The old butler quickly went ahead of her, opened the door and announced,
“Lady Eleta, sir.”
Cyril Warner was seated at the writing table that had once been her father’s.
It was a beautiful example of the Regency style and despite herself, because her Papa had always sat at it, Eleta resented seeing Cyril Warner in his place.
He rose slowly to his feet and held out his hand.
“So you are back at last,” he began. “The ship must have been late.”
“I thought we made up for it on the train,” Eleta replied. “But the Channel was rougher than it usually is.”
“Which it should not be at this time of the year,” her Stepfather responded severely.
Buxton had stayed in the room.
“Will your Ladyship have tea in here,” he asked, “or in the drawing room?”
Eleta looked at her stepfather and, before
