“Too fair, I fear,” Rebecca said, all innocence. Her big eyes kept shifting subtly to Gareth, and she barely kept a smile from breaking. “This wool I am wearing will be uncomfortable.”
“For your health’s sake, I must insist that you—” Eva broke off. Rebecca had looked in Gareth’s direction with something akin to alarm.
Eva looked over to see Gareth’s fingers reaching toward the edge of the cloth covering the borrowed painting.
“Mr. Fitzallen, let us leave and enjoy the garden even if my sister will not,” Eva hastened to say.
The fingers halted their path. Mr. Fitzallen agreeably followed her toward the back of the house.
She brought her guest out to the garden, then returned to the kitchen to fetch a crockery tumbler. By the time she returned, Mr. Fitzallen was carrying a pail of water up the path from the springhouse.
There were only benches back here. She sat on one with him, and he dipped the tumbler into the cold water. The breeze blew cool but the sun shone warmly. Tiny leaves speckled the branches of trees and shrubbery, and the tips of plants poked up from the earth.
“It is a very nice garden. Your gardener maintains it very well.”
“I am the gardener. I have found that I enjoy growing things, and moving plants and such. Rather like painting, since it is all about color and light and forms.”
“Have you been the gardener since your brother became ill?”
“You were told about him? I suppose there is little privacy in a town like ours. I was ignorant of my family’s finances until he came home with that pistol ball in his side. His infirmity meant I became aware of how dire our situation had become. I let the servants go at once. So, yes, I have been the gardener since then.”
“Yet you discovered a new joy, so you triumphed over adversity.”
“Yes. I am proud of this garden. It is my creation now. I like that.”
She also liked saying that out loud. There were those who pitied her and Rebecca, as if all that mattered were money. Mr. Fitzallen did not seem to, and that impressed her. She experienced a companionable intimacy with the man listening.
He sat two handsbreadths away from her, so close that her side felt his warmth. His masculine presence affected her in confusing ways. Both comforting and enlivening, his aura promised novelty, fascination, and care.
Perhaps he had not been teasing about being friends. It would be nice to have one.
“It is a nice property.” He held up his tumbler, gesturing to the land within the walls, and beyond. “That spring alone makes it valuable, and it is well situated. You could sell, and have an easier future than what you have known recently.”
They stood and began strolling on the garden path. “This house and spot of land are all we have. When Rebecca marries, I will give my share to her, so she is not without some sort of fortune. But . . .” She gazed around the garden, then back at the house. “It is also who we are. If I sell, who will we be?” She laughed lightly at her own words. “That sounds stupid. Of course, we will be the same people, just . . .”
“I understand completely.”
She could see it in his eyes that he did.
“It was a tragedy that your brother became ill,” he said. “I do not think you have enjoyed life much these past years, while holding things together, for all your pleasure in creating this garden.”
“Yes, a tragedy, in several ways.” Your tragic love. “But . . . had I not been required to hold it all together, I fear we would have lost everything. He expected a gentleman’s life that we could not afford.”
He stopped walking and turned to her. They stood in the little orchard at the back of the garden, beneath branches dotted with first growth. “I understand that completely too. We will have to make sure you have some fun now, however. I will make it my mission.”
“It will be an easy one. I intend to have a good deal of fun in the future. I have spent the last months during our period of mourning planning just how to do it.”
He laughed. “Is Langdon’s End prepared for Miss Russell determined to have fun? Is the world?”
“Possibly not. The world will have to adapt. You are still welcome to join me, even if it need not be your mission to help.”
“Perhaps it is I who will need help. I am a stranger here, remember? Unfortunately, I fear you will be well on your way before I return from a journey I must make.”
“I think you have no trouble catching up on fun, when you want to.”
He smiled nicely. His stance altered in the subtle ways that spoke of someone preparing to leave. Something stopped him. “Ah, I almost forgot. I brought you this.” He reached into his coat.
The gift was a long length of ribbon. She recognized it from Mrs. Fleming’s shop. An elegant strip of satin, its deep lavender color spoke of spring.
The gesture touched her. “Thank you. It is beautiful.”
“It will look pretty with that muslin you bought. The purple will bring out the primrose in the fabric, and also the blue in your eyes when you wear it.”
She carefully wound the ribbon around her hand. “The muslin is not for me. I am making a new dress for my sister.”
“Ah. Of course, you are. Well, you can use some of it for the dress, but promise me you will keep enough to wear in your hair.”
He left her speechless for a long count, while she gazed down at the ribbon. “You are too kind. I am ashamed that I misjudged you initially. You are not dangerous, as you appear to be.”
“Call me Gareth, please. In turn, I would like to address you in private as Eva, if you will permit it.”
“Gareth,” she said lowly, trying out the informality. “Yes, Eva will do when no one is about.”
“I am honored. Now, since we are friends, I am obligated to say something. I must warn that your judgment is actually very sound, Eva. I am indeed dangerous. Especially to lovely, mature women like yourself.”
Astonished, she looked up at him. A mistake, that. The gaze that met hers belonged to the dangerous man he warned of. She stared, captivated by that face. His vague smile stirred her.
Was he going to kiss her? Was he that bold? It appeared so. The very notion had her pulse quickening.
What to do? She must not allow it, yet—she could not bring herself to move away, or utter some arch reply. She just waited, and the waiting itself affected the air and the garden and the space between them. She experienced a most shocking excitement.
It seemed a long time they stood there, gazes locked, until the waiting turned almost painful. An outrageous idea entered her mind—to stretch up and kiss him first.
He stepped back. His gaze shifted to the garden, away from her. When he looked at her again he was just the charming new friend once more, although the smallest thoughtful frown creased his brow.
He bowed. “I must take my leave now. I will be back within the month. Perhaps as early as a fortnight. I will call on you when I return.”
Then he was gone, striding through the garden to the side portal.
CHAPTER 6
“I see my letter found you,” Ives said as Gareth walked into the library of Langley House in London.
“I hired a man for Albany Lodge who had enough sense to forward it on. What are you doing here?” The letter had arrived that morning, catching Gareth as he planned to leave town. The count’s paintings had arrived, their purchase completed, and transport to their new home arranged. Hendrika’s fee had already made its way to Amsterdam, and his own purse bulged happily with his commission.
If he did not face the return to Langdon’s End with total contentment, the reason had to do with Eva Russell. A pleasant friendship had become complicated in the span of one minute during his visit to her.
He had almost kissed her. He could not deny it, although it made no sense. Eva Russell was not the kind of woman he pursued. Unmarried, gentry, country—she was the opposite of the ladies with whom he had affairs. Nor did he kiss, or do anything else with women, impetuously. Ye
t in that garden the joyful simmer of arousal that he knew so well had almost defeated his better sense.
He had warned her off while the battle with his inclinations raged, but it had done no good. It still amazed him that he had managed to walk away from her breathless anticipation. His own astonishment with his own impulses had probably saved the day.
Ives set aside a book he had been reading. “Lance insisted on coming. He was going mad. I could not stop him, so I had to accompany him to keep an eye on things.”
“Any change in the inquiry?”
Ives shook his head. “It is stalled, but they won’t give it up yet. The magistrates visited to chat with Lance. None dared accuse him, but the questions turned pointed.”
“And his answers?”
“He regaled them with explanations of the many far better ways to kill a man than poison. Some were quite creative.”
Gareth laughed. Ives did not. He leveled a curious look at Gareth instead. “Albany Lodge?”
“It needed a name.”
“I wish Percy were alive to hear the one you gave it.”
“Once the property is mine free and clear, I will go to his grave and tell him all about it.”
“That will ensure he does not rest peacefully for a long while.”
Gareth walked around the library. “I have not been in this house in years. Nothing has changed much. I am glad.”
“I hope the memories you are pacing through are good ones,” Ives said.
“Better ones than the memories bound to Albany Lodge. Percy tainted those, deliberately, while the time in this library with the duke had nothing to do with Percy, or anyone else.”
He circled through the vast space, impressed by the warm familiarity it produced. Dukes by nature and position were not given to easy intimacy, but there had been a few times here when he had felt like a son.
Let me hear you read this here, so I know that school is not neglecting you. A gentleman is known by his mind and education, Gareth, as well as his blood. The boys at school are hard on you because you are a bastard, but remember why you are there, and whose son you are.
“You are free to stay here when in town,” Ives said. “Lance said as much. Or at Merrywood, when you are near there. He told the servants you would use the family properties as our father’s son.”
Gareth kept pacing and peering at details, mostly to hide his reaction to this astonishing offer. With one small gesture of generosity, Lance had wiped away a lifetime of never belonging in any of the houses, or anywhere at all. It moved Gareth, and would take some time to accommodate.
“Have you made any progress on that investigation?” Ives asked.
“A little. I traced the likely path of the wagons. I rode the same route when I came to town, taking note of my surroundings and the properties I passed or crossed.”
“I have taken the opportunity while here to gather some information for you. Names of servants and teamsters, such as can be remembered. Also letters of introduction to the families who live near the final resting place of the paintings. I am sure you can find an excuse to visit them.”
“That will be helpful.” Hell if he knew how he would find an excuse to visit them. Ives sometimes forgot that he and Lance could turn up at the door of any aristocrat and expect the easy hospitality those families shared without question. Gareth could not. “Do you have a list of the paintings that went missing? Without it, I will not know what I have found, should I find anything at all.”
“That will be forthcoming in a week. I will have it sent to you. Here? Or . . . Albany Lodge?”
“I should be back there by then. In fact, I should be leaving in the morning, so I will take my leave now.”
“I would prefer you did not.” Ives objected mildly, with some chagrin. “Our brother desires to go out tonight. I cannot prevent it. However, I would like some help with him, if you do not mind.”
Right now he would probably throw himself in the way of a musket ball for Lance. He immediately recalculated his schedule to allow for sleeping in tomorrow. “I don’t mind. A night on the town with Lance is never boring.”
“Yes, well, I regret to say our goal is to make it very boring indeed.”
* * *
Boring meant gambling in halls favored by the wellborn, instead of one of the democratic halls Lance preferred. Ives put his foot down when it came time to choose, because Lance’s favorite venues almost always featured one or two bouts of fisticuffs among their denizens, which Lance had a weakness for joining.
At midnight, Ives and Gareth found themselves watching Lance bid higher and higher at the faro table. Patrons who had already lost too much watched too. A thick crowd had formed.
“He is being deliberately reckless,” Ives muttered.
“He can afford it now, I assume.”
“No one can afford it unless they win most of the time,” Ives said.
Lance did win this time. He did not notice the buzz of talk that created. Behind him, Gareth heard one comment most clearly. “He looks calm for a man who probably did a murder. Of course, so did the French on their way to the guillotine. Blood will show, no matter what, eh?”
A few masculine chuckles responded.
Gareth glanced sideways to see if Ives had heard. Regrettably, he had, if his hard jawline meant anything. He looked down to see Ives’s fist clenching.
That was the problem with Ives. He talked like a lawyer and thought like a lawyer, and he appeared eminently sensible and even-tempered—but when angered, he often threw the first punch.
“They are in their cups. Ignore them,” Gareth muttered.
“Can’t do that. Can’t let such talk stand. One more word and—”
“Poison it is said,” that man’s voice said. “A woman’s weapon. I always said he was all talk.”
Ives pivoted and pushed through the knot of bodies to the voice.
Gareth followed. He found himself facing Lord Kniveton. He knew the viscount well, although they had never been introduced.
“Speak ill of my brother, and you will answer to me,” Ives said.
Kniveton thought that very funny. “What are you going to do? Thrash me with a stack of briefs?”
“I am more inclined to meet you on the field of honor than in a court of law.”
Kniveton paused just enough to show he was worried he had started down a bad path. Then he sneered. “It would be a shame to kill you when it is your brother I’d like to see dead.”
Ives moved so fast Gareth almost did not grab him in time. He clung to Ives’s arm so he could not follow through with his fist. “Do not let him goad you, Ives. Kniveton is only slandering Lance because he mistakenly thinks Lance fucked his wife. He extracts a coward’s revenge, nothing more.”
“Who in hell are you?” Kniveton bellowed, drawing attention from the closest in the crowd.
“I’m the bastard brother.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard about you. Well, bastard, I don’t think he made free with my wife, I know, and I’ll be the first to vote his conviction when the lords try him.”
“Your desire to harm his name and person is misplaced. He did not cuckold you.”
“I know he did.”
“You are wrong.”
“The hell I am. I found a letter she wrote to him. Hemingford, she addressed him.”
“That would not be him.” Ives, his temper under control, turned back into the lawyer examining evidence logically, methodically. Gareth would have preferred angry, but silent. “He is never called Hemingford by his lovers.”
Kniveton frowned. “If not him, who? Not Percival.”
“Percy was too much a miser to get entangled with a woman who expects the gifts your wife is reputed to demand.”
“Reput— What the— That only leaves—” He glared at Ives.
“Sorry, not me. I insist my lovers address me in another way. Calling me Hemingford lacks the appropriate sentiment.”
Gareth looked over with curiosity. “You ne
ver struck me as one for all the darlings and pet names women use.”
“I can’t abide them. I much prefer being addressed My Lord and Master, actually.”
“Hell, if it wasn’t one of the two of them, who was it? We’ve run out of Hemingfords, so someone is lying.”
An odd silence fell. Gareth tried to appear as perplexed as the others.
Ives cast him a sidelong, questioning look.
Kniveton gazed sharply at Lance, who had won again, then suspiciously at Ives. Then, quizzically at Gareth. One could all but hear his befuddled brain sorting through it all.
“You.”
“Under the circumstances, so you do not disparage my brothers in ways that will lead to a duel, I will admit it. She was addressing that letter to me. It is I with whom she still does wicked things in her dreams.”
“The hell you say. You are not a Hemingford.”
“Not officially. She liked to call me that anyway. Perhaps she found it more erotic to suck the cock of a duke’s son if she pretended he were legitimate.”
Kniveton appeared confused for a three count, as if he needed a moment to believe he had heard correctly. His two friends bit back grins.
“How dare— She never— I should call you out!”
“If you must, then do. However, I would rather not kill you over a pleasure so long ago enjoyed, fond though the memory might be.”
Kniveton lunged. Gareth ducked. Kniveton’s fist landed on the jaw of a man in the crowd who had turned to watch the show.
Ives grabbed Kniveton, set him back, and gestured to his friends. “He is foxed, and will be grateful tomorrow if you remove him now. He does not want to duel with this one. Bastard he may be, but he can shoot a button off a man’s coat without ripping the wool it decorates.”
The two of them restrained Kniveton, and pulled him away.
Ives’s mouth and forehead frowned, but his eyes twinkled. “You did have to describe the lady’s finest talent.”
“If she were my wife, I would want to know so I got my fair share.”
The crowd dispersed. Lance walked to them. “What did Kniveton want?”
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