Page 54 of The Countess Caper

Sleeping peacefully.

Not at all desperate for her.

Right, her brain said as she shut the door softly. That’s that.

The rest of her threatened to riot. She really had become abysmal at following the rules. Even when they were rules she set for herself. She had, at least, proven to herself that sometimes she did not run. Sometimes she opened the door.

Fat lot of good it had done her tonight.

She was mildly horrified to find that she was contemplating a good sulk.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered at herself.

The soft whimper of Parsley’s unhappy cries approached down the hall, accompanied by heavy footsteps. Lennox. Tessa dove back into her chambers as if she’d been caught pilfering the family silver. She had to laugh at herself. And then she got dressed. If she was going to insist on being awake and looking for trouble, she may as well be productive.

Once the sun had risen, and after a quick breakfast of bread and butter and an apple, Tessa decided to walk the hills into the village to replace her missing ribbon. And perhaps find some fabric suitable for making a stuffed rabbit for Parsley. Normal things.

Not mad things, like poking her head into Roarke’s bedroom in the middle of the night.

The long walk with the cool wind pulling at her hair helped, as always. The swallows crossing above her head, the partridge startled out of the long grass, also helped.

Mrs. Harris did not.

It was not exactly unprecedented. And yet, somehow, it always took her by surprise.

Tessa stopped at the bakery first, which smelled like heaven: warm sugar, vanilla, tart raspberries. She bought every currant bun, as they were everyone’s favorite, and none of them could make a decent batch for love or money. Luckily, Beth, the baker’s daughter, could make them in her sleep. Afterward, Tessa went to the modiste. Madame Colette’s considered itself the Little London of the area, with ribbons and silks and bonnets. Tessa passed the bolts of fabric, the printed muslin, the sparkle of silver brooches under glasses, the stacks of La Belle Assmeblee magazines. She was only looking for sturdy fabric for Parsley and a packet of hairpins.

Three women waited at the counter, deep in conversation as Madame Colette laid out a new shipment of bonnet ribbons. The talk stuttered into whispers, then silence, as Tessa approached.

She ought to have turned around and walked straight back home that very moment.

But if she wasn’t going to let someone like Lord Beville intimidate her, she certainly wasn’t going to give the honor to Mrs. Harris. She didn’t even have a knife. Only a basket of berry tarts and a sour, smug expression.

Tessa didn’t even try to stifle her sigh. “Mrs. Harris,” she said. She nodded at the others crowding around like buzzards waiting for the corpse.

Not a good sign.

“With you in a moment,” Madame Colette said. She was about as French as haggis, despite her accent. It was customary for modistes to pretend, complete with terrible accents that would make a Parisian street rat weep.

“Thank you, madame,” Tessa replied. “Hairpins and something sturdy for a stuffed toy, when you can. Something pretty, though, with flowers.”

“I hear you’ve had a visit from a Lord Beville,” Mrs. Harris announced, very much like a town crier. Her ringlets bobbed indignantly.

“Yes, we did.”

“Not at all the thing.”

“He was looking for someone else,” Tessa pointed out. “Someone from the village led him astray. Can’t imagine who.”

“And another man to your door, quite alone, just yesterday,” Miss Tottenham added, shocked and thoroughly enjoying every moment of said shock. “And you without a chaperone, Lady Tessa.”

“It’s Lady Dartmoor now,” Tessa replied steadily. “Countess Dartmoor.”

It wasn’t usually done to introduce yourself so, but needs must. Tessa just wanted to get home to eat currant buns.

There was a pause. Mrs. Harris’s eyes narrowed so quickly that Tessa wondered how she didn’t give herself a headache. It would serve her right. “A countess?”

“Yes, I was married just recently.”