked right out of her.

Chapter 7
    T he lone horseman clattered into the courtyard of the White Hart as the sun began to move from its zenith. He slid down from the saddle, handed the reins to the stableboy, and walked into the inn, looking thoughtful.
    “Good afternoon—Softly, softly, sir!” the Bow Street runner exclaimed, flinging up both hands as Christian whirled around and dropped to a crouch, his hand snaking inside his jacket. “If I’d wanted to have at you, I’d not have spoken first, would I?”
    Christian stood up. He tugged at his waistcoat to straighten it. “As for that, I think ‘Death to Tyranny’ was the last thing Caesar heard before he was stuck like a pig. Some assassins like to get in a last word. No hard feelings, Murchison? My fault entirely, but I don’t like being surprised.”
    “No offense taken. Don’t blame you for woolgathering, though,” the runner said. “She’s a lovely piece.”
    Christian’s eyes turned icy, his voice was as cold. “I didn’t mind seeing your shadow all day, but I domind your language. She’s a lovely lady, and please don’t forget that in future.”
    “Aye, ‘lady,’ then,” the runner said, unperturbed. “But here I was, brought up to think only females with titles was called such. Well, live and learn.”
    The younger man checked. “Oh, right. That’s true. I’d forgotten. Well, at least, I think of her as a lady because she has the manner and manners of one. Whatever she’s called, she’s not what you implied.”
    “I don’t imply. I’m here to prove. If you say she’s a lady, so she is in my book. Speaking of which, I’ve a few new notes in mine. Do you have time to talk?”
    “I have nothing but, until tomorrow,” Christian said. “But not here, let’s go into the taproom.”
    The runner hesitated. “Mebbe this needs talking about in your room?”
    Christian laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Much as I trust you, whatever we say can be said at a table with my back to the wall and my eyes to the front.”
    “My feelings are hurt,” the runner said. “But I don’t blame you. That’s what I want to talk about.”
    “Oh?”