Anne Barbour Read Online Free Page B

grimly.
    “Miss Tim . . . ?” she responded with a fluttery gesture. “Oh, my, no! Oh, no, indeed. I’m afraid you are under a sad misapprehension, sir. Yes, a sad misapprehension.” She fell silent then, gazing dreamily before her.
    Good God, thought Simon, was the woman feebleminded? Catching his glance, she started.
    “Oh! Yes. That is, no, I am not Winifred, for the dear girl is gone. That is, she is not here.” She uttered a dissonant tinkle of laughter and Simon felt an urge to clap his hands over his ears. “I”—She pressed a hand to her meager bosom—”am Jane Burch. I am dear Winifred’s cousin. Although,” she went on with another vague waggle of her fingers, “that is not strictly correct. Dear Winifred and I are actually second cousins.”
    Simon gritted his teeth. “How nice for you. Might I ask, where is Miss Timburton?”
    “Winifred?” Miss Burch glanced about abstractedly as though expecting to find the girl crouched behind a settee. “Oh, she’s— why, we have another gentleman present!” she cried in girlish delight, apparently noticing Marcus for the first time. She lifted brows so pale as to be almost invisible. Altogether, thought Simon, viewing her with distaste, with her pale eyes, her fringe of bristly, colorless lashes and her pink-tipped nose, she resembled nothing so much as a middle-aged, tame white rat.
    “The Viscount Stedford,” he said brusquely, nodding in Marc’s direction and back. “Miss, er, Burch. Now then,” he continued in some haste as the lady opened her mouth again. “Where is Miss Timburton?”
    “Why the dear girl went to the village with one of the neighbors and her daughter, that would be Mrs. Mycombe and Miss Mycombe. Miss Emily Mycombe, that is. She and Winifred are such good friends. Just the other day we were saying—”
    “When,” interrupted Simon in a controlled voice, “might we expect Miss Timburton to return?”
    “Oh.” Miss Burch glanced toward the young viscount. “Well, I’m not sure what time she left, or what she expected to accomplish in the village, but I do think,” she concluded with the air of one promising a special treat, “that she will return in time for luncheon.” She rose from the chair upon which she had been perching. “But where are my manners?” A faint neigh of laughter escaped her lips which, noted Simon in surprise, were full and well-shaped. She crossed to the bellpull. “We must have tea.”
    Simon observed with interest the butler’s prompt response to the summons. Apparently there was someone in the place with some knowledge of running a polite house. The steward, no doubt, or perhaps the housekeeper.
    “I trust you had a pleasant journey, my lord.” Miss Burch negotiated her way back to her chair with an exaggerated air of delicacy. “How fortunate that you chose such an agreeable time of year to travel. Though, of course the weather in June can become frightfully warm. When we went into Basingstoke last week, I positively thought we’d expire. But lately—
    Simon lifted his hand in a desperate attempt to stem the flow. “The timing of my visit was not of my own choosing,” he said irritably. “I came because of Miss Timburton’s brother. His last request—”
    He was interrupted by a sound like steam escaping from a ruptured pipe. He glanced up to see that Miss Burch had flung a large handkerchief over her face and had begun to gasp in small, sibilant sobs.
    “Oh, poor, dear Wilfred,” she hiccupped, dabbing ostentatiously with the handkerchief. In the next moment, however, she appeared to make a remarkable recovery. The hissing sounds ceased abruptly, and she tucked her handkerchief into the hem of her long sleeve. She continued prosaically, “That is, I only met him once or twice, but Winifred was, of course, quite prostrate with grief.”
    Since this statement differed markedly from the information he had received from Soapes, Simon said nothing, merely lifting a sardonic