“Come in,” he yelled.
A footman and a maid brought substantial trays into the room and set them on the low table before the hearth. The maid built up the fire, the footman lit an extra sconce, and the pair of them withdrew with a murmured, “G’night, ma’am. Sir.”
“Did you order dinner for me?” Mrs. Pomponio asked, taking a seat before the tray. “Most considerate of you. I hadn’t anything suitable to put on after my bath and couldn’t possibly dine in company as I’m presently attired. Doubtless, our trunks should be here sometime tomorrow, but until then, I’m a monument to purloined clothing.”
That was his dinner she was about to consume. Grey sat beside her, prepared to tell her as much, but she picked up a roll and tore it open with her fingers.
“Is there anything on earth more delightful than fresh bread?” she murmured.
“I can think of a few things.”
She gave him a look, steam wafting from the roll along with the fragrance of yeasty sustenance. “Such as?”
Thick wool stockings on a pair of slim, feminine feet. Delicate, contented snoring from the couch while Grey finally made some progress on the section of his treatise that dealt with plant poisons.
“Sunshine, in moderation,” Grey said. “Healthy children and how they can laugh at almost anything. Old women telling stories around the fire at night. A sharp razor against the whiskers, safe passage home. Shall I butter that roll for you?”
“I can’t possibly eat all of this by myself. You must join me, or I’ll earn the enmity of the cook. Never a good idea, to disappoint the cook.”
She passed him a butter knife, and Grey nearly forgave her for reading his notes. Her diplomatic upbringing had given her the gift of convivial conversation, and before Grey knew it, he’d eaten two sandwiches, finished a bowl of soup she’d claimed was too bland for her palate, and consumed a sizable plum tart.
The soup was bland, though it was hot and hearty, and the conversation was charming. Mrs. Pomponio told him of spilling punch on her own bodice to get away from a presuming ambassador, “pulling a swoon” to earn freedom from another state dinner, and pretending an ignorance of French to avoid the flirtatious advances of a young colonel.
The food disappeared, the fire burned down, and half the bottle of merlot was consumed as well. Despite her outlandish attire, Mrs. Pomponio had shared a meal with Grey as graciously as any grand hostess, and she’d eased some of his restlessness too.
“May I assume your French is as facile as your English and your Italian?” he asked, topping up her wine glass.
“French isn’t difficult if your Latin and Italian are on firm footing, and in Italy, we heard French all the time. Why?”
Grey ranged an arm along the back of the sofa and prepared to humble himself—or give the lady something to do besides snoop through his notes.
“One of the pressing tasks before me is to solicit funds from those who support the sciences and have the means to finance expeditions. As much as I must organize my notes and publish my findings, I must also attract the support of a worthy sponsor for my next venture.”
“Always, we must be practical,” she said. “I take it you have potential sponsors in France?”
“One can’t know until one asks, as difficult as it is to request anything of anybody. My family would offer some support for my endeavors, but they tend to confuse support and control.”
At every turn.
She took a considering sip of wine. “How can they control you when you’re thousands of miles away, beyond the reach of civilization?”
Insightful question. “They will offer funds, provided I marry the bride of their choice. I’ll capitulate to that scheme, thinking that one must marry, and if doing so enlarges society’s grasp of the known world, it’s an acceptable compromise.”
“One wonders why the lady would find it acceptable, for she’d be essentially widowed for years at a time while you were off doing all of this commendable enlarging, and she wouldn’t be able to remarry or even frolic.”
That had troubled Grey as well. What sort of woman married with the expectation that her husband would cheerfully abandon her for the company of insects, poisonous plants, and deadly snakes?
“The scheme had many flaws.”
“I gather you are as yet unmarried.”
“With the assurances of the young lady involved, I was willing, but my brother took me aside weeks before the nuptials and informed me that, well, yes, the funds were promised, though not at the level initially proffered. The settlements had been drafted, all was in readiness, but a man new to the institution of holy matrimony would be better off exploring, say, the standing stones no farther away than Orkney, preferably in summer. I was to content myself with the study of rocks, for God’s sake. Rocks that had been sitting plainly in evidence when Gilgamesh was a lad. No wonder the young lady had had no qualms.”
“You were to study rocks indefinitely?”
“Until two male children were thriving in my nursery, and I know what would have come next.”
She set the wine glass down. “You would be exhorted not to leave your children without a father figure, or to deny their grandmother’s fondest wish for a granddaughter, and of course the granddaughter would desperately need her papa and at least one sister. Family can be most vexing. What did you do?”
“Wrote the young lady an apology, marshaled what private resources I had on hand, and took off for South America. That was nearly four years ago. The young lady married another and has two sons. My brother apologized and said the entire situation was all Mama’s fault. She is a countess. If you’ve not met many titled women, they are a species unto themselves.”
She curled her feet up onto the cushions. “Oh?”
“I admire my mother without limit, but I draw the line at studying damned rocks for years on end. In any case, my French is good, not perfect. If I’m to correspond with potential funding sources in France, a review of my prose would be appreciated.”
He was asking for Mrs. Pomponio’s help, but resorting to that handy fig leaf of English syntax, passive voice.
She bounced about on the cushion, tucking her hems over her toes, her braid inadvertently brushing against Grey’s arm.
“I will edit your French,” Mrs. Pomponio said. “You have shared your cozy office with me, though I do think your work would be easier if you let me organize your notes by subject.”
He liked looking at her, he liked talking with her, he liked arguing with her. Some part of his rational mind was strongly admonishing him that this way lay much trouble, but the wanderer who’d finally come home—to a cold, dreary welcome—ignored the warning.
“You might be departing on the morrow,” he said. “You’d get partway through the job and leave all in disarray. I have little tolerance for disarray, else I’d never survive my explorations.”
“We’ll work on your tolerance,” she said, patting his hand. “Surely Colonel Stratton would not begrudge three ladies a few days to recover from an accident and repair our coach?”
Why hadn’t Grey done a more thorough inspection of the vehicle when he’d had the chance?
Because he’d been too preoccupied with the lady atop it.
“I’ll draft my correspondence this evening, and in the morning you can start with my French letters—”
Oh God. He hadn’t said that, had he? Yes, he had. He’d referred to contraceptive sheaths by their most common vernacular appellation and set the lady’s eyes to dancing.
“I’m sure your French letters will be all that a lady could wish for,” she replied, rising. “The meal and your good company have made me quite relaxed. I can hope my bedroom has been adequately warmed by now, and I’ll see you—and your letters—in the morning.”
“Shall I light you up?”
“Please. I am certain I know where my bedroom is—the Peacock Room, if I recall—but I was certain I’d arrive safely to my destination when I set out this morning.”
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Grey took a taper from the mantel and used it to light the carrying candle on the sideboard. “Had your expectations been met, my evening would have been impoverished.”
That specimen of gentlemanly drivel happened to be the truth, which might be why Mrs. Pomponio merely smiled and took his arm.
She was not a giggling girl, or a countess who regarded her family as so many chess pieces.
And she’d not touched his notes, not in the strictest sense of the words.
Grey led her upstairs in silence, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets. The house was too big to be anything but frigid in the midst of an early spring storm, and yet, for Grey, a little warmth lingered. He’d spent an enjoyable evening with a lady who didn’t expect brilliant wit or boring small talk from him, and she’d agreed to read his French letters.
He almost burst out laughing halfway up the steps, but instead settled for kissing Mrs. Pomponio’s cheek when he bid her good night.
If she was to read his letters, he’d best spend the rest of the evening writing the damned things, hadn’t he?
* * *
How could a man who was so clearly brilliant at his calling be an utter dunderhead about asking for funds?
Francesca sat at Sir Greyville’s desk, reading letters that swung from abject pleading, to exhortation, to flights of biological hypothesis, to claims of grand medical contributions (and profits), back to scolding.
As a professor, Sir Greyville would be magnificent. His ability to advocate on behalf of science was touchingly inept.
“Ah, Mrs. Pomponio, you are an early riser.”
The great scientist stood in the doorway to the estate office, a cup of something steaming in one hand, a slice of buttered toast in the other.
“Good morning, Sir Greyville. I trust you slept well?”
He closed the door with his foot. “You may trust no such thing. I have yet to acclimate to this dreary latitude, and everything from the quality of the daylight, to the cold, to the texture of the sheets against my skin, conspires to keep me from the arms of Morpheus.”
Even in a royal pet he exuded energy and rationality.
“I slept wonderfully, thank you,” Francesca said. “To be safe and warm and in the company of good people with hot chocolate and shortbread to break my fast was a much rosier fate than I courted yesterday.”
He wrinkled his lordly proboscis. “Quite. How bad are the letters?”
So that’s what had him worried?
“Awful. Your French is good, with just enough minor imperfections that the recipient can feel superior to yet another hopeless Englishman, but your technique is sadly wanting.”
He slouched into a chair on the other side of the desk. “I know. I haven’t the knack of cajoling, which puts me at a sore disadvantage. I had a devil of a time at public school. Can’t say the young ladies thought much of me either. No charm.”
On that signal understatement, he bit off a corner of his toast with good, straight, white teeth.
“You have integrity and brains,” Francesca said, passing over the first of the letters. “I took a few liberties with your prose.”
He set aside his coffee—the scent was wonderful—but not his toast and munched his way through the letter.
Francesca enjoyed watching him, enjoyed watching his gaze move across the page as he demolished his toast slice. That he would approve of her efforts mattered more than it should.
“You’re a damned genius,” he said, springing to his feet. “This is brilliant. A touch of flattery, a bit of regret for the loss to the world should its wonders remain needlessly unexplored, a casual disparaging of those squandering means on idle pleasures… You’re very, very good, Mrs. Pomponio.”
His praise was precious, not only for its sincerity, but also for its uniqueness. Men complimented duchesses incessantly. Francesca had endured odes to her eyes, her hair, her wit, her hands, her grace, her eyebrows, for God’s sake.
The men offering all of this praise did not bother to ascertain whether the compliment bore any relation to the woman at whom the words were flung.
“I’m glad the letter meets with your approval. I was raised by diplomats, and delicacy of expression was served at every meal. I was also my father’s secretary and amanuensis after my mother died. I revised a few more of your letters, but have several yet to read.”
Francesca had been eager for something useful to do, something interesting. After peeking at Sir Greyville’s notes yesterday—but not touching them—she’d gained an impression of a restless mind as insightful as it was observant as it was imaginative.
God forbid this man should be shackled to some dreary old ring of stones for the rest of his days.
He peered down at her, his expression quite severe. “Madam, I do not approve of this letter, I damn near venerate it. Show me the others.”
Another order. A woman whose letters were worthy of veneration could make a few rules.
“Say please.”
He aimed another glower at her over the last of his toast. “Everlasting goddamned please, I beg you, won’t you please, I entreat you, may it please madam to look favorably upon my humble treaty—and for good measure, because I am a man smitten by the talent I see on this page—if you’d be so endlessly kind, may I please see the other letters?”
Francesca handed over two more letters. “Smitten lacks credibility coming from you, but you did say please.”
Smitten was lovely, as was the ferocity in his dark eyes. They were brown, with agate rims that put Francesca in mind of winter seas.
“I am as smite-able as the next man, and I tell you sincerely…”
He trailed off, the second letter in his hand. He wasn’t like some Englishmen who had to move his lips to read French. He could drink coffee and read at the same time, unerringly grasping the cup, bringing it to his mouth, and setting it down without taking his gaze from the page.
“Shall I do the rest of them?”
“A moment.”
His concentration was absolute. What would it be like to have that concentration turned on her? And did the texture of English sheets offend his skin because he slept without benefit of a nightshirt?
Francesca hoped so.
“This one is as magnificent as the last,” he said, setting the second letter down. “Your penmanship, your turn of phrase, your salutation—every detail—is rendered to encourage a favorable reply. I am in your debt.”
His penmanship was legible, but like him. No soft curves, no graceful details. Communication in its most utilitarian form.
“Nonsense. You pulled me from a muddy ditch, Sir Greyville, and lectured me to safety, then fed me dinner and kissed me good night. I will have to write many letters to repay your kindness.”
“I did kiss you good night,” he said, peering down at his mug of coffee. “I hope you took no offense.”
She’d been surprised, pleased, and slightly disconcerted.
Duchesses were not allowed to be disconcerted, poor dears.
Though scientists were apparently allowed to be shy.
“My name is Francesca,” she said. “You have my leave to use it.”
“My friends call me Grey.”
A nice moment blossomed, with morning sun streaming in the windows, the peat fire blazing in the hearth, and Sir Greyville smiling at his coffee cup.
His smile was sweet, devilish, subtle, and unexpected. Francesca was surprised to discover that the man was gorgeous, but for the toast crumbs on his cravat.
“Do you need to work at this desk?” she asked. “I can manage at the table.”
“That would suit. Shall I ring for a tray?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.” She rose, pleased to have more work to occupy her. All of her personal effects—her embroidery hoop, her flute, her lap desk—was lashed to the boot of the upended coach. This situation had proven something of a challenge when it came time to dress.
The Rose Heath attics had been raided though, and Fran
cesca was attired in a marvelously warm wool day dress ten years out of date.
She organized herself at the worktable, Sir Greyville settled in at the desk, and soon the sound of two pens scratching across foolscap joined the ticking of the clock and soft roar of the fire.
“I’m happy.”
Sir Greyville looked up. “Beg pardon?”
“I didn’t mean to say that aloud, but it’s true. I’m happy. I have nothing of my own with me, I’m far from home, in very unexpected surroundings, but I’m happy.”
“Then you’re on a successful expedition. Study the terrain, weather, flora, and fauna well and take copious notes.”
He went back to his transcribing, and Francesca to her letters. One went to a lady, a French comtesse who was visiting friends in York. Currying her favor required a slightly different approach. Francesca took a break between letters to look in on Mary Alice, who’d suffered a few injuries when the coach had overturned.
When Francesca returned to the estate office, she finished the letters and stacked them on the sideboard. She then indulged in the temptation to study the fauna sitting behind the massive desk.
Sir Greyville had hooked a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles about his ears and propped his boots on a corner of the desk. Very likely, he’d forgotten Francesca was in the room, much less in the same country. From time to time, he’d mutter something in Latin, or brush the quill feather with the fingertips of his right hand.
“You’re left-handed,” Francesca said. “That explains part of your difficulty drafting pretty correspondence.”
“So it does, but not all. I simply haven’t your gift.”
She brought the letters over to the desk, and he stood, as if realizing that a gentleman doesn’t prop his boots on the furniture in a lady’s presence.
He took the letters and set them aside. “I will read them word for word, not to assure myself that you accurately conveyed my sentiments, but rather, to learn from your example.”
“If one of the Frenchmen funds your next expedition, you must write to me. I would be pleased to know I was of aid to modern science.”
Duchesses in Disguise Page 3