“Yes,” Viola agreed. She seemed to wait for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she added, “I am glad to see you up and about. You look well, Mr. Lowell. Better than when I last saw you.”
He nodded. “I feel much improved, which I’m sure must be thanks to your excellent care.” He was pleased to see a flicker of pleasure in the depths of her lovely gray eyes. Responding with a debonair look, he said, “Will you introduce me to your companion?”
A smile tugged at the edge of her lips, producing a pair of enticing dimples. She coughed slightly as if to hide her reaction, cleared her throat a little, and finally gestured toward the massive creature. “This is Rex.”
Henry considered the dog, who looked more like a big furry bundle of affection than an actual threat. Reaching out, he scratched him roughly behind one ear and smiled when Rex leaned into his fingers with greater insistence.
“Traitor,” Viola muttered, albeit with a hint of amusement.
Henry glanced at her, still stroking the dog. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. Most people won’t dare approach you as long as you have him with you, but I know the sort of woman you are, so I also know the sort of dog you would raise.”
“How can you possibly know me so well after only a few interactions?” Her voice held a note of wonder that squeezed at Henry’s heart.
“I’m very observant,” he said. “Especially when the subject of my observation is of great interest to me.” Noting how her blush deepened and the way she deliberately broke eye contact, he decided to change the subject and save her from too much discomfort. “Where are you heading?” Because he knew the hospital lay in the opposite direction.
“Home.” The word was forcefully spoken. She followed it with a sigh. “Today has been a trying day, Mr. Lowell. I hope you will excuse my tone, which has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
Henry glanced in the direction from which he had come and said, “Perhaps my wonderful company will help improve your spirits. I’ll happily escort you, if you like.” When she looked as if she might decline, he deliberately waggled his eyebrows, which earned him a chuckle.
“You are incorrigible.”
“I cannot deny it.”
She grinned this time and appeared to relax. “Very well then. If you do not mind taking a detour.”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “I take tremendous pleasure in sharing your company.”
She frowned at him and gave Rex a tug on his leash. “You ought to know that I am not especially fond of flattery or over-embellished compliments.”
They started walking while Henry wondered about this peculiarity of hers. Most women loved being told how pretty and desirable they were, but for reasons he couldn’t understand, it seemed to bother Viola whenever he said something nice about her. It was as if she believed he was being insincere, which could only mean that some event in her past must have crushed her self-esteem. He wondered what it could be.
“What did you purchase?” she asked a few seconds later, drawing his attention to the parcel under his arm.
He assumed the gravest expression he could muster. “The New Principles of Gardening.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You must be joking.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” She waved her free hand as if searching for an explanation. A frown puckered her brow. “Are you really serious? The New Principles of Gardening?”
“I can show you, if you like.” He pulled the parcel from under his arm.
“No, no, Mr. Lowell. I shall take your word for it.” And then she laughed and shook her head, and Henry’s heart soared in response to the lyrical sound. “Of all the things I would have expected, from cigar boxes to a new game of chess . . . I never would have taken you for a botanist.”
“Oh, I’m not, I assure you, which is why I purchased the book.” They turned a street corner and the pavement grew narrower, forcing them closer together. His shoulder brushed hers, producing a thrilling hum along the length of his arm. “I need something with which to pass the time until I’m fully recovered and I’ve always marveled over the beauty of a well-kept garden. After seeing the one at the hospital, I had a moment of inspiration.”
“It sounds as though you have plans to renovate.”
“I’d like to. As with most gardens here in London, mine is not particularly large. My gardener insists I keep it simple, but I do not see why simple must equal dull. I want color and vibrancy, Viola. I want a garden that’s just like . . .”
You.
In his excitement he’d almost let his tongue run away with him. For although she wasn’t outwardly colorful, her personality definitely was, and it was this, he realized now with startling clarity, that he’d missed since leaving the hospital. Indeed he’d longed for it so much he’d finally resorted to looking at pictures of flowers in a book while dreaming of recreating something of what Viola imparted with her beauty and vigor.
“What?” she asked, curiosity clinging to that single word.
Henry reached for an explanation that wouldn’t serve as an unwanted compliment. The last thing he wished was to push her away now that they were getting along so well. “Like the gardens you see in the villages with roses climbing up cottage walls and marigolds brightening the flowerbeds. I want peonies and . . . and . . . those bell-shaped flowers on the long stalks.”
“Foxgloves?”
“Yes!” He glanced at her and saw she was smiling with a trace of wonder in her eyes. “And since I know next to nothing about growing flowers, I thought I’d do some reading and learn what I can. At least then I’ll be able to advise my gardener on what to plant.”
“You are not at all what I first expected,” she mused.
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
She grew pensive, then said, “I have yet to figure that out.”
The comment seemed to jostle the positive mood she’d acquired while they’d walked, reminding him of her earlier comment. Today has been a trying day.
Placing one hand on her forearm, he drew her to a halt. “Viola, you should know that although I plan to pursue you romantically, I first and foremost wish to be your friend.” He spoke plainly, hoping to convey how serious he was about this. “If you ever need my help or simply someone to talk to, you can count on me to listen and offer advice.”
She stared back up at him, and for a long moment he believed she might tell him her troubles. But then she turned away and resumed walking. “I thank you,” she said when he fell into step beside her. “Truly I do.” And then, more hesitantly, “But I fear associating with you would be unwise, not only because of your interest in me, which I still mean to try and dissuade, but because of your reputation. I cannot risk a connection with you because of the negative effect it might have on my reputation and possibly on my businesses as a result. I am sorry.”
Convincing her that every word she’d ever heard was utter nonsense would be no easy task. Pulling her to another halt, he kept his hand on her arm this time, holding her in place and meeting her gaze with extreme determination. “During the time you have known my brother, he must have mentioned his family.”
She tilted her head as if to consider. “Occasionally.”
Henry leaned in a little. Just enough to make her avert her gaze. There was an almost imperceptible shift in her breathing as another flush rose to her cheeks. He smiled, liking the extent to which he affected her. “Did he ever talk about me?”
She blinked and gave a quick nod. “Of course. He is exceedingly fond of you, Mr. Lowell.” She recommenced walking, pulling away from his grasp in the process.
Following her, Henry made no further attempt to touch her. Instead, he said, “Then he must have told you that none of the rumors about me are true.”
“To be honest, we never really discussed it.”
Henry frowned. He would not be able to rely on Florian to help him out this time. Apparently winning Viola’s trust would be far more difficult than
he had ever imagined. Unless he told her the absolute truth. Now there was an idea worth trying. “What if I were to tell you that every affair I’ve ever had and every scandalous thing I have done was a product of fiction?”
She looked at him. Her eyes widened and her lips parted as if in surprise, but rather than follow her astounded expression with one of complete understanding and tell him that what he said made perfect sense, she laughed. “Come now, Mr. Lowell. You cannot think me dimwitted enough to believe such a tale. A respectable gentleman would never allow the world to think less of him on purpose.” She knit her brow. “Frankly, I am a little offended by your attempt to fool me in such a ridiculous way, though I do admire your determination.”
“Viola.”
“I will allow that your reputation may not be as bad as the gossip suggests, for if it were I would not have enjoyed your company as thoroughly as I have, nor do I think it likely that you would have a cat named Newton or that you would speak of your brother with the sort of affection you showed a couple of days ago in the hospital garden. But to think it completely unblemished would be unwise on my part, I believe.” She slowed her pace and moved toward the steps leading up to the narrowest house on the street. “This is unfortunately where we must part, Mr. Lowell.” She reached inside her pocket and produced a key. “Thank you for your escort and for brightening my day.”
He touched the brim of his hat and smiled, happy to have offered her some small reprieve from whatever concerns were pressing on her mind, even if their recent discussion had not produced the result he hoped for. “I am always at your service, Viola.”
Her eyes flashed with a hint of appreciation before she turned away, pulling Rex up the steps behind her. Henry waited until she was safely inside and he heard the lock click into place before starting back the way they had come.
Deciding to take a quieter route instead of the quicker one Piccadilly offered, he turned north on Princess Street. He was just about to cross to Brewer Street when he caught a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively glancing toward it, Henry froze. What the devil was Carlton Guthrie doing strolling about in the middle of Mayfair?
Henry stared at the man whose flamboyant attire was as well renowned as the crimes he’d committed. The Scoundrel of St. Giles, the papers often called him—a moniker fit for the sort of man he was known to be, even if the authorities had never managed to find him guilty of anything.
In his younger days, when Henry had been hell-bent on tarnishing his own good name, he’d deliberately visited a few establishments in St. Giles, where he’d gambled on boxing matches and played high-stakes dice. He’d even seen the Duke of Huntley fight once when he was just an ordinary man. Before his inheritance changed his life and brought him and his sisters out of the slums. Guthrie had been there too. He’d stood out in the crowd like a splash of bright paint on an otherwise gray façade, so Henry had eventually inquired about him.
Curious to know Guthrie’s errand and worried it might be nefarious, Henry waited for him to turn onto Compton Street before following at a discreet distance. It didn’t take long to realize he was heading toward Soho Square. Henry kept his pace casual and far enough from Guthrie to prevent him from hearing his footsteps. Too far, perhaps, with Frith Street being so short that when Henry turned onto it, Guthrie was already out of sight. Henry hurried out into Soho Square and looked quickly about. Large homes marked the perimeter, among them Tremaine House, whose front door was presently closing.
Henry frowned. It had to be a coincidence. Guthrie would not be sitting down to tea with Robert, who was much too high in the instep to ever admit the Scoundrel of St. Giles into his home. No. Guthrie must have gone off in a different direction. Most likely to Broad Street and onward to his own neighborhood.
Abandoning the idea of pursuing him further, Henry set his course for Swallow Street. He arrived at The Red Rose ten minutes later and made straight for his office. Setting his newly purchased book on his desk, he called for his steward, Mr. Faulkner, to come join him.
“You mentioned an issue with the roof yesterday.” As soon as Henry had returned home from St. Agatha’s, he’d sent a missive to Mr. Faulkner, asking him to join Henry for dinner. Over the course of a couple of hours, the loyal employee had apprised Henry of everything that had happened at The Red Rose during his absence. “Have you found someone to fix the leak?”
“Yes. A couple of roofers were hired this morning. I expect them to start work tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Henry glanced at a file he’d found waiting for him on his desk. “Do we have samples as usual of the wines being offered by Berry’s?” The grocer specializing in importing wines and spirits of the finest quality was one of Henry’s most cherished suppliers.
“Right over there,” Mr. Faulkner said. He gestured toward a crate on the floor next to the side table.
Henry stood and went to take a closer look. He picked up the first bottle and read the label before comparing it to the wine’s description in the file he’d been provided. “Let us get started on the tasting, then, so we can decide which wine to promote next month.”
It was an idea he’d been developing during the past year and one that had proved quite effective, since his taste in wine was apparently one that agreed with most people. By pushing a monthly wine, he encouraged many of his customers to come back regularly so they could learn which wine he’d selected next.
The process took time as usual. Each sample had to be enjoyed individually. He had to discover the character and consider the combination of flavors. It reminded him a bit of Viola. She too was a luxury to indulge in slowly. As with the wine, he would savor each of her many nuances. Until she eventually surrendered and agreed to be his. No matter how challenging such an accomplishment was proving to be.
The following morning, after enjoying a hearty breakfast, Henry decided to pass a couple of hours in the library. Lowering himself into his favorite chair in front of the fireplace, he propped his feet up on the accompanying footstool. With a pot of coffee on the table beside him and a couple of Cook’s shortbread biscuits for him to savor, he settled in for a relaxing morning.
“Sir,” his butler, Mr. Andrews, announced an hour later when he stepped into the room, “Lord and Lady Armswell have come to call. They are accompanied by the Earl and Countess of Scranton. Shall I show them into the parlor?”
Henry closed the book he’d been reading and set it aside, abandoning his intention to learn about proper soil preparation for the moment. “I will do so myself.” He stood and followed Mr. Andrews out into the hallway. “Please instruct one of the maids to bring up a tray. Remember to remind her of my grandmother’s strawberry allergy.”
“Of course, sir.”
Mr. Andrews headed for the servant stairs while Henry continued toward the foyer, arriving there in a few quick strides. “What a lovely surprise,” he declared even though he could think of a dozen things he’d rather do right now than sit down to tea with his parents and grandparents. All they ever wanted to discuss with him these days was potential brides.
“I am so relieved to see you looking well,” his mother said once he’d shown them all into the parlor and gestured for them to sit. He took the remaining chair—a spindly one that he generally avoided. Newton prowled toward him, pressing himself against Henry’s leg, so he slid his hand along the cat’s supple coat. “We rushed back from Bath as soon as we heard you’d been shot.”
At last. A new conversation subject.
“What on earth were you thinking?” Armswell asked. “You gave your poor mother a fit of the vapors and your grandmama almost suffered an apoplectic incident!”
“I did no such thing,” Lady Scranton declared with a scowl, “though to say you did not give us all a mighty fright would be something of an understatement.” She punctuated her remark with a firm nod and directed a sharp look at Henry. “It is a relief to see you are still alive.”
“Did the papers not mention that I s
urvived the duel?” Henry asked. He was genuinely curious to know how the journalists had painted his most recent brush with death in order to sell their papers.
“Your condition was declared uncertain,” Lord Scranton said gruffly while adjusting his bulky size to the delicate sofa on which he was sitting.
“And we all know what that means,” Lady Armswell announced. “They might as well have written that funeral preparations were forthcoming!”
Henry groaned and reached for his mother’s hand. “As you can see, that will not be necessary just yet, Mama.”
“I should hope not.” She sniffed. “But you would do us all a tremendous favor by avoiding unnecessary threats to your life in future.”
“One doesn’t avoid a duel when one is called out, Mama.”
“Certainly not,” Lady Scranton agreed. “What one does is avoid the situation leading up to a challenge.”
“Your grandmother is right,” Scranton said. “I can think of no other man who’s been called out as often as you have, Henry. The fact that you are still among the living is something of a miracle if you ask me.”
Everyone nodded in unified agreement while Henry hoped Mr. Andrews would soon appear with news of some dire emergency requiring his immediate departure from this accusation-riddled conversation. Instead the parlor door opened to admit two maids bringing tea, porcelain teacups and a plate stacked with blueberry tarts.
“Which is all the more reason for you to marry with haste,” Lady Armswell insisted once the maids had gone and the tea had been served.
Henry froze with his teacup en route to his mouth. What the devil had he been thinking when he’d told them of his intention to hang up his rakish mantle in favor of reformation? He looked at his guests and saw that they watched him with keen expectation. His father raised an eyebrow and his grandmother leaned forward in her seat and tilted her head. “Well?” she finally inquired when nobody else spoke.
The Infamous Duchess Page 7