Leslie Lafoy (8 page)

She closed the distance she’d put between them earlier, saying, “There should be a sufficiently broad spectrum that the girls won’t soon outgrow it.”

It pleased him that she didn’t hesitate to slip her arm around his this time. It was a small step, but it was in a forward direction. “Have my nieces developed any pronounced intellectual interests as yet?” he asked, leading her out of the library and toward their next destination.

“Beatrice definitely follows in her father’s footsteps and can ably discuss both the ancient Egyptian and Sumerian cultures,” she explained, her voice suddenly more animated than he’d ever heard it. “Camille, so far, seems to be interested only in bugs and small—preferably furry—animals. You’ll be pleased to know that Amanda, like yourself, enjoys mathematics and the physical sciences.”

“Well, if nothing else, it should make for interesting dinner conversation,” he laughingly observed, drawing her through the breakfast room. “And what are your interests, Seraphina?”

“I draw and paint some.”

Ah, so very mundane. Every female over the age of twelve slapped thick layers of oil paint onto canvases and proudly called them landscapes. He’d truly expected Sera to enjoy diversions that were a bit more unconventional. “Perhaps you would show me some of your work,” he suggested gallantly. As always. Women liked to have their talents praised. The honesty of it seemed to matter very little to them.

“If you’d like.”

She had the most interesting ability to provide the expected, polite reply and yet—with the very same words—fully convey her true thoughts. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that she’d willingly share her artwork with him when—and only when—hell turned to ice. The why of her attitude intrigued him. Did she, unlike most women, know that she lacked talent? he wondered as he opened a door and withdrew his arm.

Stepping aside to allow her to precede him, he considered yet another possibility. Her reluctance might come from the fact that her subjects were the sort that ladies didn’t view in the company of gentlemen. Aiden’s mother was an artist whose work had created something of a minor scandal. It could well be that Seraphina’s work wasn’t nearly as stodgy and banal as he’d presumed.

“Oh, dear.”

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Carden found himself abruptly pulled from a pleasant fantasy. He blinked to bring reality into clearer focus. Sera was moving slowly down the center walkway of his conservatory, reaching out to gently touch the crisp, brown leaves that lined the path. It had all looked considerably greener the last time he’d been in here. Which, he realized, had been the day he’d taken possession of the house.

Sera, examining one particularly pathetic-looking specimen, made a whimpering sound that prompted him to explain, “The gardener remained in the employ of the former owners and departed when they did. I’m afraid that it’s been somewhat neglected for the past few months.”

With a sigh, she let her hands fall to her sides. Turning a slow circle, her gaze passing over the whole of the disaster, she said, “You have a true gift for understatement, Mr. Reeves.”

“Carden. Hiring a new gardener is next on my list of tasks,” he hurried to assure her. “You seem to have some familiarity with conservatories … Are there any particular qualifications for which I should be looking?”

“An ability to work miracles would be nice,” she quipped, pulling a dead leaf from a whole pot of them. She held it up for him to see, saying, “This was a very rare specimen, you know.”

Actually, he didn’t. But he clearly understood that she considered the state of his conservatory to be indefensible. And him, for allowing it to happen, a criminal. A callously indifferent, cold-blooded plant killer.

“Maybe a bit of water would bring it back?” he asked, hoping to redeem himself.

“That along with some heat, some sunshine, a good bit of humus-rich soil, and a healthy seed.” Shaking her head, she tossed the leaf aside and resumed her general survey of the greenhouse.

“So in other words, one must simply start over.”

“Yes,” she agreed, lifting the hem of her skirts and setting off for the far corner. “You are, however,” she called over her shoulder as she went, “most fortunate in that I happen to have brought with me a good many of those particular seeds.”

He went after her, intrigued by the sudden change in her manner. If he hadn’t seen it happen with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed how instantly the coolly reserved woman had been transformed into a … Well, a forest nymph.

By the time he caught up with her, she was at the gardening bench, busily—and apparently quite happily—sorting through a rather abused-looking collection of tools and pots.

“I imagine that, as a botanist,” he ventured, “your father made a collection of seeds and such things.”

“An extensive collection,” she said, without looking away from her task. “Were I so inclined, I could make a very profitable business out of supplying private conservatories throughout the whole of England.”

“You’ve given the matter some thought?” he asked, incredulous.

She stopped her work and met his gaze squarely. “Yes. I was prepared to be dismissed after delivering the girls into your care. As it happens, over the years I’ve developed something of a fondness for eating on a regular basis. And I prefer to be independent if at all possible. Being at the mercy of another’s good humor and whim is neither an enjoyable nor a secure state.”

“And yet you’ve agreed to stay with my nieces, to be in my employ,” he observed, his curiosity stirred. “Why?”

She shrugged and resumed her inventory. “I can pursue my own aspirations at any time. For now, caring for the girls is far more important. It would be selfish to abandon them when they so desperately need the comfort of the familiar.”

“And when they no longer need the familiar, you’ll leave them?”

“I’ll always be there for them should they need me, Mr. Reeves. We’ve been through a great deal together. As they say, our bonds have been forged in the fires of adversity. There will come a time when my daily presence in their lives won’t be necessary, but even then they’ll know how and where to find me should they need to.”

“You’re a most practical woman.”

She nodded. “By necessity, Mr. Reeves.”

Slowly, pointedly, he said, “My name is Carden.”

With a heavy sigh, she laid aside a rusty little shovel and turned to him. “In addition to being practical, Mr. Reeves, I am also blunt. And bluntly speaking, I won’t address you by your Christian name because you strike me as the kind of man who, once he’s successfully wedged his foot in the door, promptly pushes the rest of himself through it.”

He leaned his hip against the edge of the table, crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “That was your idea of blunt?”

Her hands went to her hips and her chin came up. So did the color in her cheeks. “To call you by your Christian name would remove barriers to intimacy that I prefer to leave in place.”

“Why?”

“I’m a married woman.”

Damn, but he liked her spirit. “As I recall, you’re a widow.”

“Be that as it may, I—”

“Widows aren’t held to the same social standards as wives.”

“Be
that
as it may, I am not in the habit of entering into temporary romantic liaisons.”

He looked off into the distance as though he were considering a monastic life of his own. After a long moment he drawled, “Define temporary.”

“Any time less than eternity.”

He cocked a brow and was about to remind her that less than forever could be a good thing—her marriage being a fairly obvious case in point—when he heard the unmistakable sound of a polite intrusion. Sera’s gaze darted past him and to the left, suggesting that Sawyer was stepping from amidst the dead plants in that general direction.

“Yes, Sawyer?” he asked on a sigh, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

“The carter has arrived with the belongings of Mrs. Treadwell and the young ladies, sir.”

“Thank you, Sawyer,” Sera said, brushing her hands clean over the table. “I’ll attend to it immediately.” She barely paused long enough to say, “Thank you for the tour, Mr. Reeves. It was most enlightening,” before she pulled her skirts aside and strode away.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” he called after her, smiling, watching the taunting sway of fabric. In a fashionable dress, she’d turn male heads everywhere she went. He was going to have to make a point of confining her to the house for the next few weeks or so.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Sawyer?” he asked, distracted.

“Lady Lansdown is in the parlor.”

His stomach plummeted to the soles of his feet. “Honoria? Honoria is here?”

“I believe that is what I said, sir.”

Carden swore and raked his fingers through his hair as his mind staggered through a maze of thoroughly unpleasant possibilities. “You didn’t tell her about Arthur, did you?”

“Of course not, sir,” Sawyer replied, utterly unruffled by the crisis. “Your instructions were most specific.”

God help him if Honoria discovered the truth. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her soul. Once she knew something, all of England did within the hour.

“Shall I have Cook prepare for another dinner guest, sir?”

Oh, God. Dinner with Honoria. And Seraphina and the girls. Together. Carden swallowed and willed himself to take a breath, to accept his circumstances with dignity. “I don’t see any polite way to avoid inviting her to stay. Do you?”

“Very good, sir. I’ll attend to it right away.”

Carden nodded, silently dismissing his man. Why the hell had Honoria come back to London? And chosen today of all days to call on him? Dinner was going to be a nightmare. If one of the girls offered so much as a single unguarded word … “I’m buggered,” Carden groaned. “Buggered.”

From the distance he heard Sawyer dryly reply, “Merely wishful thinking, sir.”

C
HAPTER
5

By the time the carters were through with their hauling, huffing, puffing, and swearing, it had been four o’clock and the schoolroom looked like a hundred Christmases and birthdays had dropped through the roof all at once. For the girls it had been a joyous celebration of arrival. A reunion of sorts. For her … Nothing seemed to be where she remembered packing it. Everything needed to be opened and sorted and placed. And the instant the mantel clock had chimed six, she’d known that it had been a mistake to say they’d dine downstairs. But done was done and all she could do now was thread her way through the maze and manage the chaos so she and her charges would be ready to go in time.

And it really wasn’t going very well, Seraphina silently admitted as Camille turned her head—yet again—to see what her sisters were doing on the other side of the room. Fine auburn tendrils slipped through Sera’s fingers. “Please, Camille,” she pleaded in desperation. “Hold still and allow me to get this bow situated in the center of your head.”

Camille whipped around to meet her gaze in the dressing mirror. Her grin was wide and too full of excitement to hold even the barest hint of apology.

“I can’t find my crinoline!” Amanda cried, causing Camille to instantly turn.

As Camille’s baby-fine hair slipped away, Sera stifled an exasperated sigh and asked with all the patience she could muster, “Have you looked in your trunk?”

“Yes. I’ve looked everywhere and it’s gone. Gone!”

“Well, look again,” she countered. “I’m sure it’s there somewhere. Did you lift anything to look toward the bottom of the trunk?”

“No.”

“Do you think that might be a strategy worth employing?”

Amanda moaned and muttered but bent over to do as suggested. Camille’s gaze came back to the mirror just as Beatrice bounded over a crate and came to a breathless halt beside them.

“There’s a hole in the heel,” she announced, lifting her stocking-encased arm for Sera to see her fingers protruding—and wildly wiggling—from a hole precisely where she’d said it was.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t make it any larger than it already is.”

“It’s my best pair.”

“It’s your only pair,” Sera corrected absently, trying to gather the strands of Camille’s wayward locks back into hand. “Please fetch my sewing basket and I’ll darn it as soon as I’ve finished with your sister’s hair.”

“And after you’ve found my crinoline.”

“Keep looking, Amanda. Camille,
please
sit still.”

“I could simply go without stockings this evening,” Beatrice suggested, making a closer examination of the rend.

“You simply could not. Now please stop picking at the threads and get the sewing basket as I asked.”

“Or,” she said, backing up slightly and turning sideways, “I could just wear one and walk like this so no one would notice I didn’t have two.” She stepped toward Sera in slow, deliberate profile. Camille considered her sister with knitted brows and pursed lips.

“They’d think you were either daft or deformed,” Amanda declared, her hands on her waist, her search abandoned. “Don’t you dare embarrass us.”

“Have you found your crinoline yet?” Sera asked, giving up hope for perfection and whipping the ribbon around what hair she still managed to hold.

“No.”

“Then I suggest that you’ve a better use for your time and attention than insulting your sister.” The bow she quickly pulled into existence wasn’t exactly centered, but it was fairly close and somewhat correctly shaped. It would have to do. Perhaps the dining room light would be fashionably dim.

She was hastily smoothing the worn lace on the shoulders of Camille’s dress when there came a knock on the door. A quick glance at the mantel clock suggested that Sawyer’s timepiece ran ahead of hers. Being late for dinner their first night. It certainly wasn’t the way she’d have preferred to start things off.

“Get the sewing basket and prepare the needle and thread for me,” she instructed, trying to brush the worst of the wrinkles from her freshly unpacked skirt as she moved to answer the summons. Over her shoulder she added, “You have two minutes to find your crinoline and get into it. And Camille, do
not
fidget with that bow. Just sit there and don’t move.”