Daring Romance

Chapter 22

"Is this how they did it at Miss Primrose's?" Ethan asked, standing back as a pair of footmen—supervised by the elderly butler, Sims—ceremoniously laid tablecloths on the ground beneath a shade tree. They proceeded to set out china plates, silver flatware, and crystal goblets.

Garrett shook her head, watching with a bemused smile as ice buckets filled with bottles of lemonade, ginger beer, and claret were arranged beside the dishes. "Our picnics were bread, jam, and a slice of cheese, carried in a tin pail."

It had been her idea to have lunch with Ethan on the estate grounds, within the shelter of a high garden wall. She had told Ethan about the picnics she and her classmates used to enjoy at school, and he said he'd never been on one. Garrett had asked the housekeeper if she could borrow a basket to carry out some items from the daily sideboard buffet. Instead, the cook had provided what she called "a proper picnic" in a pair of massive wicker and leather hampers.

After Sims and the footmen had departed, Ethan sat with his back against the tree trunk and watched as Garrett unearthed a feast from the hampers. There were boiled eggs, plump olives, stalks of crisp green celery, jars of pickled carrots and cucumbers, sandwiches wrapped in paraffin paper, cold fried oyster-patties and wafer crackers, jars of finely chopped salads, a weighty round of white cheese, muslin-lined baskets filled with finger cakes and pastry biscuits, a steamed cabinet pudding left in its fluted stoneware mold, and a wide-mouthed glass bottle filled with stewed fruit.

As they ate a leisurely meal beneath the dense green beech canopy, Garrett was pleased to see Ethan relaxing. For the past five days, he had been more active than she would have preferred, going through every nook and cranny of Eversby Priory with West. As with most ancient manor houses, many modifications and additions had been made over the centuries, resulting in quirks, oddly shaped spaces, and offset stairs and windows.

Despite Garrett's concerns that he would set back his recovery, Ethan had painstakingly made his way to each level of the house to assess it with his own eyes. New bolts and locks had been installed, and the outside scaffolding had been removed. Doors were now routinely locked every night, and so were the ground and basement windows. The household staff had been instructed to raise an alarm if they heard suspicious noises at night, but under no circumstances should they confront a housebreaker on their own.

Although Ethan had continued to heal and improve at an impressive rate, it would take weeks or even months for him to reach the level of health he'd enjoyed before his injury. It exasperated him to be constrained by his physical limitations, having been accustomed to inexhaustible reserves of energy and strength.

It had been almost three weeks since Ethan had been shot. In ordinary circumstances, Garrett would have insisted that he wait twice that amount of time before leaving the estate. However, this situation was far from ordinary. Whether or not she approved, Ethan had told her, he had to leave for London the day after tomorrow. He couldn't continue to remain at Eversby Priory and put the household at risk. Nor could he stand by and do nothing after Jenkyn had diverted eight tons of stolen explosives to a terrorist group that could conceivably blow up the House of Commons.

Reaching out to the luxuriant undergrowth of wintergreen shrubs beneath the stand of beeches, Ethan plucked a sharp minty leaf. He lay back on the cloth and nibbled on the bit of green, staring up at the canopy of sky and leaves overhead. The beeches were gnarled and graceful, their branches tangling as if they were holding hands. All that could be heard were rustling leaves and the trill of a wood warbler. The air was fresh with the loamy scent of rich earth. Rustling leaves and the occasional trill of a wood warbler were the only sounds they could hear.

"I've never been in a place so peaceful, outside of a church," Ethan said.

"It's a world away from London. All the clashing fire bells and the roar of railways and construction . . . and the air filthy with smoke and dust . . . and all those tall buildings blocking out the sun . . ."