“Oh, Sir Peter, you are brutal!” came the choking reproof from the pillow.
“Drat it, lass, what are you blubbering for? There’s no great harm done, eh? Lot will see to the Hardacre honor.”
Miss Hardacre’s sobs seemed to grow less hysterical. She thrust a bare arm out of the bed, a wealth of lace hanging about the elbow. Sir Peter, who looked hot, angry, and unhappy, was at some pains to console his daughter. He took her hand and patted it parentally.
“There, there, lass; what shall we do for ye, eh?”
“Tell Lot—”
“Tell Lot. What am I to tell Lot, eh?”
“Not to quarrel with poor Richard—”
“Damn the lad, Jilian, don’t you take on so. Richard Jeffray’s a little gentleman, and I’ll take my immortal oath that it was all that old she-dog’s doing. Lot is for riding to Rodenham to demand an explanation.”
Miss Hardacre pressed her father’s hand and mopped her eyes with her lace handkerchief. Her bones showed somewhat at the base of her neck, and she looked less plump when unadorned.
“La, Sir Peter, I am very miserable,” she whimpered. “Richard and I were so happy together last night. Why should that old woman try to spoil our happiness? It was cruel of her, sir, to bring that painter fellow to Hardacre. Such an old affair, too; I was only a silly child then.”