“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he told her.

“Of course you don’t. That’s perfectly all right.” Another small, entreating tug. “Come.”

And somehow Christopher found himself going with Beatrix, through the entrance hall and along a hallway lined with pictures. Albert padded after them without a sound.

Beatrix released his arm as they entered a dining room filled with abundant candlelight. The table was laden with silver and crystal, and a great quantity of food. He recognized Leo, Lord Ramsay, and his wife, and Rohan and Amelia. The dark-haired boy, Rye, was also at the table. Pausing at the threshold, Christopher bowed and said uncomfortably, “Forgive me. I merely came to—”

“I’ve invited Captain Phelan to join us,” Beatrix announced. “He doesn’t want to talk. Do not ask him direct questions unless absolutely necessary.”

The rest of the family received this unorthodox pronouncement without turning a hair. A footman was dispatched to set a place for him.

“Come in, Phelan,” Leo said easily. “We love silent guests—it allows us to talk all the more. By all means, sit and say nothing.”

“But if you can manage it,” Catherine added with a smile, “try to look impressed by our wit and intelligence.”

“I will attempt to add to the conversation,” Christopher ventured, “if I can think of anything relevant.”

“That never stops the rest of us,” Cam remarked.

Christopher took an empty chair beside Rye. A liberally filled plate and a glass of wine were set before him. It wasn’t until he began to eat that he realized how famished he was. While he devoured the excellent fare—baked sole, potatoes, smoked oysters wrapped in crisp bacon—the family talked of politics and estate business, and mulled over happenings in Stony Cross.

Rye behaved like a miniature adult. He listened respectfully to the conversation, occasionally asking questions that were readily answered by the others. To Christopher’s knowledge, it was highly uncommon to allow a child to sit at the dinner table. Most upper-class families followed the custom of having children eat alone in the nursery.

“Do you always take dinner with the rest of the family?” Christopher asked him sotto voce.

“Most of the time,” Rye whispered back. “They don’t mind as long as you don’t talk with food in your mouth or play with the potatoes.”

“I’ll try not,” Christopher assured him gravely.

“And you mustn’t feed Albert from the table, even when he begs. Aunt Beatrix says only plain food is good for him.”

Christopher glanced at his dog, who was reclining placidly in the corner.

“Captain Phelan,” Amelia asked, noticing the direction of his gaze, “what do you think of the change in Albert?”

“Nearly inconceivable,” Christopher replied. “I had wondered if it would be possible to bring him from the battlefield to a peaceful life here.” He looked at Beatrix, adding gravely, “I am in your debt.”

Beatrix colored and smiled down at her plate. “Not at all.”

“My sister has always had a remarkable ability with animals,” Amelia said. “I’ve always wondered what would happen if Beatrix took it in her head to reform a man.”

Leo grinned. “I propose we find a really revolting, amoral wastrel, and give him to Beatrix. She would set him to rights within a fortnight.”

“I have no wish to reform bipeds,” Beatrix said. “Four legs are the absolute minimum. Besides, Cam has forbidden me to put any more creatures in the barn.”

“With the size of that barn?” Leo asked. “Don’t say we’ve run out of room?”

“One has to draw the line somewhere,” Cam said. “And I had to after the mule.”

Christopher looked at Beatrix alertly. “You have a mule?”

“No,” she said at once. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the light, but the color seemed to leave her face. “It’s nothing. That is, yes, I have a mule. But I don’t like to discuss him.”

“I like to discuss him,” Rye volunteered innocently. “Hector is a very nice mule, but he has a weak back and he’s sickle-hocked. No one wanted him after he was born, so Aunt Beatrix went to Mr. Caird and said—”

“His name is Hector?” Christopher asked, his gaze locked on Beatrix.

She didn’t answer.

A strange, severe sensation took over Christopher’s body. He felt every hair lift, felt every distinct pulse of blood in his veins. “Did his sire belong to Mr. Mawdsley?” he asked.

“How did you know?” came Rye’s voice.

Christopher’s reply was very soft. “Someone wrote to me about it.”

Lifting a glass of wine to his lips, Christopher tore his gaze from Beatrix’s carefully blank face.

He did not look at her for the rest of the meal.

He couldn’t, or he would lose all self-control.

Beatrix was nearly suffocated by the weight of her own worry during the rest of dinner. She had never regretted anything in her life as much as having urged Christopher to stay. What had he made of the news that she had acquired Mr. Caird’s mule and given him the same name as the pet mule of his boyhood? He would want an explanation. She would have to pass it off as some bit of information that Prudence had relayed. I suppose the name stuck in my head when Pru mentioned it, she would say casually. And it is a nice name for a mule. I hope you don’t mind.