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Farningham, monopolised all attention with an anecdote on turtle soup as served by a certain Mr. Weekes.
    Taking the opportunity to scan the table, Lenore noted her aunt seated a little way away with Gerald beside her to help. In the middle of the table, Jack and Harry, one one either side, kept the conversation flowing. A good deal of laughter and general hilarity was already in evidence as her brothers and their guests settled in. At the distant head of the table, her father and his old crony, Mr. Pritchard, were deep in discussion. Horses or reminiscences of a more ribald sort, Lenore sagely surmised, her eyes on the two grey heads.
    â€œI have heard, Eversleigh, that there’s plenty of grouse down your way this year?”
    Lord Farningham’s question, uttered in the tones of one well aware of the hazards of approaching one of the lions of the ton , jerked Lenore to attentiveness.
    But Eversleigh’s reply, a mild, “Yes, it’ll be a good season, so my gamekeeper assures me. You’re in Kent, are you not?” relieved her of anxiety. With every appearance of interest, she listened as Eversleigh discussed game and the keeping of coverts with Lord Farningham.
    When the subject ran dry, halfway through the first course as the soup was replaced by turbot in cream sauce with side dishes of mushroom florettes and tongue in port wine, Lenore was ready with a blithe, “Tell me of Eversleigh Abbey, Your Grace. I have heard it is even bigger than the Hall.”
    The look Eversleigh directed at her was unfathomable but he replied readily enough.
    â€œIt is rather large. The original abbey dates to just after the Conquest but my family has made numerous additions over the years. What remains might best be described as a semi-Gothic pile, complete with ruined cloisters.”
    â€œNo ghost?”
    Lenore bit her tongue, steeling herself for his rejoinder. A skeleton or two in the cupboard, perhaps?
    Manfully, Jason resisted temptation. Sorrowfully, he shook his head. “Not even a wraith, I’m afraid.”
    Letting out the breath she had held, Lenore inclined her head and opted for caution in the person of Lord Farningham. Lady Henslaw, seated beside Eversleigh, claimed his attention. As the second course was laid before them, Lord Farningham turned the talk to horses. Mentally, Lenore sat back, pleased to see her father and Aunt Harriet both coping well. Taking a moment to cast her eye over the company, she saw that all was proceeding smoothly. Her staff was experienced; the meal was served and cleared and glasses filled with a minimum of fuss.
    She was turning back to the conversation when a commotion in the hall drew all attention. Smithers immediately went out, to return a moment later to hold open the door. Amelia, Lady Wallace, Lenore’s cousin, hesitantly entered, her companion, Mrs. Smythe, trailing in her wake.
    Jack rose. With a murmured, “Excuse me,” Lenore put her napkin aside and went forward.
    â€œHello, Jack. Lenore.” Amelia bestowed her hand on Jack and exchanged an affectionate kiss with Lenore. “I’m sorry to arrive so late but one of our horses went lame.” Shielded from the table, Amelia grimaced up at them. “And I had no idea this was one of your ‘weeks’.”
    With a brotherly smile, Jack squeezed her hand. “No matter, m’dear. You’re always welcome.”
    Lenore smiled her agreement. “Don’t worry. You can keep me company. I’ll put you near Papa until you get your bearings.”
    â€œYes, please,” Amelia returned, blonde ringlets bobbing as she exchanged nods with those of the company already known to her.
    While Jack played the gallant host, Lenore oversaw insertion of another leaf at the head of the huge table. Once Amelia and Mrs. Smythe were installed, Lenore paused to tell Smithers, “Her ladyship in the rose room, with Mrs. Smythe in the room further down the