Buried Secrets by Anne Barbour Page B

repairing lease in the country. He turned to Miss Tate.
    “Since you are far more familiar with the terrain, hereabouts, perhaps you will choose our itinerary.”
    “Certainly, my lord. Would you—”
    “Please, Miss Tate, I am called Cordray by most of my acquaintances, and my friends call me Cord. I hope I can count you among the latter.”
    Gillian laughed. “But we hardly know each other.”
    “Yes,” replied Cord gravely, “however, one can sense these things. I feel myself in the presence of a kindred spirit.”
    Miss Tate laughed again, but Cord realized with some surprise that the words he had just spoken were true. He always responded to the presence of an attractive female, but Miss Tate, with her speaking gray eyes and her engaging smile was something quite special. From their first encounter, he had felt a rapport that he seldom experienced with a woman. To be sure, he liked women. He enjoyed women—in every sense of the word—but one did not ordinarily make friends with one of that sex whose minds rarely rose above the state of her wardrobe or the latest on dits. One engaged in frivolous chatter, or perhaps a judicious bit of dalliance. Might Miss Tate, he wondered, be interested in the latter? Judicious or otherwise? Undoubtedly, it would be interesting to find out, but he rather thought such a plan would have to be contrived with extraordinary finesse.
    “Very well . . . Cord . . . would you like a tour of your own estate, or would you prefer to travel farther afield—to Cambridge, perhaps?”
    Cord noted that she had omitted an invitation to make use of her first name as well. Finesse, indeed.
    “Well, Madame Guide, I should like to start out with a short jaunt over the immediate grounds, with perhaps a foray through Great Shelford. I’m reasonably familiar with Cambridge, so perhaps we could save that for another day—with luncheon at the Pelican?
    “Yes,” Miss Tate replied somewhat distantly, “perhaps.”
    Mmm, mused Cord, mentally discarding the finesse concept. A full-blown siege now appeared in order.
    Gillian smiled inwardly. The predator in Lord Cordray that she had sensed on their first meeting was definitely on the prowl. If the man were possessed of a tail, it would be twitching in anticipation. Ah well, she liked the earl, and she was always up to a challenge. It should prove amusing to match wits with him.
    An hour or so later, they had ridden to the limits of the Wildehaven Home Farm. Gillian pointed out the various tenantries as they moved past fields of freshly tilled earth.
    “The ground is still too wet for sowing, but some plowing has been done. As you no doubt know, these fields will be producing oats and barley and those over there, hops.” She gestured toward a cluster of distant groves. “Most of the fruit trees have budded and soon will be in full bloom.”
    Cord smiled. “You seem remarkably knowledgeable about my estate’s crop production.”
    “Ah, well, I have lived in the Cottage for three years now, and have become well acquainted with most of your tenants, as well as Mr. Jilbert, of course, who frequently stops in to chat with Uncle Henry.” She cast a glance at him from beneath her lashes. “Of course, all your activities are of extreme interest around here.”
    Cord’s brows lifted. “Really!”
    “Why, yes, the doings of the lord of the manor must be the primary topic of conversation at the greengrocer’s and the local ale shop—and now that the lord has descended from the lofty heights of the London social scene for a visit to this, the most minor of his establishments, the village is absolutely abuzz.”
    “I see.”
    The earl’s tone was so colorless that Gillian was unable to ascertain the effect on him of this information. She proceeded cautiously.
    “For example, there has been much conjecture at your arriving alone, without a party of guests. Of course, there is little to offer in the way of entertainment at this time of year. So, the