looking at her with an indulgent if admonishing smile.
"David and I met during our Oxford days. Do you remember?"
She did, but only vaguely, and what did they say about the kind of wife she'd been? For most of their marriage David had buried himself in the library with his books while she attended the races or rode alone on the heath, a pursuit that had worried her husband half to death.
"David is gone," Sir Wallace said. "Perhaps in your grief for your dear husband, your judgment is not as sound as it should be."
She pried her hand loose on the pretense of reaching for her cup. "Are you saying that my wits are scattered because I have employed Sutherland?"
He watched her carefully. "Let us not discuss your rather eccentric butler. If David was fond of the fellow, then he must have his worthy side."
She took a sip of tea. "Speaking of David, do you remember how he loved his shooting parties? I had thought this year I might resume the tradition, as a tribute to his memory."
He frowned. "It is rather short notice, and I do not wish to sound rude, but the lodge is badly in need of repairs."
"And I am in desperate need of some diversion," she said lightly.
"Perhaps a trip abroad might better do the trick. "
"No. No." She smiled, pressing her point. "My heart is set on a party and seeing all of our old friends."
"I see." He smiled back at her. "Then a party you shall have, and I am delighted to offer any help you might need."
She sighed. "Of course it will be sad without David giving his tearful toasts and Uncle Edgar doing that silly sword dance."
"Uncle—Oh, yes, Edgar. Poor fellow. Still, he was fortunate to have lived such a full life, and to die fishing on a loch, well, most men would consider that an ideal end."
Anne set her cup back on its saucer. "I've heard the most distressing rumors about his death."
He took her hand again. "Then do not be distressed, my dear. I was there at the very end when we discovered him gone, and it was a tragic but straightforward affair."
"You were there?' 7 she said in surprise.
"Everyone was there, all the usual guests. The doctor told us his heart probably failed during the excitement of rowing across the loch. He had gone out ahead of us, it seems."
"Alone, you said?"
He looked at her. "Well, yes, he was found by himself, but that is not unusual, is it? Lady Kingaim never atten ded such affairs." He squeezed h er hand. "Now that is entirely enough sadness for one day. Poor Edgar aside, I am delighted that you have come home."
"Home?"
"Yes, home, and I say we celebrate your return with a rousing canter across the moor. Nobody can keep up with me like you—did I mention I was hoping to get a colt-foal out of Carbonel this year? You can come with us to Epsom and—"
Her laughter interrupted him. "That ride does sound tempting, but I'd have to ask Sandy to leave his gardening for an hour and accompany us."
"There's no need to drag the old man from his weeds. Flora will play chaperone to keep everything proper. She's in the stable now."
"Flora?" She tried to keep the distaste out of her voice. "Your daughter did not marry the young painter she met in Dundee?"
"As it turned out, the young painter had a young wife and three young children."
"My goodness," Anne said.
"It's in the blood." He sat forward so unexpectedly that she was forced to lea n back against the sofa in self- defense. "We Abermuirs are fools when it comes to affairs of the heart."
"I hardly know what to say, Wallace."
He stared at her intently. He was an attractive man in his fashion, with dark compelling eyes and a solid build. His love of horses was genuine; he bet heavily at the races and employed a private trainer for his thoroughbreds, which he had bought with his pension as a naval officer. Two years ago he'd told Anne he was writing the book on the rules of racing; David used to laugh in the background while Wallace and Anne argued heaves and handicaps at the table. "We are a hot-blooded
"David and I met during our Oxford days. Do you remember?"
She did, but only vaguely, and what did they say about the kind of wife she'd been? For most of their marriage David had buried himself in the library with his books while she attended the races or rode alone on the heath, a pursuit that had worried her husband half to death.
"David is gone," Sir Wallace said. "Perhaps in your grief for your dear husband, your judgment is not as sound as it should be."
She pried her hand loose on the pretense of reaching for her cup. "Are you saying that my wits are scattered because I have employed Sutherland?"
He watched her carefully. "Let us not discuss your rather eccentric butler. If David was fond of the fellow, then he must have his worthy side."
She took a sip of tea. "Speaking of David, do you remember how he loved his shooting parties? I had thought this year I might resume the tradition, as a tribute to his memory."
He frowned. "It is rather short notice, and I do not wish to sound rude, but the lodge is badly in need of repairs."
"And I am in desperate need of some diversion," she said lightly.
"Perhaps a trip abroad might better do the trick. "
"No. No." She smiled, pressing her point. "My heart is set on a party and seeing all of our old friends."
"I see." He smiled back at her. "Then a party you shall have, and I am delighted to offer any help you might need."
She sighed. "Of course it will be sad without David giving his tearful toasts and Uncle Edgar doing that silly sword dance."
"Uncle—Oh, yes, Edgar. Poor fellow. Still, he was fortunate to have lived such a full life, and to die fishing on a loch, well, most men would consider that an ideal end."
Anne set her cup back on its saucer. "I've heard the most distressing rumors about his death."
He took her hand again. "Then do not be distressed, my dear. I was there at the very end when we discovered him gone, and it was a tragic but straightforward affair."
"You were there?' 7 she said in surprise.
"Everyone was there, all the usual guests. The doctor told us his heart probably failed during the excitement of rowing across the loch. He had gone out ahead of us, it seems."
"Alone, you said?"
He looked at her. "Well, yes, he was found by himself, but that is not unusual, is it? Lady Kingaim never atten ded such affairs." He squeezed h er hand. "Now that is entirely enough sadness for one day. Poor Edgar aside, I am delighted that you have come home."
"Home?"
"Yes, home, and I say we celebrate your return with a rousing canter across the moor. Nobody can keep up with me like you—did I mention I was hoping to get a colt-foal out of Carbonel this year? You can come with us to Epsom and—"
Her laughter interrupted him. "That ride does sound tempting, but I'd have to ask Sandy to leave his gardening for an hour and accompany us."
"There's no need to drag the old man from his weeds. Flora will play chaperone to keep everything proper. She's in the stable now."
"Flora?" She tried to keep the distaste out of her voice. "Your daughter did not marry the young painter she met in Dundee?"
"As it turned out, the young painter had a young wife and three young children."
"My goodness," Anne said.
"It's in the blood." He sat forward so unexpectedly that she was forced to lea n back against the sofa in self- defense. "We Abermuirs are fools when it comes to affairs of the heart."
"I hardly know what to say, Wallace."
He stared at her intently. He was an attractive man in his fashion, with dark compelling eyes and a solid build. His love of horses was genuine; he bet heavily at the races and employed a private trainer for his thoroughbreds, which he had bought with his pension as a naval officer. Two years ago he'd told Anne he was writing the book on the rules of racing; David used to laugh in the background while Wallace and Anne argued heaves and handicaps at the table. "We are a hot-blooded
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