Free To Wed an Heiress by Rosanne E. Lortz Page B

from any sincere sentiment. Her blue eyes glinted devilishly, and Haro could see that she was up to no good. “And was it in France that you first met Miss Hastings?” Whatever embarrassment the Countess of Anglesford was trying to cover up, Eda was determined to bring out into the open.
    Bayeux colored a little and gave a cautious answer. “No, I first met Mr. Hastings and his daughter in London, after I had come across the Channel to practice my craft.”
    “Miss Hastings is no doubt a great admirer of yours—of your work, I mean,” continued Eda archly. Her eyes flicked over the Frenchman’s dark, handsome face.
    Haro stood up sharply and, casting his fair cousin a look of menace, began to pace in front of the fire that Mr. Hastings had abandoned so abruptly. It was vexing enough to think that Arabella had made clandestine plans to renovate his boyhood home without Eda insinuating that there was some other motive in the architect’s visit.
    But despite Eda’s leading statements, Bayeux would not be herded into saying anything untoward. “Yes, Miss Hastings has kindly expressed interest in many of my models and completed projects.”
    By this time, the whispered conference in the alcove had come to an end, and the Hastings—having come to an accord—rejoined the others.
    “Well, Bayeux,” said the portly mill owner, imbuing his voice with a joviality that his earlier reaction belied, “Arabella tells me you’ll get started right away with plans for the new wing here at Woldwick.”
    “That is my intention,” replied Bayeux, bowing his head courteously, “although I seem to have left some of my drafting materials behind, so I shall have to go into the village tomorrow to procure some. The horse I have is hired, so perhaps I might return him and borrow one from the stables?”
    “Very good, very good,” said Mr. Hastings, lending out one of the Emisons’ mounts without so much as a by your leave. He turned to Haro with a coarse little laugh. “I suppose you did not expect me to make improvements on my investment so rapidly. Well, neither did I, my lord! Neither did I!”

9
    H aro had barely retired for the night before he heard a gentle tap at his bedroom door. Pulling on his Chinese-patterned dressing gown, he turned the door handle and found himself face to face with his great-uncle. “Haro, my boy,” said Uncle Harold, walking in and making himself at home. “Do you have time for a small drink and perhaps a smattering of conversation?”
    “Of course,” said Haro, casually filling two glasses from the decanter on the bedside table. He gave his uncle the single armchair and flung himself on the Roman couch at the foot of the bed.
    “I’ve had a bit of a shock today,” said Uncle Harold, hunching forward in his chair and rolling his glass back and forth between his hands. “A bit of a shock, I must say.”
    “Oh, yes?” Haro had an inkling of what—or who—had delivered that shock to his aged relative. He could see that Uncle Harold was struggling with how to phrase his complaint, perhaps from an inbred delicacy toward the weaker sex or perhaps from a sensitivity toward the young earl’s feelings.
    Haro generously flushed the subject out into the open. “Is it something to do with Miss Hastings, my fiancée whom you met this morning?”
    “Yes, that’s it! The tall, brown-eyed miss,” said Uncle Harold, wagging a finger with excitement. He took a quick swig from the tumbler of brandy. “She’s your bride-to-be, you say?”
    Haro nodded. “We were betrothed just last weekend.”
    Uncle Harold raised a gnarled hand to his head and pulled at his gray hair with concern. “I don’t mean to meddle—the last thing a young man wants is an old fool meddling in his affairs—but this Miss Hastings seems a very precipitate young woman. No sense of tradition, my boy. No sense of stability. You may not have heard her this morning, but I believe she actually stated that the woods at Woldwick