Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (23 page)

His lordship faced away from her, staring out the wide-open window. She noticed he highlighted interesting over womanly form or prettiness. That snared her more than any flattery to her appearance, luring her deeper into the lair of this reclusive man. Lydia wanted him, and the ways she wanted him bewildered. Her body wanted to mold to his, to test the hardness she’d glimpsed, and something deeper inside—Her heart? Her soul?—yearned for more of this fledgling bond. And if he caught a whiff of the latter wish, his lordship would shut down and shut her out as quickly as one closed a door. Best she trod carefully.

Lud, but she was turning overly sentimental.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Very well, we still have the matter of my artwork,” she said, opening her eyes to see him studying her.

“You failed to disclose those intentions at the Blue Cockerel. I cannot support the Countess of Greenwich selling artwork—”

“Then what were all those fine words about commerce?” she said, the grip of her fingers tightening. “And you, I might add, failed to disclose a few things as well, my lord.”

He shrugged and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. “I hate to admit it, but my mother’s right about England’s rigid rules when it comes to noblewomen. You’re only good for carrying on family lines and hosting dinner parties.”

That his eyes glowed with a teasing light when he said that saved him from having a biscuit hurled at his head.

“You’ve said yourself my sketching’s quite good. And I’ve been painting since my days on the Somerset Estate.”

“That long?” He rubbed the back of his neck and stared out the window. “Where are those paintings now?”

“I’ve nearly a dozen stored in Wickersham. I had to scrape paint off some of the canvasses and reuse them. Others I painted over.” She adjusted her shawl. “A poor girl does what she must.”

He moved to his desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew foolscap, a nub of a broken lead stick, and what looked to be the Greenwich seal. He ignored the quill and ink pushed aside on his dish-strewn desk and scribbled a rapid note. He folded the note and yanked on the servants’ bell rope near the window.

“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, watching him hold a chunk of red wax over a candle flame.

“Solving at least one problem, which I consider a small victory on this disastrous day,” he answered without looking at her.

He took a quick view of the melting wax, dabbed it on the folded missive, and pressed the seal into splotched wax. The door opened on the other side of the study, and Rogers entered, his gloved hands tugging his green waistcoat into place.

“My lord, you called?” He spoke from the doorway, not stepping foot into the inner sanctum.

“Come in, man.” Lord Greenwich waved him into the room, and he held out the missive. “Have the coachman deliver this to Miss Montgomery’s great-aunt’s house in the village of Wickersham…a Miss Euphemia Carson. Tell him he’s to take whatever conveyance he needs to bring back all of Miss Montgomery’s paintings. Make sure he wraps them with care.”

“Very good, milord.” Rogers accepted the folded note, but the footman hesitated, clearing his throat.

The young man tried to keep a servant’s stoic face, but his eyes spread wide, and his Adam’s apple bobbled up and down. The earl glanced up from putting away his seal.

“You’ve something to say, Rogers?”

Rogers nodded slowly, as if he were about to impart news of the Holy Grail. “Yes, milord. There’s a delivery for you. A chest. It just arrived.”

“Very well.” And Lord Greenwich closed the desk drawer firmly.

“The chest, milord…it’s from King George himself, sir.”

Fourteen

So divinely is the world organized that every one of us,

in our place and time,

is in balance with everything else.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

New clouds gathered overhead, faithful witnesses to Greenwich Park’s stormy drama that played over three days. With those new clouds came an extraordinary storm and nighttime freeze. Outside, dormant grass and bare tree branches frosted silver and white everywhere, so heavy that some branches broke from the burden and tumbled to the ground. The air chilled inside and out with news of Lord Greenwich’s impending journey. The household moved in a state of shock, whereas Lady Elizabeth vented in a way that rivaled any storm. Lydia, like the servants, tiptoed through marble hallways and tried to lose herself in the euphoria of work: sketching for the earl when required and painting for personal pleasure when not.

What was she to make of this mess?

She planted both elbows on the wood table, her place of penance in the greenhouse for snooping about the earl’s room. Lydia’s fingernail etched designs on heavily frosted glass as she stared at the dreary downpour outside. The concoction that poured from the heavens vacillated between a mix of rain and sleet.

Sometimes she touched the alluring, exotic Chinese pear tree, now within easy arm’s reach. Huxtable had shoved a high bench against brick and glass across from his lordship’s workbench, all the nearer to the earl’s watchful eye as she labored. Neat piles of well-illustrated pages testified to her skill, but the tapping of her lead stick at this moment testified to thin restraint of another nature.

What was in the chest the king sent to the earl?

The unassuming wooden chest, bound by buckled leather straps, sat on the earl’s workbench for three days, begging to be opened. There was no lock. Only twine knotted through the latch, but the tamperproof knot was a tight one. Was Lord Greenwich so distracted by the ongoing drama that he
forgot
the king had sent him something? The mysterious chest was the size of an overlarge hatbox, yet she dared not investigate, not after the disaster of poking about his room.

Perhaps he needed a gentle reminder?

Lydia swiped at a vexing strand of hair that came loose, and she glanced sideways. At the moment, another mystery was unfolding: his lordship sequestered himself with a heavily cloaked Miss Mayhew. Sequester really was a thin description, since they discussed something rather heatedly in the wide-open greenhouse, but the way they bent their heads from time to time, one could only guess both sought some privacy. Yet their words often bounced and echoed off the glass ceiling, raining down like misty tidbits.

Lydia’s gaze went to the manse. She counted a row of well-lit windows on the eastern side of the house that made up the countess’s apartments, where that lady stewed with some malady or another. Even to Lydia’s eye, unfamiliar with detailed Sanford family lore, Lady Elizabeth battled for and attempted gross manipulation of her son from, as she called it, his folly on
The
Fiona
; however, for three days Lord Greenwich battled back, speaking in firm, clipped tones of his intent to sail on the fifteenth of June. Lady Elizabeth graced few with her presence, but when she did, well, damage was done, and the pall cast over the estate wore down everyone. Servants whispered as they scurried from one place of hiding to another, all wearied of the strain.

That Miss Mayhew spoke with emphatic hand thrusts further demonstrated even the calm, collected housekeeper had had enough. As the earl and Miss Mayhew moved into Lydia’s vicinity, she averted her eyes to the lanceolate leaf before her. The pair passed by on a parallel path, and Lydia clutched her shawl, sketching as Lord Greenwich’s words fell on her ears.

“You always have a safe haven here.”

“Thank you. Greenwich Park is the only home I’ve ever known. This will be hard. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? I’ve hidden too long,” said Miss Mayhew behind elbow-high greenery. “If we don’t force ourselves beyond comfortable boundaries, we stagnate and die.”

“Resurrecting old arguments?” he asked. Then his tone turned clipped and firm. “Promise me you
will
see him. Let him look after you.”

Soft, feminine laughter filtered through the leaves. “That sounded rather like a command, not a request,” she said. “Time I looked after myself, don’t you agree?”

“At least take the jewels to him, Claire. Don’t try to do that on your own.” The cultured, lordly voice finished with a coaxing, “Please.”

Their footsteps made a slow rhythm as dirt and gravel crunched underfoot. Miss Mayhew’s calm voice dropped in volume.

“Very well. I’ll visit David.”

Voices muffled and blurred from a heavy onslaught of fat raindrops drilling the glass roof as they moved out of earshot. Lydia stretched tall on her stool for a view of the earl and Miss Mayhew at the greenhouse door. She indulged her blatant need to know. Why shouldn’t she? In the distance, the door opened to the watery storm, and like a dark wraith, Miss Mayhew vanished in the gray.

Lord Greenwich disappeared from view, and Lydia buried herself in the papers she was copying meant for a pamphlet, a gratis service provided in sympathy for the printer who would try to decipher the earl’s atrocious handwriting. But much niggled at her brain, and soon neat rows of words blurred under her nose as she lost focus.

What
were
they
talking
about?

The earl’s footfalls behind her meant he was again at his bench, but he didn’t deign to share. His lead stick scratched paper, and one of the tiled Swedish stoves rumbled anew in the background, spewing heat into the damp chill. Lydia flicked at a piece of lint on her woolen sleeve and stared at the misted glass, stewing over being left out in the cold.

The most deplorable truth hit her square in the face: the green monster of envy had grabbed hold of her.

Lydia huffed at this, creating a lighter round spot on the glass that quickly clouded over again. Miss Mayhew shared a deep friendship with Lord Greenwich, the rare kind that only time and traumatic events could create. She rubbed her neck, acknowledging that she was no expert on the topic of intimacy and closeness.

She’d taken a tumble or two in the past, but what did that have to do with truly knowing a man? Or deep, abiding friendship with a man?

How well she kept people at arm’s length…for how long? The sad truth of that made her feel wobbly inside. She hid herself so well in painting, but true depth with people was another matter altogether.

Bothersome wisps tickled her neck, which she brushed aside, all the more reason to shift on the stool for a better look at the subject in question. There he stood, engrossed in his work. Lord Greenwich was, she had learned, as protective of his time as he was of his space.

But this latest development, a midday greenhouse visit by Miss Mayhew for a cryptic conversation, needed explaining. Wasn’t he at least going to share the bare bones?

She slanted a tentative stare over her shoulder. His lordship planted one palm on the table, while the other hand scribbled notes. One shoulder blade shifted under his shirt, while shoulder and back muscles bunched under linen. Lydia’s gaze wandered lower, where his firm buttocks rounded nicely under brown breeches. She smiled to herself, recalling her fear the first night that his lordship might have a terrible paunch.

How wrong she was on that score: he possessed a very fine form.

Lord Greenwich’s head shot up. He dropped the lead stick on the table and turned around, glowering at her.

“You’re staring holes in my back. Something amiss?” His black velvet queue hung lower on his neck, the only sign of a long day. “And what’s with the mischievous smile?” His arms clamped across his chest, and he leaned his backside against the table, crossing one brown boot over the other.

“Am I smiling?” She touched her lips. “Smiles aren’t unwelcome, are they? They seem to be in short supply around here.”

He grunted at her cheekiness and repeated, “Is something amiss?”

“Amiss?” She scooted fully around, tugging the corners of her shawl into her lap. “I’d say everything is. Your household’s in quite an uproar.”

“My mother’s contretemps?” he said, snorting. “She’s famous for displays of temper followed by taking to her rooms with one malady or another when she doesn’t get her way.”

Lydia turned her face to the greenhouse door and the frosted lawn beyond.

“And Miss Mayhew?”

“Gone. For good. To London.” He leveled her with a testy look. “Now that you’ve been informed, may I get back to work? I’ve much to do before I meet Jonas today.”

“What?” She tipped forward on the stool. “Why’d she leave?”

“Miss Mayhew resigned her post for personal reasons.”

“Her leaving didn’t have anything to do with…with me?” Lydia winced, ashamed of her petty jealousy over the beautiful woman. “A woman alone in London, without family or prospects…”

His visage softened a fraction, and the corners of his mouth quirked.

“No, she didn’t leave because of you. And she’ll be fine. Claire’s a grown woman with a mind of her own.” He unlocked his arms and moved off the bench, acting as if he were the soul of patience. “
Now
, may I get back to work?”

Her eyebrows scrunched together as she surveyed the chaotic workbench. He’d added a row of several cork-topped glass vials propped up within a wooden stand, but her gaze caught on the king’s parcel.

“No.”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“Everything’s work, work, work with you, isn’t it?” Lydia hooked a shoe heel on one of the stool’s rungs. “You have a deplorable lack of communication, my lord. Don’t you think I should know something about what goes on here? Have you decided who will replace Miss Mayhew?”

His lack of willingness to share details unnerved her. That business with Miss Mayhew needed unraveling, but the king’s special delivery taunted her more. These were simple places to begin unwinding the coil that made Lord Greenwich.

He slanted a look at the house and grimaced.

“Her replacement’s not at the forefront of my mind, with so much to do. But Claire’s leaving is only one curiosity…” His voice trailed off as he caught her sight line. “Haven’t been peeking, have you?”

“Certainly not,” she said, tipping her chin high. “You hold too many secrets to yourself, milord. There’s a fine line between secrets and deception.” She clamped her arms tight across her chest. “What with not telling me about your voyage, and all.”