but I can see the moon.’
Sebastian could see it also, peeking through fast-moving clouds. The white orb silhouetted her profile, touching her pale skin with moonlight and giving it a luminescent quality.
He wondered now if he had been entirely accurate with his initial assessment of her looks. No beauty and yet—
‘Good, we run with the hounds, you know,’ Lady Eavensham said. ‘Well, I don’t with this foot, but Lord Eavensham loves a good hunt.’
The curtains swished into place as Miss Martin turned towards the room, the movement abrupt. A flicker of distaste flashed across her countenance and her shoulders tensed under the drab gown. Sebastian wondered if she now intended to denounce fox hunting. Given the rabbit incident, he presumed it possible.
Before he could comment, the younger of the two ladies claimed his attention, leaning towards him with a breathy gasp. ‘Tell me about London. I long for it, you know, and have been so looking forward to the Season.’
Sebastian groaned inwardly. Debutantes. The curse of modern man. They hadn’t a brain between them while having an excess of pastel muslin, pale skin and manipulative wiles. He glanced towards Miss Martin, half-expecting to see another flash of wry humour cross her features.
He didn’t. Instead, her countenance held such wistful longing that he looked away. Of course, once she must have hoped for London and marriage, as did they all.
It was a sad life, he thought, then frowned. What foolishness. He had no time to worry about the emotions of country misses. With his meeting with Kit over, he should focus on how best to extricate himself from the monotony of a country weekend and return to his silent daughter.
And then there was the matter of his great-aunt’s latest foolish insistence that he should remarry. Sebastian drummed his fingers against his leg. He did not have time for debutante balls. He cast a glance towards the simpering misses.
No, he must make his aunt understand that he could not and would not give up.
All his energy and resources must be focused towards his children.
Edwin would be found.
The fox hunt was today.
That stark thought shot through Sarah’s mind the moment her alarm sounded.
Shaking off the remnants of sleep, Sarah shifted in the decadent comfort of Lady Eavensham’s guest bed and blinked blearily at the rose-print wallpaper and pink curtaining.
Of course, she’d stayed the night at Eavensham.
Getting up, Sarah padded across the rug’s thick pile and pulled open the velvet curtains. Bother. Morning sunshine flooded the chamber, turning floating dust motes molten.
She’d hoped for rain. In the happy event of a deluge, the hunt would be cancelled and she could snooze in the unaccustomed luxury of that wonderful bed.
Indeed, she might even have had the opportunity to rescue Miss Petunia Hardcastle from the tower in which she currently languished.
Or she could have breakfasted with Lady Eavensham’s guests and heard something of London. Of course, they were hardly likely to have stumbled upon Charlotte, but just hearing about the city made her feel closer to her sister—as though her quest were more possible.
Sarah sighed. It was not to be. Albert and Albertina must be rescued. They were the only mating foxes within the area. Lord Eavensham seemed bent on extinguishing the local population.
With this thought, she pulled off her nightgown, stooping to pick up her dress. Blood still spotted the sleeve. Bother. She’d forgotten all about the rabbit.
Moving with greater urgency, Sarah splashed water across her face and pulled her hair into a bun. Then, scrawling a note of thanks to Lady Eavensham, she hurried down the stairs and towards the cellar door.
Fortunately, the stubby candle remained where they’d left it last year. She sighed. Animal rescues had been a good deal more fun when Kit had been a rebellious adolescent and they’d done this together.
She lit a match, putting it to the wick so that the candle flickered into reluctant life. Cautiously, she stepped down the stairs and into the murky darkness, her shadow undulating eerily against the casks of wine and gardening implements.
To her relief, the wicker baskets and leather gardening gloves remained and she grabbed both baskets and gloves, hauling them upstairs into the scullery. Fortunately, this room was empty save for Gladys, the scullery maid, who stood washing dishes at the sink. Likely, the other staff were occupied in the kitchen or serving breakfast.
‘Morning, miss,’ Gladys said.
‘How’s Orion?’
‘Orion, miss?’
‘The rabbit.’ Sarah flushed. She had a foolish habit of naming her animal friends and had called him after the constellation.
‘I near forgot. He’s over there, miss. I give ’im some vegetables. The stuff what’s wilted round the edges.’ The girl’s broad-boned, country face remained impassive as she scrubbed the plates, moving reddened hands with methodical rhythm.
‘Um, could he stay a little longer? I promise I’ll pick him up soon, but I have to do something.’
‘I dunno what Mr Hudson’ll say.’
‘Not a word if he knows nothing. Besides, he’ll be too busy preparing for the hunt. By the by, would you have any table scraps left from last night?’
The rhythmic movements stopped. ‘Oh, miss. Mrs Crawford don’t have you on starvation rations, does she?’
‘What? Oh, no, nothing so drastic. I need them for another project.’
‘To do with four-legged critters, I’m supposing. You are a one. Ain’t you ever going to grow up?’
‘Seems unlikely at this point.’
‘Well, there’s a bowl for the ’ounds in the larder. ’elp yourself.’
Sarah did so.
* * *
Within half an hour she had manoeuvred both baskets to the outskirts of the forest and set about propping up the traps.
The bugle sounded.
She started and, biting her lip, glanced about nervously, half-expecting the thunder of horses’ hooves. She’d be lucky if she had time to capture both foxes now. Hurriedly, she pulled out the meat scraps from her handkerchief, placing them within the bottom of the baskets.
A flash of rust-brown fur skirted the periphery of her vision and she spotted two curious eyes, bright pinpoints of light, within the cover of the bushes. Sarah held her breath.
The fox stepped forward—a dainty movement like a cat on snow. Albertina. Her red tail had puffed into a brush, making her body appear ludicrously thin.
Sarah sat so still that each woodland sound was magnified. The woodpecker’s tap-tap-tap, the drip from leaves wet from yesterday’s rain, the rustle of an unseen bird or squirrel.
The fox edged closer.
Finally, with a burst of brave energy and a wild scrabble of claws, she darted into the basket.
Sarah pulled the string. The lid snapped shut.
She hated this part; the frightened yelps, the scratch of paws and the smell of fear and urine.
‘It’s going to be fine, Albertina. It’s for your own well-being.’ She spoke softly in the sing-song voice she always used with animals, throwing in French phrases while pulling the twine tight around the clasp. The basket rocked, creaking noisily with the animal’s exertions.