This was far more enjoyable and educational than she’d expected. For one thing, she had not expected to find Mr. Sykes in such a compromising position, or find him at all. She’d simply wandered out of the house to inspect the gardens, which were quite the loveliest she’d ever seen.
Everything was visible from a terraced lookout behind the house. There was a Gothic exedra curving around a round pool below, and a Doric seat, a tunnel arbor, late-blooming roses of every description, and vast lawns crisscrossed by packed earth paths that led to a rectangular reflecting pool at the center of the garden. Cunning little outbuildings and statuary were scattered everywhere, and a low boxwood maze wound up a distant hill. There were groomed forests and wild woods, water features, a stream, and a dovecote. Ostensibly she was out to dry her hair in the September afternoon breeze, and she had skipped down the stairs for a closer look.
A wide swath of lawn led to a charming asymmetric Jacobean-style folly, rather like a large doll’s house. It was a mellow, fading red, and red had ever been Sadie’s favorite color. So it was inevitable that she headed to it like a homing pigeon.
Sadie had never seen a full-grown man in the nude before, despite numerous thwarted attempts. She’d even wondered a little about the other Guest who was prone to dropping his pants. But Mr. Sykes was not a mad elderly gentleman. In fact, he was an exceptionally fine specimen, with broad brown shoulders and intriguing fur that dusted his chest. It was unfortunate that the bathtub was so full of soapy water, and that he was so diligent in protecting his manhood from Sadie’s prying eyes by rather capable-looking hands and a large sea sponge.
His hair was slicked back from a noble brow, and his blue eyes were piercing. If Sadie had been a different person, she might be intimidated.
“It was a social experiment, you see. I wanted to know how it would feel to move about without obstruction. Like a man. We woman are covered in all those heavy layers, you know. Wire cage bustles and yards of petticoats. It’s a wonder we can stand up and put one foot in front of the other and not topple over. And then once I put the trousers on, I decided there was no need for my boned corset, either, so I went without. Altogether it was very freeing.”
The tips of his ears turned red.
Interesting.
“I shall return the trousers, of course. If I can remember where I, um, found them,” Sadie added.
“Found them! You stole them from Arthur Babbage’s clothesline! He saw you at the fire and told me.”
For a brief, hopeful moment, Sadie thought he might rise out of the tub like a vengeful Neptune. But alas.
“Well, you can thank him for his inadvertent assistance with my experiment. I’m very grateful, and I’m sure I can alter them back to their original condition. Although they do smell dreadfully of smoke.”
“I’m sure he won’t care. What were you thinking? Theft is serious. So is breaking and entering.” He was glaring at her, his expressive eyebrows a little frightening.
“I didn’t break anything. The Stanchfields’ window was wide open.”
“Trespassing then. I won’t have that sort of behavior here at Sykes House.”
Sadie flicked her lashes, then looked down at the floor in faux contrition. “No, sir.”
“I don’t believe a word you say,” Mr. Sykes grumbled.
“I will try. I promise.” Her fingers crossed in the capacious folds of her borrowed dress. What it lacked in length was more than made up in girth.
It might prove very stimulating to experiment with Mr. Sykes. Nothing too outré—Sadie had to tread carefully. She sensed he would use any excuse to send her back to her father whether she was cured or not.
She cleared her throat. “I was wondering. While I’m here, do you think I might help your gardening staff? I know from the Welcome Packet I’m supposed to perform a Service before I leave, and since I’m here—” She twirled a loose copper lock around her uncrossed finger. She’d found the Welcome Packet to be less than welcoming, all the Puddling Rehabilitation Rules spelled out in menacing capital letters. But Sadie liked gardens—she didn’t know much about them, but how hard could tending them be? She could deadhead flowers and water things. She probably shouldn’t be trusted with a scythe, however. “Idle hands, etcetera.”
Mr. Sykes opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“Have I surprised you? I used to help in the kitchens at the castle.”
“My garden?”
“Well, I understand it’s really your father’s.”
“A garden is not like a kitchen, Lady Sarah.”
“Obviously. For one thing, it won’t catch on fire.”
“Hopefully. But with you in its vicinity, anything is possible.”
“I had nothing to do with the fire in the cottage!” Sadie said, feeling the warmth flood her cheeks. “Mrs. Grace said herself she forgot all about the Bath buns. Not that she’d give me any.”
Sugar or anything that might be construed as delicious was forbidden. She hadn’t eaten such revolting pap since she’d been an infant in arms. It wasn’t as if she needed to slim—Sadie was tall and lean, with the exception of her embarrassing breasts. She blamed her mother, who had been so well-endowed both physically and financially that her father had overlooked her common background and married her, much to their mutual regret.
“We have rules in place, even to the comestibles of our Guests,” Mr. Sykes said. “There is nothing wrong with plain, nutritious fare.”
Rules, rules, rules. Sadie was heartily sick of them. Sadie would bet Mr. Sykes wouldn’t sit still for the swill that had been served to her over the past month. She was hopeful that Mrs. Anstruther’s kitchen skills would be an improvement.
“You haven’t eaten Mrs. Grace’s cooking, have you?”
“I have not had that pleasure. Now, if that is all, perhaps you will leave me in peace. My bathwater is cold.”
Sadie stretched her neck, but was unable to see the effect of the cold water on Mr. Sykes’s person.
“That is all. For today. See you tomorrow at nine!” She hopped up, took one more lingering look at the scummy water, and let herself out the way she had come.
But not immediately. Sadie was curious about Mr. Sykes’s unconventional little house, and poked her head into each room as she passed. He had excellent taste in his furnishings—gleaming Oriental carpets, distinctive artwork, and plush furniture. His bedroom was particularly impressive, his bed a great carved thing covered in fur throws. For a second, she debated bouncing upon it, picturing his wrathful brows if he caught her at it.
Best not to stir up trouble. She needed to go shopping. The trouble could come after.
The small kitchen was scrubbed and well-equipped. The range looked to be of the very latest design, just as at the kitchen in the big house. Surely that would bode well for Mrs. Anstruther’s cooking and Sadie’s general comfort.
Sykes House was a vast improvement over Stonecrop Cottage, although that had been sweet in its way. She hoped someone would remember to feed the fish in the little pond—it was one of her duties as a Guest. The plants in the conservatory would need watering too.
She’d fibbed a little about the Gothic-style door of Mr. Sykes’s cottage being ajar. It had simply been unlocked, which had suited her curiosity. Now Sadie turned the handle, and faced the thin old man she’d seen from a distance. His gray eyebrows rose to the fringe on his balding pate, and he dropped the basket of vegetables on her feet. A huge head of lettuce rolled into the bushes.
She was having an issue with vegetables in Puddling.
“I do beg your pardon,” Sadie said, picking up an errant bunch of radishes.
“You!”
“Yes, I. Allow me to introduce myself.” She stuck out a hand, which remained ungrasped. “I am Lady Sarah Marchmain.”
“I know who you are.”
Hmm. There was no “my lady,” or any of the deference Sadie had been raised with, just a substantially evil glare. Not that she ca
red much—she’d never stood on ceremony. England’s archaic social system was really anathema to her. Her gormless cousin George could inherit her home just because he was a male, for example, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She had begun to read Cafiero’s A Compendium of Das Kapital in translation before her father discovered her at it and tossed the book into the fire.
Not that she wished to give up all her possessions and toil in some field or take up arms against perceived injustice. She just wished everyone else had as much as she had.
Which, in the end, wasn’t very much. She had no home of her own. All her earthly possessions were either ruined by smoke or locked up at Marchmain Castle, quite far away.
“And you must be Mr. Anstruther.” She didn’t bother to bat her eyelashes. Here was a man who was not to be trifled with.
Poor Mrs. Anstruther.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just taking a walk. The folly is so charming, and naturally, I looked in. I didn’t dream it was occupied.” All perfectly truthful, but he was looking at her as if she were an ax murderess.
“Well, go about your business. Mr. Tristan has enough to worry about without you invading his privacy.”
Tristan. What a romantic name. Like Lancelot, her erstwhile imaginary puppy, or Gawain. She could picture Mr. Sykes in armor atop a trustworthy steed, a medieval hero brought low by the love of a woman.
But better yet, she could picture him naked without using much of her imagination at all.
Chapter 6
“Bloody hell.” Tristan thrust a foot in the wrong boot and collapsed on his bed. The madwoman had unsettled him, making herself at ease in his bathing chamber on top of his towels. Blast it, they had been warmed by her bum! And somehow she had talked him into taking her to Stroud to replace her wardrobe so he wouldn’t have to look at her ankles.
Or her hair, which had curled, mermaid-like, as she’d sat on the chair harassing him. Waves of red and gold sprang about her brow and long white neck, inviting touch.
Not his. Never his. He would buy her lots of hairpins and a hat. A dozen hats if he had to. The early church had the right of it—women should be covered from head to toe. There was nothing wrong with modesty, especially if one’s hair was living flame.
There was a rap at the bedroom door. She couldn’t be back, could she, the hussy? He’d have to start locking the house up.
“Who is it?” he barked.
“It’s Anstruther, Mr. Tristan. May I come in?”
“Of course. Since when do you bother knocking?” Tristan had known the man since he was in nappies. It wasn’t like Anstruther to suddenly remember the demarcation between servant and master. They were even friends of a sort, if friendship meant not discussing anything meaningful.
“It’s that woman!”
Tristan wasn’t sure which woman had unnerved Anstruther, although he had a fair idea.
“Yes?”
“I caught her leaving here, bold as brass, when I came up the path. I did check all the rooms, and nothing appears to be missing. Did she disturb you? I do apologize. I should have been here to turn her away.”
Tristan doubted anyone could turn Lady Sarah Marchmain away if she were determined to enter. “It’s all right, Anstruther.”
“It is not! She thinks she’s mistress of Sykes House already. She’s even gone down to the kitchens!” Anstruther said, clearly horrified that a young woman of so-called gentle birth could enter such a den of iniquity. “One of the footmen was having a smoke at the back door and told me all about her arrival and demands. She’s trouble.”
“All women are trouble, aren’t they?” At least the ones he’d known had been, excepting his poor mother. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle her.”
Or get someone to shadow her every move.
Who on his staff might suit? Offhand, his father’s servants were pleasant, ordinary people. Well-trained and congenial, which wouldn’t help at all. No one that Tristan could think of was equipped to deal with someone as extraordinary as his unwanted Guest.
“Shall I help you dress?”
“Certainly not. It’s not as if I’m getting into evening togs.” The only reason Tristan wore a tie and jacket at dinner at all was to assuage Anstruther’s sense of consequence. He said it wouldn’t help his reputation amongst the servants any if Tristan was not turned out well.
Tristan knew he was bullied by his servant, but was too good-natured to do anything about it. The man looked after him as a father might, and had saved Tristan’s bacon too many times to count over the years.
“Very well. Dinner will be served in an hour.”
“Capital. You haven’t laid the table in the dining room yet, have you?”
“No, sir. There hasn’t been time what with the fire and all.”
“Good. I’ll dine in the garden if it’s all right with you.”
Tristan had set every brick into the low-walled patio himself. An iron table and a pair of chairs overlooked a small knot garden. Its formality was in distinct contrast to the whimsy of his house, and Tristan enjoyed the peace and privacy. Soon the nights would be too chilly to eat outdoors, and he would take advantage of the mild weather. Tristan was always much happier outside than in.
But not if the madwoman was roaming all over the property.
It was clear he would have to do something. Guests had relative autonomy—as long as they followed their prescribed routine, they weren’t saddled with minders twenty-four hours a day. Barriers to escape were in place, and many of the Guests actually enjoyed the regimentation their lives had been lacking. It was well-known children functioned better with structure; why not adults? Tristan himself was a man of regular habits. He’d seen firsthand what came of too much freedom.
He finished dressing and stepped out onto the patio. Large tubs of chrysanthemums and dahlias were in vibrant bloom. Anstruther had set an open bottle of burgundy and a wineglass on the table. French wine of late had been an iffy proposition. Several devastating diseases had attacked the vines, and Tristan’s cellar was suffering. He poured a glass, took a sip, and was satisfied.
One day all of his father’s estate would be his, but right now he appreciated the vista from his own little corner of it. Beyond the formal flower beds was a dark, hushed wood. Tristan once placed hide-and-seek there with his little brother, never hiding too seriously so the boy could find him.
There was something about the depth of the almost-black green that spoke to him. Calmed him. He didn’t like turmoil in his work or his personal life. His architectural commissions were all progressing, his leadership in his little community rewarding, and if his love life was lacking, it didn’t matter.
He’d experienced quite enough of love.
Anstruther brought his supper and his book out into the twilight. A candle was lit, the simple courses consumed, the story advanced. Over his port, Tristan resolved to call another meeting of the governors tomorrow. There was much to be done.
And then he remembered Lady Sarah and Stroud.
Perhaps Miss Churchill could be pressed to accompany her. Or Mrs. Anstruther. Tristan didn’t have time for fripperies when Stonecrop Cottage had to be restored and arrangements needed to be made. He shouldn’t be alone with the girl—no, woman—anyway. It would cause talk.
He pushed the iron chair back and stretched his legs. Despite the unusual activity of the day, he wasn’t tired. A few stars winked down at him from the slate-gray sky, and he stood. There was enough light to take a postprandial walk, as was his custom. The white garden he’d designed in memory of his brother still had plenty of plants that perfumed the air and would glow in the encroaching darkness.
Tristan used his supper table candle to light a rusty lantern that had been set outside near the French doors and called out his plans to Anstruther. It was moments like this that he missed his old retriever. Maybe it was time to get a new dog to keep him company on his rambles. A c
ountry gentleman and his dog—what was more natural?
He wasn’t wearing his workboots, so he stuck to the paths that had been laid out in his great-grandfather’s day. The lawn was so expansive it took him a full ten minutes to walk to the end of the clipped grass, passing follies and shrubbery and various garden “rooms” along the way. He glanced to his left. His father’s house on the hill was lit up like Guy Fawkes Night. Lady Sarah’s doing, no doubt.
The wind picked up, and Tristan turned up his collar. A trace of smoke was still in the air, despite the distance of Sykes House relative to the village. The white iron gate to the memorial garden squealed as he opened it, and he reminded himself to bring an oil can the next time he came.
“Good evening.”
Tristan nearly stumbled over his own feet. In the center of the garden, on the mahogany bench he had built with his own hands, was Lady Sarah Marchmain.
Tristan lifted the lantern. “You again? Is there no escape?”
“I certainly didn’t expect you either,” she said. “I was restless after supper, and went for a walk. Nowhere near your place, I might add.”
This was all his place, in the absence of his father. He almost wished the man would come home from France and deal with Lady Sarah himself.
If he could.
The girl matched the garden, clad in what Tristan could clearly see as a plain white cotton nightgown. A knitted cream-wool shawl was tossed over her shoulders, and all that wild red hair was still loose and on display.
“You wander about in the dark in a strange place wearing only your nightclothes?” Tristan asked, feeling annoyed and, regrettably, something else.
“It’s not totally dark yet, and I have very good eyesight. There’s plenty of light coming down from the house, too.”
Tristan wondered how much it was costing his father in candles and lamp oil to house a duke’s wayward daughter for however short a time.
“Look, Lady Sarah, as you said, we need to get a few things ironed out. You will not run wild all over creation at all hours of the day and night. It is not safe.”
Seducing Mr. Sykes Page 4
