Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  “My congratulations, then,” he offered, dropping his gaze once more to what remained of his breakfast. “I’m sure you must be quite happy at the prospect of having a grandchild.”

  She ignored that, adjusting her large skirts in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position at the table. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about the Frenchwoman who has invaded our village and is now living alone with the scholar in the Hope cottage.”

  Invaded? Richard nearly snorted at the ridiculousness of it. She made it sound like the whole bloody French Army had descended upon them. If there was one thing Penelope Bennington-Jones most assuredly did not possess it was the gift of subtlety. What struck him, though, was that she’d brought this to his attention before he’d requested the information, which, as it happened, was the sole reason he’d invited her today. The Frenchwoman was creating quite a stir in their little community, and Penelope was greatly bothered by her.

  “I haven’t heard a thing, actually,” he maintained with a casual air, “but I have seen the lady from a distance.”

  “She is not a lady.”

  The strength of that assertion took him aback, but he didn’t reveal any thought beyond indifference. “And why do you say that?”

  “Well,” she huffed, “not only is she living alone in a small cottage with a man who is not her husband, but I’ve met her, my lord. I find her quite…invasive.”

  “How so?” he asked, biting into the last of his toast, noting with interest that she’d used the same word choice twice in as many minutes.

  Penelope’s lips stretched thin as she stared hard at him. “She is obviously immoral.”

  He nodded as he chewed, understanding that this broad statement was nothing more than conjecture, that she had no conclusive evidence of anything. He decided not to pursue it.

  Penelope lifted one of her thick hands and tried to push her hat back up on her head without success. “She is a widow,” she added accusingly, “and not unattractive to look at, but frankly, I find her presence here suspicious.”

  From what he’d seen of her in the distance, the Frenchwoman was lovely; and, of course, that’s what bothered Penelope the most. What bothered him, for reasons unclear, was that such a woman spent her time with Thomas Blackwood: thirty-nine, Cambridge scholar, war veteran, and cripple. That is what he found suspicious. Odd that a lady of her background and beauty would intentionally reside with a man who couldn’t possibly please her in any way.

  Richard lifted a silver bell and rang it twice to inform the servant standing directly behind him that he required more tea and that it was time to collect his empty plate.

  “So, madam,” he carried on through a deliberate sigh, “what do you gather she’s doing among us in our small village, hmm?”

  Penelope scoffed with an exaggerated toss of her hand. “She says she’s here as Mr. Blackwood’s employee. That she’s translating his war memoirs into her native tongue.”

  An intriguing piece of news he’d need to absorb, though not entirely implausible, he supposed. “When did you meet the woman?”

  “Thursday last, at Mrs. Rodney’s tea.”

  That had to have been an interesting affair. “What were your impressions of her?”

  She straightened. “I found her to be quite French.”

  How outrageously profound, he wanted to shout. Instead, he stirred more cream and sugar into his full, steaming cup, then leaned back easily in his chair.

  “What do you know of the scholar?”

  Her brows lifted. “Mr. Blackwood?”

  What other scholars were they discussing? He nodded once, smiling tightly, withholding his impatience.

  She shrugged nimbly, lifting her cup. “I’ve only spoken to him briefly, but he seems to be a regular gentleman, quiet, educated. A bit of a recluse.”

  Again, not much substantial information. But something uncertain about it nagged at him, and Richard began to tap his fingers on the table, thinking. “What do you suppose he’s doing in Winter Garden?” he pressed, voice lowered.

  Penelope seemed genuinely surprised at the question. Truthfully, even he hadn’t considered this until just now, but, of course, he had no intention of making her aware of it.

  “He’s never said,” she replied after a long sip of her tea. “I just assumed he was here because he wanted to spend his time in the solitude of our village, to retreat to a simple but socially adequate community.” Within seconds her lids narrowed, her lips puckered, and she eyed him conspiratorially. “That seems odd now, doesn’t it, Lord Rothebury?”

  He had to ask. “How so?”

  “Well, it’s not as if he’s from Northumberland, or even London,” she explained gravely. “He’s from Eastleigh. That’s a rather quiet community in itself, isn’t it? Small and lovely, and not too far from Winter Garden.” She leaned toward him, dropping her voice, to add, “Why should he come to our village to do what he could just as easily do at home?”

  Why, indeed, Richard pondered with mounting qualm. If the scholar had spent a week or two—even a month—on holiday here, he would think nothing of it. Many of the gentry retreated to Winter Garden for its seclusion and beauty, especially during the cold season. But Thomas Blackwood had arrived from a town with a climate not unlike their own, had been here for nearly three months with no sign of leaving anytime soon, and was now even taking employees into his rented cottage. Penelope had posed a magnificent question, infuriating him immediately because she’d thought of it before he had. No reason to allow her to know that, however.

  Smoothly, he said, “I’ve wondered this very thing myself, madam.”

  “Have you?”

  The intrigue in her tone and the widening of her dark, piercing eyes made him pause. This was a sensitive time in his prosperous business, and the consequences would be extreme should he fail. He didn’t want her snooping openly into something that was starting to give him serious question.

  With a blasé grin, he waved his palm to brush the matter off, then lifted his cup again. “But I’m sure there’s nothing to it. He probably needed a change of scenery for a season, and the Hope cottage is peaceful and has an excellent view.” Of my home, he suddenly realized like a strike to the face. Something else that seemed enormously coincidental to the moment. Something else he’d need to give more extensive thought.

  Penelope’s forehead crinkled skeptically with his casual explanation, so Richard subtly, and quickly, reverted to his original topic. “What about Mr. Blackwood’s relationship with the Frenchwoman? Are they…friendly, to your knowledge?”

  If she found his endless questions unusual or prying she didn’t show it. Indeed, a look of embarrassment overcame her as a flood of color crept up the sagging skin at her neck. She squirmed uncomfortably, lowering her gaze and once more attempting to fix the ugly hat on her head, once more to no avail.

  He waited for her answer, sipping his tea, watching her with marked interest.

  “According to the Frenchwoman,” she revealed at last, staring now at the embroidered leaves on his tablecloth, “there is no chance of a romantic involvement between them because of the…of his particular war injury. He cannot—he does not find her appealing.”

  Richard blinked quickly and sucked in his cheeks to keep from laughing. He didn’t believe this absurd bit of female gossip for a minute, although he conceded that the ladies of Winter Garden likely did. Most amazing was that the Frenchwoman had discussed this socially.

  He took another full swallow, then placed his cup back on the table to fold his hands in his lap. “What is her name?”

  Penelope drew a long breath and squarely met his gaze again. “Madeleine DuMais,” she said succinctly. “And if that doesn’t sound like a name one might use on the stage…”

  She let the statement linger, her eyes now sparkling with implication, and it had its effect. Mrs. Bennington-Jones was a nosy bitch, but she was keen with perception and usually chose her words carefully. He knew that, and it had served h
im well in the past. But did she mean an actress literally or figuratively? Or just that the Frenchwoman was living indefinitely in Winter Garden using a false name for a purpose they didn’t yet understand? He’d never ask Penelope to clarify for fear of appearing ignorant, or worse, stupid. It hardly mattered anyway, as he would no doubt discover the Frenchwoman’s intentions on his own eventually. For now, though, Richard acknowledged that regardless of the scholar’s reclusive nature and Mrs. Madeleine DuMais’s beauty or background, both of them had come to Winter Garden under very odd circumstances and at a very peculiar time.

  Raising a fingertip, he traced the rim of his china cup. “I suppose it would be in our best interest if I made her acquaintance.”

  He read a mixture of feelings as they crossed Penelope’s face—doubt, irritation, disgust, and even flattery that he had included her as somewhat of an equal in his statement. Then she masked her expression once more and nodded in agreement. “I’m sure you’ll not invite her to the Winter Masquerade, Lord Rothebury,” she readily advised. “The woman is not of our class, and her presence at the ball would certainly be pernicious.”

  Pernicious? Only by stealing the attention from your own ugly daughters, he wanted to insert but had the good breeding not to. Still, he couldn’t ignore the remark. He had the power, and she needed to remember that.

  “Mrs. Bennington-Jones,” he began directly, his smile charming, “I’ll do what is necessary to discover what I can about her. If she is beautiful, that will make my efforts all the more enjoyable, and I should be delighted to extend her an invitation.”

  He watched her blanch, then color profusely in the cheeks. She couldn’t say anything to counter without being rude or insolent, and they both knew it.

  Placing his napkin on the table, he stood. “I’m sure you have other social calls to make, madam, and I am anxious to begin my morning ride. I’m so pleased you were able to visit.”

  Reluctantly she also raised her body to a standing position, because there was nothing else she could say or do.

  “Thank you for the tea, my lord,” she murmured tightly.

  He supposed he had to give her credit for that one.

  She extended her hand, and he squeezed her knuckles gently, choosing not to raise them to his lips, which she clearly noticed. Then abruptly she turned, and with a swish of her skirts and a hard tug at her hat for good measure, she regally strode from the dining room.

  Richard remained where he was for a solid minute, staring at the empty doorway. For as long as he’d lived in Winter Garden he’d never trusted anyone, and to do so now would be a wild risk he refused to take. Too much was at stake. But it was apparent that he needed to meet the Frenchwoman soon, and the avoidance of wild risks certainly didn’t preclude his socializing with a beautiful woman. Or from starting a discreet investigation of his own.

  Chapter 8

  It was well after ten when they left the cottage. Darkness prevailed, save for the glow of a three-quarter moon directly overhead, the air cold, moist, and very still. The lingering scent of an early-evening rainfall and damp earth roused her senses as Madeleine silently walked behind Thomas into the backyard toward the cluster of bushes that would lead them to the path beside the lake.

  During the last few days their suspicions about Richard Sharon had been building. Madeleine believed him to be the smuggler, more out of intuition than anything else, and that she trusted. She worked from intuition frequently, and hers had yet to fail her. She did, however, understand rationally that facts were far more important in the end, and now they had facts anew and were acting upon them.

  For the third consecutive night of what could turn out to be many frigid hours in dark silence, they were sneaking onto the baron’s estate to observe what they could clandestinely because Thomas had received urgent word from Sir Riley that another shipment of opium had been stolen from the docks at Portsmouth only five days ago. It had been several weeks since the last theft, and this bit of news couldn’t have come at a more fortunate time for them in their investigation. It also gave Madeleine the opportunity to accompany Thomas to Rothebury’s property as she hadn’t before. Of course, they had no idea if they’d witness anything at all, but by their estimation the stolen crates would be making their way to Winter Garden within the next several days, and it was more likely that they would be smuggled in at night. If she and Thomas saw or heard anything at all, the proof would be at their fingertips.

  They cleared the brush at that moment to stand side by side at the edge of the lake. It shimmered like thick, black ink, and from the moon’s reflection off the water she could see the manor house in the distance, now dark and looming, silhouetted in shadow. Whatever else the baron did, he retired early. Not a light could be seen in any window.

  Thomas took her hand in his companionably, to help her along the unfamiliar path, she supposed, and she raised her eyes to regard him. He stared out across the water, his harsh, warrior-like features etched into lines of calculated contemplation. Then he glanced down to her, and a ghost of a smile lifted his lips.

  Her heart fluttered from anticipation—an uncommon feeling for her. She’d been stimulated within by men before, but never by one so ruggedly masculine, and certainly never by a simple look. Suddenly she felt the most intense desire to kiss him again.

  He obviously had other ideas.

  Holding her hand firmly, he turned, and together they began to make their way through the dense brush in a southerly direction toward Richard Sharon’s Winter Garden home.

  They’d talked little to each other during the last few days. Thomas had kept to himself, and so had she, each of them going about their business for the good of the government. She’d worked the village market, meeting a few of the common people with the pretense of purchasing goods, while Thomas, for his part, had called on and visited with a few members of the local gentry. Together they had attended church service, which many had found so peculiar that they’d concentrated more on Madeleine and Thomas’s presence than on the vicar and his lengthy lecture on forgiving one’s neighbor of trifle irritants. They’d also watched the baron’s home from the distant trees for the last two nights, but so far they’d neither seen nor learned anything of real significance. She wouldn’t go so far as to say the limited conversations between them since their kiss had been a kind of avoidance. Rather, it would be more correct to say they were simply returning their concentration to the issues that had brought them to Winter Garden in the first place. Madeleine also realized, work aside, the days since their kiss had been uncomfortable for Thomas. This was why she hadn’t pursued a discussion about it specifically. Until now.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking, Thomas,” she said, broaching the subject thoughtfully, breaking the silence at last as they ambled along the path.

  He lifted a long tree branch, holding it away so she could pass beneath it, but he didn’t release her hand. He didn’t respond immediately, either, so she carried on. There was nobody around to see or hear them, and the baron’s property was a good walk away.

  Confidently she expounded. “I’ve been thinking about the kiss you gave me last Saturday.”

  “Have you?” he replied quietly, giving no indication of being surprised at her choice of topic. “And what are your conclusions?”

  So like Thomas to be pragmatic. Smiling, voice steady from an imminent triumph, she answered, “Aside from the fact that it was rushed and somewhat awkward, I found it to be quite…consuming.”

  He tossed her a fast glance that she felt more than saw as she fixed her eyes on the darkened thicket straight ahead.

  “Did you,” he responded rather blandly. After a brief pause, he added, “Consummation can be a marvelous thing when it happens because of total will. And between two people who want it desperately.”

  That confused her a little because she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, and she was almost equally certain he wanted it that way.

  “It was also obvious that there wasn’t
any artistry involved in your maneuver,” she carried on, “but then, neither was there a casualness about it.”

  He chuckled lightly but didn’t interrupt.

  “So, after days of reflection,” she concluded, “I decided that this was strictly because you were so centered in it. Our kiss totally consumed you—not in style or the desire to please, but in its sheer intensity. You put everything into it while restraining yourself from going farther physically, even after I practically begged you to.” Madeleine dropped her voice to a husky whisper. “I don’t think I’ve ever before witnessed such a singular response in a man.”

  He hesitated briefly in his stride, drawing a long, slow breath, and she took advantage of his momentary unsureness.

  “And do you know what else I think, Thomas?”

  “No, but I’m beginning to fear it.”

  She grinned broadly and squeezed his hand. “I think it was the most wondrous of any kiss I’ve experienced in years.”

  That comment, uttered in absolute honesty, drew him to a standstill. He turned to face her, gazing down into her eyes, his voice and features heavy with caution. “If that’s a compliment, then I’m very flattered. But I have my doubts that a woman as sophisticated and lovely as you would consider an awkward kiss from me to be wondrous.”

  “You find me lovely, Thomas?” she pressed softly, instantly filled with satisfaction, knowing he’d said this before, but sighting deeper meaning in it now.

  Without pause, he whispered, “I find you breathtaking beyond adequate words, Madeleine.”

  Her satisfaction turned to sublime warmth so subtly fulfilling she had trouble responding to it immediately. How many men in her twenty-nine years had remarked on her beauty? Yet not one, until tonight, had ever left her feeling so overwhelmingly pleasured inside.