Phaedra nodded. “Like a body buried beneath a flower bed.”
“Goodness, Phaedra!” Her mother coughed behind her hand. “Must your imagination run so rampant?”
Phaedra shrugged. “Cats are attracted to dead things.”
And, well, the thing of it was, she didn’t quite know what to make of Deerhurst. She’d rather not make anything of him, but since her mind was stubbornly engaged with the memory of their kiss, she needed something to put her off him. Something like a proverbial skeleton entombed in the earl’s garden, twisted in the roots of the flowers blooming above.
“How ridiculous,” the countess said. “They are attracted to rodents, Phaedra, not bodies. You’re reading those horrid novels again, aren’t you? Your father should never have encouraged you to read those books of his.”
“They are called history books, Mama. They recount history.”
“They detail the accounts of London’s criminals and their atrocious deeds. That’s hardly the sort of history a young lady should be entertaining herself with. Do you not agree, Robert?” The countess looked to her husband for aid.
“They are just books, Eleanor.”
Phaedra knew better than to grin at her father.
Portia winked at her.
Poor Mama. Both Papa and her aunt were quite mischievous. A trait Deerhurst seemed to share. Perhaps that is why she recognized it so easily in him. After all, while she still had no idea what the man was about, she hadn’t sensed any malice or ill intentions from him.
“You are incorrigible, Robert,” the countess admonished, but a smile pulled at her lips. To Phaedra, she said, “Rest assured there are no bodies in the earl’s garden.”
“What about bodies of cats?”
“Phaedra!”
“Is that so impossible? I heard Lord Royce did away with a cat that wandered into his house. It’s only natural for me to enquire after the earl’s character.”
“Who told you that? You shouldn’t be lending your ear to such nonsense. Lord Royce is an honorable man.”
“He is also allergic to cats,” her father murmured, lifting the newspaper to continue his reading, impervious to his wife’s glare.
Portia chuckled. “You might want to brace yourself, Phaedra. Your mother is about to set that paper on fire.”
One glance at the countess and Phaedra thought her aunt might be right. She attempted to change the subject. “Mama is right, of course. I doubt we have anything to worry about, skeletons or otherwise.”
“Agreed,” her father said from behind his paper. “Deerhurst strikes me more as a man who would dispose of a body permanently rather than have it connect back to him.”
“That is quite enough, Robert.”
“Your daughter is curious.”
“She’s your daughter too, and you are too indulgent with the child. Goodness, who speaks of dead bodies at the breakfast table?
“Criminals and grave robbers?” Phaedra offered.
“Phaedra Rose Sharp!”
“Very well, my love, no more talk of dead bodies,” her father placated. To Phaedra, he directed, “I once read that cats are drawn to the supernatural.”
“Robert Charles Sharp! How do you expect your daughter to find a husband if you indulge her grim imagination?”
“I found you, did I not?”
Phaedra bit her lip when her father winked at her.
“We were engaged at birth.”
