by Emily Larkin
Marcus blew out a breath. There was one final thing to show Albin.
He swung down from the saddle and watched Albin achieve a creditable dismount. The lad was improving.
The conservatory soared above their heads—domed roof and delicate turrets. Inside, shadows moved: the gardeners finishing their work for the day.
Marcus knocked on the nearest pane of glass and beckoned. A gardener hurried out. “Sir?”
“Noake, isn’t it? Take the horses back to the stables, please. And tell Mrs. Kerr to draw baths for us. We’ll be in in half an hour.” He turned his attention back to Albin. His secretary was gazing upwards, his expression awed.
“What’s it made of, sir? Marble?”
“Wood.” Marcus rapped his knuckles against the slender joinery. “Painted to look like stone. Come inside before it gets dark.” He entered the conservatory, Albin at his heels.
Warm, damp air enveloped them, pushing into Marcus’s nose and mouth. He held his breath for a moment, then forced himself to inhale. The smell was heavy, organic, with an undertone of decay. He suppressed a grimace. It was like being in an overcrowded ballroom—the heat of too many people in too small a space, each breath filled with a hundred different scents, not all of them pleasant. He glanced at his secretary.
Albin’s eyes were wide, his lips parted in wonder.
Marcus tried to see it as the lad did: the orderly jungle of flowers and ferns, the vast expanse of glass, the high, vaulted roof, the thousands of delicate white and blue tiles that covered the floor. He scuffed one with the toe of his boot. “The tiles are from Constantinople.”
Albin closed his mouth. He glanced down at the floor and then up at the ceiling again. Words burst from him: “It’s enormous, sir!”
And the cost of heating it was enormous, too—as Albin would discover when he did the Hazelbrook accounts. “Covers more than an acre.” Marcus walked further into the conservatory, following an artificial stream in a bed of blue tiles. Albin trailed behind, craning his neck from side to side, gazing at the banks of narcissi, the exotic lilies, the orchids.
Marcus halted beneath the dome. Here, beside the bubbling fountain, he’d proposed to Lavinia. Here, she’d accepted his offer. Here, he’d declared himself the happiest man in the world.
What a blind, besotted fool I was.
“What do you think? Do you like it?”
“How could one not?”
Marcus shrugged. “There’s a lily pond at the end.” He led the lad past the fern-filled grotto, down shallow steps where water descended in graceful cascades on either side, to a pond in which water lilies bloomed. “We hold public days twice a year.”
“I imagine they’re very popular, sir.”
“Yes.”
The wilderness was a pretense. Each plant was carefully positioned, carefully maintained, carefully clipped and trained.
He looked around. There, glimpsed between a riot of orchids and luxuriant fern fronds, the three Graces poured water from urns, their marble limbs pale and graceful. And there, beside the bank of massed crocuses, was the seat where his mother had liked to sit and take her tea in the afternoons.
Seven years she’d been dead, but memory gave him her image clearly: the rigid posture, the crisp lines of her gown, the tightly pursed mouth.
The words he had for his mother—reserved, distant, cold—seemed to have no connection with the conservatory. One couldn’t help sweating in this close, damp heat. It was alive, decaying as it bloomed, blooming as it decayed.
Marcus turned on one heel. How little I knew her. How little she allowed me to know her.
“Are there any orange trees, sir?”
He shook his head, and brought his attention back to Albin. “No. Or fruit trees of any kind. My mother didn’t judge them beautiful enough.”
Albin considered this, his brow slightly wrinkled.
“You disapprove?”
“It isn’t my place to approve or disapprove, sir.”
Marcus grunted at this neutral answer. “The Kent estate has an orangery and large succession houses. All our fruit is grown there out of season.” The succession houses were more to his liking than this monument to beauty and frivolity. Those plants fed hundreds of mouths. These . . . they were like Hazelbrook itself: for show.
The jasmine bower caught his eye. He’d picked one of those luxuriant sprays of flowers for Lavinia once, had woven it into her golden hair. She’d laughed and stood on tiptoe and kissed him, and they’d gone back to the house and made love, even though it was only afternoon and sunlight had streamed in through the windows.
Had she been as eager for his lovemaking as she’d seemed, or had it been pretense?
Pretense, a cynical voice whispered in his ear. She was softening you up. Don’t you remember? She asked for a diamond and sapphire diadem, and you gave her one.
Marcus turned abruptly away from the lily pond. Beneath the perfume of flowers—jasmine, narcissus—was a strong smell of decomposing vegetation. “Come along.”
He strode back through the conservatory. Outside, the air was cold, crisp, clean. Marcus dragged a deep breath into his lungs. Above him, the thousands of panes of glass were tinted pale pink in the sunset. The conservatory was a fairy castle, beautiful.
He turned his back to it.
Marcus crossed the lawn at a tangent and climbed the steps to the terrace two at time. Memories filled his head: Lavinia’s hand tucked warmly in his, the fragrance of the jasmine he’d woven into her hair, her smiling upward glance. Let’s go upstairs, Marcus.
Marcus wrenched open the door to the library and strode inside. It was cool and dark, smelling of calfskin book covers and aging paper—but even in here there were memories. On that sofa, Lavinia had coaxed him into buying a new carriage lined with pale-blue silk. And, later in their marriage, she’d stood in the doorway shrieking at him like a fishwife.
“Sir?”
Marcus realized he’d halted in the middle of the room. He shook himself. “Upstairs with you, lad. Mrs. Kerr should have a bath ready for you. Dinner in an hour.”
* * *
After they’d dined, they moved to the library. The earl poured two generous glasses of port, gave her one, and sat down with the newspaper.
Charlotte picked up the latest Gazette and flicked through it. The list of advertisements caught her eye. Memories unfolded in her head: her bedroom at Westcote Hall, the woman appearing out of nowhere, the old-fashioned gown, the sharp cat’s teeth, the malice glittering in her black eyes.
Charlotte shivered. She put down the newspaper, gulped a mouthful of port, and stretched her legs out towards the fire. Her muscles ached from the hours spent in the saddle.
She felt warm and sleepy, light-headed. The armchair seemed to float an inch or two above the floor. Is this what being foxed feels like? Memories of her birthday drifted like leaf-boats caught in an eddy of water. Black eyes. Sharp teeth. A blood-red gown.
The evening of her birthday seemed like a fantastical dream—preposterous, unbelievable—and yet it had been real. Look where I am now. Earning my living.
Her gaze shifted to the earl.
He’d put aside his newspaper. He slouched in the embrace of his armchair, one booted leg slung over the arm, his neckcloth loosened, a glass of port in one hand. His face was in profile, showing her the jut of nose and jaw, the strong cheekbones.
Charlotte’s pulse gave a queer little kick and sped up. Cosgrove wasn’t classically handsome, but he was striking, arresting. Those gray eyes . . .
She wrenched her gaze away and stared at the fire. How could the countess have chosen Sir Barnaby over Cosgrove?
Charlotte frowned at the flames, trying to answer the question. Perhaps Lady Cosgrove had wanted to be worshipped? Perhaps she’d turned to Sir Barnaby because he was susceptible to her charms, as the earl had no longer been?
Or perhaps she’d wanted to wound Cosgrove deeply and had chosen destruction of his closest friendship as her method.<
br />
If that had been the countess’s goal, she’d succeeded. It had been blindingly obvious this morning how deep each man’s emotions were. How much they were hurting.
“That’s a fearsome frown you’re wearing, lad.” The earl pushed to his feet and placed another log on the fire. “You’re not still thinking about Mrs. Henshaw’s, are you? I’d advise you to put it out of your mind.”
“Oh, no, sir. I was thinking about . . .” You. Heat filled her face, scorching. The skin on her throat, her cheeks, even her scalp, seemed to burn. “Someone,” Charlotte finished lamely. She put down the glass of port. I must not drink any more.
Cosgrove’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “In love are you, lad?”
Charlotte shook her head vigorously. “No, sir.”
His frown deepened, as if he disbelieved her. “A word of advice—don’t confuse love with lust.” He crossed to the decanters. “More port?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Lust addles your brain,” Cosgrove said, choosing a decanter and pouring. “Makes you make bad decisions. If you have an itch to scratch, choose a clean whore—don’t go imagining yourself in love.”
“An itch? You mean . . . sex?”
“I do.” Cosgrove sat again. “The best thing you can do right now, lad, is to lose your virginity to an expert. Scratch the itch and it usually goes away.”
Charlotte picked up her glass and gulped a mouthful of port. Lose my virginity to an expert? She choked back a giggle. He’d never offer such advice to a female. “Thank you, sir. I shall consider it.”
Cosgrove yawned. “But mind you use protection.”
“Protection?” The burning blush had faded. Her cheeks felt merely warm.
“A sheath.”
“Sheath?”
“A piece of dried sheep’s intestine that fits over one’s cock.”
Charlotte blinked. “Oh.” She tried to visualize Christopher Albin’s pego with dried intestine wrapped around it, and repressed a shudder. “What does the sheath protect against, sir?”
“French gout. And pregnancy.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said again, more thoughtfully. “It sounds uncomfortable.”
The earl shrugged. “It’s better than burning one’s poker. Or siring by-blows.” He yawned again. “A lot of whores use sea sponges, of course. But that won’t stop you getting burnt.”
“Sea sponges?” Charlotte said, utterly lost. “What for?”
“Preventing pregnancy.”
Charlotte turned this answer over in her head. Whatever way she looked at it, it made no sense. “How can a sea sponge stop a woman from becoming pregnant?”
Cosgrove glanced sideways at her. “What if I said she ate it?”
Charlotte frowned. “I don’t see how—”
Cosgrove whooped with laughter.
Charlotte closed her mouth, feeling her cheeks grow hot again.
“Forgive me,” Cosgrove said, when he’d caught his breath. “I couldn’t resist.”
Her heartbeat became jerky. That grin. Those eyes.
“She inserts the sponge inside herself,” Cosgrove explained. “To stop the mettle reaching her womb.”
“Oh.” Mettle was another word Charlotte didn’t know, but she could guess its meaning: a man’s seed.
Cosgrove’s grin changed into another yawn. He loosened his neckcloth further, ran a hand through his hair, tousling it, and leaned his head back in the chair, his eyes half-closed. He looked tired and rumpled and even more attractive than he had before.
Charlotte felt a surge of protectiveness. He needs to go to bed.
Her imagination took flight. If she were Cosgrove’s wife, she could walk across to him, smooth back that disheveled hair, and say: You’re tired. Time for bed.
Charlotte put down her glass. She’d definitely drunk too much port. She pushed to her feet. “Excuse me, sir. I shall retire, with your leave.”
* * *
It was past three o’clock in the morning when Charlotte jerked awake. Something’s wrong.
She caught hold of the bed curtain and yanked it back.
Silence. Darkness.
Charlotte sat for a long moment, listening. Was that the sound of running feet? Were those shouts?
She scrambled out of bed and groped along the wall until she found the door. Cautiously, she opened it.
Silence. Darkness.
Charlotte leaned against the door jam, her head aching. Had she dreamed the noises? Was she still foxed?
No. She heard the slapslapslap of someone running. A bobbing gleam of light grew on the wall, as if from a lantern.
Charlotte tensed, but the person who appeared around the corner was the earl. He looked as if he’d scrambled out of bed—hair uncombed, jaw unshaven—and thrust on yesterday’s clothes. The lantern cast grim, spiky shadows across his face.
“What’s wrong, sir?”
“The conservatory’s on fire.” Cosgrove passed her and disappeared down the corridor at a run.
Chapter Fifteen
The conservatory looked as if it were made of fire. Flames leapt into the sky, their reflections writhing across the panes of glass. Men ran, shouted, threw buckets of water, tiny against the towering blaze.
Charlotte hurried to join them. The air was furnace-hot, the night loud with the sound of glass shattering, loud with the roar of flames.
Someone caught her arm, jerking her almost off her feet. “Get back.” It was the earl. His grip was hard, painful. He shoved her backwards and turned to yell at the men. “Get back! Everyone get back!”
In the chaos, it took several minutes before his order was obeyed. One of the gardeners, almost sobbing, refused to lay down his bucket.
“Is it worth your life, man?” Cosgrove shouted. “Get back.”
They clustered some distance from the conservatory, gardeners and stablemen and servants from the house, some in nightshirts, others half-dressed, faces red in the firelight, silent, like mourners at a funeral.
Cosgrove came to stand beside her. “It can’t be saved.”
“No, sir. Do you think the house, the woods—?”
“There’s no danger unless the wind picks up.” The last word was swallowed by a huge woomph of sound as the dome of the conservatory collapsed. Shards of glass and flaming splinters of wood sprayed outwards.
“How was it heated, sir?”
“By stoves.”
“It weren’t the stoves, sir,” one of the men standing nearby said. “This started outside.”
Cosgrove turned swiftly to look at him. “Are you certain, Cray?”
“As certain as I am of anything, sir. The fire started in more than one place. And it started outside.”
“Arson.”
“Without doubt, sir.”
Cosgrove scowled, one cheek flame-red, the other lost in shadow. “Barnaby.” The word was low, savage.
“Maybe not, sir,” Charlotte ventured. “It could be—” she glanced at the man, Cray, and spoke obliquely, “—one of the others.”
Cosgrove considered this for a moment, his face fierce in the firelight, then turned abruptly away. “Where’s Sugden? Sugden! Do you still have that bitch? The one that can smell rabbits half a county away?”
“She died, sir.” One of the men, a stableman by his garb, turned away from watching the fire. “But I have one of her last litter.”
“Fetch it,” Cosgrove ordered. “Let’s see if it can pick up a scent.”
But the dog, when it was brought, was little more than a pup. It was delighted to greet Cosgrove, delighted to jump up and lick his face, but confused by its master’s commands. When brought closer to the fire, it cowered from the flames.
“It’s no good,” Sugden said. “Sorry, sir.”
“Not your fault, man.” The earl turned and gave rapid orders to the assembled servants, some to watch the fire, others to search the woods.
Charlotte watched as men scattered, to dress, to fetch lanterns. She chewed
on her lower lip. A dog had more chance of finding any tracks than a man.
She backed away from the fire. When she was no longer illuminated by the flames she ran round to the front of the house. The back, with the stableyard and the sleeping quarters for gardeners and grooms was busy, but here, looking down towards the lake, all was silent.
In a little shrubbery beneath the looming cliff of the terrace she found what she needed. Here, shielded by topiary, she could hide. There was even an empty urn in which to conceal her clothes.
Charlotte stripped out of the clothing she’d thrown on less than fifteen minutes ago. Her breath plumed in front of her face, silver in the moonlight. Pieces of gravel were like lumps of ice beneath her bare feet.
She hopped from foot to foot, shivering. She’d never tried being an animal before. What if something went wrong? What if—
If she thought about it too much, she’d be too afraid.
Charlotte squeezed her eyes resolutely shut. “I want to be Bess,” she said under her breath, building an image in her mind of her father’s dog, brown and long-legged.
The itching came—as if a legion of insects crawled over her skin, under her skin, inside her bones—and then was gone.
Charlotte opened her eyes.
Disorientation washed over her. Night didn’t look like this. The color was wrong. The shapes of the shrubs were wrong, towering over her. She inhaled. Smells filled her mouth and nose: the stink of smoke, the scents of grass and soil and dead leaves, the whiff of a dead animal decaying.
Charlotte gagged.
She pressed herself into the gravel, eyes squeezed shut, trying to anchor herself, trying not to vomit.
Gradually the smells became less overwhelming. The urge to vomit faded.
Charlotte lay panting, her heart racing in her chest. Cautiously she opened her eyes. Shrubbery loomed above her, bushes as tall as trees. Her nose told her they were yew, and it told her that a dead creature, a mouse perhaps, was rotting at their base.
She half-rose at the sound of running feet, so loud the runner must be upon her—and then her eyes caught movement near the woods. Two of the gardeners, lanterns in hand.
