“You exaggerate, Lady Amelia,” Verwood protested, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I doubt the child came up to my waist.”
“Perhaps not,” she conceded graciously.
Not knowing quite what to make of this story, Trudy asked the viscount, “Did you press charges against the brute?”
“No. I consigned him to the care of Lady Amelia’s reverend friend, Mr. Symons. When I returned... That is, when I was able to speak with him, he suggested such an arrangement as Lady Amelia has with the Carson boy, to keep him off the streets and in school.” He turned a benevolent smile on Lady Amelia. “I told him I was sure you’d wish to undertake the matter, perhaps even move his whole family down here, as you’re apparently doing with the Carsons. There are fifteen of them, I understand.”
“You didn’t!’ Amelia cried, before she realized, by the rueful twist of his lips, that he was teasing her.
“No, I didn’t... Actually, I did agree to arrange for some of his older brothers and sisters to be trained for household service, and for him to go to school. He seems young to be a hardened case, but the reverend didn’t hold as much hope for him as for Tommy Carson. He’s learned a great deal from the older boys, I gather.”
“What,” Trudy asked faintly, “has Tommy Carson done?”
Her niece glared at Lord Verwood, but said, “He tried a little pickpocketing. It’s not uncommon for boys in the Rookery.”
“Well, it is
most
uncommon for boys in Sussex, and I hope you will tell him so.” Trudy pressed a handkerchief to her perspiring brow and upper lip. “I shan’t feel comfortable with him around, wondering when he’ll nab my pocket watch.”
“He stole to support his family,” Amelia assured her, “and since there will be no need for that here, you may be sure he’ll behave quite decently.”
Verwood looked skeptical. “To be on the safe side, I’ll keep an eye on him while I’m here, shall I?”
Just as Trudy was saying, “Oh, yes, please,” Amelia was saying, “That won’t be necessary.” She glared at both of them. “The poor child has enough to concern him without being spied upon. I think we can safely let him be.”
“Well, well, we shall see,” Trudy placated. “In the meantime, I’ll have someone show Lord Verwood to his chamber. We’ve kept him standing here in the hall far too long. Peter will be back from Rye by early afternoon, my lord. We didn’t expect you this early. Perhaps after you’ve had a chance to freshen up you’d like Amelia to show you around the house and the grounds.”
“That would be... charming,” he agreed, his black eyes alight with mischief. Before she could find some excuse, which she certainly intended to do, he followed a footman up the stone staircase.
* * * *
Amelia was waiting, alone, in the Summer Parlor when Verwood entered the room. Trudy had refused to stay with her, insisting that she was needed to show Mrs. Lawson precisely what she wanted done with the winter draperies from her bedchamber. Though most of the rooms at Margrave were paneled, the Summer Parlor had cool apple green plastered walls and light curtains at its windows, and French doors. The doors were open at the moment, allowing a warm breeze to play through the room, carrying on it the scent of mowed grass and salt water. Amelia looked up from the book she hadn’t been reading when the viscount strolled into the room.
His outfit was far less formal than she’d heretofore seen him wear—buckskin breeches with top boots, and a navy short-tailed coat that had the comfortable flavor of a shooting jacket. The walking stick he carried was a whimsical affair, carved so intricately that one doubted it was the least use in sustaining any amount of weight. He sported a Belcher handkerchief instead of a cravat, and he was smiling.
“Wonderful old pile,” he declared, walking straight across the room past her to the open doors. “I hate to waste such a glorious day inside. Would you mind showing me around the grounds first?”
“Not at all.” Amelia snapped the book shut, not bothering to put a marker in it, since she had no idea what it was even about. She rose with her usual grace and glided over to where he stood. “The house was completed in 1601,” she began, stepping out onto the terrace, “and is constructed of stone from a local quarry.”
Verwood patiently listened to her detailed description of the free-standing columns (which matched the columnar structure of the chimneys above), of the curved cornices and scalloped canopies, of the indentations where terra-cotta medallions had never been placed, of the classical entablatures (including the one with the triglyph frieze).
He murmured approval of the balustrade with obelisks and the statues of the Nine Worthies. He praised the tawny ochre stone and the grassed forecourt. He strolled off the gravel path to inspect the flowerbeds on the low walls and to study the obelisks and stone lanterns on the balustrade that matched the one on the roof. He was quite overcome with the gracefulness of the pavilions that flanked the courtyard, expressing his admiration of the ogee roofs and the oriel windows.
“Let’s go in,” he suggested.
“There’s nothing in them,” she said firmly, suspecting him of mocking her with his abundance of appreciation. Somehow Verwood didn’t strike her as the sort of gentleman who would ordinarily be the least bit interested in the details she was giving him.
“That’s why I think we should go in,” he retorted.
Confused, Amelia argued, “But you said you wanted to be outside on such a nice day.”
“They’re outdoorsy enough for me, sort of like a folly. I want to find out what you can see from them, how Margrave looks through those diamond-paned windows, what the inside of that grotes... the unusual roof looks like.”
He was regarding her challengingly, daring her to step inside the strange little hideaway with him. Amelia squared her shoulders and marched to the door, rather hoping it would be locked. He reached around her and pushed it open, chuckling at the eerie screech of the heavy oak door that made her shudder. It was years since she’d been in one of the Elizabethan pavilions, or had the desire to enter them. As children it had been fun, a kind of playhouse to explore, but now it smelled musty to her and a sticky cobweb clung to her face and hair as she stepped into the cool, dim interior.
“Very interesting,” he murmured so close behind her she almost jumped.
It wasn’t interesting; it was spooky. She wiped the cobweb off her face and grimaced at the dusty earth floor. There was as much lichen on the interior walls here as there was on the exterior, instead of the creamy satin texture of the stone inside the house. Only the middle of the one large room felt the least bit acceptable to her, with the weak light coming through the dusty panes from all sides.
Verwood had followed her to the center and stood beside her, his hand falling on her shoulder. “We have a few things to discuss,” he said.
“I can’t imagine what,” she muttered, moving out from under his hand.
“First, there’s the matter of Mlle. Chartier. Apparently you spoke to Peter about her.”
“Well, you certainly didn’t.”
“No, I had to leave town rather abruptly. It wasn’t my knee, you see…”
“Oh, I know that,” she sniffed. “Mr. Woolbeding mentioned your travelling carriage and the Shorn Sheep.”
“My knee
was
hurting rather abominably that night.”
Amelia made a face at him. “You’ll never convince me of that again.
He sighed. “No, I don’t suppose I will. Never mind. I would have preferred your letting me speak to Peter first.”
“How could I?” Amelia was incensed by his denseness. “Every day he was becoming more and more attached to her. I had to do something to put a rub in his way before it was too late.”
“I fail to see how this expedition served your purpose.” He regarded her quizzingly, both hands curled easily around the head of his walking stick.
“They tricked me,” she admitted. “He and Aunt Trudy. We were supposed to come here to separate him from Mlle. Chartier. I thought perhaps if I could keep him here long enough, she would find someone else, and you might turn up something damaging enough against her brother to make Peter see reason. I didn’t know until we got here that they’d invited the Chartiers... or you.”
He’d known it all along. She could tell by the way he stood so very still, observing her, listening so intently, as though it was really the sound of her voice he wished to hear, rather than her words. There was something strange about his eyes, too, in the gloom of the ridiculous pavilion. They made her feel uncomfortably warm and excruciatingly nervous. For a long time he simply stared as a fluttery sensation grew within her.
Finally he asked, “Would you like me to tell you what I learned about M. Chartier?”
“Of course.”
“Absolutely nothing of any significance,” he admitted. “I spent a great deal of time sitting behind a hedgerow outside Bournemouth. There’s some suspicious activity around the manor house the Chartiers live in there, and a revenue officer took it into his head that I might have something to do with it. When I’d finally convinced him who I was, he could provide very little information. He’s been on the lookout, but he can’t say for sure whether it’s spying or smuggling or something quite innocuous that’s going on. Mr. Selsey, the revenue officer, had made a raid on the beach just before I got there, as it turned out, but someone had warned off the boats and they didn’t land. Which meant absolutely nothing happened while I was there, of course. A completely wasted journey. It needn’t even be Chartier who’s involved.”
“Is that... where you went when you left London?” she asked.
“Yes. An associate had sent me word that something was going on. Unfortunately, he was in London talking with me when Selsey raided the beach, or we might have spared ourselves a great deal of time.”
Amelia nodded and took a few steps away from him, feeling the need to be outside the strong field of attraction which seemed to surround him. She wanted to break that unnerving pull toward him, but, not watching where she was going, she stubbed her toe on a piece of stone, and bit back the cry of pain that rose to her lips. With her back to him, she stood wiggling her toes inside her shoe, trying to work the ache down to something manageable. He must have spoken to her, but she didn’t hear him.
When he spoke again, it was to press her. “Well, have you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching down to pick up the offending stone and toss it into a corner. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I asked if you had stopped doing any investigating on your own, as Peter suggested.”
“Peter didn’t suggest; he
told
me to stop. So naturally I have,” she informed him self-righteously. Her toe still hurt, so she added, “And I’m well aware that you were the one behind his ever questioning the practice.”
“Are you?” He had come up with her now, a slight smile playing near the corners of his mouth. “He didn’t tell you so, did he?”
“No, but I assure you I’m quite clever enough to have figured it out for myself.” She glared up into his watchful eyes. “It’s a great waste, you know. I was able to pass along some useful information.”
“But at what cost, my dear Lady Amelia?”
His gaze was unnervingly intent, and there was that about it which made her feel somehow self-conscious. She turned her face aside, saying dismissively, “Cost? There was no cost at all, I assure you.”
“I see. These unscrupulous fellows talked to you just for the sake of your beautiful violet eyes, did they?”
Amelia found she couldn’t make her beautiful violet eyes meet his fierce black ones. She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Men are notoriously muddle-headed when they’re dealing with women, Lord Verwood. Perhaps you’ve noticed that.”
He gave a bark of laughter and reached out to touch her cheek with a tender finger. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve noticed that, especially when the woman is you.”
The sound of a carriage could be heard on the drive now. Without looking at him, Amelia headed for the open door. “Our other guests are arriving,” she called back. “I should be in the house to make them welcome.”
She didn’t check to see if he followed her as she scurried along the gravel path of the house.
Chapter 13
Verwood had discovered that his room was in the same wing as Lady Amelia’s, though a fair distance away. Not that this provided any unique opportunity for him. For the first day of his stay, after their original walk together, he never saw her except in the company of her family and guests. He didn’t see much of Peter, either, since his friend was determined on making Mlle. Chartier comfortable and providing for her entertainment. This didn’t necessarily mean that he neglected his other guests, but it certainly limited the time he could spend with them.
But Verwood was enjoying himself immensely. He had three unique encounters before noon on the second day. First, he ran into M. Chartier on the north staircase, headed down to breakfast. The young man was dressed rather formally for a casual house party, with shirt points high enough to make it uncomfortable for him to turn his head very far. He had an unusual way of overcoming this obstacle; he seemed to stand a little higher on his toes, as though this would raise him above the collar and make it possible for him to converse with his head at a forty-five-degree angle.
“Ah, Lord Verwood,” he said, bouncing slightly to get even more leverage. “I was delighted to find that you form part of the house party. This last week in town I didn’t see you at all.”
“No, I was called away, unfortunately.” There didn’t seem much chance of M. Chartier having heard he’d been in Bournemouth, so he decided against informing him. “To come here, I don’t mind missing a part of the season, but for a business trip…”
“Ah, just so, just so.” Chartier lowered his voice conspiratorially. “All the same, it was a dangerous week to miss. A young girl’s affections are quickly attached, I fear. And I am not a brother who would stand in the way of his sister’s happiness, you understand. Still,” he added in a more encouraging tone, “I feel sure there is time. Veronique is not one to make a hasty decision. You mustn’t let her carefree air fool you. She has a practical streak which will, I believe, allow her mind to guide her heart.”