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at half past eleven?”
    Talfryn did not attempt to disagree, and as he left the breakfast room the viscountess added, “And your sisters will come with us, of course.”
    Better and better.
     

Chapter 7:   A Visit from Lord Davies
     
    ’Twas a warm morning, bright and with the hint of a breeze, and Cassandra and I met for a ride in Green Park.  My own mare, Cleo—short for Cleopatra, the result of a schoolgirl infatuation with Egyptian history which I had not quite shaken off—was delighted at the expedition.  She pranced sideways and pulled at the bit, wanting her head. 
    “I’ve been remiss this past winter,” said Cassie, patting the neck of her own horse, an enormous gelding named Samuel Johnson.  “He should be ridden every day.” 
    “I imagine so.”  Both animals were restive, and Sam would have given trouble to a lesser equestrian than Miss Barre.  “Cannot Sir Reginald ride him?”
    “He prefers his own mount.”
    Cassandra’s parents—Sir Reginald and Lady Cynthia Barre—were two loving and generous souls, but rather slapdash in their manner of child-rearing; their daughter had chosen the largest animal possible, and I doubted if either one had entertained a second thought over the matter. 
    Miss Barre was their only child, and what Cassie wanted, she got.  It came in useful on occasion.
    “Are your parents well?” I asked her, although I had seen them only a few days before.  I am extremely fond of Cassandra’s father and mother, who remind me—’tis a bit bittersweet, I admit—of what parental feeling can be.
    “Extremely so.” 
    Sir Reginald is, in a round-about way, the reason Cassie and I are friends.  Miss Barre had insisted on our being introduced, years ago, saying that she had always wanted to meet the girl with ‘the same name as her father’.  Another young lady might have made the remark catty; in this case it was said with such obvious goodwill that I did not mind.  And I was accustomed to curiosity about my first name.  It is a source of amusement for a few in the ton who have nothing better with which to occupy themselves, as ‘Regina’ is thought rather august, and ‘Reggie’ is considered entirely too devil-may-care.
    “Why is the weather not always exactly like this?” said Cassie.  “’Tis perfect.”
    “’Tis.”  I inhaled deeply, which would be a poor choice of activity in a busier part of London, but the air is fresh in the park.  The mornings in late May are beautiful, and spring is my favorite season, a thing hardly to be wondered at.  London winters are dreary; rainy and dull, and it even snows from time to time.  There was a frost fair on the Thames a few years ago, and ’twas so cold that even the great fireplaces of Roselay were hard put to keep us warm.  One would think the summers better, but summer dust is the bane of every city-dweller’s existence, and nearly worse than the rain.  The dust is kicked up from the streets, and what is found in the streets does not bear close examination.  It makes its way into and onto everything.
    “I could ride every day,” said Cassandra, tilting her head back to stare up into the trees.  Her hat promptly fell off.
    “Your hat is on the ground,” I told her, adding,  “We can meet again tomorrow, then.  As long as Perry has no objection.”
    Perry was one of the Sir Reginald’s groomsmen, and more or less permanently attached to Cassandra, which meant, I suppose, that her father was not quite as oblivious to her well-being as first glance might suggest.
    “Perry,” said Cassie, “was polishing the silver when I asked him to accompany us on this lovely spring outing.”  She thanked the groomsman cheerfully for retrieving the hat, and he returned her smile with his own.
    “He does seem content,” I said.
    “He hates the silver.”
    * * * *
     
    We rode as long as we dared, and when we returned to Roselay there was an unusual stir and bustle on the main floor.  It was