A Lady's Formula for Love

by Elizabeth Everett

  “Despots who ally themselves with the Crown,” Arthur said, careful to keep a level tone. “Butchers who kill to our kingdom’s benefit.”

  As if he hadn’t heard Arthur’s answer, the big man yawned and stretched his massive arms above his head. “Kneland. Scottish?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “Seems I remember that name in connection to something . . .”

  “Common enough name,” Arthur said, a slither of anxiety sliding through his belly.

  “Lady Greycliff called me back to London to squire her around while she drums up support for an event at the Retreat.” The earl paused. “On the small side for a counterassassin, aren’t you?”

  Whereas a man Grantham’s size would make a satisfying thunk upon hitting the ground.

  Before Arthur could test out this theory, Violet came rushing into the room. She’d changed out of the dress she’d worn earlier. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked pretty.

  No, not simply pretty.

  Desirable.

  For a moment, their eyes locked and her flush deepened. She’d wanted to kiss him earlier, leaning forward, eyelids fluttering closed and lips parted. He’d almost let her, too. He’d imagined how it would taste, that mouth. Soft and sweet, warm and inviting. Everything he’d denied himself since his first assignment.

  The sheer delight in her face when she spoke of her work, an untrammeled spark in her despite her insecurity, fascinated him. Retirement would mean a retreat from a life lived in the company of strangers, punctured by bursts of terrible violence. In Violet’s presence, for the first time in years, he hadn’t been an observer. They had a . . . connection.

  Dangerous. Allowing yourself to care was like living on quicksand. At any moment, the people you cared for would be swallowed forever. This woman turned him back into the fool boy he’d been almost twenty years ago. Chills pricked Arthur’s gut.

  It needed to stop.

  That fool boy had thought himself a hero, and the man he was supposed to protect had wound up dead.

  Arthur could not bear to fail again.

  “So, you did forget I was coming,” Grantham chided Violet with a teasing pout.

  “No,” Violet said. She was a terrible liar.

  The earl chuckled. “You are a terrible liar.”

  She mock-scowled. “I am a brilliant liar. Who convinced you to lick the pump handle on Boxing Day for good luck?”

  “I was seven,” Grantham growled. “Too young to know when a lady spoke with a serpent’s tongue. Anyway, that was the last time I fell for one of your stories. I saw through you the next summer when you tried to convince me that bats see with their ears.”

  “They don’t see with their ears. They navigate by sound. There is some interesting work done by an Italian—”

  “Right. Good thing you begged me to come to your aid. How long did you go without eating this time? You look dreadful.” Grantham’s voice, a deep, rich baritone, had none of the ennui the fashionable set liked to adopt. Sounding genuine in his concern, the earl also asked whether she’d rested.

  “On the list of phrases one should never use with a lady, ‘You look dreadful’ ranks fairly high.” Her rejoinder came from the middle of the room, where she’d positioned herself between the two men.

  Arthur should leave. Violet had much to discuss with this handsome earl who oozed charm from his every pore. Enough to kill one’s appetite, that oozing.

  Instead, he opened his gob and stepped into it. “Lady Greycliff is peaked, owing to her hard work on the assignment Grey left for her. Genius takes its toll.”

  Violet’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut again. She covered her grin as though her pleasure might be unseemly. Her delight in even the smallest of compliments was as sweet and addictive as sugar.

  Grantham stared at Arthur with mild surprise but addressed his words to Violet. “Genius, eh? Well, genius, I’m in town for a few weeks. Mama is . . .” He bit his lip.

  Violet frowned in sympathy. “I am selfish to take you away from her and the estate,” she said with concern. “You should go back.”

  Arthur agreed.

  “No, my cousin Mrs. Applewhite and her daughter are staying to keep Mama company until Lizzie is finished with school. She comes out next spring.”

  “Don’t tell me Elizabeth is almost old enough to be presented,” Violet marveled. “Why, I can scarcely believe it. I remember waving goodbye to her when she left for the academy.”

  Grantham beamed. “She’s a top student. Knows about those thingamabobs you can only see with one of those whoseyercallits.”

  “You mean a cell. Yes, my aunt has written to me of Elizabeth’s work. I am fascinated by her theories of cell division . . .”

  As Violet chattered on about his sister, Grantham cleared his throat and stared pointedly, first at Arthur, then at the door.

  Arthur, entertained by the veins popping from the big man’s neck, pretended not to understand.

  Giving up on his attempts at subtlety, Grantham interrupted Violet’s reverie. “Time moves fast—for both of us. Makes me think I ought to come to the point sooner rather than later.”

  “Come to the point?” Violet asked.

  The earl glanced over at Arthur once more. Arthur’s feet remained glued to the floor.

  Grantham frowned. “Grey’s at an age where he’ll want to settle down. What are you going to do—stay at Beacon House as a dowager?” The tone of voice was gentle, but the words were a reproach nonetheless.

  “We’ve agreed I am going to buy it from him,” she explained. “Once he returns from this last assignment.”

  “Giving him one more excuse to keep accepting missions he doesn’t want and put off starting a family?” Grantham asked.

  Perhaps Violet hadn’t considered this outcome. She wrung her hands in consternation, her pretty mouth twisted around words she wouldn’t say.

  Arthur knew he should dispel the tension, but nothing came to him. Countless times, he’d stood to the side, watching people’s lives play out as though he were a picture hanging on the wall, pretending invisibility while drama unfolded. For the first time in years, he cared about the outcome. How to intervene?

  “Why not come home with me to Morningside for a fortnight,” Grantham said, “instead of worrying about explosions and whatnot. A visit from you would do wonders for Mama’s health.” A serious note entered his voice. “I don’t like the thought of you alone here without Grey.”

  Violet’s eyebrows rose in consternation. “You are a dear to be worried, Grantham, but Mr. Kneland has me well in hand.”

  All three of them froze for a moment. Glancing over at Arthur, Violet colored a luscious shade of crimson. “Not well in his hand, of course. Not that he’s had me. In his hands, you see. Except for that one time,” she stammered.

  Grantham’s gaze transferred between Arthur and Violet, his brows lowering in suspicion.

  “What I mean to say is that I was in his hands, but his hands were not . . . Never mind. Let’s forget the subject of hands. Or any other body parts. His, at any rate. And mine. Or mine and his. Together.”

  Pretending to cough, Arthur covered his mouth to hide his amusement.

  Violet crossed her arms. “Ahem. So, in conclusion, I am well, and no one had their hands on anyone else—it was the rest of our bodies that one time on the ground. You must be exhausted from your trip. Shall we catch up over tea? Say, tomorrow?”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Grantham.

  Violet clapped her hands to her cheeks in shock. “I said . . . tea. Speaking of tea, I am famished. I’ll go check on whether Cook has anything set aside for me.”

  “That part in the middle,” Grantham said. “About the rest of your bodies?”

  Violet inched her way toward the door. “Friday is generally stew. I’m mad for stew.”

&n
bsp; Grantham made to rise at the same time Arthur took a step toward her. They might have ended in an awkward tug-of-war if a scream hadn’t torn through the tension.

  The earl was damned fast for such a big bastard. He and Arthur hit the doorway at the same time. For a few seconds, both were wedged into the exit. Grantham was taller by an inch or so, but Arthur took pleasure in the certainty that he could break the man’s ribs in two seconds flat, had he a mind to.

  Feck. What was he thinking? This wasn’t the time or the place to engage in a pissing contest, nor was Violet a prize to be fought over. Arthur jerked backward and let Grantham fall forward and knock himself into the opposite wall.

  When another scream rent the air, Arthur pushed everything else out of his head.

  On the second-floor landing Alice stood, pointing to Violet’s laboratory.

  “There is someone in Lady Greycliff’s workrooms,” she cried.

  Even before she’d finished her sentence, Arthur leaped past her.

  Slamming open the door, he surveyed the room. Almost lost beneath the whomp of heavy footsteps coming up behind him was the quiet squeak of a rusty hinge. Vaulting past the well-used armchair by the fire, Arthur made toward a door at the back of the room, standing partway open.

  It had been closed when he’d come into the room earlier.

  The door led to a small closet. Within stood a low cabinet holding a porcelain bowl and a beak-shaped contraption made of steel. On the opposite wall sat a single window higher than a man’s head. A figure in black hung from the ledge of the narrow window, a sheaf of papers under one arm. Arthur sprang and grabbed the thief’s leg.

  The intruder dropped the papers, gripped the windowsill, and kicked at Arthur’s face. Arthur hung on, despite the blows, and was trying to pull himself up the thief’s legs when the closet filled with people.

  “My goodness, Arthur, be careful,” Violet called.

  “What are you playing at?” bellowed Grantham.

  As Arthur turned his head to respond, the thief dug a heel into his eye. Blinding pain shot through his face, and he fell, cracking the back of his head against the floor, doubling over when Grantham tripped and landed squarely on Arthur’s chest.

  “Move, Kneland,” Grantham growled. “The man is getting away.”

  Move? Arthur would have had a few choice words to deliver if his lungs hadn’t been flattened by the giant fool.

  Grantham scrambled to his feet and used the cabinet as a springboard to jump after the thief. The figure in black was faster, though, slithering through the window before the earl could reach him.

  Still winded, Arthur rolled to his side and heaved himself up. Racing down the servants’ stairs, he shouted for the footmen to block the back gate.

  Too late.

  By the time Arthur burst through the kitchen door and into the mews, the thief was gone.

  * * *

  GRANTHAM KNELT ON one knee and examined the hard earth at the back of the house. Meanwhile, Arthur finished speaking with two footmen, his jaw clenched and his face white with tension as he issued a series of terse orders.

  Dusk shaded the hollows of his eyes. Lifting his face to the sharp winds, he sniffed the air as if he could find the would-be thief by scent alone.

  Grantham rose from his haunches and brushed off his trousers.

  “Anything?” Arthur asked in an abrupt masculine way of speech they’d adopted since the thief got away.

  Grantham shook his head. “Few chips of paint. Nothing that would help us.”

  “Well. That’s that, I suppose,” Violet said. “No self-respecting thief will try to break into Beacon House again.”

  “He shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Grantham bit out in accusation.

  Arthur tensed, and Violet intervened. “It was my fault. Mr. Kneland warned me to keep my workroom windows locked. I forgot.”

  She turned to Grantham. “Thank you for your help. Now, if you will both excuse me. I must go—”

  “Not so quick,” said Arthur.

  “You cannot consider the matter closed,” Grantham said.

  “But I do,” Violet insisted. “The two of you nearly caught him. Why would he come back? I will be more careful locking the windows.”

  Feeling vulnerable, despite the presence of two large men at her side, she peered around the kitchen garden. Violet could attribute the explosion to an experiment gone wrong and the bricks to silly boys. The appearance of a thief in her private rooms, however, meant no longer hiding from the truth. Someone wanted her to stop.

  “Your composure is a credit to you, my lady,” said Arthur. “You’ve been very brave.”

  Oh. Very brave? Violet preened a little.

  He then spoke to Grantham. “Lady Greycliff is safe as long as she follows my direction.”

  “Safe? With her windows wide-open?” Grantham asked. The men had forgotten her and now faced off against one another.

  If Miss Meredith Pickering were here, she would be taking copious notes. Miss Pickering’s area of expertise was the mating behaviors of large predators. From what Violet gathered, it consisted of similar shows of aggression.

  “Miss Pickering would be in raptures right now if she saw their antics.” Phoebe’s whispered observation gave Violet an unpleasant jolt.

  “Indeed. I didn’t hear you coming.” She turned to greet her friend. “Hello, dear.”

  Phoebe resembled a winter queen, in her gorgeous blue ankle-length, ermine-trimmed paletot. By contrast, Violet had raced out of the house wearing nothing but a shapeless old gown, her worn petticoats making themselves known when a gust of frigid wind found its way under her skirts.

  “Do you remember the lecture she gave last month?” Phoebe continued. “After a confrontation, the male predators mark their territory with musk.”

  “Ugh.” Violet shuddered. “Not to worry. This isn’t mating behavior, because they don’t . . .” Her words trailed off at the cynical amusement on Phoebe’s face.

  “Grantham seems ready to tear out Mr. Kneland’s throat,” Phoebe said. “What happened here? I was passing by and saw the commotion.”

  “A thief got into my workroom and tried to steal my research,” Violet explained. “Grantham wants me to leave Beacon House for the time being.”

  Phoebe’s amused expression melted into concern. “A woman should never back down because a man told her so. However, broken windows, a bomb, and now an attempted theft? Darling, consider doing as he says.”

  She watched as Grantham ran his fingers through his hair, heedless of how tousled it looked. “He means well. Of that, there was never any doubt in my mind.”

  Like a cat toying with a mouse is how Phoebe behaved with most men of her acquaintance, and for many years, a man’s unsuitability was her catnip. She danced circles around her hapless suitors, pawns in a war they had no idea Phoebe was waging with her father.

  For a time, she’d fallen in with a more measured crowd, Grantham among them, who took an interest in philanthropy, the arts, and politics, to a genteel degree. She’d surprised even Letty with a newfound understanding of workers’ conditions. Violet had encouraged Phoebe’s friendship with Grantham, and for a while there had been talk of an engagement. Despite Grantham’s sometimes arrogant exterior, he’d a fine mind, a subtle sense of humor, and a generous heart. All qualities beneficial to Phoebe, who struggled to find peace.

  Phoebe had ended the courtship the instant she sensed everyone’s approval. “It wasn’t Grantham’s fault. With him, I turned into the person society wanted me to be,” she’d told Violet. “The more I conform, the less I am myself. Besides, Papa did not turn purple and forbid me to see him again.”

  Phoebe’s wicked grin had twisted, pulling her alabaster skin taut with misery. “Nothing kills the romance like a father’s endorsement.”

  With the seve
ring of the courtship, Phoebe had slid back into old habits, and the scandal sheets were again full of unflattering analogies to predators and hapless prey.

  Upon spying Phoebe outside Beacon House, Grantham paled. Good manners prevailed, however, and he joined them to make his bow.

  “This was bold, even for the Omnis,” he said.

  “Unsurprising for a group that calls for a secret ballot, the abolishment of the monarchy, and an end to the House of Lords,” Violet observed.

  “Yes,” Phoebe said, reverting to her familiar sarcastic drawl. “As if the lower classes were intelligent enough to be trusted with the vote. Bold indeed.” She tapped a finger to her chin. “Abolishing lords isn’t a bad idea, however. Nothing but a holding room for overfed, inbred, and useless old men.”

  Grantham tugged at his cravat, eyeing the gate and its promise of escape. “I don’t suppose you consider me an exception to that description, Lady Phoebe?”

  Phoebe’s laugh, as dry as paper, rubbed against Violet’s raw nerves. “I meant my father,” she said. “A man not born to a title like yourself might not agree. Those of us raised by such men know better.”

  Grantham stiffened, and Phoebe laughed again.

  Their bickering added to a dull throbbing that hammered at Violet’s temples. To her embarrassment, she swayed, in the beginnings of a faint. She did not want Grantham here, assuming the role of an older brother. She did not want to listen to Phoebe’s sly digs.

  Were there other women who suffocated in plain sight? Others who shoved their objections into small, dark places in their guts, choking on their dissatisfaction and dismay?

  The puddled shadows at her feet doubled in size as Arthur came to stand beside her. Tension ebbed from her cramped muscles as his calm enveloped her in gentle waves.

  Violet leaned into the offer of comfort, fleeting as it might be.

  How could it be she stood in the company of so many and still felt so alone?

  7

  COME,” ARTHUR ORDERED in a low rumble, slipping his arm around her waist, and they left behind Phoebe’s acid taunts and Grantham’s sputtered replies. He escorted Violet into the kitchen, where Mrs. Sweet greeted them. Three lines of worry marred the smooth skin of her forehead. “I trust you will put an end to this goings-on, Mr. Kneland?” She turned to Violet. “Not to worry, my lady. Cook is making a healing broth of my own recipe. Kelp, bitter greens, and fish stock. It feeds the blood and wakes the brain.”