by Deb Marlowe
Penelope exchanged glances with the countess. Having him along would hinder their chance of getting Lady Tresham to answer their questions, but truly, there was no polite way to refuse him. Perhaps one of them could get her alone, she mused, as Hope’s footman returned.
“I’m sorry, my lady, but the butler says Lady Tresham does not reside here,” he said, low.
“Not surprised,” James said with a shrug.
“Nonsense.” Hope started toward the door. “Hold a moment,” she called to the butler. “Travers, isn’t it?”
The servant paused. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I took tea here, some months ago. You served us yourself.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “We spoke of Sussex, as you have a brother in a village there.”
“Yes, your ladyship. You have a fine memory.”
“Where is Lady Tresham?” she asked.
“I cannot say. Her ladyship was two tenants ago.”
“Tenants. She rented the place?”
He inclined his head.
“And you’ve no notion where she went, when she left?”
“I’m sorry, I do not.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the solicitor who acts as the agent for the owner would know, but he is currently in Paris, scouting another property for our employer.”
Penelope sighed. Linking her arm with Hope’s she gave the butler their thanks and drew her away. “Come along, then. We know where to go next.”
James stepped up. “Perhaps—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but our day is scheduled,” Hope said firmly. “We have just spent a great deal of time traveling with gentlemen in close quarters and now we have ladies to visit, fripperies and furbelows to purchase, tea to drink and an obscene amount of cake to eat.”
He merely blinked in surprise.
“Sorry, James,” Penelope said. “It is a ladies’ day, and you are not invited.”
The countess climbed into the carriage and turned to smile at him. “Good day to you!”
Penelope waved and they pulled away.
“I do apologize for lying to your cousin, my dear. I fear it was very rude.” The countess wore a suddenly stricken look on her face.
“Not at all, it was very necessary,” she reassured the countess. “I swear, he sticks like a burr, but only when he is not wanted. Now, let us hope that Mr. Simon, our friend from the British Museum, has indeed kept up his friendship with Lady Tresham.”
“My fingers are crossed.” But her friend had gone pale.
“Are you quite all right?” Penelope asked, alarmed.
“I . . . I had the most peculiar feeling, once I mentioned the cake,” Hope confessed. “I shall be fine, I think, if I just sit here quietly for a moment.”
Penelope held her silence as the carriage tooled on. The countess, however, grew paler still and her mouth began to purse up a bit.
“My lady,” she said softly. “Are you unwell?”
“It’s no good,” Hope gasped. “Where are we?”
She had to peer outside. “High Holborne. We just passed Bow Street. Oh! Is that the Bow Street?”
“Yes. Fine. Good. Stick your head outside, will you, my dear, and tell the coachman to turn south toward Leister Square? But take Gerrard Street, north of the square. Number 9.”
The countess held on until the coach finally pulled over, but when she climbed out, she promptly turned away and was sick in the street. The footman looked wildly at Penelope and she could only shrug in answer. “Where are we?” she asked him, low, while she held the countess’s shoulders.
Hope straightened and took the kerchief she offered. “Sterne has his rooms in this building. I’ll just rest here a bit, shall I?”
* * *
* * *
* * *
In the end, Sterne and Whiddon did beat Mr. Goodson to Tensford House, but likely not early enough to suit Tensford’s cook.
The geologist barely noticed the food in front of him, however. He and Tensford were embarked upon a discussion of fossil classifications that even Sterne had to work to follow. He didn’t strain himself, though. He feigned interest, but in reality, he kept one ear trained to the house beyond the breakfast room and wondered if the ladies meant to join them.
When a footman offered to freshen his cup, he quietly asked if the ladies had already breakfasted.
“Very early, indeed, sir,” the servant whispered. They left the house some time ago.”
Staring into his coffee, he felt disappointment settle into his gut. He let it swirl there for a moment before he berated himself. Everything he’d said to Whiddon this morning was true. Miss Munroe was ripe for marriage. He was in no way settled enough to offer it. Seeing her, spending time in her presence, was delicious torture. And he wanted more of it, though he knew it was bad for him. Even though he’d sworn off it.
“Isn’t that right, Sterne?”
He started. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“I was telling Mr. Goodson that Stillwater, who is indeed a member of the Geological Society, has been collecting fossils for years.”
“It’s true,” Sterne confirmed. “Although I’ve always thought it odd that he would not share even a glimpse of his collection.”
“I don’t know the man, as I told your friend.” The geologist nodded to Whiddon, who, ignoring the scientific talk completely, was reading a newspaper. “He’s never come to any of our sponsored events. But after Lord Whiddon asked about him, I did recall that a Mr. Stillwater has written several letters to the board, bemoaning the black market that he believes has sprung up amongst certain enthusiasts.”
“Surely he doesn’t believe the Society would condone such a thing?”
“He seems to think we should be taking stronger steps against it. Although, to be sure, I’m not sure what we could do. Of course, no scholar would indulge in thievery of artifacts, or pay to obtain stolen specimens. True men of science have more character than that—and it is knowledge that we seek.”
“As well as the thrill of the hunt,” Tensford added. “Or I should more accurately say, the anticipation that livens the tedium of the hunt, until we experience the thrill of the find.”
“Very true.” Mr. Goodson’s expression lost focus for a moment. “There’s nothing like that moment of discovery.”
“Yes, but not everyone in the field feels the same way,” Sterne said. “There are men, even in your Society, who would classify themselves as collectors. It’s not scholarship or even the hunt that motivates them—it is possession of the specimens.”
Goodson frowned in disapproval. “It’s a sad fact, in truth. Shameful, but we do indeed have a few members who could be described in such a way.” Realization dawned in his gaze as he looked to the earl. “And you believe it is someone like that who has stolen your specimen?”
Tensford shrugged. “It’s a likely possibility.”
Sterne could see the man growing uncomfortable. “Have you seen the sketches of Tensford’s find? It’s quite unlike anything else I’ve seen.”
The man brightened instantly. “I have not, but I should love to.” He looked to the earl. “Unless you would rather not share them?”
“I’d be happy to.” Tensford stood. “Come to my study and I’ll have them brought down.”
The geologist was greatly restored by the sketches of Tensford’s fish and the ensuing debate on the preservation of spines versus cartilage versus teeth. Sterne waited and watched and judged the moment when the man appeared to have completely relaxed.
“If we were to look in the direction of men who might be deemed collectors rather than scholars, and towards those who might be willing to dabble in the black-market trade of stolen specimens, would you find yourself able to provide a few names for such a list?”
Mr. Goodson sighed and shook his head at the sketch in his hand. “And these measurements are accurate?” he asked Tensford. “It was that big?”
“I made them myself,” the earl confirmed.
“A great loss.” Goods
on sighed. “I am sorry that you endured it.” He thought a moment, then gave a nod. “Yes. Seeing as you are a member yourself, sir, I will consult a few of the other directors and I will come up with a list of names. A short list, it is to be hoped.”
“I shall be very grateful for the assistance,” Tensford told him.
“I suppose it’s time I took my leave, but I thank you gentlemen for a very stimulating morning.”
Tensford saw the man out. When they had gone, Sterne threw himself onto a sofa where Whiddon sat, dozing on the other end. “Good job, man. He was a good contact—and might yet lead to better.”
“How long do you think he will dither?” Whiddon yawned. “And how many names do you think he’ll leave off?”
“We can only hope Tensford has won him over. Goodson seems convinced of his scholarship, at least. That will weigh in his favor.”
Tensford came striding back into the room, his face set in grim lines. “There’s a note from Miss Munroe. Hope has taken ill.”
Sterne was on his feet at once. “Where are they?”
The earl’s brows raised. “It would seem that they’ve taken refuge in your rooms.”
Chapter 6
The landlady of Sterne’s building recognized the countess, thank goodness. She unlocked his apartments for them and helped Penelope get Hope settled on a sofa and even brought up a tea tray.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lewis,” Hope said wearily.
Penelope fixed her friend a cup of heavily sugared tea. The landlady added a dollop of brandy and poured them each a cup, as well. She’d brought in a soft, clean blanket and Penelope thanked the woman profusely as she tucked it around Hope.
“I’ll be fine in a moment, I’m sure,” Hope insisted.
“Was it the bacon, I wonder?” Penelope frowned. “But I ate it as well and I feel fine.”
“I’m sure it’s just the constant motion of the last few days, catching up with me. I don’t feel sick at all, now. I’m just so tired. I’ll close my eyes for a few moments and then we’ll be on our way.”
Penelope walked to the door with the landlady. “You sent the note?”
“I did.” Mrs. Lewis looked back. “The poor dear.”
“Thank you so much, for everything. Let’s just let her sleep until the earl arrives.”
“I’ll keep watch. Just open the door and call if you need anything.”
“Thank you, again.” Penelope quietly closed the door after her. She stood with her back to it for a moment. Hope’s breathing was already deep and even.
She was, to all intents and purposes, alone.
In Sterne’s private rooms.
She held still, waiting for the rush of worry to calm and allowing a slightly guilty sense of excitement to build as she looked around.
It was a fine set of rooms, with high ceilings and long windows that let in plenty of light. The sofa that Hope slumbered on was pulled close to the fire, at an angle. The mantle was substantial and above it hung a lovely portrait done in rich colors. She felt as if she should know the artist, but she didn’t recognize the woman portrayed, her gentle expression gazing out as she held a child close, her face resting on the small, sweet head.
Books lay everywhere, piled on the floor, on a table by the sofa and on a nearby desk. She crossed over and sat there. Someone had spilled ink on the surface, at some time in the past. She traced a finger over the stain, then saw the botanical print she’d given him lying nearby. The ribbon wasn’t tied about it, and she wondered if he’d looked at it and remembered their conversation, as she had.
A small frame caught her eye. It didn’t hold a painting, but what looked to be an old penny, sealed between two panes of glass. Curious, she turned it over, but could not discern anything special about the coin.
Setting it back, she took up a sketch. It showed two men in tunics, brandishing sticks upon which were mounted massive sets of spreading horns. They faced each other, slightly bent at the waist, as if mimicking the clash of two great bucks.
Placing it carefully back, she noted ink and quills and broken bits of wax and untidy piles of parchment, all indications of a lively correspondence, as well as a stack of earmarked books, scribbled notes and what must be a draft of a scholarly article. She didn’t pry into any of it, though, determined to give him the same privacy he had given her when he found her notebook.
Another painting hung next to the desk. This one was a seascape, a beautiful depiction of coastal cliffs, ocean and sky. She went to stand before it, drinking in the details of the lovely scene.
Walking on, she peeked into a bedroom done up in heavy, masculine furniture and heavy brocades. Trying to avoid lingering at the sight of the bed, she noted another door. Dressing room? Servant’s quarters?
She did not enter to find out. Instead, she went to sit in the chair near the sofa. Hope hadn’t stirred. She leaned over to examine the books stacked close at hand and lifted the one on top. It was a volume of Shakespeare. She touched the well-worn cover and let it fall open in her lap.
The Merchant of Venice. Act II, Scene II. Someone had run a dark circle around one line.
It is a wise father that knows his own child.
Penelope rested a hand upon the page, looking around. This was Sterne’s retreat. The place where he came to be . . . himself. It felt warm and full of color and rife with intriguing hints hidden in the flotsam and jetsam of his life. Tilting her head back, she drank it all in, absorbing the atmosphere and thinking about the man who had created it.
When she straightened, Hope was awake and watching her.
“Did you bring me here purposefully?”
Hope curled into her blanket. “I was truly sick,” she objected. “But I confess, when I realized where we were, I made a concerted effort to hang on until we could get here.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “I’ve been so lucky. But not everyone finds the one that fits.”
“Fits?”
“Yes. The right person is like an interlocking piece of a puzzle. All of your edges and oddities and indentations blend perfectly with his. It’s . . . extraordinary. I’d like to see you find someone like that.”
Penelope just closed her eyes and nodded. It sounded . . . like something every woman would wish for.
“Unfortunately, men are contrary,” Hope said, sitting up a little. “And for some reason, the good ones are often a great deal of trouble. You said you didn’t know what you wanted from Sterne. I thought you should take a moment to contemplate it—and this seemed the perfect place for it.” She cleared her throat. “You might also have a good think about what he wants.” She looked around. “The rooms are cozy, but Sterne is complicated. You’ll have to work at it. And you’ll have to decide—Is he worth it, do you think?”
The outer door was flung abruptly open. Tensford rushed in and went straight to his wife. “Are you well? Has the doctor been summoned?”
She began to reassure him, but Penelope’s attention was all on Sterne, who had followed the earl in. He looked first to Hope, then he quickly turned to her.
His worried gaze ran over her. Seeing that she was fine, he broke into a wide smile of relief. It faded after a moment and his gaze darted about, taking in the picture of her, here in his private space. It came back to her then, and in his stance and expression she could see a bit of awkward awareness, and a great blaze of warmth, tenderness and want that triggered an answering twinge of heat, deep inside her.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I do think so, indeed.”
* * *
* * *
* * *
Yes. Just there. Stay. Don’t move.
They were the words foremost in his mind as he stared at Miss Munroe, sitting in his favorite chair. At the same time, he stepped forward, his fingers itching to pull her up and propel her out.
The scientific part of his mind was extremely interested in this odd confluence of emotion. The feeling half of him knew he had to put an end to this before he became
enamored of the extraordinary rightness of her being here, in his sanctuary.
She stood, setting his Shakespeare aside, as Tensford’s tone lowered and grew more urgent. Sterne watched her approach. The light burrowed into her dark hair even as his heart thundered with each step that brought her closer.
“Let’s give them a bit of privacy,” she whispered as she drew close. He stared down at her until she nudged him. “Mr. Sterne? Can we take a stroll in the passage outside, perhaps?”
“What? Oh, yes.” He glanced toward Tensford, who was leaning perilously close to his wife, and wrenched the door open. Closing it in a gentler fashion, he offered Miss Monroe his arm and steered her away from the stairwell and towards the tall window at the end of the corridor.
The view was of the street below. He peered down. “Has the carriage arrived? We left it behind when it was blocked by an accident in the street. There was no keeping Tensford inside, sitting still.”
He glanced over and saw she was staring at him, rather than the view.
He turned to face her. For a moment, as the street noise faded and the homely sounds of Mrs. Lewis sweeping the downstairs entry hall disappeared, they were alone together, caught in a bubble of perfect of awareness.
He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth. That smaller top lip, out of balance, but perched so perfectly on the lower, plumper lip . . . if he kissed just the top, felt that petal softness, caressed it with his own mouth . . . would it swell a little? Make a more even pairing?
“Do you know,” she said absently. “I think if I had a right-angle square, I could use your nose as the hypotenuse of a triangle.”
“What?” He touched his nose. “Yes, well, I suppose it is rather long and—”
“Splendid,” she interrupted, her gaze still focused intently. “It is straight and strong and rather . . . perfect.” She blinked suddenly and her gaze darted away. “For your face, I meant, of course. Wonderfully proportionate.”
“Thank you. I think.”