Her petty jealousies forgotten, Delia watched Giff’s antics with different eyes. Yes, he was making himself agreeable to everyone. Making himself as visible as he could.
All at once, she noticed Giff looking towards the entrance. He gave a nod and turned away. Delia’s gaze followed where his eyes had led and discovered an oddity. A man in foreign clothes and wearing a turban? She was close enough to see that he was elderly. An Indian? This must be the fellow he said was watching Sam and Barney as they watched her. He’d planted his own spy in the town!
Within a very few minutes, Giff was seen to be making his farewells. He passed by where Delia and her aunt were situated, bowing. “I must say goodnight, ma’am. My servant awaits to see me to my lodging.”
Lady Matterson looked towards the Indian, whom she’d evidently also seen, and inclined her head. She gave him one of her sceptical looks. “Very wise, sir. The Weymouth streets are notoriously dangerous.”
Giff laughed. “Hardly, ma’am. But Sattar knows the way and I do not. I gather we were too late to find a more central establishment.”
“Then the matter becomes comprehensible.”
But her aunt’s tone remained all too knowing, and Delia winced inwardly. She must somehow have given herself away.
“Miss Burloyne, your servant.” A brief and conspiratorial wink was cast upon her. “Until the morrow.”
Delia felt the warmth rise into her cheeks and could willingly have hit him. She spoke as repressively as she could. “We must hope the weather holds. Until tomorrow, sir.”
Next moment he was gone. Only then did it strike Delia that her aunt had spoken nothing but the truth, albeit with sarcasm. Giff’s Indian servant, who looked to be sturdily strong despite his years, was with him for protection. A stab in the dark was all it might take.
CHAPTER TEN
Finding means to slip away from the party at Sandsfoot Castle proved easier than Giff had anticipated. The flip side of the coin to flaunting his presence last evening was the difficulty of finding himself too much surrounded. He was glad he’d had the forethought to ride Tiger instead of allowing himself to be inconveniently placed by the battle-axe who ushered the party into the carriages in divisions of her own making.
Young Lord Tarporley, a pleasant fellow if a trifle raw, had also elected to ride. Giff thus had an excellent excuse to converse with him as they ambled along behind the carriages rather than singling out his flower girl too soon.
Delia was situated alongside some chit who was recovering from a sprained ankle. An excellent turn since she was unlikely to do much walking and could not delay a bid to escape.
“I did not think to bring my groom,” commented Tarporley.
Giff looked back at Sattar’s tall figure riding at a discreet distance in the rear. He maintained a non-committal tone. “No?”
The young man coloured. “I mean no offence, sir.”
“None taken.”
“It’s just that I supposed there are grooms enough with the carriages to take care of the horses while we explore.”
“True. Sattar is more henchman than groom, however, and will have it I am not fit to be allowed out on my own.”
It was merely an excuse, but Tarporley chose to take it up. “He’s been with you a long time?”
“All my life.”
“Ah, that type of retainer, eh?” Tarporley gave a despairing sigh. “I have a nurse of that cut. She cannot be persuaded I am a man grown and insists upon treating me as if I were two instead of twenty.”
Giff eyed him. “You’ve inherited your title young, I take it?”
“My father died when I was a boy. But I’ve more or less taken over from my trustees, thank the lord! My uncles are quite as bad as my nurse, I may say.”
Giff laughed. “I’m sorry for you, then. Do they scold and prophesy disaster if you are left to your own devices?”
“Not quite. But everything I suggest is subject to a catechism as if I must pass a test before I may make a decision.”
“Good God! You’d best tell your uncles to go hang themselves!”
“I wish I might! Only I can’t deny they have kept my estates in excellent heart. And prevented that fellow Gaunt from encroaching upon my lands.”
His tone was disgruntled, but the name was enough to send the blood rushing through Giff’s veins. It was out before he could prevent the words. “Do you mean Piers Gaunt? Of Waldiche Keep?”