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like the drums of
the damned. For a few scant seconds, the noise ceased. Forgetting all about her
ignominious dream, she dozed off with a happy grunt, only to startle awake
again moments later as the vicious pounding commenced once more.
    She fought the
battle of waking and sleeping for several more tortuous minutes before jerking
upright on a snarled oath that would have made many a gentleman blush. Flinging
back the covers, she hurried across to the windows.
    She saw nothing
out of the ordinary. Grass, trees, flowers, a bird singing on one of the
branches. Only she couldn’t hear his pretty warble, drowned out by the horrid,
monotonous thumping.
    What was that
noise?
Where
was that noise? It sounded like…hammering or chiseling
perhaps as she caught the metallic clang of metal striking metal.
    Adam’s
apples,
she
inwardly cursed,
have I taken up residence in a madhouse?
    She crossed to
the bellpull, rang for Betsy. Obviously any further attempts to sleep would be
futile.
    Her maid entered
looking a bit tired herself. “Good morning, my lady. Are you awake?”
    “How could I be
anything else with that infernal din going on outside? What in blazes is it, do
you know?”
    “Builders, my
lady. It’s my understanding that the west wing is being repaired.”
    “Repaired, you
say? Hmm. You’d think they could show some courtesy and start a bit later. I
shall have to speak with my cousins about this.” Jeannette sighed. “Well, since
I’m up and not likely to return to sleep, I suppose you may as well help me
dress.”
    “Very good, my
lady,” Betsy said, dipping into a curtsey.
    Half an hour
later, still weary but feeling more herself in an exquisite day dress of pale
pink spotted muslin and a sweet pair of primrose-colored slippers that she
couldn’t help but admire as she walked, Jeannette made her way through the
house in search of the morning room. Since this was her first day in residence
and she was awake so early, she decided she would break her fast with her
cousins, who she was informed dined nearly every morning around this hour.
    The house was
large—though not as large as her father’s house in Surrey—and done in the
Palladian style that had been all the rage during the previous century. For her
part, she found the architecture rather austere, with far too many unforgiving
lines. Walking past a pair of Doric columns placed for dramatic visual
effect—faux painted to resemble marble, she discovered with a casual touch—she
finally located the morning room.
    The infernal
pounding eased slightly with the blessing of distance.
Heavens, how long
will it go on?
she wondered.
    She found Wilda
seated at a linen-draped dining table, the furniture comfortably arranged for
intimate family occasions. Attired in yet another sadly unfashionable gown, her
cousin resembled a quaint country matron. Her fringe of short, curly white
tresses were tucked beneath a frilly mobcap and lent her a curiously poodlelike
appearance.
    Jeannette hid a
smile at the image.
    At least the
dress’s color wasn’t bad, she decided, the vibrant cornflower blue youthful
enough to bring out the sparkle in her cousin’s gray eyes.
    As Jeannette
crossed the threshold, Wilda laid her knife along the edge of her plate,
strawberry jam shining berry-bright on the golden triangle of toast she held in
her left hand.
    Wilda beamed a
smile. “Oh, good morning. Come in, come in. Do please take a seat.”
    Jeannette
strolled forward and accepted a chair across from the older woman, murmuring a
polite good morning in reply. A footman appeared, teapot in hand. With a silent
nod, she gave her permission for him to serve her. He set a fresh cup and saucer
before her, then poured the tea.
    Her eyebrow went
up of its own volition as she noted the color of the steaming brew—a dark,
nutty brown that resembled coffee far more than tea. Obviously a different
varietal than the pale gold, flower-scented Darjeeling she preferred. An Irish
derivation, she