He had yet to ask Audrey what it had been like for John the last few days of his life . . . what his last words had been.

Beatrix Hathaway had been right when she’d guessed that John’s death hadn’t been real to him until he’d come home.

As they went through the forest, Albert bounded this way and that, foraging through the bracken. Christopher felt morose and restless as he anticipated his welcome—or lack thereof—when he arrived at Ramsay House. No doubt Beatrix had told her family about his ungentlemanly behavior. They would be angry with him, rightfully so. It was common knowledge that the Hathaway family was a close-knit, clannish group, fiercely protective of each other. And they had to be, with a pair of Romany brothers-in-law, not to mention their own lack of blood and breeding.

It was only the peerage title, held by Leo, Lord Ramsay, that afforded the family any social foothold whatsoever. Fortunately for them, they were received by Lord Westcliff, one of the most powerful and respected peers of the realm. That connection gave them entrée into circles that otherwise would have excluded them. However, what annoyed the local gentry was that the Hathaways didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

As he approached Ramsay House, Christopher wondered what the devil he was doing, calling on the Hathaways unannounced. It probably wasn’t a proper visiting day, and certainly not an appropriate time. But he rather doubted they would notice.

The Ramsay estate was small but productive, with three thousand acres of arable land and two hundred prosperous tenant farms. In addition, the estate possessed a large forest that yielded a lucrative annual timber yield. The charming and distinctive roofline of the manor home came into view, a central medieval dormer sided by rows of high peaked gables, Jacobean pierced crestings and strap work, and a tidy square Georgian addition to the left. The effect of mixed architectural features wasn’t all that unusual. Many older homes featured additions in a variety of styles. But since this was the Hathaway family, it only seemed to underscore their strangeness.

Christopher put Albert on a leash and proceeded to the entrance of the house with a little stab of dread.

If he were fortunate, no one would be available to receive him.

After tying Albert’s leash to a slender porch column, Christopher knocked at the door and waited tensely.

He reared back as the portal was flung open by a frantic-faced housekeeper.

“I beg your pardon, sir, we’re in the middle of—” She paused at the sound of porcelain crashing from somewhere inside the house. “Oh, merciful Lord,” she moaned, and gestured to the front parlor. “Wait there if you please, and—”

“I’ve got her,” a masculine voice called. And then, “Damn it, no I don’t. She’s heading for the stairs.”

“Do not let her come upstairs!” a woman screamed. A baby was crying in strident gusts. “Oh, that dratted creature has woken the baby. Where are the housemaids?”

“Hiding, I expect.”

Christopher hesitated in the entryway, blinking as he heard a bleating noise. He asked the housekeeper blankly, “Are they keeping farm animals in here?”

“No, of course not,” she said hastily, trying to push him into the parlor. “That’s . . . a baby crying. Yes. A baby.”

“It doesn’t sound like one,” he said.

Christopher heard Albert barking from the porch. A three-legged cat came streaking through the hallway, followed by a bristling hedgehog that scuttled a great deal faster than one might have expected. The housekeeper hastened after them.

“Pandora, come back here!” came a new voice—Beatrix Hathaway’s voice—and Christopher’s senses sparked in recognition. He twitched uneasily at the commotion, his reflexes urging him to take some kind of action, although he wasn’t yet certain what the bloody hell was going on.

A large white goat came leaping and capering and twisting through the hallway.

And then Beatrix Hathaway appeared, tearing around the corner. She skidded to a halt. “You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Miss Hathaway—” he began.

“Hold this.”

Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat.

Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots.

Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand.

“I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats . . .”

“I have her!” the masculine voice called out. “Beatrix, I told you the pen needed to be made taller.”

“She didn’t leap over it,” came Beatrix’s protest, “she ate through it.”

“Who let her into the house?”

“No one. She butted one of the side doors open.”

An inaudible conversation followed.

As Christopher waited, a dark-haired boy of approximately four or five years of age made a breathless entrance through the front door. He was carrying a wooden sword and had tied a handkerchief around his head, which gave him the appearance of a miniature pirate. “Did they catch the goat?” he asked Christopher without preamble.