Eaton continued grinning. ‘Supper for three it is. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. I shall see you at seven o’clock.’
Chapter Nine
As dinners went, it certainly couldn’t compete with the crystal and candlelight of the orangery. The food was plain, more appropriate for younger tastes than the sophisticated palate Eaton had presented her with the previous evening. Yet the meal had a dangerous charm of its own that Eliza was quick to recognise: the pseudo-image of a family gathered for an evening meal, simple foods and fresh cider in place of chilled champagne, a chatty young girl whose exuberant conversation carried an energy of its own. She was delighted in everything: the new house, her room, the gifts, her rescue—which had resulted in a ride on the ‘most splendid horse in the world’. She was especially delighted in the chocolate cake, which, despite its promise, saw Sophie asleep at the table before it was even served.
‘I suppose that’s all the more reason to eat dessert first.’ Eaton laughed softly in the candlelight of the dining room. ‘We’ll wrap up a piece for her to have tomorrow.’
We. How easy it was for this man to insinuate himself into their lives. She needed to put a stop to it before it went any further. Her debt to him was growing, as was her appreciation. ‘I’m sorry,’ Eliza apologised, ‘I need to put her to bed.’ She always put Sophie to bed, even though Miss Gilchrist was on hand. Eliza liked the ritual of bedtime, of closing the day together. ‘There’s brandy in the parlour, if you care to wait?’ It felt awkward to act the hostess, as if Eaton was a guest in the house when he owned it and could do as he pleased. He knew there was brandy in the parlour. He’d instructed it to be put there.
‘Let me help.’ Eaton rose and lifted Sophie, who didn’t stir at being hoisted away from her longed-for chocolate cake. ‘She’s done admirably for such an eventful day. Apparently, she’s inherited her mother’s tenacity.’
Eliza picked up a lamp and led the way upstairs, trying not to let her heart run away with her mind at the sight of Eaton Falmage’s broad shoulder hosting Sophie’s dark head. She told herself it was merely the paternal image of a man with a child that tugged at her, not the sight of that particular man. She might feel that way about any man offering a glimpse of his softer side. ‘If you just lay her on the bed, I can tuck her in,’ Eliza offered. Once the Marquess had left, she prepared her for bed, smoothed back Sophie’s dark hair and kissed her forehead, arranging the blankets around her. ‘Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well, we have more adventures planned for tomorrow.’
Downstairs, dishes had already been cleared by the efficient staff and a low fire in the parlour beckoned invitingly. One might find the scene cosy if one wasn’t on edge. She hadn’t been alone with a man in such an intimate, domestic setting for years. ‘Will you sit with me while I have some brandy?’ Eaton asked. How could she refuse after all he’d done today? It was a simple enough request, the only danger in it came from herself and the constructs she put on it.
Eliza took a seat while Eaton poured. ‘Would you like a drink as well?’
‘No, I don’t drink spirits, but thank you,’ she declined, hands folded tightly in her lap. Prolonging the evening like this was a poor idea. Such a setting begged for intimacies, for sharing things that should be kept private. She was merely passing through.
‘You only drink champagne? You have exalted tastes, Eliza. I’d best remember that,’ Eaton teased congenially, settling in the wing-backed chair across from her. How did he do that? How did he make it so easy to be with him? To laugh? To banter? One would have thought they were old friends instead of new acquaintances.
He sipped his brandy. ‘Did you have a productive day at the mines?’ he asked as if they were a married couple discussing their day. They’d be a very different sort of married couple. Wives didn’t run mines. Cits didn’t marry future dukes and she wouldn’t marry anyone. Ever.
On those grounds, the fantasy wasn’t only different, it was dangerous. Eaton didn’t even have to try to seduce her, if that was his intention. She was seducing herself, seeing all sorts of domestic fantasies on her own: a family assembled at the dinner table, a conversation that veered and swerved with Sophie’s enthusiasm, jumping from topic to topic, tucking Sophie in when the enthusiasm was spent. But it was a fantasy only, nice in theory, impractical in reality. She wasn’t looking for a man to fill that role and she would not trade all she’d fought for simply to have a marriage. It wouldn’t be fair to her daughter or to herself to have fought so hard for everything to simply give it over to a husband. ‘The new tunnel is proceeding.’ Her answer was succinct and she quickly turned the conversation to him. ‘And your day? What were you doing in Penzance?’
‘I was looking in on one of the school’s donors, Mrs Penhaligon, the other widow. She’s been very much alone since her husband died and she moved away from Porth Karrek, even though it’s only a few miles.’ Not just the other widow. The other woman. Eliza recognised the name now from that first conversation at the school when she’d made her surprise visit.
‘You make a habit of collecting widows, it seems,’ Eliza replied more sharply than she intended. Surely she wasn’t jealous? She didn’t even know this woman. Was she young? Old? Pretty? Did Eaton take her for carriage rides and pour champagne for her as well? They were unworthy thoughts when she’d just reminded herself there could be no pursuit here.
‘I needed the name of a piano tuner.’ Eaton eyed her suspiciously as if he sensed the envy beneath her sharpness. Too late she remembered Mrs Penhaligon was the donor of the prized Sébastien Érard. Eaton gave her a reprieve, turning the topic. ‘Now, what adventures do you have in mind for tomorrow? The weather will be fine. Might I suggest a picnic at the beach? I can bring the carriage at noon. There’s a cove at Karrek Sands with arguably the best beach in Cornwall. Sophie will love it. She can fly her new kite.’
He was going to come with them.
It was the last thing she needed. But also the first. Eliza didn’t know how to make the arrangements for a picnic other than to burden the servants with the task, which she was loath to do since they weren’t hers. His presence would be a great help. ‘I’ve taken enough of your time,’ she began to refuse. She really couldn’t impose further, couldn’t lead him on. She knew the rules of engagement. Most of all, she shouldn’t lead herself on, pretending something was possible. How ironic that after all this time worrying about protecting herself from the external threat of men, the real threat to her own freedom seemed to come from her and her own longings.
Eliza rose. She needed to be clear with him now before this relationship of sorts spiralled out of control.
‘It’s no imposition on me.’ Eaton rose with her, understanding her signal to depart.
‘Perhaps it is to me,’ Eliza said firmly, meeting his gaze. ‘It occurs to me that you must really want something to go to these lengths for me. I will not kiss you for your efforts.’
Eaton’s dark gaze became inscrutable, an indecipherable smile playing on his lips, part wry humour, part offended honour. ‘I should hope not, Eliza, since such a trade would imply I am a man who has to buy a woman’s affections and that you are a woman who would sell them. I think neither implication paints either one of us in a particularly good light.’ He inclined his head, short and curt. ‘Goodnight.’ She had meant to put him off and it seemed she’d succeeded. If she didn’t care for the terseness in his tone, she only had herself to blame.
* * *
Eliza wasn’t alone. Eaton absently stroked Baldor’s head as the two of them lounged by the fire in the library, Baldor standing at majestic attention beside his chair. ‘She has a child,’ Eaton said out loud to the dog. He’d not known about Sophie any more than he’d known about Blaxland’s second marriage. Perhaps Eliza had got her love of privacy from Blaxland.
Eaton stretched his legs, resting his boots on the fireplace fender. Was Sophie all she was protecting with her
privacy or was there something more? There’d been mixed emotions on her face when she’d seen him this afternoon. She reminded him of paintings of the Madonna, on her knees, clutching her child, her eyes closed in a moment of private joy at the reunion, yet when she’d opened them and seen him, there’d been a fleeting look of fear before she’d recognised him. She’d been expecting a stranger and the notion of a stranger had given her a degree of fright. Perhaps that was just maternal instinct. His own sisters were like that, panicking when a child disappeared into the woods for too long.
Eaton closed his eyes, reliving the pleasantness of the evening. He’d not had such a night for ages; no stiff evening wear, no need to be conscious of every word, only honest conversation and laughter. There’d been plenty of that. Sophie told funny stories—at least they were funny when told through a child’s eyes. There’d been no terror for Sophie in being stranded on the road, only adventure and excitement. Eaton envied her that precious innocence. Eliza would guard it well if that look on her face today was any indication. She was a fierce mother. Fierce in love, fierce in protection.
His thoughts lingered on the word: mother. Eliza was a mother. He understood now why she felt compelled to resist the pull between them. A mother must always think of her children. Her reputation was their reputation. But she was also a woman, a young woman, with a young woman’s desires and fantasies. He’d felt those fantasies stir in her when they’d kissed. She was a woman full of passions, not only for her child, but for living and for loving. Yet she was choosing to stifle the latter in order to protect the former. What a very difficult decision to make—to give up adventure and passion in its various forms for the sake of others. Unless, of course, she didn’t know what she was missing.
Eaton’s eyes opened slowly at the thought. He could help her there. If there was anyone who knew the value of adventure, it was him. But to what end? To coax her into a short-lived affair? He would be discreet, of course. No one outside the two of them needed to know. He could preserve her reputation and in exchange he could have a lover. He could even pretend to have a family. That was dangerous ground, to co-opt Eliza’s child as his own even for a short time. In his opinion, it was the epitome of selfishness. No one should suffer from his affliction but himself. He’d not missed the instant admiration in Sophie’s eyes this afternoon when he’d taken her up on his horse. Children often attached easily and quickly. Eliza might not be hurt when the affair ended, but Sophie would be. She wouldn’t understand this thing they played at wasn’t meant to last.
He was not an unkind man, nor a terribly selfish one. Did he dare pursue Eliza Blaxland now that a child was involved? ‘And yet how can I not?’ Eaton said to Baldor, who only perked up an ear. ‘How can I let her go when I sense that she needs me?’ Eliza Blaxland had secrets to keep and dragons to slay. She was in desperate need of a knight in shining armour even if an affair was out of the question, even if she didn’t realise it. The strong ones never did. It was that very strength he admired most about her. He wanted her to keep that strength. It was the core of her. Eliza would have his sword, whether she wanted it or not. The trick would be in convincing her to accept it. A picnic tomorrow would be an ideal place to start. Perhaps once she accepted his help, more could follow.
* * *
It was not a good morning, despite the beautiful autumn weather outdoors. Miles Detford stared pensively at the papers spread out before him on the table before eyeing the other men with him. ‘What we dare borders on treachery. To be caught would be tantamount to fraud,’ he warned, but his words lacked conviction. There were benefits to the proposal as well, benefits that were worth the risk. He’d waited a long time for success.
‘Do you think she’ll accept our offer?’ asked silver-templed Gismond Brenley, his gaze sharp. ‘You know her best, after all, Detford.’ There was a derisive undertone to Brenley’s comment, a reminder that they’d tried and failed five years ago to take Eliza Blaxland out of the equation of mine ownership through a sentimental offer of marriage. Brenley held that failure over his head like the Sword of Damocles.
Miles shrugged to indicate indecision. ‘She certainly should. The terms are generous. We are offering to buy out her shares in the mines at considerable profit to her. She can live in comfort without worry. But she’s been offered such benefits before. She can take the money and invest it in some other venture if that’s of interest to her.’
‘Perhaps money will appeal to her more than a husband,’ Brenley needled.
Isley Thorp, slender and sallow-faced, sitting on Detford’s right, looked over the tops of his spectacles. ‘Considerable profit under today’s terms,’ he reminded the group. ‘If she sold today, the money would look generous. But against the future profits once that tunnel is complete, our offer looks paltry.’ This was where they trod the grey area of defrauding. One could easily argue they knew it was a poor offer against the expected returns on the new tunnel.
Brenley pursed his mouth. ‘Mining is a risk. The manager at the mine, Cardy, says there’s a goodly amount of copper in that tunnel waiting to be plucked out. But there’s a chance he’s wrong. It’s our bank accounts that take that gamble. We can’t promise what we’ll find there. She can’t hold us accountable for future success if she sells out before then.’ That would be their defence in court if it ever came to that. ‘Any woman would be pleased with such an offer. She has a young child. Surely she can spend her time better raising her instead of running between her mines and meeting with shareholders.’
Miles raised smooth blond brows. ‘When has Eliza Blaxland ever behaved like any other woman? It’s unnatural how she acts, managing business, money and ourselves as if we’re children unable to make decisions without her. If she doesn’t take this offer, we’ll be tied to her apron strings for life. How do the other shareholders feel?’
The third man, Isley Thorp, who’d been silent up until now, shook his head. ‘Some are with us. But others are ambivalent. They say she’s made us money, she’s done a fine job of modernising. Why should she be ousted?’
‘Not ousted, persuaded,’ Brenley corrected impatiently. ‘We’re not forcing anyone out. We’re simply putting an option to her out of consideration for her and her daughter.’
Thorp nodded. ‘It sounds legitimate when you put it that way. Perhaps you should be the one who presents the idea to her?’
Yes, Miles thought. Perhaps it was time Brenley stuck his neck out for this venture instead of making plans for others to carry out. But Miles shook his head. He wanted his revenge, his pride restored. No one had made him look as foolish as Eliza Blaxland had. ‘No, that’s my job. But not just yet. We’ll let her stew for a bit in her own worries. We’ll let her wonder why I’ve delayed answering her summons. The more unaware we can catch her, the more desperate she’ll be. The shareholders’ meeting is in just a few weeks at Porth Karrek.’
The meeting was being held there to celebrate the new tunnel. Miles exchanged a meaningful glance with Brenley. In this, they agreed. The meeting would be the ideal ground on which to launch their campaign against Eliza Blaxland, the woman who had refused him, who had made him look like a laughingstock when he’d gone to her with a decent offer of marriage. He would not let her play him again. He would go to her in the guise of a friend and she would not realise it was otherwise until it was too late.
Thorp spoke up. ‘What if you fail to convince her as you’ve failed in the past? Are we willing to take more severe measures?’
Miles reached for the papers and rolled them up. Thorp was an icy businessman. He knew what Thorp meant by other measures: violence, kidnapping, murder. ‘We certainly won’t rule anything out, but let’s hope for once that Eliza Blaxland will see sense, for all our sakes.’
Chapter Ten
The cove at Karrek Sands was everything Eaton had promised and more; the picnic was a lavish but simple outing. Servants had gone ahead to set up a canopy and chairs and
to unpack hampers of food so that all was ready when they arrived. Yet the preparations did not hinder the authenticity of the picnic. This was not a formal occasion. Sophie had brought her kite and immediately set about getting it aloft. Eliza watched her barefoot daughter from the shade of the canopy, envious of her licence to play in the sand and to tempt the waves sans socks and shoes.
Beside her, Eaton began to tug at his boots. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to take your shoes off, too?’ He cast her a boyish glance as he divested himself of his footwear, revealing a long, narrow foot with a freckle in its centre. ‘What? Have you never seen a man’s foot before?’ he teased before she could look away. ‘This might be the last of the good weather; it’s certainly the last of the warm weather. It would be a shame to waste it.’
Eaton winked and rolled up his trouser legs, showing off well-muscled calves. ‘Come on, Eliza, no one will see. We’ve the entire beach to ourselves, all the privacy you could want.’ He shucked off his coat and waistcoat, looking much as he had the first time she saw him, en déshabillé, moving furniture at the school. He rose and waved to Sophie, who was calling to him to come fly the kite. He gave her a smile that bordered on wicked. ‘Come and play, I dare you,’ he said, and then he was off, trotting to the water’s edge to fly the kite.
Eliza smiled to herself as she removed shoes and socks and even her jacket. It would indeed be a shame to waste the opportunity to frolic on the beach, especially after all the effort Eaton had taken to ensure the beach was entirely theirs. Marquesses could do such things. Karrek Sands was theirs for the afternoon. Nothing could touch them here—not the mines, not her worries over the ledgers, not even propriety’s whisperings that she should not bare her ankles in public or be interacting privately with a man. The beach was both public and private. It was also paradise and it was hers for the day—a precious day to enjoy her daughter. Sophie was nine and nearing that bridge between girlhood and womanhood. How much longer would she be allowed to wander shorelines barefoot before society deemed it unladylike? Her dear girl was growing up too fast.
The Secrets of Lord Lynford Page 9