by Deb Marlowe
Her first goal was partially accomplished—but it had also become more complicated. Heavens, yes, but she did still find Mr. Sterne physically attractive. The blood in her veins quickened just recalling those shoulders, and his strong legs showcased in long, leather boots. But she had to admit, his refusal to accept her help was problematic. Perhaps he was not so open-minded as she’d thought. Perhaps, like so many men, he believed women should keep quiet and in the background of life.
Her eyes closed. Oh, she sincerely hoped not. No matter how he made her pulse race and her insides ripple, she could not tolerate a life with someone who held such views.
So—she must find out more about his objection and his attitudes. She could think of no better way than to challenge him. She would begin her own investigation into the theft of Lord Tensford’s fossil. Surely, she could do as good a job as Mr. Sterne.
Reaching into a drawer, she pulled out a fresh, blank-paged journal bound in rich leather. Her father had given it to her, and she’d been saving it for something special. She could think of no greater cause than the course of her future.
Breathing deeply, she ran a finger along the first, empty page, took up a quill, and began to make notes and organize her thoughts. Her mind flew, examining possibilities and motives. Pages began to fill with ideas, names and plans. By the time the light had dimmed, and the maid had knocked at her door a second time, she had two main suspects, an immediate strategy to investigate the first and a course of action to begin for the second.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she closed the book and unlocked the door.
“We’ll have to hurry, Miss,” the maid fussed as she went to pull a gown from the wardrobe. “It’s nearly time for dinner.”
“My apologies, Emma. I’ll hurry.” Penelope turned so the girl could unbutton her. “Will you please ask Mrs. Hodge for some fresh ink? If you could leave it up here after you have your own dinner, I would be grateful. I have a letter to write this evening.”
* * *
* * *
* * *
Sterne took a long drink of dark coffee and tried not to wince at the rattle of dishes as Tensford sat down to breakfast beside him.
His sharp-eyed friend caught the expression and laughed. “I did warn you.”
Lady Tensford paused on the doorstop of the dining room. “Warned him? What is it, Sterne? Are you not well?”
“I warned him last night that the mead at the Crown and Cock packs a wallop, for all that it goes down smoothly,” Tensford told her.
“Oh, dear. Shall I fetch you something from the stillroom? Does your head ache?” The countess eyed the plate in front of him, which held nothing but toast. “Or is it your stomach?”
“I am perfectly fine, though I thank you.”
“It’s no trouble,” she assured him. “We are already on our way up there.”
We? He looked up to see the lady had stepped further into the room and now Miss Munroe lingered in the doorway. The pounding in his temple kicked up a notch. She looked fresh and lovely in a sprigged white gown and a green spencer elaborately trimmed in lilac. His mouth, already dry, suddenly felt as parched as a desert. He took another long swig of coffee.
“Good morning, Miss Munroe,” Tensford said easily. “You are up and about early.”
“I’ve found an early start helps when I’ve something important to accomplish.”
She carefully did not look at him as she said it. She hadn’t spared him a glance at all, and suddenly it irritated him. “What do you have there, Miss Munroe?” He nodded toward her occupied hands.
She glanced down as if surprised. “Honey. We are making a trade.”
“Penelope is helping Mary Davies start an enterprise, selling honey,” Lady Tensford said with pride.
“Oh, that is a good idea.” Tensford put down his paper. “That family could use a boost and Mrs. Davies is far too proud to accept charity.”
“Mary is in need of some independence,” the girl said quietly.
“How?” Sterne asked abruptly. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he could not tear his eyes from her. She looked almost elfin with the morning light highlighting her cheekbones and sliding down the gentle slope of her face, passing that full mouth on the way to her narrow chin. His gaze wandered down and he looked at her fingers holding the jar and her slight wrists. She looked fragile, but he knew she was steady and strong—and her curves filled out that spencer in all the best ways.
“How?” she asked. “How . . . what?”
“How have you helped the girl begin her enterprise?”
“Well, we began by reading Monsieur Huber’s studies—”
“She’s done an incredible amount of work, that’s how she’s helped Mary Davies,” the countess interrupted. “She researched it all, helped Mary coil the straw and build the . . . what did you call them, dear?”
“Skeps.” Now the girl’s eyes were on him. She was watching for his reaction, he could tell.
“Yes, well, they’ve labored hard and now, at last they have honey ready to sell.” Lady Tensford took the jar. “I thought I would serve it to the women who come to work on our sachets and other products, in hope that they might want to buy from the Davies girl, as well.”
“Ah, yes. I remember your project, my lady.” Sterne frowned, pulling forth the memory. “You wanted to get a cottage industry going to help the wives of your tenant farmers earn a bit of extra money. Your lavender field has done well?”
“Extremely well,” she said with satisfaction.
“Well, it is the right soil for it, around here.”
“We are expecting a large crop soon and have been working to prepare for it.”
He looked back to Miss Munroe. “Why not set up a hive or two near the lavender field? The plants will benefit and you’ll get lavender scented honey. It will lift up both of your businesses.”
Miss Munroe blinked at him, but the countess clapped her hands. “What a marvelous idea! Thank you, Sterne.” She took the girl’s arm. “Come, let’s discuss it while I find that ointment you came for.”
The ladies departed and Sterne managed to choke down a piece of toast along with his next cup of coffee. Tensford sliced his sausage and watched him thoughtfully. “That truly was a clever idea.”
He shrugged. “It’s just logical.” He lifted a brow at his friend. “Are you going to come sleuthing with me, today?”
“Back to the Cock and Crown? I thought Thomkins told you Stillwater hadn’t been around there lately?”
“He did. He was far more forthcoming once you left for home. He said Stillwater was besieged with questions about your fossil, after it was first found. Everyone bombarded him, the locals, the other gentlemen in the neighborhood, even some of the house party guests. They all wanted to know what you would do with it, and what it was worth. He said at first the old man enjoyed the attention, but he must have tired of it, because he started to refuse to talk about it, then stopped coming in at all, after years of a regularly scheduled habit.”
“Well, so much for your plan of cornering him in the pub.”
“Exactly. Therefore, I decided to approach the problem from a different angle. I told him I had agreed to take delivery of some furniture for Keswick at the Roudley farm. I asked if there might be some large, strong men about the village that might be willing to take a day’s job, moving the heavy pieces.”
“Very quick of you,” Tensford said with reluctant approval. “Did he give you an answer?”
“He did. Apparently, the Curtis brothers are the men to go to for such things.”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know the name.”
“They are quarrymen, it would seem, but they are also willing to take the odd job that requires muscle. He’s seen them negotiating jobs in the taproom, more than once.” He raised a brow.
“It could lead to something,” Tensford conceded.
“Would you care to come with me to speak to them?”
The earl pressed his lips t
ogether. “I think I shall decline, if only because they may follow the tavern keeper’s example and be willing to speak more openly if I am not about.”
“Suit yourself.” He stood and drained his cup. “I’ll report back with my findings.”
He strode for the stables, fighting to keep his focus on how to approach the Curtis brothers and not on a pair of green and gold-flecked eyes blinking at him in surprise.
He’d sent word on ahead, so his horse was nearly ready. He stroked Scylla’s chestnut head and whispered in her ear while the groom tightened the girth and straps. It wasn’t until the lad stepped away that Sterne took a step back and saw a lovely, dapple-grey mare being led out. In the courtyard she was hitched to a black gig that matched the dark markings on her legs and muzzle.
He stiffened and quickly took the reins from the boy and mounted up. He should hurry. If he left before—
“Good morning, again, Mr. Sterne.”
He closed his eyes and did not turn. “Miss Munroe.”
“Are you headed for the village? We can go out together.”
He should have known. For weeks, the thought of her had been a flash of light at the edge of his vision, constantly snagging his attention from the task at hand. Now that he was back in Gloucestershire, she kept popping up and stealing his focus.
“I am going beyond the village, but I will be happy to see you that far, Miss Munroe.” He kept the resignation out of his voice as he mounted up.
She carried a good-sized jar with her, and she paused long enough to open a satchel left sitting on the seat of her vehicle and place it inside. Hesitating, she turned to look up at him. “Actually, I’d hoped to run into you sometime today, sir.”
“Fortunate then, that you managed it so early.” Fortunate for her. Torture for him, he was beginning to realize.
“Yes.” She pulled something from the satchel. A rolled piece of parchment, it looked like, tied with a green ribbon. Approaching, she held it out. “I don’t mean to be forward. I know young women are not meant to be giving gentleman gifts, but as it’s not really a personal item, I hope I’ll be forgiven.”
“I . . . Thank you,” he said mechanically. He held up an end of the ribbon. “Shall I?”
“Please.”
He pulled the ribbon free and unrolled it. It was a botanical print, the colors lush and the words small and precise.
“Scottish heather,” she said. “I just . . . I recalled our conversation about the various properties and uses of it, that evening during the house party.”
Oh, yes. He recalled it, too. She’d sung for the company that evening, and he’d been caught, trapped by the sweetness of her voice, held in thrall by the lively, simple tune she’d chosen. No drama. No strained showing off for the lofty gathering. Just a fun and catching song that he could imagine her singing at home, while her family joined in. Her performance had called to him, and he’d gone up to escort her back to her seat when she finished. That was when he’d discovered that they shared so many interests. He’d found that she liked travel and learning and had a special interest in the natural sciences. They had spoken of heather, yes, and also of the prettiest places to be found in the Highlands and also in the Cotswolds, and they had argued teasingly over the odds of his friend Keswick kissing the countess’s sister, Lady Glory.
“I remember,” he said roughly. “Thank you, it’s very thoughtful.”
“It’s my mother’s work.”
“It’s very fine. Both lovely and practical.” He admired the main illustration and the smaller sketches about it, detailed images of the foliage, bloom and bud. “I’ve heard of your mother’s skill. I am glad indeed to possess so fine an example.”
“Yes,” she said wryly as she stepped up into the driver’s seat of her gig. “My mother has a great many skills.”
He gave the rolled sheet to the groom and asked him to send it up to his room, while she took up the reins with practiced ease.
“Thank you for the idea of creating lavender honey,” she said as they set out and moved past the house. “Hope is quite excited. She’s sure she can interest some shopkeepers in the local market towns in carrying a product like that.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome. You would have come to the idea on your own. I was only quicker to see it because I’m on the outside of your operations.”
He felt her gaze settle on him. “Then you’ve no objection to a woman running a business?”
He met her gaze, startled. “Why would I?”
“For the same reason that you did not wish for my help in your investigation, perhaps?”
She’d raised her brow and though he knew she was needling him, he could not gather his thoughts enough to parry her conversational thrust. He was too busy drinking in the sight of her. Sun and shade ebbed like a current over her small form and the color of her spencer deepened the green of her eyes. Eventually, though, he noticed the sardonic look they directed his way.
“The two situations are not the same at all,” he managed to get out.
“Are they not?”
“No. Women run shops and inns and businesses in Town and across England. They do a perfectly fine job of it, too. But they are not noblewomen.”
“Neither am I.”
“Nor are they of the gentry.” He ducked a branch and edged Scylla closer to her gig. The road narrowed through here. “Neither are they involved in the search for violent and perhaps ruthless men.”
“I think you underestimate the average woman’s experience with ruthless men,” she grumbled.
“I hope you have not encountered any.”
“Every woman has,” she said simply. “Young and old and of every class.”
“That is a discouraging sentiment. But it only makes me more determined not to expose you further.”
“And you should not discount the notion, either, that sometimes women are disreputable and ruthless.” She cocked her head at him. “Have you considered, in fact, that the person who organized the theft of Tensford’s fossil might be a woman?”
“Of course, I have not.” He huffed out a sigh. The whole conversation was making him cranky. He couldn’t think past the idea of her confronting rude or disrespectful men. Just imagining it made his blood boil. Damn it all, now he wanted to stab something. Someone.
This was not his usual, calm and logical demeanor. Another reason why he should likely avoid her altogether. They were adding up. And not the least of them was the way she distracted him. Tempted him. Made him forget how far apart their situations were.
“You know, we are not so different, you and I,” she said, almost as if she could read the direction of his thoughts.
She was right. He’d never met a girl who was actually interested in the things that fascinated him. Who could converse on nature and science and the philosophy of both. She was intelligent, insightful, and damn-it-all-to-hell, not for him.
“You are right,” he agreed. “We share certain qualities. Unfortunately, it is our differences that carry the most weight.”
She straightened on her driver’s seat. “What differences are those?”
“You are young and lovely and prime for a Season. You are poised perfectly to embark upon courtship and romance, marriage and family.” A weight settled over his chest as he stared at her. “I daresay you will be brilliant at all of it,” he said thickly.
Her face softened at the compliment. “Thank you. And you?” she asked gently.
The heaviness sunk in, invading his soul, solidifying in his bones. “I am nowhere near any of it.” He swallowed and urged his mount ahead, where the road forked. “On second consideration, I think it will be faster if I ride around the village and beyond.” He tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Miss Munroe.”
He took the fork and kicked Scylla into a gallop, cursing himself for the coward he was.
Chapter 3
Her mouth open, Penelope watched Mr. Sterne withdraw from her—this time in the physical sense. A horrifying thought r
ose up—what if she’d been wrong? Her heart pounded and a mortified heat rose up and out of her chest. Had she been acting a fool?
But she calmed, after a moment. No. She was not wrong. She had not mistaken the connection between them. It rolled over them both when they came together—a vast ocean of potential. She felt it. He did, as well. But for some reason, it spooked him.
She heaved a sigh. This was all rather more complicated than she’d expected. But everything she could imagine rising from that bond—it was worth fighting for.
Setting her shoulders, she gave the smallest snap of the reins and sent her mare, Luna, forward at a swifter pace.
She didn’t slow until she approached the lane that led to Mr. Stillwater’s home. His estate did not have the same vast acreage as Greystone Park, or even of her father’s holdings, but it was a respectable amount of land and the manor house looked well kept, and the gardens were known for being immaculate and lovely. It was easy to see why. She passed two separate groups of gardeners at work as she drove up the long, shaded lane. They all stared at her in surprise as she swept by, although a few tugged their forelocks at her nod.
The lane emptied into a graveled drive that circled at the front of the house. Instead of the usual fountain, the center hosted a small topiary garden. She could see geometric shapes, an arch and what might be an elephant, surrounded by flowering shrubs and plants.
She admired it for a moment while she waited for someone to greet her. No one came, though, from either house or stable.
With a shrug, she hopped down and secured Luna to a post. Hefting the satchel over her shoulder, she contemplated the front door for a moment, then turned and walked around the house, searching out the servant’s entrance.
The scullery who opened the door clearly had no idea what to do about her.
“Ah . . . Miss? That is, yes, Miss? Can I help you?”
“Good morning. Please, don’t worry,” Penelope told her. “I am only here to see Mrs. Williams.”
She eased past the girl and headed for the kitchens. Mr. Stillwater’s cook looked up in surprise when she entered her domain. Mrs. Williams was a cousin to Mrs. Bromond, the housekeeper in her own home. Their relationship had led to a familiarity and friendliness between the household staff members, one that devolved to rivalry when the village fairs came along.
