by Lauren Royal
“Gads, 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.” He stood, grateful the shirt he was wearing covered him to midthigh, wondering if he should have left his breeches on as well. It had been years since he’d worn anything to sleep, 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, so he’d best steel himself for more long hours of nocturnal pummeling.
What had he done to deserve this?
As the youngest of four, he’d never had to deal with children before, save as a loving uncle who bestowed the occasional coin or pat on the head. Whatever compelled people to desire these strange creatures—and the responsibility 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 little pink confection of a gown whose fastenings he found confusing. He was itching to work on his watch design, but she hadn’t forgotten about the sundial.
Would that he had such a memory.
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.
He would have to hire some servants. Although he’d been granted Lakefield House twelve years ago, shortly after King Charles’s restoration, he’d never really lived here. Naturally he’d visited on occasion, but the sheer work involved in renovating the manor house had always seemed overwhelming. So he’d lived in the family’s London town house, or at Cainewood Castle with his older brother Jason, the Marquess of Cainewood, and poured what income the estate produced into his scientific pursuits. He’d known that someday he would fix up the place, most likely when he decided to marry. But “someday” always seemed far, far in the future.
He hadn’t left Lakefield unoccupied, of course, but the elderly couple who cared for the house—and cooked for him on the rare occasions he was in residence—was no match for a six-year-old’s energy. If he wanted help, 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.”
Damnation, where had it gone to?
He paced the garden, shocked to find it totally overgrown, although by all appearances it must have been that way for years. 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 neat circle of hedges and wooden benches…
“Here it is.” He pushed his way through a ring of bushes that seemed to have grown together. His niece followed. 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.”
She beamed up at him as though he were a genius, melting his heart. “How does it work, Uncle Ford?”
He lifted her into his arms, remembering why he loved women. But from now on, he’d be sticking to ones under six. “Well, you see—”
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
A warm, melodic voice. He turned and frowned at the owner, who had followed them into the hedge circle. Although he had a feeling the comely, middle-aged 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. Trentingham Manor can seem lonely when all our neighbors are away in the City.”
Mystery solved. Trentingham. As in Earl of. The neighboring estate.
His niece still in his arms, 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 facing his family and friends. He set Jewel on her feet and leaned a hand against the sundial, grimacing at the crusted dirt.
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, will you?”
“All right.” She turned to the woman, focusing on something in her hand. “What’s that?”
“Don’t point, baby,” Ford said. His twin sister might routinely accuse him of being oblivious, but 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, young lady. 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 fou
nd refreshing. Lord knew Tabitha hadn’t been so.
“Well, I’ve had Jewel for…” He twisted around to see 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 riotous vegetation. Her gaze turned contemplative. “I have a son.”
“Yes?” he prompted, feeling more thickheaded still.
“Rowan. He’s seven years of age. A bit older than Lady Jewel, but 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.
Her miraculous solution to his problem was almost enough to make him believe in such ludicrous things.
“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 on his watch. He was sure his new design had promise, if only he could find the time to test his ideas.
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 pushed through the bushes and made her way back to her carriage.
“HOW DID IT GO, milady?” Anne asked Chrystabel as she climbed inside.
“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 Ford Chase before, but this visit had confirmed it. If ever a perfect man existed for Violet, it was the charming, slightly preoccupied but brilliant 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 somewhat 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 when a man’s hands clasped her shoulders. Warm hands, keeping her upright.
He held on to her a bit longer than necessary before pulling away. Impertinent, this footman, but she was only inches from his face, and oh my, he was handsome up close. She’d rarely seen a man up close—close enough to clearly see with her poor vision—and this one looked divine. She felt herself 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.” He bowed. “Ford Chase,” he added in a deep voice. The sound of it made butterflies dance in her middle. “And you are…?”
This was the viscount?
He couldn’t be. “You’re not wearing a periwig,” she said nonsensically.
“Pardon?” He blinked. “None of the men in my family ever wear wigs.”
It was true her father often went wigless out here in the countryside, but ever? Although, come to think of it, this man wasn’t wearing a footman’s livery either. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been a girl of only fifteen, and all she’d really remembered was long, untidy brown hair and a harried expression.
He looked rather harried today, too. He raked his fingers through his still-long hair, but it didn’t seem to help.
And those eyes. She hadn’t noticed his eyes all those years ago…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 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 was she babbling like a featherbrained courtier? She drew a deep breath and pulled her brother from behind her skirts.
“Pleased to meet you, young man.” The viscount gave him a proper, grave nod.
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 he 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 looks like me! I like him!”
While it was true Rowan was a handsome lad and shared Jewel’s coloring—jet-black hair and deep green eyes—the girl’s enthusiasm was enough to send him skittering behind Violet again.
Following him, Jewel poked him on the shoulder. “What’re you hiding for, huh? Don’t you want to play?”
“No,” Rowan muttered. His fingers clawed at Violet’s skirts. Sensing his panic, she figured it would be only a matter of seconds before he found his way underneath.
Lord Lakefield also looked panicked, though she couldn’t fathom why. “Do come in,” he urged, grabbing Violet quite improperly by the arm. Before the door shut behind her, she shot a helpless look back at the blur that was her maid Margaret in the carriage.
She hadn’t intended to go inside.
But here she was. Still gripping her arm, the viscount fairly pulled her down a hallway whose paneling was so worn that even with her bad eyes she could tell it needed refinishing. Behind her, Rowan held on like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. He was literally dragging his heels.
Evidently undeterred, Jewel chattered cheerfully as she walked along beside him. “How old are you? Your mother said you were seven. Are you seven? I’m almost six. When’s your birthday? Mine’s next week. Mama said we would have a celebration. But now she’s ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Violet said to Jewel, since it was clear Rowan wouldn’t. Her heels clicked on the wood-planked floor. She could feel the warmth of the viscount’s fingers through her indigo broadcloth sleeve.
“Papa promised me she’d get well,” Jewel said. “And he always keeps his promises.”
They turned into a drawing room decorated in various shades of red and pink. Or perhaps they’d once all been matching crimson, but some pieces had faded.
What were they doing here? Violet wondered. Rowan was clearly miserable, and she hadn’t planned on staying in the first place.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Lord Lakefield told her. “I’ll go ask for some refreshments. I rigged up a bell”—he gestured toward the wall where she assumed it was placed—“but I’m afraid my staff is getting on in years. They’re a bit hard of hearing.”
Dazed, Violet nodded. “So is my father.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s half deaf. Although my sister sometimes claims he just doesn’t want to listen to whatever philosophy I’m spouting at the moment.”
Egad, she was babbling more than Jewel.
“Philosophy?” He blinked, or maybe he grimaced. She wasn’t close enough to tell which. “I’m certain whatever you have to say must be fascinating. If you’ll excuse me.” And with that, he took his long, lanky form out the door.
She rose and wandered over to see where he’d pointed. A pull cord disappeared cleverly into a hole, attached, she assumed, to a bell. Her ears were still ringing with his words.
“Fascinating…” she murmured to no one in particular. Apparently the man was trying to flatter her. No man ever thought a woman discussing philosophy was fascinating.
“Well,” she said aloud, glad she had the common sense to recognize an empty compliment, “Jean de La Fontaine has written that all flatterers live at the expense of those who listen to them.”
Jewel blinked. “Huh?” She blinked again, then knelt on the floor next to Rowan. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
SIX
FORD HURRIED to the kitchen, not least because he had a feeling Violet Ashcroft was poised to bolt. And he couldn’t allow that to happen.
Philosophy. Truth be told, he abhorred the subject—he wasn’t drawn to anything that couldn’t be proven. But it seemed the woman might have a keen brain in her head, which was uncommon, in his experience. He’d always gravitated toward the fun and frilly in female companionship—he depended on male colleagues for intellectual stimulation. When it came to women, he was looking for diversion, not meaningful conversation.