Then she, too, swiveled at the waist. For a heartbeat they stared at one another. Then her mouth cocked up at the corners in a smile of casual, offhand welcome.
“Oh. ’Allo, Justin,” said Evie.
Chapter 18
“AH, MR. POWELL.” Mrs. Vandervoort swept her hand toward a seat at the opposite end of the table from Evelyn. “Won’t you join us?”
Justin didn’t answer. He stood in the doorway, gorgeous in dinner jacket, collar, and cuffs that, given their slightly twisted appearance, Evelyn suspected he’d donned without Beverly’s aid.
Her heartbeat thumped into a frenzied rhythm. She tried valiantly to retard it. She had orders to be friendly, bright, and flirtatious, but under no circumstance to let on that she cared for him. She schooled her expression to bland friendliness, knowing that if he looked closely, he’d see how much she’d missed him.
She mustn’t let that happen. But she was having the hardest time remembering why. Oh, yes. Merry. Merry was an expert. After all, hadn’t Merry foretold the abrupt manner in which Justin would emerge from seclusion, as well as how, the moment he saw her, he’d become mute?
She should congratulate herself on her newly acquired sophistication. Four days ago she’d have been uncomfortable with her uncovered figure and new coiffure. Not until she’d seen Mrs. Vandervoort’s expression of cool approbation and the undisguised admiration of the gentlemen had she accepted that she didn’t look bizarre.
I am not naked. I am as covered up as any lady at this table. Ruby velvet looks nice on me. My shoulders are not bony. My skin is unblemished. She silently recited the litany Merry had given her, wishing she believed it more.
If only she’d had enough courage to really study her image in the mirror. But she hadn’t dared more than a few glances at the polished surface Merry kept thrusting in front of her. Old habits die hard, and it had been the habit of a decade to avoid looking in a mirror.
Be suave, Evelyn. Only it would be easier to be suave without Justin staring at her so disconcertingly. He hadn’t moved in minutes. He wasn’t smiling, and the rapt adoration Merry had foretold looked more like wary scrutiny.
“Justin?” she said with a calmness she was far from feeling. “Do you anticipate joining us soon, or should we expect you after the cheese course?”
Her dinner companion, a portly Dutchman named Dekker, hid a smile. In answer, Justin paced to the vacant seat originally assigned Ernst, who was unaccountably absent. He sat down, snapped open his napkin, and settled it across his lap. He met her eye. “Where are your spectacles?”
Evelyn’s cheeks grew warm, but with a masterful display of composure she kept from reaching up
to adjust phantom lenses. Even if the last days had taught her that they were unnecessary, she still missed
them.
“I . . . I misplaced them.” Her skin grew even warmer at the lie, but she couldn’t very well blurt out that she didn’t need them and possibly hadn’t ever needed them. She’d look like an idiot!
“Hm,” Justin said, frowning, and Evelyn regarded him with surprise. On this score, too, Merry had been correct.
The Justin Powell sitting down the table from her was both familiar and alien. Her Justin, the Justin she’d spent the past four weeks with, was given to saying whatever came to his mind, was indifferent to social niceties, and was unimpressed by titles.
Well, this Justin was certainly all of that, but her Justin had been all of that and comfortable as warm toast and tea. This Justin looked hard and cold as adamant.
“You have a lovely place here, Signor Powell,” the slender Italian gentleman, Signor Coladarci, said.
“Thank you,” Justin clipped out. He suddenly lifted his spoon and gestured. “Nasty bruise on your jaw, there. Hope you didn’t hurt yourself too badly.”
Signor Coladarci flushed. “It is not a bruise, but a birthmark.”
“Oh,” Justin said with every appearance of disappointment. He dipped his spoon into the vichyssoise.
“Lady Evelyn tells us you are an avid ornithologist, Mr. Powell,” the lady to Justin’s right said.
“That’s right,” Justin said and went back to his soup.
The Dutchman cleared his throat. “I am something of an enthusiast myself, Herr Powell.”
“Are you?” Justin asked disinterestedly.
“Indeed, yes. But I cannot claim your preeminence.”
“Oh?” Justin murmured as he chased a bit onion around his bowl. “And what preeminence might that be?”
“Sir,” the Dutchman demurred, “you are modest, indeed, if you have had the honor of identifying an entirely new species without—how do you say?—blowing your own horn.”
“Oh, that. Yes.” He settled back in his chair and adopted a look of complacent satisfaction. “Well, to be perfectly frank, she discovered me. Flew into my window.”
“No!”
Justin lifted a hand. “True. Flew straight in. Of course, I could see she was unique as soon as I laid eyes on her, and once I heard her odd, insistent little call, I confess, I was besotted.”
“Fascinating!” the Dutchman said. “Lady Evelyn could not recall the name of your discovery. What is it?”
For a second, Justin simply sat still. He frowned, reached for the goblet of water by his plate, took a gulp, and suddenly smiled. “Why, Bubo Formosa Plurimus.” He glanced at Evelyn. “Minor.”
“Ah! A new Bubo, eh? Though, I say, I am amazed she flew into your window in broad daylight. I thought the entire genus nocturnal.”
“Oh, my first encounter with her was nocturnal,” Justin said, clearly in charity with the Dutchman.
“Forgive me. My Latin is quite rusty,” the Italian gentleman’s wife said in her heavily accented voice, “but is not formosus the word for beauty?”
“Just so,” said the Dutchman.
“And plurimus is?”
“A crashing bore to everyone else at the table, I’m afraid,” Justin said, taking the signora’s hand and dropping a kiss on it. She giggled. Evelyn felt something uncharitable.
“You indulge me, signora,” Justin went on. “Pretending to be interested in a pair of miscreants like Herr . . .” He looked inquiringly at the Dutchman.
“Dekker, sir,” the Dutchman said happily, clearly not averse to being denoted—probably for the first time in his life—as a miscreant.
“Herr Dekker and me.”
“You are gracious, Mr. Powell,” Mrs. Vandervoort said. “As well as modest.”
Modesty not being one of the qualities Evelyn would have ascribed to Justin, she kept her mouth closed and eyed him closely. He was relaxing into his role now, companionable and pleasing.
For a minute Evelyn didn’t realize the importance of her observation. Then it dawned on her. Justin was playing a role. Why, he was slipping into it as she watched. He smiled blandly, flirted without any real compunction, and drawled in the most irritating public school fashion.
“—must give all the credit to Lady Evelyn.” At the sound of her name, Evelyn started. Mrs. Vandervoort was smiling at her.
“She designed and supervised everything and I must say, it is marvelous.”
Evelyn lowered her eyelids and feigned modesty. “Feigned” because it was marvelous. She’d bullied and prodded, threatened, begged, and beguiled every silk flower, every piece of fretwork, every plastered boulder into existence. “Thank you.”
“I can hardly wait to see it!” breathed Signora Coladarci.
“You will have to wait for the wedding,” Mrs. Vandervoort replied. “Only two more days.”
She turned to Evelyn. “I cannot believe how much you have accomplished, you and the talented Mme. Molière. All is ready, is it not? Now if only the shipment containing my future mother-in-law’s wedding canopy arrives.”
Evelyn smiled, delighted at being able to bring more good news. “I think it has.”
Mrs. Vandervoort, who’d been about to take a sip of wine, set her glass down instead. “Oh?”
“Yes. A crate arrived just before we came in to dinner.
Justin’s head snapped up. “Silsby brought it up from the station?”
She shook her head. “No. It came all the way from London by private van and was delivered directly to the back door. I was in the garden when it arrived.”
“No one was with you?” It was an odd question, made even odder by the scowl Justin wore.
“Beverly. He came out at once and signed for it.”
“Ah.” The frown melted from Justin’s face.
“And I must say, Mr. Powell,” Evelyn added severely, “Beverly’s behavior bordered on the impertinent when I ordered it taken to my rooms.”
In fact, Beverly’s behavior had far overstepped impertinence. He’d actually tried to wrestle the crate away from the van driver, muttering on about how he was sure it was Mr. Powell’s taxidermy equipment—which wasn’t likely, unless Justin planned on stuffing an elephant. The crate was heavy.
“Your rooms?” said Mrs. Vandervoort. Once more, Justin was frowning.
“Yes.” Evelyn dimpled. “As you wished it as a surprise for Sir Cuthbert, I thought it best. Besides, Merry can work on it in my room in case the satin needs repair.”
“Well, I’ll have to come and see, won’t I?” Mrs. Vandervoort said smoothly. “Wise of you to hide it from Bunny. He’s insatiably curious.”
“You are a wonder, Edith,” an older gentleman said. “How do you manage to be so serene with your wedding so close and your secretary ill and abed and your maid, too, pleading sick?”
Grace Angelina Rose was ill? The tall, rawboned woman had seemed the picture of health when Evelyn saw her yesterday, even though it would be hard to discern pallor under the layer of thick makeup she wore.
“Is there anything I can do for her?” she asked.
“You are, as always, thoughtful, Lady Evelyn,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, “but Grace Angelina suffers from migraine on occasion. It’s nothing a day’s rest won’t cure. However, I do confess to feeling my secretary’s loss.”
“I believe he is better,” Evelyn said cautiously. “He may be able to resume his job in the next day or so.”
With Merry engaged in a flurry of last-minute detail work, and Beverly having kittens about the condition of the silverware, it had been left to Evelyn to see Quail that morning. He’d been out, probably testing his strength by taking a short walk, but the oily imprint she’d glimpsed on his pillow told her he wouldn’t be resuming his duties anytime soon. He was still sweating profusely.
“He mustn’t push himself,” Mrs. Vandervoort was saying, and then, as if finding conversation about the health of one’s servant slightly vulgar, she turned her attention to her other guests.
Signor Coladarci began telling Evelyn about the palazzos of Rome. Though he was interesting, and his gaze clearly admiring, Evelyn could not help being conscious of Justin lounging idly at the far end of the table, making little attempt to converse with the ladies on either side of him. Another five minutes had passed when suddenly Justin leaned over the table, looked down its length directly at her, and said, “Evie. I say, Evie!”
She ignored him. Unfortunately, her dinner companion didn’t. “I think Signor Powell would like to speak to you,” he said quietly.
With an exasperated sigh, Evelyn leaned over her fish plate and glared down the table at Justin. “What?”
“Ah, there you are, thought you’d frozen solid in that dress and couldn’t move.”
She began to sputter but he went blithely on. “Forgot to mention,” he said, “but old Blumfield was scratching at the door, looking to be fed. I told him I didn’t know anything about any dinner.”
“Good heavens, Justin!” Evelyn exclaimed, aghast. “Why ever did you tell him that?”
“Because it was the truth,” Justin said innocently. “He might still be hanging about the door kicking stones if you’ve a mind to let him in. It wasn’t that long ago.”
The others at the table traded fascinated looks, making Evelyn acutely self-conscious. She picked up the bell and rang it fiercely. A second later, Beverly appeared at the door. “She desires?”
“Please, go at once and see if Mr. Blumfield is outside—” She noted his peculiar smile and rose to her feet, exasperated, embarrassed, and annoyed. “No, never mind. I’ll go myself.”
She’d already made a spectacle of herself—or, rather, Justin had a made a spectacle of her. But she would deal with him later. As she would deal with Merry.
Good intentions aside, the Frenchwoman shouldn’t have filled her head with all sorts of absurd ideas about her womanliness and Justin’s interest, and how she’d need only to crook her little finger to have him fall to his knees. It was all . . . pipe dreams!
“If you would all excuse me?” She swept down the length of the table and left in a rustle of taffeta petticoats.
A few minutes later, Justin Powell touched his hand to his forehead, pleaded a headache (while winking brazenly beneath his palm at the Italian signora who, sensing an affair of the heart brewing, sighed with pleasure), and rose to saunter from the room.
“Ernst, can you forgive me? I am sure Mr. Powell—”
“I know exactly what Mr. Powell was doing. Such matters know no international boundaries, my dear,” Ernst said, smiling gently. He took her hand and held it between his two. “In his situation, I would do the same.”
She had run out the front door just as Ernst had been taking his leave of one of the gardeners. Dear Ernst. He must always take the time to politely, and at length, inquire after his fellow man. From there she’d persuaded him to follow her back into the front hall. But he had resisted actually coming in to dine. He had something he needed to say to her.
How to get across to this dear, naive man that his suspicions regarding Justin were completely unfounded? Her head had cleared. The preceding days were like a child’s dream, all wishful thinking and dress-up.
“Ernst, please. You are mistaken. Mr. Powell’s oversight had nothing to do with any personal feelings either toward you or me.”
Ernst tched, shaking his head. “You are honest, so you think others are. It is, sadly, not so. Mr. Powell is not as impartial as he would appear.”
Evelyn ceased trying to argue. Surely she, who’d lived with Justin for over a month, knew him better than this dear gentleman. Justin had hidden propensities? The notion was absurd. Why, Justin was an open book. A big, uninterested open book. He hadn’t even noticed the “new” Evelyn.
Even Ernst didn’t seem to notice her transformation—or if he did, he apparently didn’t think it worth commenting on. Perhaps he thought she looked silly. Perhaps Justin thought she looked silly!
“It’s the gown, isn’t it?” she asked anxiously.
He blinked. “The . . . ah, gown?”
“It’s not my style, is it? Looks bizarre on me. Rather like a chicken got up in ostrich plumes, aren’t I?”
He gazed at her helplessly. “Ostrich? Chicken? I don’t understand. Your gown is most . . .” He faltered to a halt, his answer unfortunately quite clear.
“Incongruous?” she supplied.
“Well,” he said, “unexpected.” He smiled in what she was sure he felt was a heartening manner. “I like the gray dress. It is like you. The real you.”
“The real me.”
“Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “Simple. Unadorned. Honest and hardworking.”
She returned his smile as well as she could, but apparently not well enough, for poor Ernst’s expression turned into one of misery. “I have spoken poorly! Forgive me!” he cried. “I only meant that, my dear Lady Evelyn, you have always seemed so easy with who and what you are, so disdainful of artifice and superfluities.”
“I actually rather like superfluities, if by that you mean geegaws and furbelows. I just don’t think they look right on m—on certain women.”
“Right?” As he tested the word and frowned in frustration over his failure to grasp the subtleties of the la
nguage, Evelyn became conscious of the unpleasant position she had put Ernst in.
She smiled. “No matter. It’s just a dress, correct?”
“Right!” Ernst said with relief. “And you mustn’t fret over your appearance. You always look,” he hunted for the term and found it with a delighted smile, “just so.”
Just so. She gave a mental wince. Better than “passable,” she supposed. Perhaps “just so” was the highest praise she could expect. When had she become so greedy for a man’s praise? No, not a man’s praise. Justin’s.
“I hadn’t dared to assume, but your confiding in me gives me courage to say those things which a gentleman usually only says to a lady after many months’ association. At least, it is so in my country, but here things are different. Things go so fast. I feel if I do not seize the moment, the moment will pass me by and I will regret it.”
He fixed her with an earnest, soulful stare.
From thoughts of Justin, Evelyn’s attention snapped back fully to Ernst. Uh-oh. She knew what was coming.
For an instant, a frantic voice within her squealed for her to take what he was about to offer, knowing it was born of true affection and deep regard and honest appreciation. And wasn’t appreciation the one thing she’d always insisted she would have from a husband?
A half year ago she might have heeded that voice. Three months ago, she would have said she owed it to herself to joyfully accept Ernst’s imminent proposal. A month ago, she would have made him a good wife, even three weeks ago.
But not today.
The knowledge filled her with melancholy, because whatever else had become of her, she wasn’t the same woman she’d been before she’d come to North Cross Abbey. Yet her feelings for Justin, and the suspicion that they were just as futile, gave her empathy for Ernst.
She turned her hands in his and clasped them warmly. “My dear Ernst,” she said. “When I came to North Cross Abbey, I never expected to meet someone who shared so many of the same interests as I. Someone with whom I felt immediately comfortable.”
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