The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  “Or not?” She winked.

  His morning erection stirred to her teasing. Daylight spilled around her waist, her hips. The tip of her long braid swung across her bottom’s ripe swell under plain skirts.

  “A visitor, milord.” Genevieve peered through the glass. “That gentleman from last night…Lord Barnard.”

  Twenty-nine

  Barnard inspected the parlor’s half-painted wall, his gray queue feathering a mauve velvet coat. “Not sure what your muralist is trying to accomplish here, Bowles.” He waved vaguely at layers of purples and vibrant blues. “Is this a sky?”

  Genevieve set down a tray of coffee and biscuits. “It’s the sky beyond the eastern meadow, milord.” She straightened. “I started this morning. It’ll take a few days to finish.”

  “Most unusual, a lady painting a mural in her own home.” He squinted at black shapes higher up the wall. “What are those?”

  “The silhouette of birds.” She nodded at a stretch of gray. “That’s the beginning of the stone wall there. I’m re-creating the east meadow at twilight…a gift for my husband to remind him of bird-watching with his late grandfather.”

  Marcus rested his elbow on the mantel. Genevieve’s simple offering shook him to the soles of his boots. His grandfather’s old Florentine thermometer—unearthed from somewhere in the cottage—sat by the window. The pendulum clock ticked on the mantel. The purple settee was brushed clean, and the floor was polished.

  All her touches to restore Pallinsburn.

  “A unique, honorary gift.” Barnard studied Genevieve from under brows as white as dandelion tufts. “But you’re not a typical lady, are you?”

  “My wife has made Pallinsburn a better place.” Marcus accepted the cup she’d poured for him. “And, one could argue, she’s made me a better man.”

  “Sounds like true love indeed.” Barnard declined a cup for himself. “Must be for a second son of the Northampton marquisate to marry a laborer from the Golden Goose.”

  Coffee scalded Marcus’s throat.

  The pewter pitcher banged on the tray. Slowly Genevieve righted herself. “You’ve found me out, sir.”

  “The farce is over, Miss Turner.”

  Marcus set his cup on the mantel with care. “She is my wife. You’d be wise to address her accordingly.” A dull throb knocked inside his head, but he eyed his guest, finding him…brittle.

  “Of course, my apologies…Lady Bowles.” Barnard’s lips stretched. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

  “Recognize you? No. Did you frequent the Golden Goose?”

  Barnard chuckled. “Never set foot in the place, but I was a late-night visitor at Herr Wolf’s house in Soho. Twice in fact.”

  “I don’t remember you.”

  Barnard rocked back on polished black heels. “Perhaps you’ll remember the crates stored in Herr Wolf’s study.”

  “The crates…”

  “Yes, the crates full of pistols.”

  “The matchlocks… I repaired some of them.”

  “You were most helpful.”

  “Forgive me, Barnard,” Marcus cut in. “What crates?”

  “Your wife hasn’t told you of her work for Herr Wolf?”

  “I was Herr Wolf’s housekeeper,” she insisted. “I fixed a few old matchlock pistols for him.”

  “We both know you were never his housekeeper,” Barnard said officiously, rocking on the balls of his feet. “But you did a great service, my dear, fixing some of the weapons.”

  “What kind of service?” Marcus grated.

  With his penchant for pasted-on smiles and the latest fashion, one might think Barnard a buffoonish, ageing statesman. Yet keen eyes narrowed on Marcus.

  “You’re telling me you know nothing about Herr Wolf? He’s been very sloppy of late.”

  Genevieve sank down on the settee.

  Marcus sighed, his mouth twisting with disappointment. “Very little, it would seem.” How many secrets did she hide?

  The clock ticked behind him, its pendulum chipping away at his trust with each swing. A crow landed on the windowsill, cawing loudly, its beady yellow eyes peering through the glass.

  Barnard coughed into his balled fist. “Your globe. May I show you something on it?”

  “Please.” Marcus clasped both hands behind his back and stayed as he was. He had the bearing of a disapproving headmaster, laughable for the likes of him, but he needed some semblance of control.

  Genevieve’s chin tilted mutinously at him. “I’ve done nothing wrong, milord.”

  Barnard spun the globe, continents and oceans blurring. Like the velvet settee, the new globe had been left behind by the previous occupant. She’d set it on a table beside the plain wooden settle near the window.

  “Of course you haven’t, my dear.” The old lord produced a pair of spectacles from his coat and held them up to the light. “Herr Wolf’s not a talkative one, but I’m sure you heard him mention the Brotherhood of Silesia. It’s an old soldier’s order, resurrected by Prussia’s Baron Bromberg.”

  Hands folded on her lap, Genevieve could have been a queen on a purple velvet throne. “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know what it means. Herr Thade encouraged me to keep quiet about what was said at the house.”

  “Thade…a frightful man.” Barnard whipped out a handkerchief and swiped it over the lenses of his glasses. “A zealot to the Brotherhood. He’s at odds with Herr Wolf…impatient to get back to Prussia.”

  “He never liked me. Called me a distraction to Herr Wolf.”

  “Not a man of social graces, to be sure. He’s staying at the Red Swan. Prefers the simple fare,” Barnard said, donning his spectacles. “What I’m about to tell you is common knowledge. I’ll fill in the gaps as I can, but it would be easier if you both come here.”

  Genevieve rose from the settee, her supple lips pressing an impertinent line. Her proud profile announced, I didn’t deceive you. Mouth quirking at her silent setdown, Marcus joined them at the window, both hands clasped behind his back. He wanted to tweak her chin and kiss her, but he’d not touch her. Not yet.

  “This is Silesia.” Barnard’s eyes lit with a magician’s fervor. “Rich with copper.”

  His pasty finger touched the principality south of Prussia. Genevieve bent lower, and her braid fell forward as she traced Silesia’s bold S.

  “Why is this important to us?” Marcus asked.

  “Because Poland possesses it. The land once belonged to Prussia, and they want it back.” Barnard eyed Genevieve over his spectacles. “And you, my dear, play a part in this.”

  “Me?”

  “Indeed, you do.”

  Marcus didn’t need to examine the globe. Pieces of a fractured puzzle fell into place. The tides of war and unrest were as old as time. “And Poland is supported by Russia,” he supplied. “And Russia is allied with France, Austria, and Sweden.”

  Barnard’s gap-tooth smile split wide. “Very good, Bowles. As a soldier in the Seven Years’ War, I suspected you’d understand.”

  “Marcus, what does it mean?”

  Marcus stared at Barnard while answering Genevieve. “It means the crates of pistols supply a rebellion to our former enemies.”

  “They do, which of course is not common knowledge.” Barnard pointed his spectacles at Genevieve. “The war may be over, but the discord is hardly gone.”

  “And the Prussian?” Marcus asked.

  “A consummate soldier. But, after the Seven Years’ War, Europe lacked the will and the funds for battles of grand scale.” Barnard paused to fold his eyewear. “Herr Wolf leads a clandestine group of soldiers. They’ve all sworn a blood oath before King Frederick of Prussia.”

  “His tattoo,” she said. “The Brotherhood of Silesia.”

  “It is their mark, a sign of their mission to restore Silesia to Prussi
a through whatever means necessary.” Barnard tucked away his spectacles. “Also not common knowledge.”

  Genevieve peered at the globe. “Herr Wolf said his family once owned a brewery and lands in Silesia.”

  “Yes, in Breslau. His family is most anxious to get them back.”

  “Other than fixing a few pistols, how does Genevieve matter in this?” Marcus asked.

  “Ah, the pistols.” The older man’s eyes lit up like a crafty fox. “Herr Wolf’s mission was to gather small batches of older weapons manufactured in various nations. The uprising must appear to be from within. We couldn’t have the rebels fight with English canons and English pistols.”

  “Because that would upset Russia.” Marcus traced Russia’s northern border on the globe. “Any trouble for Russia becomes trouble for its allies.”

  “Exactly. The miasma of war. Why draw whole nations into war when a covert cadre of soldiers can do the trick?” Barnard was grave, clamping both hands behind his back. “I thought you’d understand, Bowles. England can’t be seen as interfering.”

  Marcus scoffed. “But we’re interfering anyway.”

  “Indeed we are. Because of my late wife’s family ties in Königsberg, I was asked to—shall we say smooth?—the way for Herr Wolf in London while he quietly pursued his mission.”

  “I see what you’re about.” Arms folded and hip cocked, Genevieve asserted herself. “We scratch King Frederick’s back, and King Frederick scratches ours…with copper.”

  “Yes!” Barnard’s eyes lit absurdly. “I see why Herr Wolf is so fond of you.”

  “Other than fixing a few pistols, I don’t see how I matter here,” she said, taking her seat on the settee again.

  Marcus followed her and lodged himself on the settee’s arm.

  “Now that Herr Wolf’s work here is done, he’s badly needed to lead the fight. It’s what he does best.” Barnard contemplated Marcus and Genevieve from under bushy brows. “If I may ask, my dear, how did you come to have such knowledge of firearms?”

  “When I was twelve, we stayed at a long summer festival near Leeds. I pestered a gunsmith to let me watch him work. I stayed long enough for him to teach me about matchlock mechanisms. I took to it. So he taught me about wheel lock pistols.” She folded her hands in her apron. “I’ve always been good with mechanisms.”

  “A rare skill for a young woman. I brought an Italian wheel lock with me for the hunt. Perhaps you could…”

  The droning hum in Marcus’s head drowned out Barnard’s voice. The old man greased the conversation’s wheels, and Genevieve responded. A crow flapped its wings, landing on the windowsill outside. Its beady-eyed stare was enough to chill the bones. An object shined from its beak.

  Creatures of all kinds had claimed their prizes today.

  Old Barnard was nothing more than a well-dressed predator come to call.

  “You haven’t finished your business here, have you?” Marcus cut their chatter.

  Barnard and Genevieve faced him, her lips parting gently. Did she know her fate?

  He pressed again. “What else do you have to say?”

  The old man had the grace to tuck his chin. “I’m very sorry, but Herr Wolf insists he won’t leave until he has what is his by right of law.”

  “Because he guessed Lord Bowles only married me to save me,” she said. “After all, what man in his position would marry a woman from the Golden Goose?”

  “Despite his outlandish size, Herr Wolf has a quick mind.”

  “Hence, his continued stay in England,” Marcus ground out. He lodged himself on the settee’s cushioned arm, his booted feet wide on the floor. One hand braced his knee; the other he planted on the back of the chair behind his wife.

  Barnard’s eyes flared wide at the uncouth display, but there was no mistaking the message. “I’m appealing to you as an Englishman.”

  Marcus shook his head. “She stays. With me.”

  Twin spots of color bloomed on Lord Barnard’s cheeks. “Bowles, you understand…this is king and country we’re talking about. Far beyond your reach or mine.”

  “I already gave king and country my due.”

  “What about your family?” Barnard blustered. “I was a good friend of your father’s. What would he say about this?”

  Marcus’s fingers drummed the back of the chair. “Plenty, I’m sure.”

  Wind stirred outside. Dry bits of mulch flew past the window, and the crow flapped his wings but held fast to his perch.

  Fluster faded from the old man, replaced by eyes narrowed with calculation. “I can arrange a tidy sum for you and your brother.”

  Marcus stood. Genevieve sat tall and silent beside him, a woman bartered like common goods. Again. She’d had enough men arrange her life for her. He’d fight for her. Kill the Prussian if he had to.

  “I’ll remind you, sir, you’re speaking of my wife.”

  Barnard’s fist clenched at his side. The hearth’s fire burned hotly behind mauve-clad legs. Marcus fancied that the old man had danced straight out of hell to deliver his news today.

  “A ship leaves Alnmouth in ten days bound for Danzig. It is my job to ensure Herr Wolf is on it.” Barnard’s eyes hardened on Genevieve. “Whether you go willingly or not, my dear, you will be on it with him.”

  Thirty

  Lord Barnard turned heel and exited the parlor. The cottage door slammed shut. Genevieve flinched, staring at the empty hallway. Icy coldness seized her. The loss of the stallion last night…the money.

  “Lord Barnard. Wait!” she yelled and dashed to the front door. If she could stop the man. Leave with him now…

  Footfalls thumped behind her. Beyond the door, Lord Barnard’s voice carried, snapping orders at his servants. She lunged for the iron latch.

  Strong hands grabbed her and spun her around. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to stop this disaster I created,” she cried.

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “Let me go.” She fought to break free, yelling, “Lord Bar—”

  Lord Bowles clamped a hand over her mouth and pinned her against the door. Blood coursed in her veins. Outside, a carriage door slammed shut. Horses snorted. Men shouted. She struggled, but her husband’s body made a formidable wall.

  “Not more than an hour ago, you said you trusted me with your life,” he growled into her ear. “Now you’ve lost faith in me?”

  Hair fell across her eyes. Panting hard, she tasted his salty skin mashing her lips.

  Faith in him? If he only knew how much he meant to her.

  She’d already crashed headlong into all-consuming want when it came to Lord Marcus. She craved the man, but he’d not last. Their arrangement, meant to save her, was destroying him…and little by little it was crushing her. The vain hope. To be with Lord Marcus and make Pallinsburn their home? This was foolish playacting.

  It could never be.

  Lord Barnard had spewed offal today, but there were bits of truth in what he’d said. She was no lady. One plea to Reinhard would solve everyone’s problems. He’d return the stallion, the money, and she’d go away with him. She would serve his whims. For six long years until her indenture was done. Or when he tired of her. Her leaving was the tidiest answer.

  A whip cracked outside. She slumped, the fight draining out of her. Running away cost so much, a price she’d willingly paid. Dragging Lord Bowles in this deep wasn’t part of the bargain. He ought to be glad to wash his hands of her, yet his fierce glare kept her in place. Beyond the cottage door, harnesses jingled. Carriage wheels ground the earth. Noises of man and beast faded, leaving them alone. Brown hair loose from his queue, he eased his hand from her mouth and gripped her shoulder. The pad of his thumb pressed bare skin by her collarbone, at once invading and intimate.

  “I was trying to get your stallion and your money back,” she whispe
red hoarsely.

  “And offer what in return?” He bit out. “Yourself?”

  His eyes burned hot, the gold shards a banked fire in hazel brown. Their hard slant accused her. The oak at her back was as unforgiving as the man.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Lines around his fine mouth deepened. “Yes. It does.”

  What bothered him more? Her choosing to give herself up? Or his notion that she didn’t believe he’d be able to solve this?

  “I’m still here.” Glancing at his hand on her shoulder, she attempted a smile. “You’ve got me stuck between a hard place and a hard man.”

  “Don’t jest,” he snapped.

  Her heart thumped faster. She’d come to learn he could be mercurial. Burying her hands in the folds of her skirt, she resisted the urge to touch him. Last night, this morning…everything was spinning.

  “I took a lesson from you, milord, a dose of humor in a tense moment. It’s what you do.”

  “I’m not laughing.” Nostrils flaring, he dipped his gaze to the creamy flesh spilling from her bodice. “Did you plan to barter yourself like common goods?”

  Her chin tipped, nearly bumping his. “This is a mess of my own making. I’ll thank you not to judge how I clean it up.”

  His scowl deepened. “I gave you my name.” From the parlor, the clock ticked. The touch under her collarbone lightened. His thumb rubbed minute circles, sliding lower, finding the upper curve of her breast. “We’re both up to our ears in messes of our own making,” he drawled, his thumb petting her breast. “Forgive me for believing we had a plan to help each other.”

  And he let go.

  Her palms flattened on the door. How could he say something so…so…knee-weakening? He said we as though the two of them together could solve anything. Lord Bowles stood an arm’s length from her, both hands on his hips. In shirtsleeves and waistcoat with his hip boots on, he was more a man of the land and less the fine London nob.

  She rubbed her breastbone where her heart beat under her hand. “Why is this so important…you helping me?”