“Which Madam Prudence lacks. Dear me!”
“Entirely, sir. I was made for sobriety.”
“It looked excessively like it — back yonder in the coach,” said Sir Anthony, thinking of that shortened sword held to poor Matthew’s throat.
“Needs must when the old gentleman drives,” said Prudence, smiling. “I should like to breed pigs, Sir Anthony, I believe.”
“You shall,” he promised. “I have several pigs down at Wych End.”
The chuckle came, but a grave look followed. “Lud, sir, it’s very well, but you lose your head over this.”
“An enlivening sensation, child.”
“Maybe. But I am not fit to be my Lady Fanshawe.”
The hand closed over her wrist; there was some sternness in the pressure. “It is when you talk in that vein that I can find it in me to be angry with you, Prudence.”
“Behold me in a terror. But I speak only the truth, sir. I wish you would think on it. One day I will tell you the tale of my life.”