by Deb Marlowe
He lingered in the back passage, knowing that the two couples were likely in one of the private parlors. Pulling out his journal, he tried to make a few notes on the paper he was working on, and hoping to present to the Royal Society, but his thoughts were scattered, and his knee would not stop jiggling. He waited. And waited. At last, the closest door opened.
“. . . at least a hundred servants there,” Mrs. Thomkins was saying. “One girl to seat me, another to take my order and a new one to bring out every course of the meal.” She shook her head. “We may make do with but a handful of servants here at the Cock and Crown, but I swear, you’ll find a hospitality to rival even the fanciest town taverns, I do vow it!” She turned, closing the door behind her and nearly running into him. “Oh! Good day to you, Mr. Sterne! Are you joining the earl and countess?”
“Yes, please, ma’am.”
“Go on in, then. I’ll bring a nice plate of tea cakes in a moment.”
“Thank you.” He stepped into the parlor and shut the door behind him. “I have news,” he said as the couple looked up in surprise.
Tensford looked resigned. “Well, sit down, then.”
They were seated at a small but fine dining table with inlay work along the edges. Sterne took a seat and looked around, surprised at the fine appointments in the room, including an ornate cast iron grate at the fire and a blue velvet chaise in a corner. “I’ve never been past the taproom before,” he said. “Heavens, that honeyed mead must be lucrative, indeed.”
“I believe our new lady innkeeper has plans for the place,” Lady Tensford said with approval.
“What have you found, then?” Tensford asked. “I can see the excitement in your face. Did the Curtis boys give information on Stillwater?”
“No. They could not.” He explained and when he had finished, he looked at them expectantly. “Well? You know what it means, do you not?”
The door opened and instead of Mrs. Thomkins, Miss Munroe entered, looking flushed and lovely. “There you all are! I’ve been searching for you. You must hear what I’ve discovered.”
She recounted her tale and Sterne was beset with conflicting emotions. Perhaps he should not have discouraged her. She had ignored him and found truly valuable information. Such a logical and accomplished mind in such an appealing package. He was thoroughly impressed, but he had the sudden certainty that he should not say so.
“Well?” she finished with a flourish. “You know what this means?”
The earl exchanged a look with his countess, even as Sterne’s eyes widened and he spoke at the same time as Miss Munroe.
“We must go to London!” they chimed together.
Chapter 4
“It’s all perfectly clear.” Penelope strove for calm as she stared across the table at Sterne. “I agree, we must investigate Mr. Stillwater. But why can you not concede that Lady Tresham is a viable suspect in the theft of the fossil?”
Everything had been going surprisingly swimmingly. Against all odds, she had convinced her parents to allow her to accompany the earl and countess on a visit to London. Her father had hesitated, but allowed Tensford to convince him. “We might as well begin to get used to your absence,” he said with a sigh.
Her mother had flatly refused. She didn’t want her work disrupted by having to see to the daily drudgeries involved in her own vast correspondence. Nor did she wish to see to the household duties that Penelope had begun to master over the years. But Penelope convinced her that she was going to have to hire a secretary eventually, anyway, and that now might be a good time to try one on. And in the course of the discussion, she might have mentioned that familiarity with Town and a few members of the ton might actually shorten the grand Season her father planned for her next spring. When she casually wondered if she might even find a suitable mate before they went to all the trouble and expense of an extended stay next year, her mother quickly capitulated.
Preparations had gone quickly, and travel had so far gone smoothly. Penelope had spent the day riding with Hope in the earl’s travelling carriage, alternately talking, reading and gazing outside at the grand sight of Sterne astride his chestnut mount.
In buff breeches, a subdued green waistcoat and a long, beige, riding coat, perhaps he should have been part of the scenery. A standard Englishman. Someone your eye passed over on its way to drink in the view.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
She could scarcely look away, anytime he rode into her line of sight. Solid, upright, at home in the saddle and easy in his manner, it mattered not whether he was discussing the roads with the earl or greeting an ostler when they stopped to change horses. He exuded a vitality that was at once exciting and comforting. It called to her.
He spoke to everyone. He talked easily and asked questions and at times made notes in a small book he pulled from an inner pocket. He projected knowledge and curiosity, masculine strength and grace. She wanted, very badly, to step close enough to be engulfed in that aura.
And now, here was her chance. They’d just been seated for dinner in a charming inn. He sat across from her, giving her a heady view of enticing cheekbones, that incredible nose and a fine, strong chin—and he was ruining everything.
“I just cannot fathom it,” he replied. “I know Lady Tresham. Lady Tensford has known her for years. I know she’s not as old as my mother, but she cannot be too far off.”
“She won’t thank you for noting it,” Hope muttered.
“She is a lady of noble family and fine upbringing. Her husband was a noted politician. Didn’t he champion the abolitionist cause?”
“And now she is a widow. Perhaps her means are too limited to meet her tastes,” Penelope speculated.
“She did try to charge me a finder’s fee for the ammonite she found on our day of fossil hunting,” Tensford admitted.
Hope looked shocked. “You did not tell me! What was your response?”
“I told her she was welcome to keep it for her own, as I had at least a dozen.”
Sterne winced. “That is unfortunate, but it is a large leap to go from there to organizing such a daring theft.”
“We know she was one of the guests who pestered Stillwater about where to search for fossil specimens and how much money they could bring,” Penelope reminded him.
“And she did latch firmly onto Mr. Simon, from the British Museum,” Hope reminisced. The man had attended the ball to formalize the museum’s purchase of the piece. He’d gone away disappointed, of course.
“Yes, but she’s a lady,” Sterne said stubbornly.
They paused as the landlord wheeled in a cart and began to set out dishes of roasted chicken, sausages, mashed turnips, bread and cheese.
“There’s a pudding for after,” he said cheerfully. “And if the ladies would like a bath, just tell the girl who brings it and we’ll start the preparations.”
Penelope tucked in, but even the delicious chicken could not distract her from their argument. “I should think that of all people, you would realize that females of any species are capable of deception,” she told Sterne. Waving her fork at the carcass, she said, “In the Americas there is a bird, the killdeer, that feigns injury if a predator comes near her nest. She drags her wing and cries and acts as if she cannot fly, all to lure the danger away.”
“That is a protective instinct, not a betrayal. It is a maternal instinct to protect her young. Lady Tresham does not have children.”
“What of the several species of spiders and insects in which the female eats her partner after mating?” Penelope demanded. “That sounds like a betrayal.”
Hope’s eyes widened. “I suppose it would depend on the mate.”
“You see what comes of traveling with natural scientists,” Tensford said, laughing.
Penelope flushed at the compliment of being included in such a statement. And didn’t that prove her point?
“As interesting as your examples are, they are not human and cannot be applied,” Sterne said as he spread
soft cheese over bread.
She found herself watching the movement of his hands and the expression on his face and cursed silently. Honestly, a man should not look so . . . handsome, all while arguing a wrong point.
“Fine. What of the poor, hungry and miserable women of Paris, during the revolutions? It was a group of women renegades who stole arms and led the march on Versailles.” She held up a hand. “And before you demure because they were Frenchwomen, I’ll take leave to remind you of the poor women in St. Giles who sell their babies for gin, and of the bawds of London who enslave others of their sex for money and power.”
“Goodness, I’ve quite forgot what we were trying to prove,” Hope breathed.
“That women are capable of every emotion and deed that men are, even the unscrupulous ones,” she declared. “To think otherwise—”
“Is to think well of that singular group—the well-bred Englishwoman.” Sterne’s eyes were piercing as he met her gaze directly. “Those other women are victims of their circumstances.”
“I think you are viewing an entire class of women through rose-colored glasses.” She was growing exasperated, now. “It isn’t scientific.”
His jaw tightened and she could see that he was going to hold onto his position with all of the stubbornness that so many males were capable of. “Perhaps you don’t know Lady Tresham’s circumstances,” she said quietly.
That made him pause.
“I agree with Penelope,” Hope declared. “And if you want a male perspective on the lengths a woman will go to, to get what she wants, I invite you to revisit my courtship with Tensford.” The countess’s mouth twisted around a grin, but she continued on. “Furthermore, I propose a solution to our current disagreement. When we get to Town, you gentlemen may pursue Stillwater. And we shall investigate Lady Tresham.”
“I don’t know,” Sterne objected. “Perhaps you should not. We cannot risk—”
“No! You cannot have it both ways.” Penelope was abruptly on her feet and clutching her knife. “You have just declared it impossible for Lady Tresham to be involved. If you are to hold to your beliefs, then we cannot possibly be at any risk.”
Lord Tensford choked on his ale. “She’s got you, there.”
“Point to the well-bred English girl,” the countess said wryly.
“I find that I’ve lost my appetite,” Penelope declared. Carefully, she set down her knife. “I shall retire. I know you wish to leave early,” she said to the earl. “Goodnight, all.”
And she swept off, with as much dignity as an aching yearning and a flaring temper would allow.
* * *
* * *
* * *
A bite of his dinner stuck in his throat as Sterne watched Penelope Munroe walk away. Devil it, but she was even lovelier when she was riled. He’d been as distracted by the bright shine of those green eyes as he was distraught at the soundness of her logic.
He eyed the notebook she’d left on the small table near the door when they entered. He didn’t call her back or bring any attention to it. He just sighed and wondered why he was so resistant to her idea.
“I think I shall go up, as well,” Lady Tensford said delicately. “An early evening sounds just the thing.”
“I’ll join you.” Tensford downed his ale, wiped his mouth and tossed down his napkin. “Are you coming up, Sterne?”
He poured himself another drink. “No. I think I’ll stay.”
“Give the landlord our thanks, will you?” the earl called, following eagerly in his wife’s footsteps.
Brooding, Sterne stared at his ale without seeing it until the innkeeper came bustling in to clear the table. Moving out of the way, he went to retrieve the notebook.
It was a fine, leather bound journal. No doubt, if he peeked inside, he would find the organized notes of an orderly mind. But he wouldn’t look. He had no wish to add to the list of his sins in her eyes.
Frowning, he carried it with him as he crossed the room. Why was he so resistant to the idea of Lady Tresham’s involvement? It was more than just manly pride at the recollection of being struck down. He felt a gut-deep repugnance at the thought. And why did the thought of her keep bringing his mother to mind? They both did share a certain coldness—
“Sure ye wouldn’t like a bit of pudding, sir?”
“No, thank you.” Book in hand, he went to the window. “If you’ll bring me a flagon of ale, I think I’ll just stay here a bit, though.”
“Of course.” The man nodded toward the window as Sterne lifted the sash. “Looks to be a tempest heading our way. It’s a good night to stay in,” the innkeeper said as he took his rattling cart out.
There was a storm brewing. Sterne stood for a while, letting the wind wash over him and watching the clouds roll in and the lightning jumping between them like a squirrel scrabbling amongst the trees. When the door opened, he didn’t turn away, but just spoke over his shoulder. “Just leave it on the table. Thank you.”
“I’m afraid I’ve come in search of something, not on a delivery.”
He spun around. Miss Munroe stood just inside the door. She wore her green traveling pelisse, but had obviously donned it over her nightclothes. Lace-trimmed, white linen peeked out over her feet, clad in embroidered slippers.
“Have you seen a notebook? Bound in leather and—oh.” She stopped as he held it out.
“I haven’t sneaked a peek,” he said a bit defensively. That coat, it had mocked him all day. The petaled caps at the shoulders had floated in the wind, continuously catching his eye. Decorative braiding along the seams of the bodice hugged her tight and invited his gaze to follow. A thousand times today he’d imagined peeling that coat off of her—and now here she was, wearing next to nothing beneath it. He thrust the journal toward her. “My word of honor. I did not look inside.”
“I didn’t imagine that you did.” She left the door propped open and crossed to take the book. “I noticed that you carry your own small journal. I saw you writing in it several times today.”
“Oh, yes. Every once in a while, I hear of a ritual I am interested in. If I cannot explore it right away, I make a note of it, in case I find myself back in the area.”
“A ritual?” Her face cleared. “Oh, yes. Traditions. Like the one we spoke of once, the tossing of the bread and cheese at the church in St. Briavel.”
He nodded. “Yes. I made a note of that one, although I haven’t had the chance to go and investigate, yet. Such things are more common than you think—and often strange and almost always interesting. For example—there’s a little village right here in Gloucestershire, where they have a ceremonial cheese rolling every Whit Monday. They haul a large, round cheese to the top of a steep hill, roll it down and chase after it. They’ve been doing it for countless years.”
“Why?”
“There are differing explanations. Some say it is an old requirement for maintaining grazing rights on the village common.”
“Who would require such a thing?”
“Exactly. Other theories involve ancient, pagan fertility rites. Either way, it’s become part of the common experience for the locals. A way for them to celebrate and express their sense of community.”
“You are right. It is interesting. Thank you for indulging my curiosity.” With a nod of thanks, she turned away.
“Wait.”
She paused but didn’t turn back.
“I owe you an apology.”
That brought her around, with a look of surprise on her face.
“You were right. I was not thinking like a scientist earlier, or like any man of reason. I’m not sure why I felt such a visceral rejection of your inclusion of Lady Tresham as a suspect.” He shrugged. “Something inside of me just does not wish to think so badly of the lady—or of any lady, I suppose.”
Her expression softened and he felt the relief of it in his bones.
“Everyone has something that makes them uncomfortable.” She shivered. “I’ll share one of mine with you—if y
ou’ll close that window.”
He turned and lowered the sash at once. “You are frightened of storms?”
“Not frightened, exactly.” She came to stand next to him and set the book upright on the widow sill. “My family traveled to the Americas, you see, while I was young. Mother wanted to collect specimens for her greenhouses and my father was willing to indulge her, and he also wished to investigate some different fertilization and farming practices.”
“What an adventure it must have been.”
“It was. I loved it. That is when I began to be truly interested in the natural world and the study of it. Everything, all of the flora and fauna, was so different there. I was fascinated.” She raised a brow at him. “I saw a skunk.”
“Did you?” He was interested. “Did you smell it, too?”
“Yes.” She gave a shiver. “Fortunately, it didn’t spray me. But I felt sorry indeed for the poor fellow who got caught in it.”
“It was as bad as they say?”
“Oh, yes. But it was also an oddly appealing little thing. And the bear we saw smelled nearly as bad, truthfully.”
Now he had a thousand questions he could ask her, but he didn’t wish to stray from the most important one. “And did you get caught in a storm over there?”
“On the crossing over.” She stared out at the flickering lightning for a long moment. “It was terrible. The lightning felt like it was striking next to us, and the wind roared like a beast. The waves . . . we were tossed about, up one mountain of water, then a long, sickening slide down until we hit another. Seawater was everywhere.” She sighed. “The worst part was the feeling of utter helplessness. There was no action we could take, save to hang on and pray we made it through. I hated that feeling. Sometimes, a large storm will bring back the echo of it.” She swallowed.
The first rush of rain spattered against the window just then and she jumped. “See,” she said, laughing a little. “I feel foolish.”
