Newport: A Novel by Jill Morrow Page B

of course; I wouldn’t dream of breaking the law—and I won’t open it without you. Work hard and come home, my darling, so that we can enjoy the pink of health together.”
    He couldn’t help but smile. “Believe me, there’s nothing I want more. I have so much to tell you when I get home.”
    “More than I’ve heard so far?”
    “Much more. If I believed in such things, I’d say this whole house is bewitched. And Mr. Reid! Even our sensible Mr. Reid has fallen under the spell. Traipsing through the evening with a young woman who could prove our client’s undoing . . . he has lost his head entirely.”
    He pictured her reaching for her teacup, tucking her feet up beneath her as she settled more comfortably against the plush chair pillows. “Would this young lady be Miss Amy Walsh?”
    “The same. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.”
    Her low laugh made his blood run warm. “Oh, yes, you can, Adrian. I’ve spent enough time alone with you to know you can. But let’s politely assume that he’s thinking he’s finally met a pretty woman who sees his worth. Have they kissed?”
    “Now, how would I know that?” he asked lightly.
    “You’d know,” Constance said, and it occurred to him that she was right. For better or worse, a change came over a man once he fancied himself desired by a pretty woman. He walked with squarer shoulders, his head held higher than before. Although Jim and Amyhad returned to Liriodendron quite late last night, Jim’s general demeanor remained more cub than lion.
    “No,” he said, “I don’t believe they have. There’s still hope. If we can finish our business here quickly enough, perhaps they’ll never get the chance.”
    “Oh, but perhaps they should. He’s a good man, our Jim. It may take a little romance to help him realize that.”
    “My sweet Constance. You are ever the romantic.”
    “As are you, my darling. Heaven only knows why you try so hard to hide it.”
    “Perhaps. How are the children?”
    She sighed. “They miss you, Adrian. And so do I. Hurry up and come home.”
    It was time to finish the call, but he picked up the hesitation on the other end of the line. Constance seemed to expect something more. He waited, knowing that she would ask her question soon enough. There had never been anything reticent about Constance de la Noye.
    “Adrian—tell me about Mr. Chapman’s fiancée. Will Catharine Walsh be good to him, do you think, or is she nothing more than a callous gold digger?”
    There was no logical reason for his jaw to tense the way it did. “Why do you ask, my dear? Is your finger itching?” His wife swore by her pinkie, which she claimed itched whenever her intuition sensed something amiss.
    “Yes,” she said. “It itches like mad, although I don’t think that has anything to do with Mr. Chapman. It’s just that he’s an old man. Rapscallion or not, he deserves to live his last years in peace. I hope you’ll see to it that nobody takes advantage of him.”
    Anyone who tried to take advantage of disagreeable Bennett Chapman would return carrying his own head. “Of course, Constance. He’s my client.”
    “Do it because he’s your fellow man. Look after him, Adrian.”
    It was not a reminder he cared to hear. He could brush away his own doubts about Catharine Walsh, chalk them up to suspicions born of a mistake long past. But Constance’s concerns were not so easily dismissed. She had a way of making him feel accountable for his actions. He had no desire to tarnish the shining vision of him she held so close to her heart.
    “Yes, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “I will look after Mr. Chapman as if he were my own father.”
    “Better than that,” she said, and he was pleased to hear some tartness return to her voice. “You and your father are barely civil to each other. Well. As it appears you’ll be delayed another few days, I’ll have fresh clothing for you and Jim sent first thing in the morning.”
    “You are an