The Clarendon Rose (13 page)

But, looking at him this morning, it occurred to her that he might not have come home until far later than she previously suspected.
 

So perhaps he has finally shown his true colors.
 
Tina felt a surge of disappointment at the thought.
 
She regarded him dubiously as she returned his nod of greeting.

How does the cursed man even manage to make the wages of sin look so unbearably attractive?
 
She watched him take a sip what appeared to be extremely thick, black coffee.

After swallowing, he gave her a second nod.
 
“Good morning, Miss Merriweather.”
 

“Is it?” she asked, eyebrows raised as she tried to keep her tone light and amused.
 

“I have my doubts, but there are the niceties to be observed.”

His dry tone brought a grin to her lips as she turned and helped herself to generous portions of food.
 
Her appetite had always been hearty—“quite masculine,” the duchess liked to observe in tones of heavy disapproval.

Now, as she sat down, she noticed the duke observing her heaped platter with an expression of queasy horror.

“Good God, Miss Merriweather, do you actually intend to eat that grotesque assortment?”

“You may be advised to keep your voice down, Your Grace.
 
Wouldn’t want that particular quip to reach Cook’s ears or you might find yourself eating unadulterated sludge for dinner.
 
She has a particularly good recipe for it, or so I’m told.”
 
She raised a piece of sausage half way to her mouth, then lowered it, amused to note that he watched its progress with a kind of disgusted fascination.
 

“I would advise you to avert your eyes if my breakfast strikes you as being so shockingly heinous this morning, Your Grace,” she said on a laugh, as a delicate green tinge suffused his face.
 

“Indeed, Miss Merriweather.
 
It might the only solution, if you find you must subject yourself to the ordeal of ingesting that spread,” he said, making good on her suggestion after a final, incredulous glance.

“I must,” she said, before filling her mouth with the richly spiced sausage that Cook was so good at preparing.
 
She closed her eyes and chewed with a voluptuous enjoyment.
 
She hadn’t had a hot breakfast in several days.
 
Sometimes, she actually managed to forget how good it tasted.

“So, what are the plans for the day, Your Grace?
 
Would you prefer we postpone our discussions until later?” she asked after a few moments.

He shook his head, keeping his eyes averted.
 
“A little more coffee in me and I should be fine, particularly once I get away from all these
smells
,” he commented in tones of heavy disgust.

Tina grinned, then went about making short work of the “grotesque assortment” on her plate.
 
By the time they repaired to Uncle Charles’s study, the duke had already managed to regain some of his normal color.
 
He still looked exhausted, but at least he no longer seemed on the verge of losing the contents of his stomach.

Perched on top of the small stack of mail that had arrived was a single, pale pink rose.
 
Tina noted Clarendon’s frown and wondered, with a touch of jealousy, whether this was some kind of token, courtesy of whichever mysterious ladybird he had visited last night.

He walked over to the desk and ripped open the accompanying envelope.
 
After a few moments of silence, during which he glared at the enclosed note, Tina cleared her throat.

“I do believe the poor woman has things a little muddled, wouldn’t you say?
 
Not that I know much about these things, of course, but isn’t it supposed to be you who sends the flowers to whichever lady finds your favor?”

He glanced at her, his scowl brightening.
 
“I’d gladly set the sender straight on such small matters of etiquette, if only I knew who was sending the bloody things, if you’ll pardon my phrasing.”

“You’ve received others?”

He nodded, holding out the accompanying letter for her perusal.
 
She took it and found that it bore only three words in flowing script:
 
“The Enshaw Rose.”

She shook her head.
 
“Mysterious.”
 
She handed him back the paper.

“Indeed.
 
And starting to become vexing,” he said, crumpling the paper.
 
Then, picking up the rose and the envelope, he walked over to the door.
 
After summoning a footman, he passed him the two items.
 
“Have these taken to the gardener.”

The man nodded.
 
“Very good, Your Grace.
 
And Mr. Soames asked me to inform you that in the absence of instructions to the contrary, he did the same with yesterday’s rose.”

“Excellent.”
 
He closed the door and turned back to Tina.

“So they’ve been arriving regularly?”

He nodded.
 
“More or less.
 
Never any return address.
 
Never any sort of explanatory note.
 
Only the rose, the name and a little packet of seeds.”

“How very odd.”

He shrugged.
 
“An annoyance, but hardly more.”
 
He walked back to his desk, then paused, frowning.
 
“Though I can’t help but feel those names are familiar, somehow.
 
Can’t think why, though.” He shook his head and smiled at her.
 
“At any rate, shall we begin? I had a few questions about a couple of these notes from the stewards on the other estates.”

They settled in to work and the morning passed quickly enough, as they sorted through various papers and discussed several entries in the ledger books in some detail.
 

In the early afternoon, the duke leaned back from the desk, stretching.
 
“This is all in excellent order, Miss Merriweather.
 
My brother is, of course, correct in pronouncing you brilliant at this sort of thing.”

Tina smiled, flushing at the compliment.
 
“I’ve always found the challenges interesting, which makes getting good at something much easier, I find.”

“True enough,” he agreed, watching her from under lazy eyelids.
 
“All I can say is, he’s a lucky man.”

“Your Grace is too kind.”
 
She could believe that she was reasonably competent in estate matters because she had spent so much time working on them.
 
But the more general compliment did not sit as well with her.

“I’m not, actually.”
 
He straightened.
 
“But that’s neither here nor there.
 
I find I’ve worked up a monstrous appetite for lunch, Miss Merriweather, followed, perhaps by a brisk turn around the gardens.
 
Being cooped up all morning has made me a bit restless.”

“From which I am to infer that you’ve gotten over your earlier bout of… ill health?”

“I do believe I have.
 
Though I will confess I’m glad it’s overcast today.
 
I doubt I’d be suggesting a walk with such aplomb if the sun were out in full force.”

Tina returned his grin.
 
The morning in his company discussing business matters had led her to lower her defenses.
 
Now, tired and ready for a change, she did not feel equal to the task of raising them once more.
 
What harm can there be to just enjoying his company, after all?
she asked herself hopefully.
 
Though she knew the answer was not one she’d necessarily like, she decided to ignore that for the moment.

They settled beside the hearth and ate their lunch in amiable silence.
 
Afterwards, they sat, enjoying the last of their wine.
 

Clarendon took a sip from his glass and smiled at her.
 
“So you’re off to India, are you?”

She nodded.
 
“Have you ever been?”

“I have.”
 
His smile faded.
 
“I’ll warn you now—you’ll be something of a curiosity.
 
Not many women there.
 
Englishwomen, I mean.”

“What’s it like?”

“Scorchingly hot in the summer—and depending where you are, either painfully dry or so humid you can barely move.
 
You pray for the monsoons, just so that they’ll break the back of the heat and let the place cool down a bit.
 
But there’s no escape from it, really.”
 
He smiled thinly.
 
“Even winter on the plains is often hotter than the summers we thick-blooded English know here.”

He took another sip of wine, his eyes glittering as he stared at the darkened hearth.
 
“Some days can be hot enough to drive a man mad, if he’s not there already,” he added in a barely audible mutter.

Tina watched his face, wondering at the kind of life that would have prompted such an observation.
 
After a few moments, he glanced back at her and flashed a quick smile.
 

“What about the people?” she asked.
 
“I’ve heard it said that oriental culture is cruel and often dangerous.”

He shrugged.
 
“Perhaps.
 
But we are not above cruelty either.
 
I’m no expert on the oriental cultures and therefore am in no position to pass such judgments.”

“I see.”

They sat in silence.
 
Tina frowned at the desk where they had been working as she tried not to think about how
right
it felt, spending this time with him.
 

Then, “Don’t go, Tina.”

She was startled enough to glance at him.
 
“What?”

“Don’t go to India,” he leaned forward in his chair, fixing her with that intense stare of his, wine goblet cradled between his hands.

“Why not?”

“It’s a dangerous place.”

“But you just finished saying that you were in no position to judge such things—“

He shook his head impatiently.
 
“The culture is one thing—though of course you’ll need to watch your step there.
 
But I’m talking about the climate.
 
Disease.”

“Disease?”

“Like all the other life, disease thrives in that damn climate, Tina.
 
I’ve seen a man’s wound fester to the point that it required amputation within a day or two.
 
It’s not a pretty sight.
 
If you thought childbirth was a risk here, imagine how crippling—how possibly fatal—it can be there.
 
Then there are the other diseases.
 
Dysentery, malaria and worse.
 
All as easy to catch as breathing, eating or sleeping.”
 

“But you didn’t catch any of them,” she protested.

“Call me diabolically lucky.
 
I have often enough, given the number of times I’ve avoided getting myself killed.
 
It’s not for want of trying, mind you.”
 
He looked down at the liquid in his goblet, swirling it idly, before glancing at her once again.
 
“But I do mean it, Tina.
 
Reconsider.
 
You’d be putting yourself at great risk if you went.”

Tina suspected he hadn’t even noticed his slip into the more familiar version of her name.
 
She frowned.
 
Now that she had gotten over her initial surprise, she was beginning to feel annoyed that he would presume to tell her what she should or should not do.
 
“And am I to assume that you treated Edmund to this litany of concerns as well?”

He shrugged dismissively.
 
“Edmund knows the risks.
 
If he chooses to go anyway, that’s his prerogative.”

“I see.
 
But you assume that I am unaware of the risks—or is it that I do not have the prerogative of choice?” she asked, her tone sharp.

“Oh, for God’s sake, that’s not what I meant, dammit!” he snapped.
 
“But you yourself were talking about the difficulties women faced by undergoing childbirth.
 
Edmund won’t have to face the exponential rise in risk to his personal well-being that you would if you were to be with child.
 
Though of course, he would put himself through hell if you didn’t manage to survive the birthing process or were laid low by any number of the diseases you could contract while you were still in a weakened state afterwards.”

Tina felt a moment of irrational disappointment—of course this protest was motivated by his concern for Edmund.
 

“I see.
 
And what, exactly, are my alternatives?” she asked, her tone frosty.

“Well, you could stay here.”

“That would not be proper, Your Grace.
 
People would wonder at it.
 
They probably do so even now,” she told him primly, not altogether certain whether she was exaggerating or not.
 
After all, between her indeterminate status in the household, the widespread knowledge that she was somehow connected with the old duke and a general ignorance as to the exact nature of the connection, no-one had questioned her unchaperoned status with Edmund, on those occasions when the duke and duchess had been away from the manor.

“Fine then, you can have the dower cottage.
 
That should be enough to satisfy the wagging tongues,” he snapped.

For a moment, she was tempted.
 
But of course, it could still be construed as improper—at least until he married, at which point little could induce her to stay at the dower cottage, where she’d be forced to receive his wife on the pity calls the woman would undoubtedly feel obliged to make to the plain little spinster who was always pathetically grateful for any handouts from the big house.