To be falsely suspected of a crime, and the devastating effect that would have on one’s life, aroused Amanda’s sympathy. His words echoed through her mind: So you based your judgment strictly on its outward appearance.
Had he merely meant the box? Or had he been referring to something deeper, such as the way many of Cardiff’s citizens had judged him? Had he wondered if she was judging him as well?
Before her curiosity could completely run amok, she pushed the questions aside, as well as the image that rose in her mind’s eye of the box that would never be hers. She’d accompanied her aunt to this seaside haven to solve the troubling dilemma of which of her suitors to marry. Indeed, to determine why the decision posed such a puzzle to begin with. She’d always assumed her heart would lead her directly, unerringly to him, but her heart had remained frustratingly silent thus far. She had neither the time nor the inclination to dwell on the enigmatic Lord Dorsey. And given his reclusive nature, surely they would not cross paths again.
MAXWELL ENTERED Dorsey Manor’s black-and-white-tiled marble foyer where he was greeted by Sutton.
“A fine day you chose for an extra long walk in the gardens, my lord,” the butler said, relieving Maxwell of his silver-tipped walking stick. His sharp gaze dropped to the package under Maxwell’s arm. “Did we receive a delivery?”
“No. Actually, I did not walk in the garden today. I ventured into the village.”
Pure astonished bewilderment crossed Sutton’s normally impassive features. “The village, my lord?”
“Yes,” Maxwell confirmed, feeling inexplicably amused at this uncommon ruffling of Sutton’s feathers. “I had a yen to—” relieve the solitude that I find unbearably suffocating of late “—visit the shops.”
“The shops, my lord?”
“The horror in your tone would indicate I’d expressed a desire to strip naked and prance through the village bare-arsed, Sutton.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I was merely surprised by your words.” Their eyes met, and there was no mistaking the concern reflected in Sutton’s. “You were…treated well, I trust?”
Snatches of whispers echoed through Maxwell’s mind. It’s him. Yes, I’m certain…would recognize him anywhere…he’s not been seen in the village in two years…heard he’s not left his estate’s grounds in all that time. He always was an odd, reclusive fellow…not like his brother who was so dashing, handsome and charming…surely only guilt would force him into such seclusion… They say his brother’s death wasn’t an accident…
Maxwell shoved aside the snippets that had floated around him during his walk through Cromwell-on-Sea and offered Sutton a half smile. “Treated well enough. As you can see, no one slapped chains about my ankles and dragged me off to the gallows.”
Maxwell instantly regretted his attempt at humor when Sutton’s thin cheeks paled. “You shouldn’t have gone alone, my lord. If I’d known you planned to venture off the grounds, I’d have arranged for a footman to accompany you.” He drew himself up straighter. “Or I’d have walked with you myself.”
A combination of sympathy, affection and gratitude suffused Maxwell at Sutton’s fierce show of loyalty. Good God, the poor man’s arthritic knees would have made the walk unbearable. Yet Maxwell knew Sutton would have gone with him just the same.
“A kind and much appreciated offer, Sutton, but I needed to step out of the shadows by myself. Perhaps if I’d done so sooner the rumors would have settled down.”
“Doubtful. People have long memories.” Sutton’s lips tightened. “And they can be very cruel.”
“Yes, I know.” All too well. “I’ll admit I was tempted more than once this afternoon to plant someone a facer.” He pursed his lips in an exaggerated fashion, as if giving the matter deep consideration. “Hmm, yes, perhaps I should have done just that. Then, I might come to be known as the Deranged Pugilist of Dorsey Manor rather than the Crazed Killer of Cardiff, although you must admit that the latter has much more of an alliterative ring to it.”
Sutton’s lips didn’t so much as twitch at Maxwell’s jest. Indeed, his concerned expression grew more pronounced. Before he could speak, Maxwell placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Fear not, Sutton. I’ve no intention of engaging in fisticuffs or allowing the village gossipmongers to tread upon my tender feelings. Indeed, all turned out well.” He held up his package. “Found myself a new treasure in Gibson’s shop.”
Sutton’s expression softened a bit. “Well, that’s excellent, my lord. It does my heart good to see you in good spirits.”
“Thank you. And now I’m off to my study to unwrap and admire my purchase.” After instructing Sutton to arrange for tea, Maxwell strode down the corridor toward his study, filled—for the first time in two years—with anticipation about something other than his laboratory.
Once seated behind his mahogany desk however, his gaze drifted across the room, as it so often did, to the grouping of oval-framed miniatures gracing the white marble mantel. Father, Mother, Roland’s wife, Marianne, Roland. All gone.
Normally he ruthlessly bludgeoned back the plethora of images those paintings evoked, but this time he did nothing to stop the memories from bombarding him. His gaze touched on his father’s stern features. Father…so filled with disappointment and disapproval when it came to his younger son, if he bothered to pay attention at all. He studied the face of the man who had never understood him, but then Father had never tried. He’d had his heir in Roland who was everything Father wanted in a son, a fact that had hurt deeply, but one that had been buffered by Maxwell’s mother’s love.
His gaze moved to Mother’s image and emotion clogged his throat at the sight of her warm, tender smile. She’d never looked upon him with anything other than acceptance and love, and even though fifteen years had passed since her death, he still missed her warmth and subtle wit and infinite wisdom.
His gaze shifted to Marianne, a dazzling, flawed beauty from London who’d been sadly unprepared for a quiet life in a small village with a man she’d found out too late she did not know as well as she’d thought. And Roland…
Maxwell’s gaze lingered on his brother’s handsome face. The remorse and guilt that always struck hit him hard, and he sucked in a sharp breath at the blow. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take slow, steady breaths, as painful images of their last moments together flashed through his mind. Images that no amount of research or work or brandy could erase. Images that in spite of the passage of two years continued to steal his sleep and haunt his waking hours. Images he’d hoped a change of scenery might temporarily erase, thus his walk into Cromwell-on-Sea.
A humorless sound passed his lips. Based on the whispers, and the glares he’d felt boring into his back, he shouldn’t have ventured beyond Dorsey’s borders. But the sense of desperation—and, damn it, loneliness—plaguing him had compelled him to risk the inevitable reaction his presence would produce. In the past he’d always found solace in his laboratory, amongst his glass beakers and microscopes, his only connection to the outside world the floor-to-ceiling windows that glittered with shafts of sunlight during the day and silvery fingers cast by the moon and stars at night.
But lately the sense of peace he craved was proving frustratingly elusive. Today even his beloved Hershel telescope pointing toward the bright afternoon sky, awaiting darkness to reveal the mysteries of the starlit summer sky, had failed to ease his discontent.
He’d paced all morning, then stared down at his verdant lawns and beyond, to where a slice of sparkling dark blue capped with white foam was visible above the trees. He’d tried to will away the unrelenting restlessness prowling through him, but to no avail.
In spite of learning long ago that lying to himself was a fruitless exercise, he’d indulged himself lately, reluctant to put a name to the feeling pervading him, but he could fool himself no longer. The simple, inescapable truth was that he was…lonely.
At first he’d scoffed at the notion. How could a man with a houseful
of servants be lonely? But it was indeed loneliness that had prompted his ill-conceived walk to the village.
Maxwell swallowed around the lump that lodged in his throat. He’d sought only peace, and perhaps a friendly smile, but that was not to be. Gibson had been clearly discomforted to have the Crazed Killer of Cardiff in his establishment. Bloody hell that hurt. Over the years, he’d spent many happy hours exploring Gibson’s shop. He loved the smell of the place—that musty scent of aged items whose histories held promises of long-forgotten secrets.
With a sharp pang he recalled the last time he’d entered the shop before today. He’d purchased the antique emerald ring he’d given Lady Roberta the day he’d asked for her hand. A ring she’d accepted, only to return a fortnight later with a terse note as his entire world had unraveled around him. Just when he’d thought he’d already lost everything, Roberta had delivered the final blow. Due to the circumstances in which you now find yourself, I can no longer consent to be your wife.
Maxwell tore his gaze from the image of Roland’s face and looked down at the package sitting on his desk. At least something good had come out of today’s outing. This lovely treasure.
He quickly unwrapped the package, then studied the unusual piece which had captured his interest the instant he’d laid eyes upon it. Although he’d never seen the likes of the wood’s glossy shine, it was the image of the woman on the box that truly intrigued him. Looking at her now, she continued to fascinate. Although the image was a featureless silhouette, she somehow appeared to be looking back at him, beckoning him, even as she reached out for something in front of her. He could almost hear her whisper, This way…come with me…I want to show you something…coaxing him to discover the secrets she guarded, to discover what mysteries lay beneath the lid upon which she dwelled.
Maxwell ran a single fingertip over the glossy, curved lid, lightly brushing over the woman’s hair. If he’d been a fanciful man, he’d have sworn he felt the silky softness of those dark tresses. He couldn’t wait to see the inside of the box again. To examine the fascinating markings around the edge and gracing the curved inside of the lid. Odd that the young woman in the shop had figured out how to open the box when Gibson hadn’t been able to.
An image of the young woman raced into Maxwell’s mind. He hadn’t recognized her—no doubt she was one of the many people who traveled to Cardiff during the summer to enjoy the seaside atmosphere, a theory supported by the fact that she hadn’t appeared to recognize him. No fear or speculation had glimmered in her golden-brown eyes when she’d looked at him, a fact which had surprised him. Indeed, the only emotions toward him he’d been able to detect were mild curiosity and not so mild annoyance.
Her unexpected arrival had greatly disconcerted him. Just before she’d entered the shop, he’d been fantasizing that the woman on the box was a dark-haired beauty. Then suddenly, as if he’d conjured her from his imagination, in walked a dark-haired beauty.
She’d clearly been as enamored of the box as he, and had obviously not been pleased to find he’d purchased that which she’d set her heart upon. His conscience pricked him as he’d once been in a similar situation and well knew that sense of frustrated disappointment, but he quickly quieted his inner voice. Based on the fine cut and material of her gown, she was clearly wealthy. And no doubt spoiled. Certainly a woman as attractive as she was accustomed to getting what she wanted. Probably only needed to flutter her eyelashes at a man to get her way. Or look up at him with those big, expressive brandy-colored eyes, which really were quite extraordinary…
Not that he’d been tempted for an instant to relinquish the box to her. No, he was quite immune to fluttering lashes and pouts—not that she’d resorted to either, which had rather surprised him. As for her figuring out how to open the box, clearly that was just a bit of luck. He’d have discovered the secret spring himself given time.
With an effort, he pushed the woman from the shop out of his thoughts. After all, it wasn’t as if their paths would ever cross again.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Amanda and her aunt sat on Tufton Manor’s flagstone terrace enjoying a light repast of tea and biscuits. Amanda loved Aunt Lydia’s home, especially this elm-shaded outdoor retreat. While she sipped her fragrant brew, she watched a pair of playful squirrels frolic on the lawn. The pair seemed perfectly suited, chattering at each other, dashing about, and Amanda found herself envying them their compatibility and freedom.
“Oh, there you go, looking so wistful again, my dear,” said Aunt Lydia.
Amanda pulled her attention away from the squirrels and looked across the wrought-iron table. Her aunt’s pansy-blue gaze rested upon her with a concerned expression that trickled guilt through Amanda.
“I was simply absorbed with the scenery.” Forcing a smile, Amanda reached across the table and patted her aunt’s hand. “Thank you for bringing me to this delightful place. I never realized the sound of the sea was so comforting. I’ve experienced more tranquility in the three days since we arrived than in the previous three months.”
“I knew you would enjoy Cardiff, my dear. So much more restful than Bath, what with all the crowds that gather there, and a nice change from your usual summers in Kent.” Aunt Lydia didn’t add away from your mother, but the sentiment hung in the air like a rain-filled cloud. After clearing her throat, Aunt Lydia continued, “I didn’t doubt for a moment that the village and fresh air would cheer you up, although why you should be unhappy is a mystery to me. ’Tis a blessing that you shall have a choice of husbands, my dear. Few young ladies are so fortunate.”
Amanda kept her smile in place. “A blessing indeed.”
“And you are even more fortunate that your father is letting you make the choice yourself rather than choosing for you. Of course, my brother has always been very wise.”
Yes, her father had generously allowed her this time in Cardiff to examine her heart, although convincing Mother had been no easy task. Amanda well knew both her parents would expect, nay demand, she make her choice when she returned to London. Yet she was no closer to choosing now than when she’d arrived.
“Your father wants you to have the man your heart desires, dearest,” Aunt Lydia said, her voice turning pensive. A faraway look stole into her eyes. “Trust me when I tell you that many fathers do not bestow such consideration upon their daughters.”
Amanda gently squeezed her aunt’s fingers in a silent show of sympathy. Although Aunt Lydia rarely discussed the circumstances, Amanda knew her aunt’s father had forbidden her to marry the man she’d loved, citing that the third son of a baron—a man who dabbled in trade, no less—was completely unsuitable for the daughter of an earl. Aunt Lydia had honored her father’s wishes, marrying a man of his choosing, Viscount Tufton, who had passed away five years ago.
Aunt Lydia’s sad expression cleared, and she smiled. “But you shall have the man you want, Amanda, and I am very happy for you. Tell me, have you divined yet in which direction your heart leans?”
“No, I’ve not yet had much opportunity for serious reflection.”
Amanda’s conscience pricked her at that statement, which definitely skirted the truth. While she’d had little time for introspection since arriving in Cardiff, she had given the matter of her suitors a great deal of thought since the Season had ended a fortnight ago. All four of the gentlemen seeking her hand were excellent candidates. Handsome, wealthy and charming. Yet in spite of the fact that she looked forward to getting married, none of them…thrilled her.
She smothered the same impatient frustration that lately seemed to be her constant companion. What on earth was wrong with her? Given her suitors’ eligibility, clearly the problem rested with Amanda herself. ’Twas the only way to explain why none of those gentlemen filled her with that heart-fluttering madness her imagination longed for. That she’d always thought, expected, dreamed would seize her.
But how to solve this problem? Mother insisted that affection required cultivation, lik
e flowers in a garden. Amanda found that analogy rather deflating as she’d never possessed her mother’s talents in the garden. She could only hope that this time away would enlighten her as to which gentleman would eventually best…thrill her.
“Of the four gentlemen, I’d say Lord Abbott is the handsomest,” Aunt Lydia said, her tone musing, “although Lords Branton, Remington and Oxmoor are all attractive.”
“Yes,” Amanda agreed, wondering for the hundredth time why her heart did not perform the slightest flutter. “Indeed, Lord Abbott is easily the handsomest man I’ve ever encountered. From his perfect, artfully arranged blond curls to his perfectly tailored clothes, to his perfect manners, the man is quite…perfect.” And her mother’s definite favorite. “He’d no doubt make an amiable husband—an easy man to live with.”
Aunt Lydia’s eyes filled with distress. “Oh, but my dear, you do not want to choose the man you think easy to live with.”
“I don’t?”
“No.” Leaning forward, Aunt Lydia grasped Amanda’s hands tightly. “Choose the man you think it impossible to live without. He is the man who will fulfill you. Who will make your heart sing. Who will bring you happiness. Who will make you look forward to each new day.” Her voice lowered and became almost fierce with urgency. “And once you determine which one of your suitors is that man, do not hesitate. Do not waste a moment of your lives together. Grasp it with both hands and cherish the time you have—before something, or someone, or circumstances wrests it from you.”
Before Amanda could fashion a reply to her aunt’s surprising words, Mortimer stepped through the French windows and approached them with unprecedented speed.
The Hope Chest Page 3
