by Candice Hern
"He was a hero in Spain, you know," Susannah was saying. "That is where he lost his arm." She suddenly put a hand to her mouth and giggled. "Can you imagine," she said, "that I did not even notice his missing arm at first? Without my spectacles, he was simply a blur of green with a lovely, kind voice. But what does a missing arm matter when he is otherwise so well favored?"
"But, Sukey-—"
"I knew at once he must be special, for you had overlooked his disability to single him out."
"But, Sukey—"
"How very open-minded you are, Cath. So many others would have dismissed him as ineligible simply because of his missing arm."
"But, Sukey—"
"I just wanted to tell you what a dear sister you are to me. I am so very fortunate. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She bent down to kiss Catherine on the cheek. "But I must dash. I am meeting the captain in the rosarium. Enjoy your painting. Good-bye!"
Before Catherine could protest her reservations about the captain, Susannah had disappeared through the hedge.
Well, this was a fine mess. Susannah, bless her naive heart, was lost to the good captain. Catherine had never seen her so starry-eyed. It was clear she was halfway in love with the man already. Catherine knew there would be no possibility of introducing a rival for her sister's affections. Unless Captain Phillips was discovered to be a Bonapartist or worse, she knew that Susannah was well and truly lost.
And the man had no fortune.
Catherine sighed and began to gather up her painting materials. Her heart was no longer in it. Perhaps she would come back here tomorrow and finish her picture. But in the meantime she must focus all her energies on securing a rich husband for herself. If Susannah brought the captain up to scratch, Catherine and Aunt Hetty would still be stuck in Chelsea without a sou. And so it was going to be up to Catherine to repair the family fortunes.
As she made her way back to the house, sketchpad and paintbox tucked under an arm, her thoughts drifted to Mr. Archibald and their earlier conversation. It was clear that he did not approve of her mercenary motives. It was strangely disturbing to know she had disappointed him. He had been unable to disguise the contempt in his green eyes, or the scowl that marred his handsome face.
But she had no business thinking of Mr. Archibald's face as handsome, of wishing she could replace that scowl with the lopsided grin that had so charmed her. And no business worrying over his opinion of her. He was only an employee of the estate, after all. He was a nobody. He was nothing. He was not of her own class and so could have no understanding of the situation. His good opinion was not really important. It should not matter at all.
But for some reason she could not explain, it did. It mattered very much.
Catherine puzzled over this conundrum as she neared the house. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, when she saw the solitary figure of the duchess walking along the path just ahead. Her Grace had seemed such a social creature that it was quite unexpected to see her walking alone. Perhaps she simply sought a quiet moment for herself, a brief respite from the hubbub of her guests. In that case, Catherine determined not to interrupt her solitude and slowed her pace.
At that moment, however, the duchess must have heard her, for she stopped and turned around. Upon seeing Catherine, she smiled broadly and waved, waiting for Catherine to catch up with her.
"Ah, Miss Forsythe," she said cheerfully, "I see you have been enjoying the morning sun in the gardens."
"Yes, Your Grace. I often explore the gardens in the mornings, when the light is so crisp and clean. How beautiful Chissingworth is. I cannot tell you how grateful we all are to have been invited."
"You are most welcome, my child," the duchess said. "It is such a vast place, it seems only proper to share it with others. I am pleased you are enjoying your visit. Have you been sketching?" A flick of her hand indicated the sketchpad under Catherine's arm.
"Painting, actually," Catherine replied. "I enjoy painting flowers, and what better place to indulge myself?"
"Indeed. Would you mind very much if I asked to see some of your pictures? I would be very interested to see your work."
"I do not mind at all. In fact, I would be honored to have you take a look at them."
"Well, then." The duchess indicated a nearby stone bench, and both ladies were soon seated side by side.
"Here is what I have been working on this morning," Catherine said, holding out the unfinished picture of a clematis blossom. "I am afraid it is not yet complete—"
"But I can see that it will be beautiful when it is." The duchess took the painting and studied it closely. "My dear child, you are very talented. This is quite extraordinary." She looked up and smiled. "I am particularly fond of clematis, though it is as common here at Chissingworth as any weed. It flourishes everywhere you look. This one, I would venture to guess, is from the Old Hall garden."
"Yes, it is."
"I thought so. How clever of you to have found it. You have captured this special color very nicely. What else have you painted?"
Catherine flipped through the pages of her sketchpad, which was filled with pictures of lilies, dahlias, heliotrope, hypericum, pansies, and violas.
"These are quite good, Miss Forsythe," the duchess said as she examined the pages. "I am very impressed. Oh, but my son would love these."
"The duke?"
"Yes. He is fond of flowers. More fond of flowers than of people, I am sorry to say. That is why he does not join us." She dismissed the subject of the duke with a fluttery wave of her hand. "But, my dear Miss Forsythe, since you enjoy flowers and gardens so much, perhaps I could arrange a guided tour for you. You could never find it all on your own. I am sure one of the staff would be willing to oblige."
"Oh, but that is not necessary, Your Grace," Catherine said. "I have already imposed upon one of your staff, who has been giving me an expert's tour."
"Indeed? And who is that?"
"Mr. Archibald."
"Mr. Archibald?" The duchess's brow knotted in confusion.
"Yes." Catherine chuckled softly as she brought to mind an image of their first encounter. "He looked at first like an ordinary gardener. But then I realized he spoke so knowledgeably and lovingly of the place that he must be the head gardener. I have been learning a lot from him about some of the more unusual plants and flowers."
"Have you? From our . . . head gardener?"
"Yes. And he always finds the best specimens for me to paint, where the light is just right. It was Mr. Archibald who showed me the Old Hall garden. I am afraid I have imposed upon his good nature far too often."
"His . . . good nature?"
"Oh, yes," Catherine said, suddenly realizing she ought to have spoken with more caution. She had no wish to get Mr. Archibald in trouble for abandoning his duties to spend time with her. "I bumped into him quite by accident, you see. Once I discovered who he was, I began peltering him with questions. I am sure I gave him no opportunity to refuse. He has been very kind. And very generous with his knowledge."
"Has he?" The duchess's eyes narrowed as though pondering a difficult puzzle. "Well," she said at last. "That is most singular. Most singular indeed."
Catherine raised her brows in question, wondering what she had said to cause this odd mood.
"You are very fortunate, my child," Her Grace continued in a more lighthearted tone. "Mr. . . . Archibald . . . has seldom been known to provide guests with a special tour. In fact," she said, tapping a finger absently against her chin, "he is generally most reluctant to allow others into his private world. How very interesting." She turned to Catherine and brightened. "But I encourage you to continue to take advantage of his"—she paused and grinned enigmatically—"his good nature. Oh, and a word of advice. I would not let any of the other guests know of your meetings with Mr. Archibald. They would only insist upon sharing in your good fortune. And, if I know Mr. Archibald"—she grinned again—"he would not appreciate such attentions."
"I am sure you are correct, Your Grace. I have told no one else of him, except Susannah and Aunt Hetty. He implied that I should not." Catherine recalled his swift and undignified retreat when Susannah had appeared earlier. "He even seemed loath to meet my sister this morning. He dashed away before she could join us."
The duchess brought a hand to her mouth as she began to laugh. Catherine had no idea what was so funny, but Her Grace was clearly amused.
"I beg your pardon," the duchess said at last. "It is just that I know how . . . how shy . . . Mr. Archibald can be. I can just imagine him running away from your beautiful sister."
Catherine was thoroughly mystified. The man who seemed so friendly toward her appeared to have a reputation as some kind of strange recluse. Perhaps he really was as loose a screw as his employer, and she just hadn't discovered it yet. Perhaps she should avoid him altogether.
"I suspect I have imposed far too often upon Mr. Archibald," she told the duchess, who was still biting back laughter. "I am sure he is a very busy man and has much more important things to see to."
"Nonsense!" the duchess said. "What could be more important than taking care of one of my favorite guests? I shall see that he is told to give you as much of his time as he can spare. The new conservatory be damned."
Catherine had no idea what that last remark about the conservatory meant, but she did not question the duchess further. The woman was still grinning to herself, and Catherine began to wonder if the entire household was not somewhat addled.
"You must excuse me, my dear," the duchess said. "I had been on my way to meet with Sir Quentin Lacey. But I am pleased we had this chance to chat. It has been most illuminating, I assure you."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"Oh, and I did so enjoy seeing your pictures. My, but you have a talent, my dear. How lucky you are to be so gifted. I wonder . . ."
"Yes?"
"I wonder if I might be so bold as to commission a painting from you?"
"You would like me to make a painting for you?" Catherine was astonished that the duchess would condescend to so favor her with such a request.
"If it would not be too much trouble," the duchess said. "You see, there is a flower that is a special favorite of mine. I know it is more fashionable to admire the exotics, but I confess I am very partial to roses. Steph—that is, Mr. Archibald has brought in many new varieties from China these last few years. There is one in particular . . . I wonder if I might persuade you to make a picture of it for me? It is a China rose, called Hume's, or some such unromantic name. If is very pale pink and utterly charming."
"I would be pleased to paint it for you, Your Grace."
"How very kind of you," the duchess said. "There is one spot where this particular rose looks most beautiful. Ask Mr. Archibald to show you the Grotto. It is a bit of a walk, but is quite lovely this time of year. There is a solitary rosebush nestled up against the grotto wall. The Hume's China rose. I believe you will find it worth painting."
"I shall be pleased to do so, Your Grace."
"Good. Good. Then I must be on my way. Good morning to you, Miss Forsythe."
Catherine watched as the duchess turned in the direction of the old conservatory, a jaunty spring in her step. She could have sworn she heard the woman's laughter as she disappeared around a bend in the hedge.
Chapter 9
Stephen took a circuitous route from the Old Hall garden near the western edge of the estate to the construction site of his new conservatory on the eastern edge. He kept to the less frequented paths and skirted the entire southern border in hopes of avoiding any errant party guests.
He chastised himself for so forgetting his need for anonymity. What was wrong with him? He knew the consequences should it be discovered the duke was, in fact, in residence. He had made it very clear to his mother that her guests were not to know of his presence, that he was not to be disturbed. Even the Old Hall garden, regardless of how private, was too close to the house to be safe. What if Miss Forsythe's sister had not been alone? What if she had been accompanied by someone who recognized him?
Miss Forsythe. It was all her fault. His fascination with her had caused him to ignore his usual aversion to Society, to ignore the danger of being discovered. Day after day he wandered the most public of the gardens, courting the disaster of discovery, while hoping to see her just one more time.
He had become obsessed with her, simply because she did not know his true identity and therefore did not strut and preen in his presence. That, and the fact that she was remarkably pretty. And had big gray eyes sparkling with wit and intelligence. And those intriguing dark eyebrows. And full, pink, kissable lips. And a delightful smattering of freckles across her nose. And because she laughed so easily. And because she showed a genuine interest in his favorite subjects. And because she painted so skillfully. And because she had made a present for him. And . . . and . . . and . . .
She had seemed so perfect.
Until today.
Today that veneer of perfection had begun to crumble. She had revealed herself as a fortune hunter of the worst sort. Oh, he understood her need for financial security well enough. But almost any man could provide her with more than she apparently had now. It was that fierce determination to bag a fortune—a large fortune—that disgusted him. Such heartless calculation was repugnant to him.
Stephen reached a slight rise on the outer edges of the parkland and leaned against a large elm tree. Just below, he had a clear view of the new conservatory. The sight of the sprawling wood-and-glass structure failed to excite him as it usually did. He had no heart for it today. His disappointment and anger upon learning Miss Forsythe's true colors had ruined his day.
Only a few hours ago, when he had first brought her to the Old Hall garden, it had actually crossed his mind that he might reveal to her his true identity. He wanted her to know. Not today, perhaps. But he had wanted her to know. He had wanted honesty between them, so that he could—what?—court her? He did not know. He did not know what he ultimately wanted from her. He had not allowed his thoughts to follow that path just yet. But she intrigued him as no other woman ever had. And he owed her the truth.
But now he could never tell her the truth. He would never be able to know for sure if she was interested in him for his money or for himself. As plain Mr. Archibald, he could be certain. As the duke, he could never know.
And that angered Stephen as nothing else did. He had thought that for once he would be able to know. But now, he never would.
Damn. He kicked hard at the ground and sent a divot bouncing down the slope. Damn, damn, damn.
He should have run away from her that very first time. He should have picked himself up, helped her to her feet, and been on his anonymous way. But, no. He had given in to the temptation of a pretty face. He had allowed himself to play out this idiotic charade for the sake of—what? He did not even know anymore.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he was the world's biggest fool.
Ever since he had inherited the dukedom at the age of ten, he had known he could not fully trust anyone. He had learned that lesson very early. He had learned that, in the end, almost everyone wanted something from him. Everyone had an ulterior motive.
He should have remembered that and kept away from Miss Forsythe.
Stephen heaved a weary sigh and pushed himself away from the tree. He might as well go down and check on the progress of the work. Critical ceiling panels were to be installed today. They would be shattering every other pane of glass if he was not on hand to oversee the work. He could not trust the workmen to do it right.
He could not trust anyone.
After dinner, the guests broke up into small groups. Card tables had been brought into the Apollo Salon and several games of whist were in progress. Another group—younger people, mostly—was engaged in a lively game of charades. Yet another gathered around the pianoforte. Others were simply seated about the room in qui
et conversation.
Catherine was seated next to the very young Miss Lucy Neville, who was chattering on about bonnets. She went on at great length about the milliner on Bond Street whom she and her sister patronized. After the third detailed description of yet another of the milliner's most fetching concoctions, Catherine's attention wavered.
Her eyes traveled toward Susannah, who was in close conversation with Captain Phillips. Other gentlemen seated nearby vied for her sister's attention, but she gave it to only one man. She had apparently strolled about the gardens that morning with the captain, and during the afternoon outing to the local abbey ruins she stayed at his side almost the entire time. It was becoming more and more clear that Susannah was a lost cause.
Catherine had pulled her aunt aside that afternoon as they had strolled through the remains of the abbey. "Oh, Aunt Hetty. What are we going to do about Sukey? Look at her!"
Susannah had been staring up at the captain with those wide, innocent eyes, a faint smile touching her lips. Her admiration of him was there for all the world to see.
"I suspect, my dear," Aunt Hetty had replied, "that there is nothing to be done. She is lost to him, I think."
"But he is only a steward!"
"Yes, but at least he is gainfully employed," her aunt said. "And I understand the duke is very generous. I am certain the captain will be allowed to maintain his position here for all of his life. There is some security in that, my dear."
"But not exactly the sort I was looking for," Catherine said in a petulant tone. "And she is so very beautiful. Heavens, she could probably have just about anyone with those looks. It is such a waste."