The Taste of Innocence (34 page)

His gaze briefly touched hers, then shifted away. “I have to deal with some letters first. I can’t say how long it’ll be before I’m ready to set out. Your meeting’s at ten, isn’t it?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the parlor mantel; she followed his gaze—it was nearly nine o’clock.

“You’ll have to hurry as it is.” His voice was devoid of any real emotion. She felt his gaze touch her face, then he stepped away and half bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”

She remained standing in the doorway staring at the clock as his footsteps faded down the long corridor.

Charlie hadn’t made any arrangements to visit Malcolm Sinclair, but it was easy enough to manufacture an excuse to go calling. Indeed, given that he was steadily steering their discussions ever deeper into the subject of railway companies and their financing, any excuse for another meeting was welcome; he could push such a discussion only so far at one sitting.

He rode into Crowcombe at eleven o’clock, an acceptable time for one gentleman to call on another. Finley House, a classical Georgian gentleman’s house, was set a few paces back from the Watchet road just past Crowcombe.

Dismounting before the gate, he walked Storm, reasonably docile after the ride, through and across the narrow stretch of grass separating the house from the wall bordering the road. A tree with solid low-hanging branches provided a useful place to tie the gelding securely, then Charlie paced up the flagstone path to the front steps.

The front door and hall were flanked by two good-sized rooms. Charlie listened, wondering if Sinclair had seen him arrive. Hearing no sound in the hallway, he raised his hand and knocked. And waited.

He’d considered telling Sinclair of their quest; the man was, after all, a renowned investor in railways, one of those senior investors who, even if he hadn’t been one of those who’d approached the authorities, had been financially harmed by the extortioner. Yet while he didn’t imagine Sinclair had any involvement with the villain, he knew only too well how investing “information” got around. If he told Sinclair, even if he swore him to secrecy, Sinclair would feel perfectly justified in telling someone he trusted, who would then tell someone he trusted, and so on, until the secret information was common knowledge and someone had whispered it to their villain.

So he quashed any moral niggles over picking Sinclair’s brains while concealing his true purpose.

Footsteps approached, coming from the rear of the house. The door opened and Malcolm Sinclair looked out.

He smiled. “Charlie.”

Charlie returned the smile. “Malcolm.” They shook hands and Sinclair waved him in.

He led him to a library-cum-study at the rear corner of the house. “My sanctum, such as it is.”

Charlie entered, glancing at the bookcases lining the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes that hadn’t been disturbed in years, the neat order of desk and chairs, an armchair and side table before the fireplace, French doors looking out to a small paved courtyard at the rear. Malcolm gestured; Charlie sat in the chair before the desk as his host resumed the admiral’s chair behind it.

“Now.” Malcolm caught his eye. “To what do I owe this plea sure?”

Charlie smiled and trotted out his perfectly genuine query. Sinclair thought, then replied; they were soon involved in a detailed assessment of the way the original Stockton-Darlington project had been funded and, in Sinclair’s opinion, how such funding arrangements could be improved, both from the point of view of the investors, and also the project itself.

It took very little prodding, subtle or otherwise, to get Malcolm talking on that subject. After they’d been conversing for some time, Charlie glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf, and was shocked to discover more than an hour had passed.

He blinked, and straightened. “I must go—I had no idea I’d taken so much of your time.”

Malcolm followed his gaze to the clock; his brows rose in patent surprise. Then he smiled, a gesture Charlie instinctively recognized as more sincere than the one he deployed socially; this smile seemed a trifle rusty around the edges. “That just goes to show. I had no idea, either, but I’ve rarely…” Malcolm paused, then met Charlie’s eyes. “Met someone else with such similar interests, and”—his lips quirked—“such a similar facility for understanding finance and all its ramifications as I.”

His smile deepened as Charlie got to his feet. “I thoroughly enjoy our talks—please do call whenever you wish.”

Charlie prowled to the French windows and stood looking out. He knew just what Malcolm meant. In the last hour they’d jettisoned a great deal of the customary reserve men such as they maintained when discussing any subject involving money. He wouldn’t have done that, and nor would Malcolm, unless…it wasn’t so much a matter of trust as that they recognized in each other a very similar man. A degree of similarity greater than the norm.

Charlie couldn’t pretend the unexpected association wasn’t welcome. He glanced briefly at Malcolm, who was still seated behind the desk, watching him, then turned back to the window. “I’ll take you up on that.”

The moment stretched, then Malcolm asked, “How are you and your new countess getting on?”

Charlie inwardly stiffened, but remained outwardly relaxed, his hands in his pockets as he stared out at the straggly garden beyond the courtyard. The query had been couched entirely diffidently; he could acceptably turn it aside with some clichéd phrase and leave it at that.

Instead…“Women…ladies, often have ideas about married life that are somewhat different to those we gentlemen are prepared to countenance.”

“Ah.” Malcolm said no more, but sympathy, empathy, and understanding rang in the single syllable.

Charlie shifted, his gaze still locked on the bushes outside. “All I can do is hold firm—she’ll accept and come around in the end.”

Or so he prayed.

After a moment, Malcolm said, again in that diffident, incurious tone, “She seems a sensible lady. Mrs. Duncliffe mentioned she—Sarah—has lived all her life in this area and has various…interests.”

Charlie’s expression turned grim. “The orphanage.” He tipped his head toward the front of the house, in the direction in which the orphanage lay. And felt his stomach contract.

That morning…his instinctive reaction to her bright, bubbling invitation to join her had nearly had him accepting with a smile. He’d caught himself just in time; her mention of the boys had jerked him to attention. He liked children, of almost any age; he always had. He responded to them and they to him. But children always, always knew when one was being false; if he was surrounded by them and she was there, he’d never be able to hide what he felt for her.

And just the thought of seeing her surrounded by them, with the little ones hanging on her skirts, her madonna’s face alight as she reassured them…

No. He couldn’t ever go with her to the orphanage again.

“Still,” Malcolm murmured, “I imagine once you and she set up your own nursery, her interest in the orphanage will wane.”

Charlie thought of Sarah with his son—or daughter—in her arms, and felt his knees weaken, felt his resolution simply dissolve. Dear God! How would he cope with that?

He drew in a deep breath, and stiffened his spine; he had a year, at least nine months, in which to figure out how to deal with that eventuality. How to deal with his wife while keeping his love for her locked safely away.

“I’d better be getting back.” He turned, met Malcolm’s faintly concerned gaze, and smiled. Returning to the desk, he held out his hand. “It’s purely newly married jitters. I’m sure they’ll pass with time.”

His words, his smile, were a great deal more confident than he felt, but they served to put Malcolm at ease. He rose and clasped Charlie’s hand; together they walked back through the house.

He paused on the front step, looking up and across to where the orphanage lay on its elevated ledge above the village. He glanced back at Malcolm. “I’m expecting some banking reports from London, news on the latest developments in general—they’ll reach me tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come for luncheon and we can go through them?”

Malcolm raised a brow. “One of the ways you keep abreast of things while buried in the country?”

Charlie nodded. “Just so. About noon?”

Malcolm hesitated, his hazel eyes on Charlie’s face, then he nodded. “Very well. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

With a nod and a smile, Charlie walked to Storm; untying the reins, he led the gray into the road, then swung up, and, with a salute, rode away.

Malcolm Sinclair stood in the open doorway, eyes narrowing as he stared after Charlie, then he looked up at the orphanage. After a long moment, he turned inside and closed the door.

While she washed and dressed the next morning, Sarah considered the developments of the day before. And felt increasingly confused. It was almost as if she were married to two men—the warm loving man she shared a bed with, and the cold aloof nobleman she met in the corridors of the house.

But not even that adequately described what she’d sensed.

Yesterday…his dismissal of her invitation, his clear avoidance of spending any time what ever in her company, had hurt. He’d refused even to ride four miles with her. On horse back, for heaven’s sake! Not even in a carriage where they would be close.

What was the matter with him?

Her temper had spiraled, but she’d been forced to suppress it in order to deal with everyone at the orphanage. Charlie and his irrational behavior might be driving her to violence, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow that to color her dealings with others, and most especially not the children.

That enforced exercise of restraint had been helpful; by the time she’d returned home in the waning afternoon, she’d had herself well in hand.

Nevertheless, through the evening, her temper had been simmering, just waiting for some act or word from him to trigger it. Instead…he’d seemed subdued. Not warm and loving, but also not quite so cold and distant; throughout the quiet hour and a half they’d spent, not in the formal drawing room but at her suggestion in her cozier sitting room, she’d felt his gaze on her face, on her, countless times, but whenever she’d glanced up from her embroidery, he’d been reading his book.

What did those surreptitious glances mean? Was he weakening over this silly state he seemed determined to force them into?

Wondering what the day might bring, she headed downstairs.

As she’d expected, the breakfast parlor was empty, devoid of earls; he’d already gone out riding. He’d been as attentive as ever before he’d left their bed, so she was, as usual, rather late. Or more accurately, rather later than she’d used to be before she was wed; ten o’clock was fast becoming her customary breakfast time.

That she could adjust to. But as for the rest…

Munching toast, sipping tea, she narrowed her eyes on the empty chair at the head of the table, and felt resolution well.

She thought of how she would wish things to be. While she could appreciate that gentlemen of Charlie’s ilk would never willingly wear their hearts on their sleeves, that in public he would always be more reserved, when they were in their own house, there was no reason whatever for him to insist on the distance he seemed intent on preserving between them.

That had to go. And it wasn’t as if they didn’t have examples enough of successful love matches to learn from. Their wedding breakfast, attended by so many Cynster couples, not to mention Charlie’s closest friends and their wives, had proved beyond doubt that all she wished for could come to be.

Her problem, it seemed clear, was how to convince Charlie of that. Of the desirability of that.

By the time she rose and headed for her sitting room to whittle away at the list of thank-you notes, she’d decided that the most sensible way forward was to simply behave, consistently and constantly, as she thought they should. If she played the role of loving wife diligently, then at some point, he’d fling his hands in the air, give up his silly stance, and start being the husband she wanted him to be.

The loving husband he truly was.

Marriage was like a dance—partners had to move together, responding to each other, to make it work. Perhaps he just needed to learn the steps?

She applied herself diligently to the thank-you notes. Halfway down her list, she sat back in the chair before the escritoire and straightened her spine; she was about to bend to her task again when she heard a distant knock.

She listened, and heard Crisp’s heavy stride cross the front hall. A moment later, voices reached her. Glancing at the clock, she confirmed it was just noon. Wondering who had called, she rose and headed down the corridor.

Stepping into the front hall, she saw Mr. Sinclair handing his hat and gloves to Crisp. Plastering a smile on her lips, she went forward. “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Are you looking for his lordship?”

Sinclair took the hand she offered and bowed gracefully. “Indeed, Lady Meredith.” He hesitated, eyes swiftly scanning her face, then added, “His lordship invited me to call.”

Sarah blinked, and realized what Sinclair, with suitable delicacy, was telling her. If it was noon, and he had called in response to an invitation…Smoothly, she turned to Crisp. “Mr. Sinclair will be here for luncheon, Crisp.”