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relatives' letters, or his
solicitor's—or any other materials unconnected with botanical
pursuits.
    Not
having opened any letters from Mr. Carsington, Mirabel had no idea
what he'd written and couldn't begin to guess how Papa had answered.
    If
she wished not to be caught unprepared at dinner, she had better fill
the gap in her knowledge.
    This
was why she wasted no time in turning Mr. Carsington over to the
servants, who'd see to drying and brushing his "unsuitable"
attire and provide whatever else he needed for his toilette.
    Yet
Mirabel stood for a moment, watching him limp away, only to wish she
hadn't, because her heart squeezed, as though it winced for him,
which was foolish.
    She'd
seen and even helped nurse men with worse injuries. She knew men and
women who'd suffered as much or more than he had done. She knew of
some who'd acted bravely, too, and received not a fraction of the
admiration showered upon him. And anyway, she told herself, he was
far too elegant and self-assured to need anybody's sympathy.
    Mirabel
thrust the limp to the back of her mind and hurried to her father's
study.
    As
Joseph had reported, his master's diary lay open to this date, and
the appointment was duly noted.
    She
ransacked the desk but found no trace of Mr. Car-sington's letter.
Most likely Papa had stuffed it in his pocket and scribbled field
notes on it or lost it. The copy of his reply had survived, however,
because he'd written it in his memorandum book instead of on a loose
sheet of paper.
    The
letter, dated ten days ago, was as Mr. Carsington described: her
father expressed interest, clearly grasped the implications, and
seemed most willing to discuss the canal further.
    The
words made Mirabel's throat hurt.
    In
the letter she saw the father she'd known once, who took an interest
in so many things, so many people. How he'd loved to talk—and
listen, too, even to a little girl's prattle. She remembered sitting
on the stairs, listening to the voices below, during the frequent
dinners and card parties and other social gatherings. How many times
had she heard him and her mother in conversation at table, in the
library, the sitting room, this study?
    But
after her mother's death fifteen years ago, he had grown increasingly
preoccupied with plant rather than human life. On the rare occasions
he did emerge from the realms of botany, it was only for a short
time.
    Mirabel
had missed the most recent occasion. He must have taken notice of the
everyday world during the few days she'd spent visiting her former
governess in Cromford.
    During
the visit Mirabel had bought the bonnet with which she'd nearly
choked herself this afternoon.
    She
could not believe she'd let the man unnerve her so completely. It was
not as though she'd never encountered his kind before.
    During
her two London seasons—a lifetime ago, it seemed—she'd
met countless men like him: elegant in dress, polished in all the
social graces, never at a loss as to what to do or say.
    She'd
heard the cultivated voices, the drawls and lisps some fashionables
affected, the laughter, gossip, and flirtation.
    Surely
she'd heard voices like his, so low-pitched as to make every
commonplace utterance seem of the deepest intimacy, every cliche a
delicious secret.
    "I
have heard and seen them all," she muttered. "He is nothing
remarkable, merely another London sophisticate who sees us as
provincials and bumpkins. We are all ignorant country folk who don't
know what's good for us."
    Mr.
Carsington would soon discover his error.
    Meanwhile,
his dinner conversation with Papa should prove vastly entertaining.

    Chapter
2

    WHILE
Alistair made no pretense to intellectual brilliance, he was usually
capable of putting two and two together, and fairly quickly.
    Circumstances
this day, however, conspired against him. By Miss Oldridge's abysmal
standards he might seem dressed elegantly enough for a country
dinner. He knew better.
    Thanks
to conscientious servants and a good fire, his clothes were