“That, woman, is not in my profession.” With a fond glance at Donal, Hartley stepped around Miss Waterson and swept his son from the room. The governess shrieked again behind them.
Once safely on the ground floor, he knelt and turned Donal to face him.
“Did you do that?” he asked. “Did you call the mouse?”
“Yes. He’s my friend.” He wrinkled his nose. “Miss Waterson is not.”
No fool, his son. “Does she realize it was you?”
Donal bit his lip. “I don’t know. I’ve called the mouse before, and a bat from outside.” A secret smile crossed his face. “She screamed even louder at the bat.”
“She screams rather well, doesn’t she?”
“She doesn’t like me,” Donal confessed. He stared at the floor. “Like the people in Ballinkenny.”
It was the first time he’d volunteered anything about his previous life, but Hartley didn’t want to force such unpleasant memories on him now.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, cupping Donal’s chin in his hand. “You are better than she is. Than any of them. Someday you’ll know why.”
Donal smiled tentatively and grew serious again. “She found out that we go to the forest at night.”
“She doesn’t know very much. And soon that won’t matter, either.” He stood up. “Since you can call the mouse and the bat, next time I will teach you how to call other animals, the wild ones that live outside of men’s walls.”
It never ceased to amaze him how Donal’s entire being could shine so brightly at the slightest kindness. Some of that glow came from his Fane heritage, but part was uniquely his own. He was like a lantern that had been wrapped in dark cloth—hidden, but only for a while. Only until the light was truly needed.
He scooped Donal up on his shoulders and raced down the stairs. “Shall we go to the party now?” At Donal’s nod, he jogged to the front door and came face-to-face with Lord Rushborough. The man had changed into a green coat and buff pantaloons more appropriate to a tonnish drawing room than a rustic outdoors party.
Rushborough lifted his quizzing glass with a bored air. “Shaw, isn’t it? I had thought you worked in the stables.”
Hartley let Donal slide to the floor. “Your horse is settled,” he said. “He doesn’t seem to enjoy the countryside any more than you do… your lordship.”
“All of my cattle have excellent taste,” the marquess replied. He could not possibly consider a servant any sort of rival, but he stood squarely in Hartley’s path, blocking the way, and his deceptively mild eyes held a challenge of their own.
For all his city-dulled senses, the marquess had not lost his native human instincts. This was no matter of rank and privilege.
“Who is the boy?” he asked. “Does Lady Eden generally allow grooms and children to run tame in her house?”
“She does this one. I am taking him to her.”
Rushborough studied Donal more carefully. “I had not thought her particularly fond of children.” He let his quizzing glass fall and stepped aside. “Take him. And when you are done, see that my horse gets another measure of oats.”
Donal’s presence kept Hartley from replying as he wished. He ushered the boy out the door and across the lawn.
It was rapidly growing dark. Eden stood at the head of a milling group of tenants, who were showing off their prizes and congratulating each other. As he and Donal approached, Eden’s glance fell in their direction. She stopped in midspeech. Her expression hovered uneasily between dismay and pleasure. With a final word to her guests, she left them to join Hartley and her son.
“Donal,” she said warmly. She didn’t bend to kiss him, but her loving attention was a caress in itself. “Did Miss Waterson let you out to play?”
“She didn’t say no,” Hartley answered for him. “The boy deserves to join in the fun, don’t you agree? You surely didn’t want him hidden away where no one could see him. He is, after all, a Fleming.”
She ignored Hartley and touched Donal’s cheek. “How would you like to join the other children? There’s a bit of food left. I’m sure I saw a biscuit or two.”