Suitors and Sabotage

by Cindy Anstey

  Blinking, Ben looked back at his brother. “What, me?” he said with great intelligence.

  “Yes. Could you? I don’t know what to say, but as it is you who seems to be suffering the brunt of these incidents, perhaps you can explain to her, explain that they are only accidents and that we must move past them … look forward to other events.”

  “Such as a proposal in the folly.”

  “Yes, exactly. See, I knew you would understand.”

  “Understand, yes. But can I assist? I doubt it, Ernest. Imogene has a strong mind and her own opinions.”

  “We see her so differently.”

  Ben nodded. “There now, with that I will agree.”

  “But will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Speak to her, Ben. That’s what we are talking about.”

  “But I don’t think…”

  “Please, Ben.”

  Ben closed his eyes and pursed his lips for a moment before answering. A private talk with Imogene was not on his list of agreeable pursuits. He would rather commune with a bear … perhaps a tiger. “Where is she?” he asked instead.

  “Thank you. I knew you would. I left her in the garden, sketching the fountain.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, Ben offered his brother a long-suffering look. Ernest just laughed.

  * * *

  IMOGENE WAS INDEED sketching by the fountain. It was a shame, for if she had moved at all, even to a neighboring flower bed, Ben would have rushed back to Ernest claiming that he knew not where she had gone. But no, there she sat, a vision of loveliness and tranquillity. She wore a light rose-colored spencer atop a cream gown accented with lace, matching bonnet sitting on the bench beside her; the sun kissed her golden tresses with great affection.… No. He should not use the word kiss to describe anything about Imogene Chively; it was too … fraught with peril.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said without looking. Quite the feat when he was standing off to the side.

  “I did not mean to intrude.” If Imogene sent him away, then that, too, could be an excuse, a reason to return to Ernest with the quest unfulfilled.

  “No, not at all.” She turned her head and smiled—ruefully … wistfully? Something was indeed wrong. But did he want to know what that was? “Did you wish to sketch as well?” she asked. “I have an extra piece of paper and can break my graphite pencil should you—”

  “No. No, thank you. I have drawn this fountain seven times to Sunday, though better success with it of late.”

  “Of course.” She returned her gaze to her paper and continued her rendering.

  Silence hung in the air as Imogene sketched and Ben stood off to the side, glued to the gravel, wishing himself a hundred miles away and sitting next to her at the same time. That would have been quite the feat, too.

  “You have improved greatly, Ben,” she said, misinterpreting his inability to speak. “I think you can be comfortable returning to Lord Penton.”

  “Would that I could, but my sketches are of small matters, pieces. I have yet to draw a full door let alone a building.”

  Smiling, though still looking back and forth between the fountain and her paper, Imogene laughed … with little amusement. “Try a window first. Then a door. Then a window and a door. Build it up, Ben, as you would erect a building, layer by layer.”

  Giving up his position of strength and distance, Ben sighed and joined Imogene on the bench. She moved her bonnet, hanging it from the back of the bench to accommodate, and then she returned to her sketch. It was a great distraction, making it easier for Ben to concentrate when her eyes were elsewhere.

  “It will be a fair number of years before I have the ability to render what I have in my head—my own designs.” He winced, for even in his ears that sounded as if he was ungrateful for all that she had done.

  “Not necessarily,” she said, as if unaware of his churlishness. “You could form a partnership with a fellow architect or find an artist who understands your vision.” Turning finally toward him, she lifted the corners of her mouth in a semblance of a smile. “A flexible artist, a conduit for your ideas.”

  Ben swallowed and tried not to look at Imogene’s mouth. “Someone well versed in straight lines.” He added a chuckle to make it seem as if he was not preoccupied.

  “And perspective.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and then made the mistake of lifting his eyes to hers. And there he was, lost for a moment or an hour; it was hard to know which. His heart hammered; his fingers itched to reach out and touch the contours of her face. He wanted to pull her hair free from its constraints and nibble at her neck. Watch her back arch; feel her body pressed to his and ease her furrowed brow.

  Furrowed brow?

  With a sharp intake of breath, Ben looked away. Why had Imogene been frowning? “Is something amiss, Imogene?” He studiously watched the water fall from the center of the fountain and into the collecting pool. Dripping. Droplets. Ripples. Tiny rainbows.

  “Yes,” she said in a doleful tone.

  That was the wrong answer. If she had said no, he could have excused himself and run back … sauntered back … to his brother with no news.

  Fearing the worst, he took a gulp and asked the question. “Does it have to do with the day at the castle? The day the wasps attacked?”

  “Yes.”

  Again the wrong answer.

  “I would like to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  Ben turned, surprised by the seemingly genuine puzzlement in her voice. “For being so bold … under your parasol. For—”

  “I’m not distressed about that, Ben. In fact, I would rather not talk about … that. Ever. Nothing happened. It was just an odd moment where our emotions nearly got the better of us.”

  If Ben was not mistaken, Imogene was talking about that, despite professing an absolute preference not to do so.

  “It didn’t mean anything. We were simply in a heightened state, a state of anxiety and intimacy. You would not have kis—No. I really don’t want to discuss something that didn’t happen. That is not my difficulty.”

  Shaking his head in confusion, a deeply entrenched frown taking up residence now on his brow, Ben waited for an explanation. “What is, then? Of what are we talking?” he finally asked when none was forthcoming. Imogene’s swallow of discomposure did nothing to sooth his qualms.

  “I don’t believe that these incidents are accidents, Ben. I believe someone intends you harm, and you need to be careful, watchful—vigilant.”

  “You have postulated the same before. This is no great revelation. Not worthy of a new set of worries.”

  She sighed. “Ben, is it possible … You and Ernest seem to be on the best of terms. But is that so?”

  Ben bristled and sat up straighter. “What kind of a question is that? Are you going to try to lay blame on my brother?” Fury replaced indignation, and Ben rounded on her. “My brother? Do you realize what you are asking? What you are implying? How could you? How can you come into our home—Ernest’s home—and ask such a question?”

  Ben was so angry he could hardly think straight. “Ernest would never do anything to hurt anyone, me least of all. And if you knew my brother well enough to consider marrying him, then you should know his integrity.” Shaking his head in disbelief, Ben jumped to his feet.

  “Shame on you, Imogene. I will not tell my brother of what you suspect. It would crush him to know you think so little of him.”

  And with that, Ben stalked off, disregarding Imogene’s openly shocked expression and the little voice in his head that warned him that he was being unfair. That he had jumped too quickly, flying at her for a simple question. That he should be asking Imogene why she inquired about their brotherly relationship. That she had not accused Ernest of anything. That he had taken umbrage and run with it because it was far easier to be around Imogene and not want to take her into his arms if he was angry with her.

  He ignored the little voice and slammed the door behind him.<
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  chapter 16

  In which Imogene weighs the merits of living atop a mountain with no one around for miles

  Imogene found that she could smile, make light conversation, and look up from her lap occasionally while dying inside. It was not a new trick, but one that had never covered such total despair before. She was in shock—still hurting, feeling battered and bruised by Ben’s outrage. She had asked a simple question. He had not given her the opportunity to explain whence came the query. He had not refuted or debated, as she had expected … or even reassured.

  No. Ben had shown a side of himself that Imogene hoped never to see again—an angry, unreasonable side. Still, she prayed that this horrible aspect of his nature would not interfere with his ability to think clearly—that he would be watchful, aware of anyone intending harm. Be it his brother or not.

  Ernest seemed aware that a barrier had formed—a wall of hostility—but other than look apologetic at both parties and talk far more than was his norm, Ernest was of little help. It was fortunate that Imogene’s shy and quiet nature was expected to resurface with a change of surroundings; the dinner and evening conversations went on around her without causing any insult or concern. The occasional comment was tossed her way, and then attention returned to those actually participating in the discourse. While nothing was said directly, Father and Lady Steeple constantly inferred that Ernest’s and Imogene’s futures were entwined.

  It was not a comfortable meal.

  The night was long. Though the bed was comfortable, the unusual squeaks and thumps of a foreign household kept Imogene awake. It had nothing to do with a broken heart and wishing herself a hundred miles away. Her only reprieve was in knowing that Emily would arrive on the morrow and with her a conversation that might help shed light on what had happened. A different perspective might be of benefit.… Might.

  As Musson House did not keep town hours, Imogene arrived the next morning to a bustling dining room. Mother and Lady Steeple were in deep conversation about the importance of lace while finishing their toast and jam. They looked up, made a smiling comment about the tardiness of the young, and returned to their conversation. Had Ernest truly been her heart’s desire, Imogene would have been pleased to see how well the two ladies related to each other. As it was, it only added another crack to the floor eroding under her feet.

  Sir Steeple sat at the opposite end of the table with Father, Ernest, and Ben. Percy was nowhere to be seen. At least she was not the last one down. The gentlemen’s conversation seemed to be about a beach and the wonders of rock collecting. They offered her more than the ladies had done, a cheerful “hallo” and an inquiry if she had slept well. Imogene assured Sir Steeple that she had, hoping he did not notice the dark circles under her eyes that proved her words to be a lie.

  Sitting with the ladies, Imogene found she was much more interested in the conversation at the other end of the table. When Ernest mentioned a ruin, curiosity overcame her wretchedness.

  “Is it far?” Imogene asked, raising her voice slightly to be heard. She didn’t have to shout; the room was generous, accommodating a table that seated twenty or more, but it had been well designed—sound carried. A fleeting thought that Ben might add such a room to his designs was summarily dismissed as unwanted. She kept her eyes on Ernest, not allowing them to wander about on their own.

  “Not far in distance,” Ernest explained. “But requiring the use of a boat. You can see it from the beach, but only the tip of the tower peeks above the trees. If it is something you wish to sketch, we can make arrangements to visit. I know ruins are one of your favorite subjects.”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful.” Imogene smiled sincerely for the first time in many, many hours. Drawing a ruin would be a great distraction; she could lose herself in a sketch. It would give her aching heart a much-needed respite and ease her troubled thoughts away from Ben.

  “It is a favorite haunt of Ben’s, too. Perhaps Emily would be interested, and we can make a day of it. Four can easily fit in the skiff with a food basket.”

  Imogene’s smile remained in place but lost its luster. Not away from Ben, then. She stifled a sigh.

  “Seas might be a bit rough today.” Sir Steeple glanced toward the tall windows despite their view of the gardens and not the nearby channel. “Winds are up, means the waves will be high. Best wait for a day when the clouds aren’t as low, too. Don’t want to be marooned on a foggy island.”

  “No, indeed,” Ernest agreed, looking at Imogene with what appeared to be a twinkle in his eye. “It would be a disaster. Marooned on an island with two lovely ladies. Who would wish that upon us?”

  Ben snorted in derision. Imogene kept her gaze firmly on Ernest.

  * * *

  AT THE BACK of the manor, collected in an elegant room of blues and yellows on the second floor, the company was deaf to any sounds of arriving guests. Imogene had no knowledge that the Tabards had made an appearance until Jake walked under the gilt transom of the drawing room door. Percy, too, was in ignorance, because his greeting was louder and higher pitched than was his usual.

  Once again, Jake outshone the company. Though wearing countrified fashion this time, there was no doubt that his coat was of a fine quality and expertly tailored. Even his father, following on Jake’s heels, did not cut the same figure as his son. Wrinkled in face and coat, Mr. Tabard made up for it with his smooth smile.

  “Well met,” he said as Lady and Sir Steeple stepped forward to offer an effusive welcome.

  There was far less pomp and ceremony than there had been the day before. Recognizing why that would be, Imogene turned back to her book with an uncomfortable churn in her belly … and then, after having read the same passage twice without comprehension, she stared out the window. She caught Ernest watching her from the corner of her eye but did not turn; she couldn’t give him the reassuring smile he wanted. She did not have the fortitude.

  Sometime later the scene was replayed. Only this time it was Imogene who squealed with delight at the new arrivals. The Beeswangers sans Pauline, Harriet, and Miss Watson had found their way to Chotsdown. Imogene stood to greet Emily after the Steeples had done so, but she was stymied in the intent to pull her friend into her corner. Someone else leaped into the fray. Someone else took Emily’s hands and declared her arrival to be the most wondrous of all possible happenings. Someone else made it perfectly clear that Emily needed to sit right beside him.

  Emily shared a look with Imogene that spoke of excitement and anticipation as she joined Ben near the ornate chimneypiece on the opposite side of the sizable room. They would have to catch up later.

  Imogene turned back to the window. A light rain drizzled against the glass panes, trickling down to the sill in long streaks; they put her in mind of tears.

  * * *

  “WHAT HAS HAPPENED?” Emily whispered a few hours later as they climbed the stairs to the third-floor gallery. They were about to tour the collection of marvels that Ben and Ernest’s parents had sent back from Italy. It had been Sir Steeple’s suggestion; Ben had argued that the viewing could be saved for another day, but Ernest had sided with his grandfather, and up they had gone. Ben, despite his initial disagreement, had led the way, followed by Ernest, allowing Emily and Imogene to slow their steps for a private, though brief, conversation.

  “Ben was not at all pleased when I asked him about Ernest in regard to the incidents. In fact, he was furious.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “He was so affronted that he gave me no time to explain that it was only speculation. And now he will not talk to me at all. I am miserable, Emily. I do not want to be here. If I could, I would pack up immediately and head home. Please give me leave to talk to Ernest. As soon as I have broken his heart, I can rush home to be harangued by my family.”

  Emily frowned. “Gracious, I don’t believe I have ever seen you this distraught before.”

  “It is likely a first. I am as wretched a creature as can walk this earth. I am about to break
the heart of a fine young man—who, in fact, I don’t believe had anything to do with these incidents. And now his brother thinks very, very poorly of me because I suggested something I don’t credit.”

  “It is my mistake, Imogene. I was the one to speculate that Ernest might be involved. Dear, dear. I have made a mull of everything.”

  “No, Emily. It is not—”

  “I hope you will agree that the collection is worth the effort,” Ernest said with a smile, watching Imogene and Emily climb to the top stair. The excitement in his voice was a clear indication that he expected no argument.

  “I’m sure we will. Though, for the record, a flight of steps is hardly an effort.”

  While Imogene could hear a hint of irritation in Emily’s rejoinder, she hoped that Ernest could not. It stemmed from their broken conversation, not Ernest’s comment. Really! There were times the idea of living atop a mountain with no one around for miles was quite appealing.

  And then Imogene lifted her eyes and tripped to a standstill. She ceased moving, thinking, and breathing. She merely absorbed the glory, the mastery, the beauty that was this room. For an eon of minutes, Imogene beheld a sight that she had not expected.

  The Musson House gallery was a wonder of wonders. Stretching the length of the manor, with large, arched windows at either end, the walls had been painted an unobtrusive green, the planked floor was stained pale gray. They were a quiet background for the riot within the room; the wall space was entirely covered in gold-framed masterpieces: still lifes, landscapes, seascapes, triptychs, portraits, and mythic representations. Some were hung in stacks of three; the larger paintings stood alone.

  Running down the center, on white pedestals, were marble statues of such artistry they made Imogene want to bow in awe at the sculptor’s talent. Separate and yet part of the whole, carved stone in stark white, they were a perfect antithesis to the burst of color on the walls. Here was a place she could stay forever. Stare and absorb and try to understand how such marvels were achieved, day after day, month after month … yes, forever. This was a haven far better than a mountaintop.