by Lauren Royal
When Jewel sniffled, he turned his head to see her heart-shaped face cradled on the pillow beside him, her rosy cheeks damp with tears. More tears threatened to spill from her emerald-green eyes.
He pushed a clump of her thick black hair aside and felt her forehead. No fever, for which he was tremendously thankful. Illness was the last thing either of them needed.
“Come now, Jewel. It’s morning, can you see?” He waved a hand toward the window, where yellow light shone through spaces between the crooked shutters. One more thing on his repair list.
At least the rain had stopped. So much for St. Swithin’s prophecy.
“We’ll have a nice day together, you’ll see.” One day. He could survive one more day. First, of course, he’d dash off a message to his brother, informing him Nurse Lydia had come down with the measles. Colin would send a replacement. Someone who knew Jewel. Someone who knew what to do.
Did you think I’d expect you to care for her on your own? Heaven forbid.
Ford realized his hands had fisted around the counterpane. He remembered Colin’s sneer, the dismissal in his face. His brother thought so little of him. Thought him too irresponsible to entrust with his precious daughter. What did he think Ford would do? Forget to feed the girl? Perform an experiment on her? He wasn’t an imbecile.
Meanwhile, his twin Kendra—also aged twenty-three—cared for two children of her own, every single day. Surely Ford could care for one measly child for a few short weeks. What did Kendra have that Ford didn’t have?
He’d hated the feeling of being dismissed by a brother he looked up to.
And blast him if he’d prove the scoundrel right!
No, he wouldn’t give Colin the satisfaction. He and Jewel would manage on their own. Somehow. It was only for a short time. If he was clever enough to invent a new type of watch, surely he could figure out how to handle his niece.
And next time, Colin would know better than to underestimate him.
With an ingratiating smile, he turned back to Jewel’s sad little face. “Come now, baby.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Of course you’re not.” He hadn’t consciously used the endearment; it had simply slipped out of his mouth. “If you stop crying, I’ll give you a shilling.”
That did the trick. The tears ended, and she struggled to sit in his rumpled bed, apparently smarter than he’d given her credit for.
Thank goodness. A girl bright enough to be reasoned with. Never mind that his estate was in sad shape and he could ill afford to throw around bribes—he’d give Jewel his entire meager savings if it would ensure her cooperation.
He stared at the canopy above him, wondering when his blue bed-hangings had faded to gray. And if the old ropes that supported the mattress would hold, since his niece was jumping up and down on it now, exacerbating his headache.
“A shilling,” she chanted in a sing-song voice, timing her words to her bounces. “A shilling. Will you take me shopping?” she asked breathlessly.
Not yet six years old and already eager to shop, he thought with an inward smile. Where did women learn this inclination? Was it in their chemical composition? “There aren’t any shops nearby, but if you’re good, after breakfast I’ll show you my sundial.”
She bounced once again to land on her bottom, then sat there in her twisted white nightgown, looking dubious.
“And later this week, I’ll take you to the village.”
“To shop?”
“Yes, to shop.” The way things were going, she ought to have amassed a small fortune by then. He rolled over and swung his legs off the side of the bed, rubbing his face.
“Uncle Ford! I can see your knees!”
Blinking, he cast a glance over his shoulder. “Have you not seen your father’s knees? And your brothers’?”
“Yes.” She giggled. “But they’re my family.”
“I’m your uncle, which is family, too.” Standing, the shirt covered him to mid-thigh. Should he have left his breeches on as well? He normally slept bare, but he supposed, for her sake, he’d have to keep himself clothed while she was here. He held little hope that she’d stay in her own bed at night.
Meaning he’d best brace himself for more long hours of nocturnal pummeling.
What had he done to deserve this?
As the youngest of four, he’d never had much to do with children, save as a charming uncle who bestowed the occasional coin or pat on the head. Whatever compelled people to desire these strange beings—and the headaches that went with them—was beyond him.
His clocks struck noon before he managed to coax some breakfast into her and get her dressed in a miniature pink confection of a gown whose fastenings he found perplexing. He was itching to work on his watch design, but she hadn’t forgotten about the sundial.
Although St. Swithin’s clouds and rain would have better matched his mood, the day was warm and sunny when they finally stepped outdoors. A fluffy white rabbit blinked at Jewel, then took off toward the Thames. She bounded after it, but Ford followed more slowly, feeling the effects of the sleepless night.
Perhaps he would have to hire more servants. He gave an inward sigh, knowing such an expense would really push his budget. Although he’d been granted the title and Lakefield estate as a boy, shortly after King Charles’s restoration, he’d never really lived here. By the time he’d come of age to set up his own household, the neglected manor house had deteriorated enough to send him running in the other direction. The mere idea of such an enormous renovation project was overwhelming. So, between Oxford terms, he’d lived in the family’s London town house or at Cainewood Castle with his older brother Jason, the Marquess of Cainewood, which left him free to pour what income the estate produced into his laboratory. Someday he’d have to fix up Lakefield House, most likely when he succumbed to marriage. But “someday” had always seemed far, far in the future.
He hadn’t left the manor unoccupied, of course, but the elderly couple who cared for the place—and cooked for him on the rare occasions he visited—was no match for a five-year-old’s energy. If he wanted assistance, he was going to have to hire it. Perhaps the “shopping” trip to the village would come sooner rather than later. He could shop for a nursemaid and household help while Jewel shopped for whatever little girls bought with their shillings. Ribbons, he imagined, already dreading the daunting task of fixing her hair.
“Uncle Ford! Where is it?”
He looked up, noticing Jewel had wandered back while he wasn’t watching. He hadn’t been watching at all, as a matter of fact. She could have fallen into the river.
He heaved an internal sigh. He would have to be more vigilant.
“Have you lost the rabbit?” he asked.
“No.” She giggled. “Well, yes, but I meant the sundial. I cannot find it.”
Egad, where had it gone to?
He paced the garden, which was utterly overgrown. Green and wild, plants and vines intertwined with weeds, all semblance of order gone. Jewel ran after him, her short legs no match for his long strides. The sundial had been in the middle of a circle of hedges and wooden benches…
“Ah, here it is!” He pushed his way through a ring of bushes that seemed to have grown together. The benches he’d remembered were covered with vines. In the center of the mess, he yanked at some greenery and brushed dirt off the carved stone surface of the sundial. “Under here.”
He turned to see her beaming up at him as though he were a genius, melting his heart. “How does it work, Uncle Ford?”
He reached to lift her over the bushes. “Well, you see—”
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
A warm, melodic voice. He turned and frowned at the owner, who stood at the edge of the hedge circle. Although he had a feeling the pleasant-looking matron wasn’t quite a stranger, he couldn’t for the life of him place her.
She plucked two stray twigs off her bright yellow skirts, then raised a groomed brow. “So nice to have you in residence. Tre
ntingham Manor can seem lonely when all our neighbors are away in the City.”
Mystery solved. Trentingham. As in Earl of. The neighboring estate.
Still holding his niece, Ford executed an awkward bow. “Pleased to be here, Lady Trentingham.”
When her wide mouth curved up, her brown eyes smiled to match. Plainly curious, her gaze flicked to Jewel before focusing again on him. “Will you be staying long?”
“Just while I finish a project.” And until he felt up to showing his face in London. He pushed his way back through the hedge and set Jewel on her feet, grimacing as he brushed leaves from his breeches.
The countess shot a glance down the side of the house—he noticed the paint was peeling—to where her carriage waited, a coachman sitting up top. The door was open, and someone waited inside as well, enjoying the sunny day. A lady’s maid, if he could judge by the woman’s starched white cap.
“Pretty lady,” Jewel said, staring up at his neighbor.
“Why, thank you, Miss…”
“Jewel,” the girl supplied.
“Lady Jewel,” Ford clarified. “My brother’s daughter.”
“Ah,” Lady Trentingham murmured. Some of the confusion cleared from her face. “I’m glad of your acquaintance,” she said with a graceful curtsy, for all the world like they were meeting in Whitehall Palace.
Jewel mimicked the motion. “I’m glad of your ac-ac—”
“Acquaintance,” Ford said helpfully.
But apparently Jewel didn’t take it that way. She fixed him with a malevolent green glare. “I can say it.”
“Of course you can.” Palms forward, he took a small step back. “Forgive me.”
“All right.” She turned to the woman, focusing on something in her hand. “What’s that?”
“Don’t point, baby,” Ford said. Though his twin sister forever accused him of being oblivious, he did know his manners.
Lady Trentingham knelt by Jewel’s side. “It’s a bottle of perfume. I brought it for the lady of the house. And I suppose”—she looked to Ford for confirmation—“that’s you?”
He nodded his agreement as Jewel squealed. “For me?”
“For you, sweetheart. Would you like to smell it?”
“Oh, yes,” his niece breathed. She waited, dancing from foot to foot while the woman removed the stopper and handed her the bottle.
Jewel waved it under her nose. “It’s lovely, my lady!” Tipping the bottle, she wet her fingers and dabbed the potion on her neck, wetting some of the overgrown greenery in the process.
“You must use only a little,” Lady Trentingham warned her, “or you’ll smell like a field of flowers.”
“I like flowers.”
“Then you must come and visit Trentingham Manor.” She rose to her feet, smiling at Ford. “My husband enjoys gardening.”
“I’ve heard that of the earl.” Everyone had heard that of the earl. And standing in his own shambles of a garden, knowing what Lady Trentingham and her husband must think every time they saw it, made Ford want to squirm.
“Who is caring for Lady Jewel?” the countess asked.
“I am, now. Her nursemaid fell ill, so I sent her home.”
“Alone?”
“No, with my coachman and two outriders.”
Amusement flickered on her face. “I meant, are you caring for Lady Jewel on your own?”
“Oh.” Feeling thickheaded, he cleared his throat. “I suppose I am.”
“And how are you getting along?”
His neighbor had a straightforward way about her that Ford found refreshing. Heaven knew Tabitha hadn’t been so.
“Well, I’ve had Jewel for…” He twisted around to peer at the sundial. “…it’s going on eighteen hours. And no disaster has befallen her yet, so although I haven’t managed to find time for anything else, I reckon I’m doing all right.”
Lady Trentingham’s laughter tinkled through the tangled vegetation. Her gaze turned contemplative. “I have a son.”
“Do you?” he prompted, feeling more thickheaded still.
“Rowan. He’s six years of age, and his favorite playmate is away from home for the month—perhaps I’ll bring him over to play. That might give you a bit of a respite.”
“A boy?” Jewel interjected.
“A kind one,” the woman assured her. “He doesn’t have maggots.”
Jewel looked dubious. But she also looked lonely. And as far as Ford was concerned, Lady Trentingham could be his savior. An angel sent from heaven. A fairy come to wave her wand and sprinkle magic dust.
“I shall bring Rowan tomorrow,” she decided. “He has lessons in the morning, but perhaps after dinner.”
“He’s welcome for dinner,” Ford offered. Breakfast and supper, too. Anything to keep his niece occupied so he could work. He was so close to finishing his design…
He must have looked as desperate as he felt, because his neighbor released a tiny, unladylike snort.
“After dinner,” she confirmed, hiding a smile as she turned to make her way back to her carriage.
“HOW DID IT GO, milady?” Anne asked Chrystabel as the coach set off for Trentingham.
“Fine,” she assured her maid.
Perfect, she added silently.
Now she just had to make plans to keep both Rose and Lily busy tomorrow. As well as herself. Violet—her wonderful, willful, bookish daughter Violet—would be the one to take Rowan to visit Lady Jewel.
Picking dead vegetation off her skirts, Chrystabel smiled. She’d met young Ford Chase before, but this visit had confirmed it. If ever a perfect husband existed for Violet, it was the charming, slightly preoccupied but ambitious Lord Lakefield. These two needed each other.
Her daughters were dead set against her arranging their marriages, and well Chrystabel knew it.
But a resourceful mother could always find a way.
FIVE
“PLEASE WAIT, Margaret,” Violet told her lady’s maid the next afternoon. “If all goes well, I’m going to leave Rowan here and come back for him later.”
She stepped down from the carriage and grumbled all the way to the front door of the large, if shabby, Lakefield House. She couldn’t fathom how she’d ended up here, escorting her reluctant young brother to play with a strange little girl.
Mum’s convoluted explanation had made sense at the time, but how was it that suddenly Rose and Lily both needed to be measured for gowns, and she didn’t? True, she hadn’t been clamoring for new clothes like they had—she’d never really cared about such things—but Mum had always been careful to treat her three girls evenly.
At the bottom of the chipped stone stairs that led to the entry, she pulled Rowan out of the bushes where he was hiding. He promptly scurried to hide behind her instead. With a sigh, she mounted the steps and raised the knocker.
Before she had a chance to bang it down, the door swung open, and she stumbled forward and nearly fell into the house. She was saved from that indignity by someone’s hands clasping her shoulders. Warm hands, keeping her upright. They belonged to a young man—a footman?—and when she looked up, his face was only inches from hers. She nearly gasped.
In all her life, she’d seen relatively few men up close—close enough to see with her poor vision. And this one was quite literally the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
A distant part of her recalled that she ought to speak, but the rest was busy sinking into brilliant blue eyes. ”I—I’m—” Backing away a little, she cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here to see Lord Lakefield—”
“At your service.” The stranger bowed. “Ford Chase,” he added with a wide, winning smile that made her stomach feel odd. “And you are…?”
This was the viscount?
He couldn’t be. “You’re not wearing a periwig,” she said nonsensically.
“Pardon?” He blinked. “I never wear wigs. I don’t care for them.”
She supposed her father often went wigless out here in the countrysi
de, but—never? She squinted at the stranger, realizing he wasn’t wearing a footman’s livery, either. She’d been but twelve or thirteen the last time she’d met Lord Lakefield, and all she really remembered of the encounter was long, untidy dark hair and a distracted manner.
This fellow did seem rather distracted. He raked impatient fingers through his hair—still dark, but no longer untidy.
And those eyes. She’d never noticed Lord Lakefield’s eyes…well, she’d probably never been close enough to properly see them. Aristotle had said that beauty was the gift of God. She wondered what this man could have done to be so deserving of the Lord’s favor.
“And you are…?” he repeated.
She shook her head to clear it. “Violet Ashcroft.”
“The Earl of Trentingham’s daughter?” He looked somewhat perplexed. “I expected your mother.”
“Well, you have me.” She was regaining her equilibrium. She was, after all, a very levelheaded young woman. “And this is my brother, Rowan, who has come to claim the pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel.”
The pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel? Why, she was babbling like a featherbrained courtier. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled her brother from behind her skirts.
The viscount gave him a proper, grave nod. “Pleased to meet you, Lord…?”
“Tremayne,” Violet supplied, since Rowan seemed unlikely to say anything. “He’s Viscount Tremayne. But you can just call him Rowan.”
Much more stoically than normal, Rowan bowed.
“Uncle Ford!” A little girl came bounding up to the door, skidding to a stop on the dull wood floor. “Who is here?” The moment her gaze fastened on Rowan, Violet knew her brother was in trouble. “You must be that boy the pretty lady told me about.” She glanced up at her uncle, appearing both surprised and pleased. “He’s like me! I like him!”
While the two children did share similar coloring—jet-black hair and deep green eyes—the girl’s enthusiasm was enough to send Rowan skittering behind Violet again.
Following him, Lady Jewel poked him on the shoulder. “What’re you hiding for, huh? Don’t you want to play?”