by Laurie Brown
Eleanor opened her eyes and blinked at Teddy who had seated himself on a footstool near her. “What?”
“Piano Concerto No. Twenty-One? Mozart?”
“Oh. Is that what they were playing?”
“You know, it’s quite depressing when my attempts to display my wit fail so miserably.”
“Sorry. My fault. My mind was … elsewhere.”
“I appreciate your wit,” Beatrix said as she arrived to stand at his side. While Teddy stood, she shot her rival a venomous glare that disappeared as soon as he was in a position to see her face. “Mama wishes to speak to you about a letter she received from Father.”
Teddy bowed and offered Beatrix his arm. As they left, Eleanor realized that if Teddy was no longer in the dining room, the rest of the gentlemen were probably not there either. She sat forward and peeked around the wingback of the chair—to locate Fleckart and avoid him, she told herself. She didn’t see Shermont. She tried to ignore her disappointment. When she leaned back, she spied him lounging on the window seat nearly hidden by heavy brocade drapes. He raised his snifter of brandy in salute.
“How long have you been there?” she asked.
“I confess I’ve been watching you listen to the music. I was content to enjoy the music vicariously,” he said. “I’ve not much of an ear. Do you play?”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps another instrument? Harp? Flute?”
“No.”
“I thought every gentlewoman was required to have some musical ability on her list of accomplishments she displays in company.”
Eleanor leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial manner. “I have no musical talent. I can’t draw a tree in winter. I sing like a stuck pig. And I have two left feet. I have absolutely nothing to recommend my company.”
“If that is a ploy to elicit a compliment, I must admit I am flummoxed by the unexpectedness of the content.”
“I’m only being honest.”
“Then I am completely discombobulated and yet spellbound by your atypical candor.”
“I’m beginning to doubt we speak the same language.”
“You appear by all indications to understand me.”
She studied him for a moment. “Possibly better than you guess. I think your polysyllabic emoting is an attempt to distance yourself, for whatever reason, from the person to whom you are speaking.”
“Or simply to appear wittier than I actually am,” he said, even though he knew she’d hit the nail on the head. The annoying habit occurred when he was confused, which fortunately didn’t happen often. Why now? He recalled the strong feelings of protectiveness aroused by seeing her with her eyes closed. And yet, he’d recently added her to his list of suspects. If she were one of the foreign agents, how could he protect her and fulfill his mission?
“Just when I thought it was safe to draw near, Shermont starts scowling again,” Alanbrooke said as he approached. “The lieutenants have goaded me into this insanely brave act.” He bowed, took her gloved hand, and brushed his lips against her fingers.
“I’m honored you risked the frightful and dangerous hazards of crossing twenty feet of carpet,” she said.
“Scowl away, Shermont,” Alanbrooke said without breaking eye contact with her. “But face yourself in the direction of those two young pups to keep them at bay.”
Shermont made a low noise deep in his throat.
“He growls,” she said. “But I don’t think he bites.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Alanbrooke said. “I expect I shall pay for my audacity later at the gaming table. However, I will consider it worthwhile if you will but promise me two dances at the ball.”
“Then I’m afraid your travails are for naught. I can’t promise what isn’t within my power to deliver. As much as I’d love to dance, unless the poor dancing master recovers, I won’t have the slightest notion of the steps.”
“I assure you Mr. Foucalt will be recuperated by tomorrow morning,” Shermont said.
She had no idea how he could make such a statement without having been a consulting doctor on the ill man’s case, but she had no doubt Shermont could accomplish anything he set his mind to do. When she looked up at him, she saw only his profile as he turned and stomped away.
Major Alanbrooke chuckled. “That man is walking on quicksand and doesn’t even know it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Both of you?” Alanbrooke shook his head as he moved aside to make room for the lieutenants.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” she said.
His only response was to laugh.
Chapter Seven
Eleanor crawled into bed and immediately fell into a deep, exhausted sleep without figuring out what Alanbrooke meant. She woke in the middle of the night, the echo of his laughter all she could remember of her fading, uneasy dreams. She had no idea what time it was, but it was inky dark in the bedroom. She turned the pillow to put the cool side against her cheek and tried to go back to sleep.
With her eyes closed, the uninterrupted silence pressed in on her. Her apartment back in L.A. was in a residential area, but a certain amount of ambient noise was normal. The soft whir of the air conditioner, the faint ticking of her alarm clock, the cars and trucks on the not so distant highway, the infrequent sound of her neighbor’s stereo when the pilot was in town and entertaining, even the occasional siren or car alarm. None of those noises had bothered her after the first week in her new place. She pulled another pillow close and hugged it to her breast. Getting used to sleeping alone had taken a little longer.
The middle of the night was no time to think of the past. She tossed the pillow aside and sat up. Since she couldn’t watch TV, maybe reading something boring might make her sleepy. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. If she opened the window drapes, could she find a candle and a match? She found her way across the room only to discover the drapes weren’t closed. If there was a moon, thick clouds hid it and any stars.
Now totally awake, she wished she had a glass of warm milk, her grandmother’s dependable remedy for sleeplessness. Her stomach growled, reminding her that Gram always gave her a few Oreos with her milk. And that she hadn’t eaten much at dinner.
Without a kitchen handy, how could she go about getting some milk? If she could find the bellpull in the dark, Twilla would probably come to see what she wanted, but Eleanor didn’t want to rob the hardworking servant of much needed sleep. Surely in a house this size somebody had to be awake, tending the fires or some such chore.
She made her way back, located her robe on the foot of the bed, and found her slippers next to the bed steps where she’d left them. Arms outstretched, she made her way to the door. If possible, the sitting room was even darker than the bedroom. She almost changed her mind and turned around, but spending sleepless hours until dawn loomed scarier than crossing the room. Moving slowly, she finally found the door. In the hall the dim light from a few widely spaced sconces seemed blindingly bright at first. Her eyes adjusted as she went downstairs.
She spotted a servant right away, a footman seated on a stool by the front entrance with a shuttered lantern handy by his feet in case a carriage pulled up to the door. Not only did she recognize him as one of the wine servers at dinner, but she realized he was slumped back against the wall and snoring gently. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. When the clock chimed three times, he stirred and mumbled, “Come on, Alice. Give us a kiss.”
Eleanor covered her mouth to stifle a giggle and turned away. Then she noticed light shining under the library door. Were the gentlemen still playing cards? She tiptoed closer and put her ear against the wood, listening for a clue to who was inside. Either the door was too thick, or they were silent card players. She eased the door open a crack.
To her surprise, the empty room was brightly lit and a small cheery fire crackled in the fireplace.
She stepped inside. “Hello?” she whispered.
Shermont had
sensed her presence before she spoke. What was Eleanor doing up and about at this hour? He hesitated before rising from his prone position on the couch facing the fireplace. “Good evening. Or rather, good morning.”
Eleanor whipped around in surprise, her hand clutching the lapels of her brocade robe. She looked adorable with her stubborn chin framed by the high lace collar of her granny nightgown, but her bed-tousled hair sent his thoughts in a decidedly wicked direction. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he added.
“You scared me half to death,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Then I must, unfortunately, assume you weren’t looking for me. Shall I leave? Are you expecting to meet someone else?” Like another foreign agent?
“No! No, I … ah …” Her stomach growled loudly. “Do you know where the kitchen is?”
“You shouldn’t wander around without a chaperone. Why didn’t you call for a maid?”
“I can take care of myself. If you’ll point me in the right direction, I’ll find the kitchen on my own.”
“I don’t know where it is either,” he lied, wanting to extend their time together.
“Then I’ll just get a book and leave you to your … whatever.” She marched to the nearest bookcase and ran her finger across the leather spines. She found a slim volume and pulled it out. Finding Pride and Prejudice was like a surprise visit from an old friend. She tucked it in the crook of her arm and turned to leave.
“I may not know where the kitchen is, but I can call for assistance.”
“No! I didn’t want to wake anyone. It’s all right. I’ll go back to my room now.”
“Then you don’t want this ham sandwich.”
“What? You must be joking.”
“They’re served at the Cocoa-Tree Club at Pall Mall and St. James. Lord Montague, not the current Earl, but the Fourth Earl of Sandwich, didn’t want to stop gambling in order to dine, so he requested a piece of meat between two slices of—”
“I know what a sandwich is. I’m just surprised you have one.”
Shermont turned, picked up a tray, and carried it to the library table. He took the cover off the plate with the flair of a Las Vegas magician and held out the chair for her. “Tuttle brought this in just half an hour ago.”
“I can’t take your sandwich,” she said, even as she walked forward trancelike, unable to resist the lure.
“I’m not hungry.” He had requested it to have on hand for Carl, who had spent the evening in the cold rain watching the oak tree for activity. Shermont expected him to return at any moment and had been waiting since the card game broke up at two-thirty. He wanted to let him in and discuss his findings.
“You wouldn’t have asked for it if you weren’t hungry.” She eyed the thinly sliced pink ham, and her stomach growled again.
“I’ll share it with you. For the price of a kiss,” he offered on a whim.
Eleanor hesitated. “Deal,” she said, to his surprise. She stood straight with arms stiffly at her side, tipped her chin up, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes.
Shermont had no intention of giving her the chaste kiss she obviously expected. He moved in close and gently cupped her cheeks in his hands. He explored her lips, tasting, teasing, and demanding a response. She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into him. He took her in his arms and pulled her closer … closer.
Her stomach growled again, vibrating against his gut. He chided himself for selfishly denying her sustenance while he fed his own hunger. Gently, he set her away from him, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders. “I think you’ve earned that entire sandwich,” he said, forcing a chuckle into his voice.
He turned her toward the table and held the chair.
“Half is enough,” she said as she sat down.
He picked up the book she’d dropped and laid it on the table. Then he took the chair opposite her. After looking at him and receiving a nod of encouragement, she picked up half the sandwich and took a healthy bite.
“I noticed you prefer your food without sauces. There’s mustard on that.”
“Mmm-mmm.”
She closed her eyes in pleasure, revealing a sensuality he’d guessed was there but hadn’t seen so blatantly displayed. His body responded and he rose, fetching his nearly empty brandy snifter as an excuse to put some distance between them.
“It’s wonderful,” she said.
He dawdled as long as he could. By the time he returned to his seat, she’d finished a quarter of the large sandwich.
“Is that beer?” she asked with a gesture toward the tall glass on the tray.
“Ale. Help yourself. I have my brandy.”
She took a tentative sip and made a face. “It’s a bit stronger and warmer than I’m used to.” But she took another drink. A few bites later, she stopped and licked a dab of mustard off her lip. “Are you going to eat that pickle?”
He shook his head.
She picked up the large whole pickle and put the end in her mouth, her lips forming a pink O. She closed her eyes and sucked.
Reminding him of … he shifted in his chair. Then winced when she took a sharp bite.
“Not a fan of dill?” she asked with an innocent expression. And amusement in her eyes.
Shermont, endurance tested to his limit, looked around for a distraction and spotted the chessboard on the other end of the table. He occupied his mind envisioning moves and countermoves.
“Thank you. That was perfect.” She wiped her fingers on the napkin, pushed the tray aside, and folded her hands on the narrow table within easy reach of his.
He slid the chessboard between them. “Do you play?”
“Not very well,” she answered. She stared at him for a long moment before moving her pawn in a classic opening.
He’d suggested the distraction to keep his hands occupied, but quickly realized the game revealed much about his opponent. He played conservatively to judge her style. She was aggressive, but her defenses were weak. They concentrated on the game and soon half the pieces had been removed from the board. Surprising him, she’d held her own.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever played with a lady,” he said.
“From what I hear, you’ve played with a great number of ladies,” she said, moving her knight to threaten his queen. “Oh, were you speaking of chess?” She grinned. “I’m honored to be your first and, I’m sure, not your last. Now you know we can play as well as men.”
“That’s debatable. I fear men will always have the advantage.”
She bristled. “Why would you say that? Are you inferring our brains are inferior?”
Her challenge struck a familiar chord. Someone in the past he couldn’t remember, a sister, a mother, maybe an aunt, had also believed women were equal to men—different, but equal. He rubbed his forehead out of habit, but the expected stabbing pain did not appear.
“Not at all,” he said. “I acknowledge females have fine brains, and I know a number who are intelligent, literate, and clever. I also know several men who have not a thought in their heads beyond what coat to wear to the next social affair or which style to use in tying their cravat.”
She nodded her grudging acceptance of his defense.
“My assertion that men will always have an advantage is based on the fact that chess is basically a war game, probably first played in ancient Mesopotamia to teach combat strategy. Great battles and tactics of distinguished generals are part of the normal curriculum of every boy’s education.” He shrugged. “Girls study needlework and how to manage a household.”
She glared at him.
“Chess is supposed to be a contemplative activity,” he said.
“Does that mean you don’t want to talk anymore?”
“Only that it is a distraction.”
“The entire education system will change when we get the vote,” she muttered.
He dropped the castle he’d been in the process of moving.
“Did I shock you?” She seemed pleased to
have disrupted his game.
“I cannot deny you have.” He grabbed the piece and then stared at the board, unsure as to where he’d meant to put it.
“It will happen, you know. Woman’s suffrage.”
“One part of me is aghast and horror-struck at the possibility, and yet somehow there is an inevitable logic to the concept. A small part of me believes the world will not end. England will not fall, and females will not start wearing pantaloons just because they can vote.”
Eleanor held her tongue.
He finished his move and then turned away to think about what he’d just said. Where had that belief come from? He didn’t remember ever having formed an opinion on females voting.
Carl waving at him from the other side of the French doors interrupted his reverie. How long had he been out there? Shermont realized he’d allowed Eleanor to distract him from his duty again. He concentrated on ending the game quickly, lured her into a foolish attack, and swooped in for checkmate.
“I suggest you try to get some sleep,” he said as he returned the chessboard to its former position and reset the pieces for the next players. “Tomorrow will be a busy day and will start early.”
“Will you be attending the picnic?”
He ignored the question. “Shall I ring for a maid to escort you back to your room?”
She picked up her book, turned on her heel, and rushed out of the room. But not before he saw the look on her face. Her confused and wounded expression caused feelings he couldn’t name and didn’t want to examine. Instead he opened the French doors and let Carl into the room. The man was soaked and shivering.
“It’s about bloody time,” he said through chattering teeth as he rushed to hold his hands to the small fire.
Shermont apologized as he ascertained the footman was still asleep. “Let’s go upstairs. You need dry clothes.”
While the valet changed, Shermont built a fire in the sitting room grate and poured two fresh brandies. Carl returned and took the seat nearest the hearth.
“Anything?” Shermont asked, handing him one snifter.
“I hid in the bushes for hours, and no one came to the tree for any reason.”
