to hear what she says!" Mrs. Farr said, lowering her voice
with a quaking chuckle.
"No? You should have warned me before I repeated it to my mother."
"Evil boy!" Mrs. Farr simpered. "You never did!"
Trev winked at her. "Come into the Antlers and sit down to a cup of tea with us, Mrs.
Farr. Lady Callista has undertaken to help me find a new cook for Dove House. I've no
doubt your advice would be invaluable."
"I should be glad to do what I can to help." Mrs. Farr picked up her skirts and stepped
toward the inn with a briskness that belied her gray hair and ancient voice. "And to guard
milady's virtue," she added with smug smile.
Trev bowed gravely. "Everything I know of vice, I learned from your parrot, Mrs.
Farr."
"Pshaw, you never did!" the widow said, sweeping ahead of them into the door of the inn.
Six
THE ANTLERS BOASTED ONLY ONE SMALL PARLOR beyond the taproom, with
just space enough for two tea tables and a small sofa set before the fire. The whiff of
baking gingerbread gave the atmosphere a pleasant aroma. Mr. Rankin stood with his
hands behind his back, leaning a little toward Mrs. Farr with a good innkeeper's solicitous
attention while that lady wavered between the choice of the bohea or the souchong.
Trev excused himself to negotiate the cost of sending his letter postpaid. He had just
come to an amicable agreement on mileage and postal notations with Mrs. Rankin when
the blare of a tin horn made her hurry back into her kitchen. An open landau came rolling
to a smart halt in the street outside. Trev glanced toward the door, his eye drawn by the
sweep of a large cocked hat and a glimpse of uniform. He paused, watching the officer
descend.
A dragoon guardsman, though he couldn't make out the badge. Since the war had
ended, British uniforms had changed, aspiring to such stylish splendor now, that this
fellow fairly glowed with heavy gold and scarlet, draped in braids and plastered with
massive gilt facings across his chest. A tempting target for a marksman, Trev thought. He
turned back to pick up his coins from the bar and toss his letter into the postbox.
The innkeeper did not quite abandon his other guests, but he came out of the parlor with
a rapid step. Trev looked round again as the officer entered the door. The newcomer had
a distinct familiarity about him. Trev caught the man's moment of hesitation as they
glanced at one another briefly, and saw that he also was recognized. But he couldn't place
the face. A square-jawed, handsome English face; light blue eyes and a high forehead…
it could be from any of a thousand past encounters. Trev had dealt with innumerable
English gentlemen and officers, named and nameless, in smoky, dim-lit quarters and
thronging crowds.
He gave a faint nod, received the barest acknowledgment, and they went their own
ways, having agreed to ignore whatever passing acquaintance they might have had. Trev
doubted it was the sort of thing a regimental officer would care to recognize in public. He
was not eager to be forthcoming himself. It was bound to happen, of course—he would
encounter gentlemen who had known him under other names and circumstances, but he
hoped that they would match his discretion with their own. It was to no one's advantage
to make a case of it.
He rejoined the ladies, sitting down to a conversation about the price of tea carried on
largely by Mrs. Farr, with the occasional nod and "yes, ma'am," from Callie. She did not
seem to be paying strict attention, for which Trev could hardly blame her.
"I don't care for your green teas," Mrs. Farr said decisively. "The half of them have
been doctored with such abominable tricks that there's no saying what's in them. I won't
have green tea in my house, I tell you."
"No, ma'am," Callie said. "Certainly not."
Mr. Rankin appeared at the parlor door with the officer behind him. "If you'll just take a
seat beside the fire, sir." He ushered the new arrival into the room,
with a quaking chuckle.
"No? You should have warned me before I repeated it to my mother."
"Evil boy!" Mrs. Farr simpered. "You never did!"
Trev winked at her. "Come into the Antlers and sit down to a cup of tea with us, Mrs.
Farr. Lady Callista has undertaken to help me find a new cook for Dove House. I've no
doubt your advice would be invaluable."
"I should be glad to do what I can to help." Mrs. Farr picked up her skirts and stepped
toward the inn with a briskness that belied her gray hair and ancient voice. "And to guard
milady's virtue," she added with smug smile.
Trev bowed gravely. "Everything I know of vice, I learned from your parrot, Mrs.
Farr."
"Pshaw, you never did!" the widow said, sweeping ahead of them into the door of the inn.
Six
THE ANTLERS BOASTED ONLY ONE SMALL PARLOR beyond the taproom, with
just space enough for two tea tables and a small sofa set before the fire. The whiff of
baking gingerbread gave the atmosphere a pleasant aroma. Mr. Rankin stood with his
hands behind his back, leaning a little toward Mrs. Farr with a good innkeeper's solicitous
attention while that lady wavered between the choice of the bohea or the souchong.
Trev excused himself to negotiate the cost of sending his letter postpaid. He had just
come to an amicable agreement on mileage and postal notations with Mrs. Rankin when
the blare of a tin horn made her hurry back into her kitchen. An open landau came rolling
to a smart halt in the street outside. Trev glanced toward the door, his eye drawn by the
sweep of a large cocked hat and a glimpse of uniform. He paused, watching the officer
descend.
A dragoon guardsman, though he couldn't make out the badge. Since the war had
ended, British uniforms had changed, aspiring to such stylish splendor now, that this
fellow fairly glowed with heavy gold and scarlet, draped in braids and plastered with
massive gilt facings across his chest. A tempting target for a marksman, Trev thought. He
turned back to pick up his coins from the bar and toss his letter into the postbox.
The innkeeper did not quite abandon his other guests, but he came out of the parlor with
a rapid step. Trev looked round again as the officer entered the door. The newcomer had
a distinct familiarity about him. Trev caught the man's moment of hesitation as they
glanced at one another briefly, and saw that he also was recognized. But he couldn't place
the face. A square-jawed, handsome English face; light blue eyes and a high forehead…
it could be from any of a thousand past encounters. Trev had dealt with innumerable
English gentlemen and officers, named and nameless, in smoky, dim-lit quarters and
thronging crowds.
He gave a faint nod, received the barest acknowledgment, and they went their own
ways, having agreed to ignore whatever passing acquaintance they might have had. Trev
doubted it was the sort of thing a regimental officer would care to recognize in public. He
was not eager to be forthcoming himself. It was bound to happen, of course—he would
encounter gentlemen who had known him under other names and circumstances, but he
hoped that they would match his discretion with their own. It was to no one's advantage
to make a case of it.
He rejoined the ladies, sitting down to a conversation about the price of tea carried on
largely by Mrs. Farr, with the occasional nod and "yes, ma'am," from Callie. She did not
seem to be paying strict attention, for which Trev could hardly blame her.
"I don't care for your green teas," Mrs. Farr said decisively. "The half of them have
been doctored with such abominable tricks that there's no saying what's in them. I won't
have green tea in my house, I tell you."
"No, ma'am," Callie said. "Certainly not."
Mr. Rankin appeared at the parlor door with the officer behind him. "If you'll just take a
seat beside the fire, sir." He ushered the new arrival into the room,
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