Jane Feather by Engagement at Beaufort Hall

betrothed?” Esther could feel that her sister was returning to herself. The last three months, Imogen had tried to behave in her usual easy, cheerful fashion, but she seemed to cast a shadow wherever she went, her lively personality weighted down by a burden of unhappiness. Maybe the answer was to stop running now, and for Gen to tackle the situation head-on. Gen had always thrived on a challenge, so with any luck, returning to London would give her all she needed to return to her old self.
    “What’s wrong with what I have on?” Esther brushed at her navy and white striped skirt.
    “It’s not very frivolous,” her sister observed.
    “And why, pray, should I wish to appear frivolous? It’s only a luncheon in the country . . . and besides,” she added, “that Mr. Warwick might be there. And I won’t feel in the least frivolous in his company, I can assure you.” She pushed back her chair, a sudden frown drawing her dark arched eyebrows together. “There’s something familiar about that man’s name. . . . I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere, but I can’t place it. Does it mean anything to you, Essie?”
    Esther shook her head. “I expect your fury over the shot stag so burned itself into your brain that you’ll never forget the man. Anyway,” she added, pushing back her own chair, “it’s not that unusual a name.”
    “No,” her sister agreed as she left the breakfast room.

    Duncan emerged blearily from his bedchamber close to eleven, just as Sharpton had predicted. He encountered his sisters in the morning room, engaged in putting together a rather complicated jigsaw puzzle. “Morning,” he muttered, slumping into a chair by the fire.
    “You don’t look at all well,” Esther observed solicitously. “Did you not sleep well?”
    “Like a log,” her brother returned. “But I feel like the very devil. Is anyone else up?”
    “Apart from us, no, we haven’t seen a soul,” Imogen replied. “Have you had breakfast?”
    Duncan shook his head and winced at the thumping pain. “Don’t feel like anything.”
    “Oh well, there’s a card by your plate in the breakfast room. An invitation from Charles to lunch at Beringer Manor,” Esther informed him. “For all of us. We weren’t sure what to do about it.”
    Duncan’s eyes seemed to lose a little of their glaze. “Well, we have to go. Of course we must.”
    “Why must we?” Imogen inquired, without raising her eyes from the jigsaw as she inserted a piece of blue sky.
    “It’s only polite,” he said, regarding his sister with a flicker of alarm. “A neighborly invitation.”
    “Yes, but remarkably short notice,” his sister persisted, selecting another piece of sky. “You don’t think that’s somewhat impolite . . . inconsiderate, at least?”
    “Neighbors don’t stand on ceremony,” Duncan declared, heaving himself up. “I had better send a reply posthaste.” He hesitated at the door, his hand on the latch, as he seemed to nerve himself to speak. “You are coming, Gen, aren’t you?”
    “Is there any reason why I should in the circumstances?” she asked, resolutely ignoring Esther’s quivering lip. “It’s an awkward situation, Duncan, you have to admit.”
    He looked discomfited. “Yes, I understand that, but you have to rise above it, Gen. It’s over and done with, and you can’t go through life ignoring a neighbor just because of a past awkwardness.”
    Duncan never failed to astonish her, Imogen thought. “You call a broken engagement a mere awkwardness?” she queried, looking up finally, a jigsaw piece held delicately between finger and thumb.
    “Well, it can’t dominate our social lives,” he protested. “People will have forgotten about it by now.”
    Imogen shrugged and let it drop. “Perhaps, you’re right. I’ll come. What about your houseguests? Will they feel up to a luncheon party?””
    Duncan could not conceal his relief. “Of course they will,” he declared. “We’ll ride over,