“I know you did not come here for this tonight, but I am not good at saying goodbye, so I will let my actions speak for me.” Her lids were heavy as her hands kneaded and massaged his taut thighs. “Close your eyes, Gareth, and let me ease your mind, at least for a little while.”
Gareth laid his hands over hers, the gesture staying her actions. “Perhaps it is time we moved our association to another level, Venetia.” He patted the cushion beside him. “I may not need the same things from you, but I value our acquaintance more than ever. Please, sit and talk with me, help me understand this new, puzzling development.”
She hesitated, but somehow Gareth knew it was not because she didn’t wish it—but because such intimacy frightened her.
She finally smiled and sat beside him, her small hand still in his. “What would you like to know, Gareth?”
Chapter Eleven
Sometime in the night before the event those in the village were calling “Boulder Day” it began to rain. Not a gentle summer rain, but a torrential downpour that began just before dusk and continued on through the night.
It was still raining when Serena woke just before dawn and parted the heavy velvet drapes to peek outside. Her room, like most of the big suites that comprised the family wing, had windows overlooking the south side of the house. The parterre gardens, which they’d just begun to lay out with shrubs this past week, were below water, the freshly turned dirt a brown slick sheet that seemed to be sliding slowly down the gentle slope.
Serena let out a few choice French words under her breath and quickly dressed. She was headed for the servants’ wing when she encountered Jessup already talking with half a dozen grooms and other servants.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lombard, I was just instructing the men to spread the waxed tarps you had delivered.”
Serena smiled. “You are too good, Jessup. That was exactly why I was coming to find you.” She turned to the assembled men. “The clusters of plants will be fine, but I’m afraid our trenches may already have washed away. Please cover what you can.”
The men dispersed and she turned to Jessup.
“You really do think of everything, don’t you?”
His eyelids lowered slightly to show her words pleased him. “I know you would probably like a hot cup of coffee.”
“I would do murder for a cup. Don’t bother bringing it up for me, I’ll take it in the kitchen.”
“Mr. Lockheart is in the breakfast room, ma’am.”
“He is?” she asked, stupidly.
“And I must confess it was he who recommended the tarps.”
“You fibber, Jessup! Very well, I shall join him. Thank you.” She’d seen Lockheart since his return from London, of course, but they’d managed never to be alone together. She had taken to coming to breakfast a little later and she believed he accommodated her by dining even earlier. That way they’d managed to only see each other in the company of either McElroy or Oliver, with whom she’d found Lockheart closeted three nights earlier when she went to visit her son in the school room.
“Mama!” Oliver had shouted, “Look what Mr. Lockheart brought.” Spread out on the table were a number of automata, more than a few of them in parts. Oliver answered before she could ask.
“Mr. Lockheart and I are taking them apart so that we might study them.”
Serena risked a look at her employer, who was regarding her with the cool look she now knew could hide any number of things.
“Look, Mama,” Oliver grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the table, interrupting the awkward tableau. “See, this one uses a different type of spring, and this one—”
She’d spent a bewildering hour being lectured about the internal workings of toys. Since then, she’d seen him every evening, as he came to supervise Oliver’s work as it progressed.
And of course she saw him at dinner, where McElroy dominated the conversation and made sure Serena was aware of his continued observation and investigation into her background.
Mr. Lockheart also came out to the work site every day, looking and observing, but rarely making any comments. And once, he’d wandered into the stall she used in the stables, and then quickly excused himself when he’s seen she was working. Naturally that had been the end of her efforts for that day.
She stopped not far from the breakfast room to check her hastily dressed hair in a large hallway mirror. Strands had escaped and were curling in the extreme humidity, but it was not an embarrassing wreck. Yet. She straightened the lace fichu she wore tucked into her old green morning dress and smoothed down her skirt. She would do.
Mr. Lockheart rose when she entered the room. “Good morning, Mrs. Lombard.”
“Good morning, Mr. Lockheart.” She smiled at Raymond, who was already heading toward the door in anticipation of her order. “Jessup is bringing me coffee, Raymond.” She turned back to the other man. “Please, do keep eating.”
Serena absently piled food on her plate, imagining his eyes burning into her back. But when she turned, he was looking at a newspaper laid out beside his plate.
When she sat, he folded the sheet and pushed it aside.
“Thank you for having the foresight to spread the tarps.”
“I wish I had thought of it last night.”
Serena buttered a hot roll. “I didn’t realize it was raining until three or four o’clock.” She heaped preserves onto her bread, marveling at the insipid conversation when all she could think about was how luscious his body had felt. She swallowed, alarmed by the way she was salivating, like a jungle predator eyeing a tasty morsel. Oh, she was revolting.
“This is showing no signs of letting up,” he said, clearly unaware of the turmoil taking place inside her.
“No, it is a dark sky. I daresay it will be some days before it dries out enough. Obviously the moving of the rock will need to be postponed. Will you stay?” She couldn’t decide what she wanted his answer to be. Her body rejoiced when he was near but her mind—as willful as it was—alternated between celebration and terror.
“There will be no traveling in this weather, at least none that I care to do.” He nodded to Jessup, who’d entered with a fresh pot of coffee. “I have plenty to occupy me indoors.”
So did Serena. She’d run behind on her current sculpture, too distracted by her brief clutch with her employer to risk working on expensive marble. Instead, she’d studied the submissions she’d solicited for the other four sculptures. While she would have liked to provide all the work, she knew it was not only unrealistic and unwise—variety in art was always to be desired—it would also be selfish. She’d sent her ideas to the Royal Academy, as well as to several of her fellow sculptors. It was good to spread the wealth.
“And will you sculpt, Mrs. Lombard?”
This unprecedented display of curiosity from the normally uninterested man surprised her. “I may, it depends if the muse cooperates.” She could see her words intrigued him and she explained. “It is best not to work unless I am able to give all my attention to the piece at hand. Anything less than total concentration is a recipe for disaster, and lots of ruined, expensive materials.”
“I have recently seen one of your pieces.”
“Oh?”
“An Egyptian piece.”
“You saw Seshat?”
He nodded.
Serena could hardly believe it. “That was an anonymous commission. I was paid in advance,” she gave him a wry smile, “which is very unusual in the art world.” She bit her tongue, dying to ask him where he’d seen it.
“I found the piece to be. . . mesmerizing.”
Again he had surprised her—and pleased her. Her cheeks burned as she looked up, shy at his praise. “Thank you. It was a difficult commission because I never knew how the owner felt about the piece.” It was as much fishing as she felt comfortable doing.
“I do not think she would mind me telling you that she treasures it.”
She? Twin flares of
pleasure and jealousy burnt inside her. Was it his lover? And why would a person wish for such anonymity? How was it that everything about this man seemed to be shrouded in mystery?
“If it is not too—” he paused, as if searching for the correct word, the hesitation not characteristic of him. “Intrusive, I would like to know something of the process of sculpting.”
The degree of pleasure his question generated should have frightened her, instead, she was just gratified by his show of interest.
“My father trained me as his father had trained him, which is to say in the manner of most sculptors. You begin with years of molding and casting and then move along to some of the less-critical parts of a master’s work.” She smiled. “I am more of a craftsman than artist, I’m afraid. I have never seen the spark of genius in my work.” She shrugged. “But it gives me joy all the same.”
“How does one recognize a spark of genius?”
“Ah, that is the question. I could not describe it, but I know it when I see it.” She thought how she might communicate what she meant. “The sketchbook you have in the glass case—the one belonging to Leonardo, do you recall his drawings toward the back of the journal?”
His eyes went vague, as if he were inspecting the contents of his memory. When his vision cleared, he said, “There are several of an old man and one of a young woman. Those?”
“Yes, those. He is able with a few lines to elevate the ordinary to the sublime.”
He paused, moving his uneaten piece of ham from one side of the plate, and then back to the other. This was interesting. Was he fidgeting? She had never seen him act anything less than cool and composed before. Why now? What could—
“Your sketches do not elevate the ordinary to the sublime?”
“There are some very good ones of Oliver when he was a boy, but—by and large—I am far more expressive with stone or even clay. I am not, like Leonardo, a Renaissance genius, able to dabble gloriously in any medium.”
He nodded but made no response. So, that was that. A brief burst of conversation with a man who was on her mind far more often than was healthy.
***
By that evening it seemed as if it had been raining for days. Gareth spent a large part of the afternoon with Oliver in the schoolroom. Mrs. Lombard did not appear and Gareth wondered if she was avoiding him on purpose.
Oliver was a very clever boy with an aptitude for science and math and Gareth relaxed in his presence more than he did with anyone else other than Dec. The boy was not a chatterbox and spent a good deal of his time on solitary pursuits. Gareth believed that was by choice rather than circumstance. He was as Gareth might have been, had his life taken a different path.
As Gareth dressed himself for dinner, he considered Dec’s question from earlier in the day.
“How long are you planning to stay here, old man?”
The nervy Irishman had sought him out hours after breakfast, making Gareth wonder—not for the first time—how his friend spent most of his days. He knew how he spent a good part of his nights, having learned Declan had already made conquests in the village and carried on with his normal enthusiasm at the local inn.
He’d been working on the brewery ledgers when Dec had interrupted. He put his quill in the standish and leaned back in his chair. “I plan to stay until we complete the berm. And you?”
Dec shrugged, tilting back his head until he was facing the ceiling. “It would be hell to travel in this,” he waved to the windows without looking down. “I can’t even be arsed to drive into town.” He brought his head down slowly, his sharp green eyes focusing on Gareth. “You’ve taken to the boy.”
“I have,” Gareth agreed.
“And his mother?”
“What of his mother?”
Dec’s mouth twisted, but he said nothing.
Gareth felt a frisson of irritation at the knowing look in his eyes. Why was it that the people he knew best—all two of them—seemed to think he was some sort of child or village idiot when it came to the opposite sex?
Probably because he was.
“Out with it, Declan.”
Dec shrugged hugely and his eyes widened. “What?”
“You do not like her.”
“That is not true.”
“You will parse words with me even though you know how much I dislike the pastime. Very well, you do not trust her.”
Again he shrugged. “I don’t trust anyone. Except you.”
Gareth knew that all too well. He believed his friend was suspicious to his own detriment. But it was possible he himself was not suspicious enough. It was tiresome to think of such matters, and ultimately unimportant. What could people take from him other than money? And he could always make more of that, as his history had shown over and over.
Gareth straightened the already straight pile of ledgers that rested to one side of the open book before looking up. “I will be staying here until I have seen to the shifting of the rock.”
Dec nodded his head slowly, his eyes no longer laughing. “Very well. I shall remain until it is decent to travel, and then I will see to some business in London.”
“The pottery or the docks?”
“Something new,” he said, his smile mysterious.
Gareth knew better than to ask what he meant when he was in one of these moods. He would give his life for Declan McElroy, but that did not mean the man didn’t often make him positively murderous with his moody and unpredictable behavior.
***
The last plate had been cleared away and Serena stood. “I will leave you gentlemen to your port.”
“Perhaps you might share our port with us tonight, Mrs. Lombard?”
Serena looked across at the Irishman with more than a little surprise. “I beg your pardon?” She glanced at Lockheart, but he appeared happy to spectate.
McElroy gave her a grin she knew was meant to disarm women. It did not work with her. “It is a wretched night yet still early.” His grin grew. “Not a good night for evening strolls. Why don’t we retire to somewhere more comfortable and keep one another entertained? Isn’t that the way of things in the country?”
He’d already let her know he did not like her. What was he up to now?”
Serena gave him a smile laced with false regret. “I hope you are not looking to me to play the piano or sing. I’m afraid my accomplishments do not lie in that direction.”
He laughed. “I had something less elevated in mind. Do you play cards, Mrs. Lombard?”
Mr. Lockheart gave his friend a sharp look, which he ignored.
What was going on here?
“I play Cribbage and Piquet. Is that what you mean?”
His mobile mouth tilted up on one side. “Something like that.” He turned to Lockheart. “What say you, Gare? It’s been a while since we have pitted our wits against one another.”
Lockheart gave his friend a long, silent, and not very friendly look. Serena thought it was the equivalent of another man’s version of telling him to go to hell. But in the end, he nodded.
“If you wish.”
McElroy clapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically. “Excellent! I believe I saw a smallish table in the library that could be put to the purpose.” He nodded to one of the footmen lining the wall. “Have the port brought to the library. And one of you fetch a deck of cards from my room. Pierson will show you where one is.” He offered Serena his arm and she laid a hand on his sleeve, glancing at Lockheart.
McElroy grinned at his friend. “Sorry, old chap, you walk alone tonight.”
The next few hours were some of the oddest in her life—a life that held no shortage of odd moments. There was a tension between the two men she had not noticed before, and there were uncomfortable currents in the room she did not understand.
Once in the library, a table was moved closer to the fire, a shawl was fetched for Serena, and cards arrived.
McElroy broke the seal on
a new pack and commenced to shuffle them in a manner that proclaimed his familiarity with gambling louder than words would have done.
“How would you feel about learning a new game, Mrs. Lombard. It is called vingt-et-un.”
Mr. Lockheart crossed his arms but made no sound.
“Oh, I’ve heard of that.”
“Ah, I thought you might have.” His smirk reminded her of a serpent.
Serena had no idea what his aggressively knowing look meant and couldn’t help wondering if he was foxed. She hadn’t noticed how much he’d drank during dinner, but, then again, she hadn’t been paying attention to him. Why would she when Gareth Lockheart was in the room? He looked like a statue, as usual, but she would have sworn he was furious.
“The rules are very simple—you wish to accumulate vingt-et-un, but nothing greater than that. I will give you two cards, and you may ask for more. The ace has a special role in that it can represent either one point, or eleven.” His hands, which had been shuffling the cards nonstop, halted. He glanced around. “But wait, we have no stakes.”
“No.”
McElroy and Serena both turned to Lockheart.
“What’s that you say, Gare?”
“I said no stakes. There will be no gambling. Deal the cards, Declan.”
The men locked eyes and it was the Irishman who first broke away. He chuckled and shrugged, his hands resuming their rhythmic motions. “I will abide by the will of our host, Mrs. Lombard. You will just have to image the excitement, the air thick with tension as men—and women! —wager their fortunes, their ancestors’ homes, their very lives.” The fire was not the only thing crackling in the room by the time he ceased speaking.
A Figure of Love Page 13
