of him, he turned to speak to Amelia again. To his disgruntlement, she was now being monopolized by the man on her other side, who was enthusiastically describing his collection of Far East porcelain.
Cam took a quick inventory of the other conversations around him, all featuring mundane subjects. He waited patiently until the vicar’s wife had bent her attention to the soup bowl in front of her. As she raised a spoon to her papery lips, she became aware that Cam was looking at her. Another throat-clearing noise, while the spoon quivered in her hand.
He tried to think of something that would interest her. “Horehound,” he said to her in a matter-of-fact manner.
Her eyes bulged with alarm, and a pulse throbbed visibly in her neck. “H-h-h…” she whispered.
“Horehound, licorice root, and honey. It’s good for getting rid of phlegm in the throat. My grandmother was a healer—she taught me many of her remedies.”
The word “phlegm” nearly caused her eyes to roll back in her head.
“Horehound is also good for coughs and snake bites,” Cam continued helpfully.
Her face drained of color, and she set her spoon on her plate. Turning away from him desperately, she gave her attention to the diners on her left.
His attempt at polite discussion having been rebuffed, Cam sat back as the soup was removed and the second course was brought out. Sweetbreads in béchamel sauce, partridges nestled in herb beds, pigeon pies, roast snipe, and vegetable soufflé laced the air with a cacophony of rich scents. The guests exclaimed appreciatively, watching in anticipation as their plates were filled.
But Amelia Hathaway barely seemed aware of the sumptuous dishes. Her attention was focused on a conversation at the end of the table, between Lord Westcliff and her brother Leo. Her face was calm, but her fingers clenched around a fork handle.
“… obvious you possess a large acreage of good land that has gone unused…” Westcliff was saying, while Leo listened without apparent interest. “I will make my own estate agent available to you, to apprise you of the standard terms of tenancy here in Hampshire. Usually these arrangements are unwritten, which means it is an obligation of honor on both sides to uphold the agreements—”
“Thank you,” Leo said after downing half his wine in an expedient gulp, “but I’ll deal with my tenants in my own time, my lord.”
“I’m afraid time has run out for some of them,” Westcliff replied. “Many of the tenant houses on your land have run to ruins. The people who now depend on you have been neglected for far too long.”
“Then it’s time they learn my one great consistency is neglecting the people who depend on me.” Leo flicked a laughing glance at Amelia, his eyes hard. “Isn’t that right, sis?”
With visible effort, Amelia forced her fingers to unclench from the fork. “I’m certain Lord Ramsay will lend his close attention to the needs of his tenants,” she said carefully. “Pray don’t be misled by his attempt to be amusing. In fact, he has mentioned future plans to improve the tenant leaseholds and study modern agricultural methods—”
“If I study anything,” Leo drawled, “it will be the bottom of a good bottle of port. The Ramsay tenants have proven their ability to thrive on benign neglect—they clearly don’t need my involvement.”
A few guests tensed apprehensively at Leo’s insouciant speech, while others gave a few forced chuckles. Tension thickened the air.
If Leo was deliberately trying to make an enemy of Westcliff, he couldn’t have chosen a better way of doing it. Westcliff had a deep concern for those less fortunate than himself, and an active dislike for self-indulgent noblemen who failed to live up to their responsibilities.
“Drat,” Cam heard Lillian mutter beneath her breath, as her husband’s brows lowered over cold dark eyes.
But just as Westcliff parted his lips to deliver a withering speech to the insolent young
Cam took a quick inventory of the other conversations around him, all featuring mundane subjects. He waited patiently until the vicar’s wife had bent her attention to the soup bowl in front of her. As she raised a spoon to her papery lips, she became aware that Cam was looking at her. Another throat-clearing noise, while the spoon quivered in her hand.
He tried to think of something that would interest her. “Horehound,” he said to her in a matter-of-fact manner.
Her eyes bulged with alarm, and a pulse throbbed visibly in her neck. “H-h-h…” she whispered.
“Horehound, licorice root, and honey. It’s good for getting rid of phlegm in the throat. My grandmother was a healer—she taught me many of her remedies.”
The word “phlegm” nearly caused her eyes to roll back in her head.
“Horehound is also good for coughs and snake bites,” Cam continued helpfully.
Her face drained of color, and she set her spoon on her plate. Turning away from him desperately, she gave her attention to the diners on her left.
His attempt at polite discussion having been rebuffed, Cam sat back as the soup was removed and the second course was brought out. Sweetbreads in béchamel sauce, partridges nestled in herb beds, pigeon pies, roast snipe, and vegetable soufflé laced the air with a cacophony of rich scents. The guests exclaimed appreciatively, watching in anticipation as their plates were filled.
But Amelia Hathaway barely seemed aware of the sumptuous dishes. Her attention was focused on a conversation at the end of the table, between Lord Westcliff and her brother Leo. Her face was calm, but her fingers clenched around a fork handle.
“… obvious you possess a large acreage of good land that has gone unused…” Westcliff was saying, while Leo listened without apparent interest. “I will make my own estate agent available to you, to apprise you of the standard terms of tenancy here in Hampshire. Usually these arrangements are unwritten, which means it is an obligation of honor on both sides to uphold the agreements—”
“Thank you,” Leo said after downing half his wine in an expedient gulp, “but I’ll deal with my tenants in my own time, my lord.”
“I’m afraid time has run out for some of them,” Westcliff replied. “Many of the tenant houses on your land have run to ruins. The people who now depend on you have been neglected for far too long.”
“Then it’s time they learn my one great consistency is neglecting the people who depend on me.” Leo flicked a laughing glance at Amelia, his eyes hard. “Isn’t that right, sis?”
With visible effort, Amelia forced her fingers to unclench from the fork. “I’m certain Lord Ramsay will lend his close attention to the needs of his tenants,” she said carefully. “Pray don’t be misled by his attempt to be amusing. In fact, he has mentioned future plans to improve the tenant leaseholds and study modern agricultural methods—”
“If I study anything,” Leo drawled, “it will be the bottom of a good bottle of port. The Ramsay tenants have proven their ability to thrive on benign neglect—they clearly don’t need my involvement.”
A few guests tensed apprehensively at Leo’s insouciant speech, while others gave a few forced chuckles. Tension thickened the air.
If Leo was deliberately trying to make an enemy of Westcliff, he couldn’t have chosen a better way of doing it. Westcliff had a deep concern for those less fortunate than himself, and an active dislike for self-indulgent noblemen who failed to live up to their responsibilities.
“Drat,” Cam heard Lillian mutter beneath her breath, as her husband’s brows lowered over cold dark eyes.
But just as Westcliff parted his lips to deliver a withering speech to the insolent young
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