She wrapped her robe about her and went to the window. Judging from the sun in the sky, she had shamefully slept half the morning away. Everyone else seemed to be up and outside, busy driving the wooly parade down the lane into the enclosure. The knots of tension were still in her neck. Dinner last night had been an uncomfortable affair, despite her and Bea’s attempt at levity and civility. It had been hard work on her part, but Bea seemed like a born peacemaker. Laurette had six more days to try to affect a reconciliation between Con and James, six more days to love Bea before she took her home. Her Cornish cousins would not be expecting the child’s return so soon—Con had bribed them generously to steal Bea away. Perhaps Bea could spend a few days at Vincent Lodge before they made the trip, although Sadie had said the house was in no state for company, thanks to the infusion of the Marquess of Conover’s money. There was scaffolding everywhere. Con had employed thatchers, plasterers, painters.
