by Jen Turano
It was a blessing to find true friends in life, and here he was surrounded by exactly that. There were no differences of opinions, or trying to impress anyone with the successes any of them had achieved. There was only laugher, many stories, and a feeling of comradery.
As the next course was served, that one being the meat course that consisted of a filet of beef in a champagne sauce, he was suddenly struck by what Edwina had said to him—that he should consider ways to stay in New York.
Quite frankly, he didn’t want to abandon his life in New York, nor did he want to live his life as an earl.
The problem, though, was that he was not a gentleman to shirk a responsibility, but . . . perhaps there was someone out there who’d welcome the opportunity to inherit a title, some distant relative he’d never met, but one whose life could be changed for the better if . . .
“Is something the matter?” Temperance whispered, leaning close to him.
He smiled. “Not at all. I’m simply trying to puzzle something out, something that could very well solve the dilemma of . . . well, no need to get into that right now. I haven’t figured out all the particulars.” He returned to slicing up his beef, trying to suppress a grin when he felt Temperance begin to bristle with annoyance.
“Puzzle what out? What particulars?” she pressed, a hint of impatience in her voice.
“If I’m successful with my puzzling, I’ll tell you, but until then, mum’s the word.”
“Does this have something to do with how you’re going to go about convincing me to become your countess?”
“Not at all.”
“Surely you’re not going to leave the conversation there, are you? You must recall that I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to linger in the dark for now, because, yes, I’m leaving the conversation exactly there.” He sent her a smile, one she returned with a scowl. Finding the scowl utterly charming, he returned to the excellent piece of beef he’d been served, feeling, surprisingly enough, as if his future was suddenly going to be more promising than expected.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
THE NEXT AFTERNOON
Temperance had never considered herself a violent type, but she was rapidly concluding that if Gilbert didn’t expand on whatever it was he was apparently still trying to puzzle out, she might reconsider her position on that subject.
It was maddening not knowing what he was thinking, and add in the pesky idea he’d not bothered to try to badger her into becoming his countess even one little time since the dinner the night before at the ball, and . . . well . . . she found herself completely unsettled.
She’d actually been giving a lot of thought to the idea of becoming a countess, or rather, his countess. And even knowing she’d have to give up the life she was just now coming to love, the thought of continuing that life without Gilbert was more than depressing.
“Come see my progress with painting the ocean,” Gilbert called.
She set down her paintbrush and took a second to tuck a strand of hair that was flying every which way due to the stiff ocean breeze behind her ear.
Stomping her way through sand that was cool on her bare feet toward where Gilbert had set up his easel, she felt a bit of her annoyance slide away.
There was something wonderful about being whisked off unexpectedly to the seaside, although she was certainly confused why Gilbert would have arranged a surprise trip for her in the first place, given that he seemed to have changed his mind about marrying her.
It could have almost been considered a romantic gesture, something she’d not believed him capable of, except that they were surrounded by guards. Those guards were dressed for a day at the beach, wearing casual trousers and striped short-sleeved shirts and adopting carefree attitudes. As they ambled around, they hoped to be taken for gentlemen out for a day of sun, even though their real purpose was to protect her and Gilbert if someone of the criminal sort had plans to launch another attack.
It was comforting to know that the Pinkerton agents were now focusing their attention on trying to track down Mr. Howland, her father’s attorney. He was at the top of their list of suspects who might be behind the attacks. But since there had been no success tracking him down, the man having disappeared into thin air, she’d not balked when Gilbert had insisted she travel in the company of Pinkerton agents, knowing the last thing she wanted to do was make herself an easy target for someone with murder on their mind.
Firmly pushing aside all thoughts of murder because that subject was somewhat depressing, Temperance stepped up behind Gilbert. Squinting, she considered his painting, biting her lip to hold back a smile when she realized it was completely awful.
“Well?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “I like how you’ve added a sailboat. It really brings some life into the piece.”
He turned back to his painting. “I didn’t paint a sailboat. Where do you see that?”
She pointed to a swirl of yellow paint.
“Oh.” He grinned. “That’s not a boat. I had too much paint on my brush so I just dabbed it off right there.”
“You also have a dab of paint on the sleeve of your jacket.”
Gilbert inspected his sleeve, then shrugged. “I imagine most painters get paint on them occasionally.”
“Aren’t you going to wipe it off?”
Gilbert leaned closer to his painting, added a dash of green right next to the yellow, and nodded. “There, now it looks like a whale.”
“But you have paint on your sleeve,” she repeated again.
“So you said. What do you think about puppies?”
“You want to add a puppy to your ocean scene?”
He laughed. “No. Puppies might be out of my league to paint. I was simply wondering how you feel about puppies.”
“Who doesn’t care for puppies?”
“That’s what Harrison said, but what about fey creatures?”
Temperance reached out and took hold of his arm, causing him to abandon his dabbing. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m not certain I understand the question.”
She planted her feet more firmly in the sand. “You have never—and I repeat, never—allowed something like a smear of paint to remain on your person after it’s been pointed out to you. You’ve also never brought up the word puppies in any of our conversations during the entire time I’ve known you, and do not even get me started on the fey creature remark, because . . . I don’t actually know what creatures would be considered fey.”
“I didn’t immediately wipe off the paint when you and I got into a bit of a paint tussle.”
“That’s because we were interrupted by Mrs. Boggart Hobbes.”
“Well, quite, but to address your puppy remark, I used to talk about your dog all the time when we were children.”
“Muffy died when I was five, so how often could we have spoken about her?”
“Ah, so the idea of puppies apparently bothers you. We’ll move on to the fey creatures. According to the discussion I recently had with Harrison, we’re of the belief that fey creatures encompass fairies, mermaids, and perhaps even dragons.”
“I’m not certain where you expect me to go with this conversation.”
He nodded. “It is an odd conversation to be sure, especially when, now that I think on it, dragons might not fall into the fey category.”
“Not that I want to point out the obvious, but you even broaching the subject of dragons is odd.”
Gilbert grinned. “I suppose it is. Tell me this then, what do you think of romantic gestures? Or better yet, when Harrison threw down his jacket over a puddle of water to impress Gertrude, did you find that romantic, or did you, like me, find it to be a most impractical move that ruined a perfectly fine jacket in the process?”
Feeling as if she’d suddenly stepped into an incredibly curious world, one where fey creatures and romace seemed to rule the day, and feeling quite convince
d that Gilbert’s brawls of the day before had injured his brain, Temperance’s brows drew together. “Harrison’s gesture was romantic, not because he ruined his jacket, but because he was willing to go to such extremes to win Gertrude’s heart.”
Gilbert considered that for a long moment before he frowned. “Ladies enjoy when gentlemen go to extremes?”
“I imagine it depends on what extremes they embrace to impress their ladies.”
Abandoning his paintbrush, Gilbert flashed a smile before he retrieved a pistol from his pocket. “What say you and I go enjoy some target practice?”
Before she could inquire as to whether he was suffering an injury to his head, what with the abrupt change of topics, a loud clearing of a throat distracted her.
“I do not believe handing Miss Temperance a pistol in the frame of mind she’s currently in is exactly what I would call a wise decision.”
Turning, Temperance frowned at Mr. Barclay, who was standing behind his own easel, his paintbrush pointing her way. “What frame of mind do you believe I’m in?”
Mr. Barclay smiled. “An irritable one.”
“And here I thought her irritability would be dispelled as soon as we got her out of Miss Snook’s school and out into this beautiful fall day,” Gilbert said.
“You brought me here because you were under the impression I was irritable?”
“You’ve been required to stay in the school for an extended period of time for safety reasons,” Gilbert said. “Of course you’re irritable, which is why I arranged for this outing.” He shook his head. “Clearly, though, painting by the seaside is not improving your disposition, nor is the mention of fey creatures, hence the reason I suggested target practice.”
Any irritability she’d still been holding for the man disappeared in a flash, replaced by something that left her distinctly weak at the knees. That Gilbert understood her so well, knew she thrived when she was allowed her freedom, left her realizing once and for all that she no longer merely held affection for the man. She loved him . . . desperately.
It was a realization that did nothing to help the state of her weak knees, but it was one she could no longer ignore.
“What shall we try to get you to shoot today?”
“She’s very adept at hitting the ocean,” Mr. Barclay suggested as he went back to his painting, eyeing his work critically. “But before she does that, and again, I’m not sure that is a grand plan on your part, Mr. Cavendish, I do need someone to look at my work and tell me what they believe I’m trying to paint.”
Walking with Gilbert over to Mr. Barclay’s easel, Temperance blinked and leaned closer to the canvas. “Good heavens, Mr. Barclay, it would seem you have numerous hidden talents because that’s clearly a woman walking right beside the surf.”
Mr. Barclay beamed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say it looked like a tree, as you did with Miss Edwina, or”—he turned his smile on Gilbert—“a boat.” He gestured with his paintbrush to a figure in the distance, one who was bending over and picking up shells. “I was going to paint her sitting beside the beach, but I decided a standing figure is much easier to paint than a sitting one.”
“I imagine you would have been perfectly capable of painting a sitting figure,” Temperance said, returning her attention to the woman on the beach. “However, since it has just occurred to me that your muse might be a little surprised to suddenly find herself on a beach where people are shooting off a pistol, I think I should mosey her way and ask her if she objects to our target practice.”
“I’ll come with you,” Gilbert said before he kicked off his shoes, stripped his socks from his feet, and tucked his pistol back into his pocket. “Ready?”
Temperance glanced at Gilbert’s bare feet. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”
Taking hold of her hand, Gilbert pulled her into motion across the sand. “I’m still the same Gilbert you’ve always known.”
“You’re not wearing shoes.”
“True, but since you just saw me take them off, I’m not certain why you’re pointing that out.”
“You always wear shoes.”
“I enjoyed many a day at the beach with you throughout the years without shoes. They’re not exactly sensible when one is trying to negotiate through sand.”
Relief was immediate. “Oh, thank goodness. It was a sensible decision, you removing your shoes. For a minute there . . .”
“I also enjoy how squishy the sand feels pushing up between my toes.”
Temperance stopped walking. “That’s it. We’re going to make an unexpected detour to visit your physician on our way back from the beach. Your behavior is downright peculiar today, and you’re beginning to frighten me.” She held up her hand when he opened his mouth. “And now that I think about it, how is it even possible that you managed to arrange so much time to take me to the seaside? Didn’t you have appointments scheduled for this afternoon?”
“I suppose I did, but I sent a note around to Mrs. Martin, requesting she cancel them.”
“You never cancel appointments.”
“True, but if makes you feel better, I did have a perfectly normal meeting with my attorney earlier this morning.”
Temperance smiled. “That’s a relief. It’s reassuring to hear you kept at least one appointment today.”
Gilbert pulled her back into motion. “It wasn’t a scheduled appointment. I dropped in on the man unannounced.” He grinned. “You should have seen his face when I interrupted his breakfast.”
“You went to your attorney’s house?”
“I didn’t feel like waiting until he arrived at his office.”
“You never make unscheduled visits, nor have I ever known you to travel to a business associate’s house.”
“I had a matter of urgency to discuss with the man. And considering I’ve paid him a small fortune over the years to handle some of my affairs, he was perfectly affable about welcoming me into his home and to his breakfast table, where we enjoyed a lovely meal of eggs and ham while we discussed what I needed to discuss.”
“And that something would be . . . ?”
“I can’t tell you yet, not until I work out all the details.” He grinned again. “But you’ll be pleased to learn I didn’t bother to make a graph, simply made a halfhearted attempt at a list, and decided to allow my attorney to proceed forward in whatever way he believes is best.”
Before Temperance could voice her concern again, Gilbert pointed to a seagull that was flying right over the surf, a beautiful sight for certain, but not one that could hold her attention since Gilbert was behaving in a very un-Gilbert-like fashion.
“I don’t believe I ever thanked you for putting my mother’s mind at ease,” he said, drawing her to a stop.
“There’s no reason to thank me, Gilbert. Your mother was worried for no reason.”
Gilbert shook his head. “She was very concerned she’d upset you by disclosing that she and my stepfather were originally supposed to be your guardians until your parents changed their minds. She still blames herself for not checking on you over the years, relying instead on the word of your father’s attorney that you were grieving and wanted to be left alone.”
Temperance gave his hand a squeeze. “None of what happened to me was your mother’s fault. And horrible as this is going to sound, I recently realized, after speaking with your mother, that I never truly grieved for my parents. I never even held a memorial for them, an event I have to imagine your parents would have wanted to attend.”
Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed a quick kiss on it. “It would have been difficult for you to hold a memorial for them, especially since you had no funds, nor would there have been many people to attend a memorial in New York. From what I recall, your parents did not have many friends in the city, and since your house had been sold in Connecticut, well, the logistics of a service would have been tricky. It also would have been next to impossible to track my parents down. If you’ve forgotten, they were
traveling through India at the time of your parents’ deaths.”
“My parents would have been disappointed that I didn’t even bother to try.”
“Your parents would be proud that you managed to survive a dreadful experience with your cousins and came out stronger for it.”
Temperance shook her head. “I’m not as strong as you believe. Otherwise I wouldn’t still be furious with my parents for abandoning me, or for leaving my welfare to a cousin who certainly didn’t hold any affection for me.”
He kissed her hand again. “You have every right to be angry. I’ve always thought anger is something that helps you through the many different phases of grief. You claimed you didn’t grieve for your parents, but that isn’t true. You’re still grieving for them, and when you move past the anger you’re continuing to hold, you’ll find peace.” He reached up and tucked a strand of her flyaway hair behind her ear. “And to help you find that peace, what do you think about holding a memorial service for your parents now? We could have it in Grace Church, Reverend Perry could officiate, and all of your friends could attend and help you remember the wonderful times with your parents, while also being around you as you finally say a proper good-bye to them.”
Tears stung her eyes, and she managed to nod before Gilbert pulled her close, soothing a hand over the back of her hair.
Easing away from her far sooner than she liked, Gilbert tilted her chin up and caught her eye. “Shall we hurry and intercept the woman collecting shells? Hopefully she’ll not be opposed to us doing some target practice because I imagine taking shots at the ocean will improve your spirits tremendously.”
She smiled. “I can hit something smaller than the ocean.”
Returning her smile, Gilbert pulled her toward the water, laughing with her as the foam washed over their feet, the chilly water doing wonders to wash away the last vestiges of sadness that had descended over her while she’d been speaking of her parents.
Enjoying the feel of the surf tugging against her legs, she splashed her way closer to the woman, noticing that the woman was now rummaging through a bag that obviously held the treasures she’d found that day.