“You seem to me eminently capable of telling him yourself, my dear Delia. I hardly think you need my intervention.”
“No, she doesn’t, sir. She’s more than capable of keeping me in my place. Which is why —”
He broke off as the door opened, and Delia was left wondering, in some agitation, what he had been about to say.
The elderly butler who had let them into the house entered the room. “Supper is served in the breakfast parlour, sir.”
He was looking at Giff as he spoke, and Delia could not help wondering how soon the servants might transfer allegiance. He was evidently not yet ‘my lord’ in their eyes.
“Thank you, Dunford. Shall we?”
The room designated, with a cold supper of a number of dishes and delicacies laid out on the cloth of a round table, was an apartment about the size of the cosy parlour. Candelabra on the sideboard and mantel provided light enough to see what was on offer. Delia accepted a helping of cold roast beef and a portion of sliced pie, but was too much on tenterhooks to eat a great deal. In the presence of the servants, conversation was stilted and confined to generalities.
Her surreptitious attention held on Giff while she toyed with a tartlet. Was he merely thoughtful? Was it fanciful of her to think him subdued? There could be no doubt something was preying on his mind. Several times he cast a distasteful glance at the panelled walls, adorned only with a couple of paintings depicting rural scenes.
Delia was grateful to the Reverend Gaunt, who kept up a more or less one-sided conversation, dredging up a story of one of his parishioners to which Delia paid little heed. She was pretty sure Giff heard nothing of it.
The repast at an end, she was glad to rise, and relieved when neither gentleman tarried.
“Let us accompany Delia, my dear Giffard. There can be no occasion to sit over wine at this juncture.”
Giff blinked and seemed to shake himself out of abstraction. “No. I mean, yes, I am with you.”
Delia had taken the rector’s proffered arm and was aware of Giff following as the butler led them back to the cosy parlour. The Reverend Gaunt settled her on a small sofa at a little remove from the fire and himself took the chair he’d previously occupied.
Giff hovered for a moment, his gaze on the butler. The man was pouring from a decanter into one of two glasses brought on a tray by the footman who had assisted him to serve supper. Evidently, Dunford’s punctiliousness did not allow him to omit the port.
The filled glasses were presented on a silver tray, and Giff’s impatience was clear in the way he swiped the glass off it.
“If you will ring when miss requires tea, sir, it will be brought directly.”
“Yes, very well,” Giff snapped. “That will be all.”
As the butler, looking offended, bowed and withdrew with his acolyte, Delia glanced up and caught Giff’s eye. He gave her a swift smile and took the seat beside her. The rhythm of her pulse at once became uneven.
“Thank the Lord we have a moment to ourselves at last,” he said, as soon as the door was closed. “I’ve got to talk to the both of you, for I’m in a hellish quandary.”
The rector paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “About Piers?”
“Mainly about Piers. But also about what I’m going to do. I can’t decide that, however, until I’ve settled what to do with Piers.”
Delia, turning to sit sideways, regarded him in some confusion. “But why should you do anything with him? Once he is ousted for good, he will cease to be your concern, Giff.”
To her dismay, his face took on a look of utter distress. “It is my concern, and I can’t ignore it.” He glanced from her to his uncle. “This is for your ears only, both of you. It’s to go no further.”
“What can you mean, Giff? Is this something horrid?”
“Horrid enough to change everything. Piers is my half-brother.”
Too stunned to reply, Delia merely stared at him. The image of Piers’s face leapt into her head and the notion at once made sense. Before she could say as much, the rector spoke.
“Do you know this for a fact, Giffard? Or is it another ploy by Piers?”
“By no means. He took umbrage when I taxed him with it, blustering about his mother’s honour. But he didn’t deny it.”
“And you take that for proof? When you know the man has always an eye to the main chance?”
“It’s not as simple as that, sir. Look at the way my father used him, as if he was indeed his son. And Hammersley supplied the clincher, if I needed convincing.”