by Cara Elliott
In spite of himself, Gryff let out a harried laugh. “Unfortunately, you are right. Trust me, I had no intention of getting into trouble.” Trouble—that word was beginning to haunt him. “But I did.”
“This is beginning to get moderately interesting,” remarked his friend. “Go on.”
“You will probably think that I am making it up if I tell you the truth of it,” muttered Gryff.
“Better and better.” Cameron stretched out his legs and crossed one elegantly shod foot over the other. “I am waiting.”
Gryff shook his head. “Bloody hell, Cam. You know that honor forbids a gentleman from discussing any intimacies with a lady.”
“I should love to hear all the delicious details, but of course, the widow deserves her privacy.” Cameron tapped his fingertips together. “And you are feeling a trifle guilty because of whatever happened between you?”
A gruff nod.
“Yet I am assuming that she was not an unwilling participant in any amorous act.”
“No. But…”
“But what? Sara described Lady Brentford as a very intrepid, intelligent female. I doubt she would appreciate your patronizing attitude.”
“Patronizing?” sputtered Gryff.
“Yes, patronizing,” replied his friend flatly. “Give her a little credit for being able to decide what she does and does not want. It sounds to me like she might be heartily sick of men controlling her life.”
He blinked.
“It’s not as if she were a virgin,” pointed out Cameron. “Had you deflowered the young lady, it would, of course, make matters much more complicated. But a widow is allowed to take a lover, if she is discreet.”
“I know, I know. She did say that she had seen a penis before.” He flashed a wry grimace. “Though not a tattoo.”
“Found it fascinating, did she?”
“She said that she admired the artist’s skill.” Gryff rose brusquely as a servant brought in the tea tray, suddenly anxious to wash the sour taste from his mouth. “Look,” he said gruffly, once they were alone again. “However we might jest about the subject, and however she may say that the interlude is best forgotten by both of us, I still can’t shake off the feeling that my behavior was less than honorable.”
“In what way?”
“I…I can’t really put it in words.”
“How odd. Your essays display a great deal of eloquence on the subject of emotions.”
Gryff darted an involuntary glance at his desk, where the drafts of his recent writings lay atop the blotter. “Damnation, you ought not be poking your nose in my private things,” he muttered, though in truth he was rather touched by the praise. Cameron rarely expressed anything other than biting sarcasm.
“Yes, well, the Hellhounds are not known for paying much attention to the strictures of Polite Society.”
“That seems a rather self-serving excuse, don’t you think?” he muttered, though the scolding was meant more for himself than for his friend.
Cameron didn’t reply right away. Pushing back his chair, he went to pour himself a glass of port. “Forgive me, but if we are going to discuss morality, I find myself in need of something a little more fortifying than tea.”
Cradling his cup between his palms, Gryff fixed a brooding stare at the burning logs in the hearth. The cracking seemed a chorus of chidings. Even the tiny tongues of fire seemed to be growing more and more vociferous in reproach.
His friend came to lean a hand on the mantel, and as he stood in profile, the fire cast light and dark flickers over his features. “Now, assuming your question wasn’t simply rhetorical, I’ll give you an answer.” His expression turned even more pensive. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It is not easy for a man to change.”
“Is that spoken from experience?”
Cameron’s mouth formed an ironic curl. “Of a sort.”
Gryff released a pent-up breath, the small sound echoing the stirring of the ashes. “Why are you so deucedly determined to be cryptic?”
A brusque wave deflected the retort. “This isn’t about me.” Then in a moment of candor that took Gryff by surprise, his friend added, “I’ve plenty of foibles, but unlike you, I’m not eager to address them at this moment.” The shadows dipped and Cameron’s eyes lit again with their usual glint of mocking detachment. “You’ve talked about your feelings. But what did the lady have to say when you saw her this morning?”
“I didn’t see her right away,” replied Gryff. “She left to visit a friend before I could arrange a chance to speak with her.”
“But I take it you pursued the matter?”
He nodded. “I—I didn’t plan to at first. But then it seemed cowardly to simply slink on back to Town.”
“So you managed to have a tête-à-tête.” A pause. “Or perhaps you put together other bodily parts—”
A warning growl cut off Cameron’s quip.
“Yes, we talked,” he went on. “But it would be ungentlemanly of me to reveal any of the particulars.”
“Do you plan to see her again?”
“I—I haven’t decided. Even if I do, she’s made it clear that…” Suddenly anxious to change the subject, Gryff broke off in mid-sentence as his wandering gaze fell on the open book of engravings. “I trust that you are not thinking of taking that with you. It’s a very valuable edition, and I frequently use it for reference.” He scowled. “Place your purloining paws elsewhere if you are in need of funds.”
“I was merely having a look,” answered Cameron. “I saw a similar volume the other day and wished to confirm that my instincts were correct.”
“Where?” asked Gryff. “There are very few in existence.”
“At one of my dealers.”
“You mean a flash house?” he pressed, referring to a place where thieves brought their stolen items to sell.
“Yes, if you must know. A fellow wanted to sell it to me, along with several other items. I wasn’t overly interested, but the incident piqued my curiosity.”
“In what way?” asked Gryff.
“Oh, just a few little details that would be meaningless to you,” answered Cameron vaguely. He set down his glass of port and slowly walked back to the worktable.
Pages riffled, releasing the pungent scent of printing ink and old paper into the air.
Soothing smells. Unlike the seductive whiff of feminine florals that had been teasing at his nostrils for much of the day. Damnation, the perfume of Lady Brentford must contain some secret ingredient more intoxicating than drink, for it had left his wits feeling strangely fuzzed.
Another deep inhale of the familiar library scents helped clear his head. Books—they reminded Gryff that he wanted to pay a visit to Watkins & Harold as soon as possible. He was anxious to learn whether the unknown artist had accepted the commission to illustrate his essays. Not that he intended to take “no” for an answer. Over the last few days, the sample sketch had grown dog-eared from constant handling. The more he looked at it, the more he was sure that style was a perfect match for his words.
Oddly enough, the artist seemed to understand his feelings for nature even better than he did.
And so he was determined to make the match. Every man—or woman—had a price, thought Gryff sardonically. He was wealthy enough to afford whatever it might be.
An abrupt question from Cameron drew him back to a less pleasant subject. “By the by, how well do you know Lord Leete?”
“Curse it, I don’t know him bloody well at all.” He rubbed at his temples, feeling a dull throb begin to twitch beneath his fingertips. “Look, even at the best of times, your convoluted questions tend to make my head ache. If you’ve something specific to ask about the fellow, go ahead. Otherwise, I wish to change out of my wet clothes and pay a visit to my publisher.”
“It’s not important,” said his friend with a nonchalant shrug. “Run along and seek solace in your pastoral pursuits.” A pause. “Maybe next time you should make love to the lady in a garden. A ray of suns
hine might rub off.”
“Arse,” he grumbled. “I assure you, come rain or shine, it’s highly unlikely that there will be a next time.”
Clip. Clip. Eliza lowered the blades for a moment to dab the beading of sweat from her brow. The glare of the sun had seemed to bring all her worries into brighter focus. Clip, clip. If only she could cut off Harry’s fingers, so he could not hold cards or throw dice. Clip, clip. Or maybe some other appendage should be first to go, she thought ruthlessly, suddenly recalling the bill she had seen for some fancy bauble purchased at Rundell and Briggs.
Clip. Clip. And while she was at it, if only she could cut off this cursed, crazy longing that stirred inside her. Haddan was a Hellhound. And the fact that he made her want to descend to the Devil’s own Lair of Depravity with him was a little frightening.
“Perhaps you ought to move on to another bush,” said Augustina dryly. “Before that one is reduced to a stubble.”
“Sorry. I was thinking of Harry, and yet another asinine expense he’s made. A sapphire bracelet, which I assume went to some opera dancer.” She grimaced. “No matter what I say, he seems oblivious to the fact that we are sailing down the River Tick, and the bilges are fast filling with water.”
“That’s because he expects you to bail him out, as you usually do.”
“It’s not as if I’ve had much choice,” replied Eliza. “I love the Abbey, and cannot bear to let it sink into utter ruin. I’ve no other home.” She stopped there, afraid of turning too maudlin. Indifferent parents, a stranger for a husband—in truth, she had never felt truly welcome anywhere. A home should hold warmth, laughter. Love.
“Since you are asking about choices…” Augustina stepped into the shade. “I do hope you are not considering sacrificing your future to Sir Brighton.”
Eliza turned away to watch a bee buzz around the fragrant petals of a honeysuckle vine.
If only there were a patch of hellebores to stare at, she thought wryly. Which in the secret speech of flowers meant “relieve my anxiety.”
Instead, her gaze strayed to a flash of geranium red—which cheerfully shouted out “Folly! Stupidity!”
But it also meant “true friend,” Eliza reminded herself.
Ha! She quickly quashed the thought with a silent scoff. As if Haddan had formed any sort of lasting attachment to her.
“My dear,” said Augustina, interrupting her musing on botanical language. “I feel that I must speak up. I stood aside in silence the first time you let your family barter your happiness to fill their coffers. It was not my place to voice an objection when your father was alive. But now, I feel no compunction to keep quiet.”
A lump in her throat kept Eliza from responding.
“You were unhappy with Brentford,” pressed on Augustina. “You would be even more miserable with Brighton.” The cuttings crackled underfoot as she shifted her stance. “From what I have heard, he’s a lout and a bully.”
“I—I can deal with that, if need be,” she managed to whisper. “I need not look to a husband for happiness. I have my art.”
“And what if he takes that away?” demanded her friend. “He can, you know. He would be well within his rights to toss your paints and papers into the fire.”
“I know, I know. I’m not a complete ninnyhammer.” Despite the sunlight, she felt a chill settle in at the nape of her neck. “For some time now, I’ve realized that much as I love Leete Abbey, it is not mine to protect. And so, I…” She swallowed the hitch in her voice. “I have been working on a plan to make myself independent from Harry and his wheedling. But I’m not yet in a financial position to act on it. Perhaps after another few commissions.”
Assuming her brother hadn’t added any major expenditure to the growing pile of debts.
“I’ve just been offered a very lucrative one,” she went on. “And if I pinch pennies very carefully, it will bring me very close to my goal.”
“Which is?” asked Augustina.
Eliza hesitated. She had refrained from talking about her dream, even with her closest friend, for fear that giving voice to it might cast some black magic spell over it. Shadows and superstitions. But she was tired of living in constant trepidation, of tiptoeing in silence, hoping some silly talisman would ward off disaster.
Augustina is right—it’s time I paint in the colors of my future with my own brush.
Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I have been saving a portion of my earnings and investing it with Mr. Martin, that very nice man of affairs who is a member of our Horticulture Society. We have worked out how much I need to purchase a small cottage in the Lake District.” A remote spot, far, far away from Harry’s whining. “And to have enough left over to live on.” Closing her eyes, she could see the subtle hues of a mountain sunset dancing over the wind-whipped lake waters. “Once I have that amount in my account, and combine it with my income from art, I should be able to make it work.”
“Hooray for you,” applauded her friend. “I’m delighted that you shall finally profit from your own talents, rather than allow Harry to keep gobbling them up.”
“As of yet, I have not earned enough, so let us not celebrate too soon,” she cautioned.
“I have every confidence in your abilities, my dear.” Augustina swatted a fly from the brim of her straw hat. “You know,” she added a softer tone. “Even if you don’t get that commission, Sir Brighton need never be an option. You are always welcome to come live with me.”
It was a lovely offer, and the sentiment sent Eliza’s heart skidding up against her ribs. Love—she had experienced so little of it in her life. Crooking a smile, she looked around at the snug little cottage and well-tended garden, still enchantingly lovely despite her earlier hackings. “It’s a beautiful offer, Gussie. And I’m profoundly grateful.”
But it was a tiny space, and she knew that the elderly spinster subsisted on a very modest income. No matter how close their friendship, such tight quarters might cause them to rub together a little too closely. The idea of anything fraying their special friendship was unbearable. Besides, she was tired of always living as someone else’s dependent.
Freedom to be herself, independence to make her own decisions.
In a flash of awareness, bright as the afternoon sun, Eliza suddenly realized that she was willing to fight tooth and nail to have what she wanted.
“However, I have decided on what I want, and I mean to have it.” The assertion was profoundly liberating. She felt the knot in her chest unravel and the skeins of worry float off in the scudding breeze.
“That’s the spirit,” said Augustina. “It’s time you took your own happiness to heart.”
“No, I have not yet heard an answer, milord.”
“No answer?” Gryff frowned. “The remuneration we are offering is generous, is it not, Watkins?”
“Extremely generous, milord,” assured the publisher. “It’s just that this particular artist can be somewhat eccentric.”
The furrow in his brow deepened. That news did not bode well for a smooth working relationship.
“No, no.” Watkins hastily corrected himself on seeing the marquess’s expression. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It sometimes takes longer than usual to hear a reply, for the artist can be a trifle eccentric about what projects to accept. But once a commission has been agreed on, Linden is completely reliable.”
Linden. The small, elegant signature in the corner of the watercolor had been bedeviling his thoughts for days.
“Who is this cursed Linden?” he growled. “A man? A woman? A pixie from the primeval forest?”
“Please don’t ask me to betray a confidence, milord.” Watkins eyed him unhappily. “You have asked me to protect your own privacy, and would not want me to renege on my promise.”
Gryff could not argue that point. There were, he knew, any number of reasons why a person might wish to use a pen name. Bloody hell, for all he knew, this fellow Linden might be a member of his club, and just as anxious t
o keep his artistic sensibilities a secret for now.
“Very well,” he conceded, expelling a sharp sigh. “I shall not badger you about that. But I do expect you to do your utmost to convince the shadowy specter to accept the job. The style is perfect.”
“That it is, milord. I shall send another letter, with a lengthy explanation on why I think the project is a perfect collaboration, and will result in a magnificent book.”
“Sweeten the pot, if you wish,” said Gryff. “Money is no object.”
The publisher nodded. “That may have some bearing.”
“What about a face-to-face meeting?” He was reluctant to reveal his identity at this point, but if his title and position in Society might help influence Linden’s decision, he was willing to set aside his scruples. “Let us be frank—many people are swayed by superficial things like rank and wealth.”
The publisher’s face went through a series of odd little contortions. “I shall be frank as well, milord. That would not be a good idea. In fact, it might do more harm than good.”
The response was not what he expected. “Has Linden a dislike of me personally? Are we acquainted?” Gryff wracked his brain, trying to recall a Linden from his Eton or Oxford days, but came up blank. Perhaps a check of his Debrett’s when he got home would refresh his memory.
“Not that I know of,” answered Watkins, looking even more uncomfortable. “Let us just say that Linden has no great love for Tulips of the ton.” A discreet cough. “Not,” he added hastily, “that I mean to cast any aspersions on your character, milord. But from reading the newspapers and scandal sheets, one might, er, easily get the wrong impression of your character.”
“You need not cringe behind your desk, Watkins. I am not about to leap like a rabid cur over that stack of galley proofs and bite your head off for saying the truth.”
No matter that the truth stung more than he cared to admit.
“I shall leave it to you to decide the best way to proceed,” added Gryff as he rose and began to pace along the line of bookshelves. It was damned unnerving, this compelling need that was gnawing at his insides. He felt like a hungry dog who had spotted a juicy bone, only to have it whisked away at the last moment from his open jaws.