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he always contrives to be home in time for his dinner, and I
daresay the walking and climbing keep him limber, and at least he
isn't— Ah, there he is."
    A
man of medium height and slender build emerged from an opening in the
shrubbery and ambled toward them. He was well protected from the
elements in a hat and overcoat of oilcloth, and his battered boots
were sturdily made.
    As
the man drew near, Alistair discerned the family resemblance. Most of
Miss Oldridge's features came, he surmised, from the maternal side,
but her hair and eyes seemed to be a younger and more vivid version
of her father's. Age had dulled rather than greyed his hair and faded
his eyes to a paler blue, though his gaze seemed sharp enough.
    His
countenance offered no sign of recognition, however, when
introductions were made.
    "Mr.
Carsington wrote you a letter, Papa," Miss Oldridge said. "About
Lord Gordmor's canal. You made an appointment to meet with Mr.
Carsington today."
    Mr.
Oldridge frowned. "Did I, indeed?" He thought for a moment.
"Ah, yes. The canal. That was how Smith made his observations,
you know. Fascinating, fascinating. Fossils, too. Most enlightening.
Well, sir, you will stay to dinner, I hope."
    And
away he went, leaving Alistair staring after him.
    "He
must visit his new specimens," came the cool, whispery voice
beside him. "Then he will dress for dinner. In the winter months
we dine early. In summer we dine fashionably late. The one place you
can be sure to find my father is in the dining room, punctual to the
minute. Wherever he may ramble, whatever botanical riddles might
fascinate him, he always contrives to be home in good time for
dinner. I recommend you accept his invitation. You'll have at least
two hours to make your case."
    "I
should be honored," Alistair said, "but I came unprepared,
and have no suitable attire for dinner."
    "You
are more elegantly dressed than anyone we have dined with in the last
decade," Miss Oldridge said. "Not that Papa will notice
what you are wearing. And I don't care in the least."
     
    IT
was true that Mirabel Oldridge cared little about the minutiae of
dress. She rarely took any notice of what others wore and found life
simpler when they treated her the same way. She dressed plainly to
encourage the many men she dealt with to take her seriously: to
listen rather than look, and keep their minds on business.
    To
her great discomfort, however, she had taken excessive and repeated
notice of Mr. Carsington, from the crown of his sleek hat to his
gleaming boots.
    He
had not been wearing the hat when she first saw him. As a result she
was aware that his hair was a rich brown with golden glints his
deep-set eyes seemed to re-flect. His face was angular, the profile
patrician to the last degree. He was handsome in a brooding sort of
way, tall, broad-shouldered, and long-limbed. Even his hands were
long. When he had offered to help with the knotted bonnet strings,
she had looked at his hands and felt giddy.
    Matters
did not improve when he'd stood so near to work on the ribbons. She'd
caught a whiff of shaving soap or cologne; it was so faint that she
couldn't be sure what it was or whether she'd simply imagined it.
    But
she'd become confused because she was nervous, she told herself,
which was perfectly reasonable. She'd been uneasy because she'd been
caught unprepared, which was as unpleasant as it was unusual.
    One
near catastrophe years ago had taught her to keep informed of
everything having to do with her father. That way, no one could take
advantage of him, or confuse, manipulate, or bully her. That way she
would never be at a loss. She would know exactly what to do at all
times.
    For
instance, she read all her father's correspondence and dealt with it.
All he ever had to do was read what she'd written and sign his name.
In any event, he appeared to read. There was no way to be sure his
mind was engaged. He was too busy trying to unlock the secrets of
plant reproduction to pay attention to his