“If she’d been in one of the duke’s coaches, her maid probably wouldn’t have run off with her clothes,” his father said.
“She has no clothes?” his mother asked, looking as if she thought they meant Lady Eleanor was wandering about as naked as a newborn babe.
“A few,” Bromwell quickly assured her.
He then repeated the lie he’d suggested to Lady Eleanor. His parents hadn’t been staying at the London town house when that excuse had been used before.
“Oh, the poor woman, to have so many catastrophes at once!” his mother cried, moving as if she were going to get up, until his father threw himself into the nearest chair covered in emerald-green and gold brocade.
“That’s why I invited her here,” his father said. “Your son would have had her going to some hotel in Bath, despite the riffraff she might meet there. Besides, her father was one of my best friends at school.”
“Really?” Bromwell said, not able to hide his skepticism. “I’ve never heard you speak of him.”
“Maybe if you paid attention to dinner conversation once in a while, you would have,” his father retorted.
Maybe if you conversed about something interesting, I would, Bromwell thought. Instead of voicing that thought aloud, however, he said, “I didn’t realize we had a connection to the family. I’ve never met them, have I?”
That question didn’t increase his father’s opinion of his son’s intelligence. “You probably had your nose in a book the last time they were here. They’ve been in Italy for the past five years. I thought they were still there.”
Bromwell racked his brain, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember meeting Lady Eleanor.
“She must make free of my wardrobe, if my clothes will fit,” his mother offered, “or they can be made over if they don’t.”
“Thank you,” Bromwell said, pleased by her generosity.
“I’ve already directed Mrs. Fallingbrook to select some garments for our guest,” her husband said. “I’m sure the duke will be grateful for any assistance we can render his daughter.”
Bromwell was quite sure the duke’s response would not be favorable if he ever learned they’d given sanctuary to his daughter as she fled a marriage they were keen to promote. Unlike his father, however, he didn’t care what the Duke of Wymerton—or anyone else—thought of him for helping her.
All that mattered was that she was safe, and free.
“Her looks have improved considerably, I must say. She’s grown into quite a beauty,” his father noted with an unmistakable significance that made Bromwell want to roll his eyes with frustration. “I’ve told you, Father, that I’ve no intention of taking a wife anytime soon.”
“Well, you should!” his father growled, glaring at him. “I’m not going to live forever, you know, and it’s your duty to provide an heir, or this house, this estate—all that I and your ancestors have worked for—will go to that tosspot second cousin of mine in Jamaica. I won’t stand for it, Bromwell!”
“Now Frederic, must you quarrel?” the countess pleaded. “Justinian’s only just arrived and—”
“No, Mother, we shan’t quarrel,” Bromwell said as he got to his feet. No doubt this visit had been a colossal waste of time and effort, except that he’d made his mother happy, and met Lady Eleanor. “I’m well aware of Father’s opinions, as he should be of mine. I know my duty, as you call it, but I also have a calling that I consider at least as important.”
“You call studying bugs a calling?” his father demanded.
Bromwell ignored that question and addressed his mother as well as his father. “I’m not opposed to the idea of marriage, but I won’t leave a wife behind in England while I’m on my expedition. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to rest before supper, provided you’ll allow me to stay even though I have no interest in Lady Eleanor as a prospective bride.”
His mother reached out and took hold of his hand, then looked beseechingly at her husband.
“Of course you can stay,” his father muttered.
“Thank you, my lord,” Bromwell said with formal politeness and a bow before he turned and left the room.
Nell looked out the window at the beautiful gardens laid out below and wondered how soon she could get away.
To be sure, this bedroom, with its lovely flowered wallpaper of roses and vines and delicate mahogany furnishings, was absolutely charming and more comfortable than she would have expected. Given the grand entrance hall, she’d been anticipating a vast, chilly chamber with a huge curtained bed from the Elizabethan age. Instead, because it faced south, the room was bright and warm and even cozy. Everything was spotless, from the linen on the washstand to the silk draperies. There wasn’t a speck of dust, not even in the crevices of the ornately carved wardrobe, suggesting that the chamber was cleaned daily whether anyone was using it or not. A thick Aubusson carpet covered the floor and a gilded cheval glass stood near a screen painted with an oriental scene that hid the washstand.
A knock sounded on the door, and in the next moment, a tall, thin, middle-aged maid glided into the room with some gowns over her arm. “Mrs. Fallingbrook said you were to have these, my lady,” the maid intoned, her voice as sepulchral as her manner.
“Thank you,” Nell replied, thinking it was a relief that a lady didn’t owe a servant any explanations for anything, whether it was her presence or apparently missing garments, while wondering how Lord Bromwell’s meeting with his mother had gone.
Surely better than any encounter with his father, who clearly didn’t appreciate his son’s intelligence or accomplishments.
“I’m to be your maid while you’re here. My name is Dena. Shall I help you change, my lady?” the woman asked as she laid the gowns on the bed.
There was a light green one of silk that was very pretty, a scarlet one of soft wool with gray trim that was more suitable for an older woman, and a pretty sprigged muslin with a square neckline she could hardly wait to try on. “The muslin, I think, please.”
The maid didn’t reply as she took Nell’s pelisse, then helped her change her simple gown of light brown wool for the muslin.
Fortunately, Nell had no cause to be ashamed of her chemise or pantelettes. Although it had been an extravagance, she’d purchased new ones before she’d gone to the Sturmpole estate in Yorkshire, suspecting that life as a lady’s companion was going to permit few luxuries.
She had not expected it to be dangerous.
Soon enough Nell was dressed in a gown that, if it didn’t fit perfectly, fit as well as the blue silk she’d worn the night before. She had no jewellery, so she tied a ribbon she retrieved from her valise around her neck.
Looking at herself in the cheval glass, she was pleased with the effect. She didn’t study her reflection long; she knew she was a pretty girl thanks to the features she’d gotten from her mother—large, bright eyes and delicately arched brows over a slender nose. From her father she had inherited her chestnut hair, excellent teeth, full lips and a jaw that was a bit too strong, perhaps.
“How shall I do your hair, my lady?” Dena asked without any enthusiasm.
Nell fetched another ribbon and suggested a simple style, with the ribbon woven through it. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes,” the maid said curtly, taking the ribbon as Nell, subduing a sigh, sat at the dressing table.
“I didn’t mean to imply you were incapable,” she said.
The maid didn’t reply.
“Have you been with the family long?” Nell asked amicably, hoping to mend the apparent breach as the maid began to brush her hair with brisk, hard strokes.
“Twenty years, my lady.”
“So you’ve known Lord Bromwell from boyhood.”
The maid didn’t respond.
Undeterred, Nell asked, “Was he an adventurous sort of child?”
“I can’t say, my lady. I wasn’t the nursery maid.”
“Surely you would have heard if he was.”
“He got into troub
le now and then,” Dena conceded. “But how he could be so thoughtless and sail off and worry his poor mother half to death after she spent all those sleepless nights nursing him when he was sick so often…”
Dena fell silent, her lips so compressed it was as if they were locked together to prohibit another word from escaping.
“I suppose all spirited boys get into mischief now and then.”
When Dena didn’t reply, Nell tried a different tack. “You must be proud to work for the family of such a famous naturalist.”
Dena’s dark brows drew even closer together.
“His book was very well received,” Nell prompted.
The maid’s expression grew yet more disapproving.
“I take it, Dena,” Nell said, “that you aren’t impressed by Lord Bromwell or his field of study?”
At last the woman spoke, and it was as if a dam had broken—or she finally felt she’d been given the opportunity to voice opinions too long held in check. “Spiders, of all things! Nasty, creeping creatures! I can’t think what God was about creating them.
“As for the viscount, he used to be a fine young gentleman but then he went on that voyage and what he did when he was with those heathens, walking about nearly naked, dancing those disgusting dances and drinking their foul brews, and no doubt doing who knows what with the native women…well, it’s enough to make a Christian woman sick!”
However Dena felt about his adventures, Nell’s reaction was quite different. She immediately envisioned Lord Bromwell nearly naked, dancing with wild abandon in torchlit shadows under a palm tree, then slipping off into the bushes with an equally half naked woman.
Who looked a lot like her.
She shoved that disturbing yet exciting vision out of her mind and wished more than ever that she’d read Lady Sturmpole’s copy when she’d had the chance. “You’ve read his book?”
“Mrs. Fallingbrook took it upon herself to read it aloud in the servant’s hall during dinner, until I asked her to stop,” Dena replied. “It ruined my appetite to hear about an English gentleman, the son of our employer, behaving like that. I think he ought to be ashamed of himself.
“It nearly killed his poor mother, him going off like that, despite her pleading for him to stay,” Dena continued. “She took to her bed for weeks after he sailed and we were all afraid it would be the death of her and then there he is, acting like a heathen himself!”
“But he returned,” Nell noted, “and his book is a great success. His mother must be pleased about that.”
“She would be if he’d settle down and marry and not go sailing off again for who knows how long.”
Nell was sure Lord Bromwell didn’t plan his expeditions as a means to upset his mother; his zeal for his chosen field and his belief in the necessity of learning about the natural world made that quite clear.
And after all, he wasn’t the only man who travelled far from home. Mothers, sisters and wives of whalers and other seamen must get used to their sons and brothers, fathers and husbands being gone for years at a time.
Or perhaps, she silently acknowledged, they had merely learned to hide their fears beneath a mask of stoic acceptance.
She couldn’t fault the countess for being worried or Dena for her sympathy for her mistress, especially when she recalled how her own mother had cried before leaving her at school. She, on the other hand, had been too excited by the possibility of making friends to be sad, as Lord Bromwell was no doubt excited by the possibility of making new discoveries.
“He’s advancing the cause of science and our understanding of the natural world,” she pointed out in his defence.
The maid’s only response was a loud and scornful sniff. Fortunately, Dena had also finished dressing her hair.
“I’ll be here to help you when you retire, my lady,” she said, stepping back.
That wasn’t exactly cheerful news, but there was no way to refuse, Nell supposed. “Thank you,” she said, rising and leaving the room, heading for the drawing room where, she assumed, the family would be assembled prior to proceeding to the dining room.
This must be how prisoners being taken to the Old Bailey must feel, she thought as she went down the stairs. Afraid, uncertain, worried that every past transgression was going to be used against you…
She hesitated on the threshold of the drawing room and slowly surveyed the grand chamber dominated by an ornate fireplace of marble, wide and with a mantel the height of a man’s shoulders. Two figures of women in Greek garments were on either side of the opening, and a large pier glass hung above it. The walls were painted a pea-green, with white plasterwork of Grecian urns and vines around the ceiling. The furnishings were of various gleaming woods, and included several Hepplewhite chairs and a Grecian couch upholstered in green silk, with curving gilded arms and feet. The heavy velvet draperies were still pulled back to allow the last of the daylight to shine into the room, although candles in shining silver holders had also been lit, and a fire kindled in the fireplace. A painted screen stood near it, and there were more paintings on the walls, of men, women and children in sober family groups dressed in the fashions of years gone by. Huge oriental vases full of roses and hothouse flowers stood on side tables, their scent mingling with beeswax and burning coal from the fire.
It was a lavish, expensively decorated chamber, if not an overly pleasant one.
Nor was it unoccupied.
In evening dress and with his hands behind his back, Lord Bromwell stood by the window, looking rather like a beetle among the butterflies as he stared up at the moon as if contemplating its composition.
Chapter Seven
So much remains to be learned about the natural world, including human beings. Are we subject to the same needs and instincts as the lesser orders, or can our impulses be controlled by reason and rational discourse, as we would like to believe?
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
What a will of iron must be concealed beneath that handsome, studious, civilized exterior, Nell thought as she studied him, noting his well-cut and immaculate evening attire of dark cutaway coat, gray vest, white shirt and cravat, breeches and silk stockings that proved his calves were as muscular as the rest of him. How dedicated he must be to his chosen field to continue his studies despite his disapproving, critical father and his fearful, anxious mother. She doubted she would have the strength to do what he had done in the face of such resistance. Her parents had always been kind and loving, seeking the best for her, wanting her to be happy.
Which made her crime that much heavier to bear.
She went farther into the room, treading on a dark green carpet that must have cost hundreds of pounds. Looking at him now, in this room and in those clothes, she found it almost impossible to believe that he had danced with wild abandon among heathens.
She might have found it completely impossible to believe if she hadn’t felt the unbridled passion in his kiss. Having experienced that primitive desire, feeling her own aroused by his touch, she knew there was a wild, untamed, virile male beneath those expensive, civilized clothes.
Lord Bromwell turned. That lock of hair had fallen over his forehead again, bringing a boyish charm to his otherwise elegant appearance.
He smiled, yet made no move to come any closer. She smiled, too, longing to tell him that, having met his parents, she admired him even more. That he looked breathtakingly handsome in his evening dress. That she wished with all her heart she really was a lady and his equal. That he would kiss her again, and not stop with kissing.
Instead, she seated herself on the edge of the Grecian couch and folded her hands in her lap. “I regret that I haven’t yet had the pleasure of reading your book. I was wondering if I could borrow a copy from your father’s library to read while I’m here.”
Instead of looking pleased by her request, Lord Bromwell’s expression grew decidedly uncomfortable. “Of course, if we can find one. He’s probably given away all the ones I gave him.”
&
nbsp; Surely a man who could brag for hours about his house and grounds would keep a copy of his own son’s bestselling work. “He must have one, at least. Where is the library?”
“This way,” Lord Bromwell said, walking to the door, “but I fear you’re going to be disappointed.”
As he must be, if he was right.
Nevertheless, and hoping he was wrong, she followed him out of the drawing room to the library a short distance down the wide, marble-floored corridor with brisk, eager steps.
What if she was wrong, and there was no copy there? What should she do? Console Lord Bromwell? Vilify his father?
She put any thought of comforting him from her mind as they entered a large room with long, narrow windows on the south side and shelves of dark oak on the others. Lord Bromwell went to the hearth and got a brimstone match which he used to light an oil lamp on one of the side tables by the windows.
In the brighter light, she noted one was a chess table, the pieces lined up ready for a game. A picture of a bucolic country scene populated by people clothed in the fashions of the previous century hung over the black marble fireplace. Busts of long dead Romans and Greeks stood on top of the shelves, like so many spirits watching over them. The several volumes on the shelves were leather-covered, and all appeared of recent manufacture.
There was a large Pembroke table in the center of the room, with a single book upon it. Surely if any book deserved pride of place…
She went there at once and soon Lord Bromwell was beside her. He set the lamp on the table, illuminating the cover and title of the book: Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland.
Nell didn’t dare look at Lord Bromwell and didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry seemed hardly adequate.
Instead, she set her mind to figuring out where a man as vain and proud as the earl would put his son’s book.
“Perhaps it’s over here,” she said, heading toward the nearest shelf.
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