“And it is necessary for me to . . . move in?”
“Sorry, but yes. My research is of a sensitive nature and I won’t risk word of it leaking out prematurely. Does this pose some sort of predicament for you?”
Ned emitted a high, squeaky little note, but he shook his head. “No predicament, sir.”
“You needn’t worry, lad. This has been cleared with the dean of natural philosophies. You’ll receive full credit for the semester. Extra, no doubt.”
“Then I’ll . . . er . . . just go and pack my belongings.”
“Good. I’ll send my carriage round first thing tomorrow to collect you. Oh, and one other thing.” Simon extended his forefinger, circling it in a gesture meant to encompass Ned’s chin and upper lip. “Attempting to grow a bit of whiskers, are we?”
Ned’s expression turned pained. “Yes, sir.”
“You might wish to consider shaving instead.”
The boy nodded glumly. “Thank you, sir.”
“I am Lillian Walsh, Lord Harrow’s housekeeper. Mind you call me Mrs. Walsh when you call me at all, which shan’t be often if you know what’s good for you.”
Well. Dear Mrs. Eddelson at home in London would never have taken such a tone with a guest, Ivy thought. But given the earliness of the hour, perhaps this woman suffered from excessive weariness; the church bells in the nearby city had barely finished striking seven in the morning.
When Lord Harrow had said his carriage would collect her “first thing in the morning,” he had apparently meant to precede the rising of the sun. She had had to jump into her clothes and race to toss the last of her belongings into her trunks.
Her first view of Harrowood, as she’d been driven through the gates and down the winding, treelined drive, had been shrouded by the dawn shadows. Her initial impression had been one of a drab, brick and stone relic of the pre-Georgian age, nestled at the edge of a gloomy forest and blanketed by an unnatural silence—as if the birds and even the breeze feared to disturb the Mad Marquess of Harrow.
Or perhaps it was Mrs. Walsh they feared.
“Best you know straightaway that I was not put on this earth for the purpose of catering to the whims of university ruffians. Now, follow me, and mind you don’t touch anything.” Her heels clicking briskly, the housekeeper led Ivy across the marbled entry hall that boasted lofty ceilings presided over by a massive chandelier dripping with equal amounts of crystals and cobwebs. Expansive archways on either side of the hall disappeared into darkness. A wide set of carpeted steps curved away to a likewise dusky first-floor gallery.
“Mealtimes are set by his lordship and strictly adhered to. There’ll be no trays carried up to your room, not unless you’re half dead of a fever, and perhaps not even then.” At the base of the steps, the housekeeper stopped and turned.
Mrs. Walsh was a large woman, though not so much corpulent as broad and big-boned. Even abundant layers of clothing could not dispel Ivy’s impression of brawny arms and tree-trunk legs. She had the bulky shoulders and stocky neck of a laborer, a round, pale moon of a face, and strawlike hair that straggled from the edges of her starched white cap.
Her beady gaze raked over Ivy once, twice, and locked.
Ivy pulled up straighter and asked, “Is there something amiss?”
“Let us hope not.” The woman quirked her lips and started up the stairs.
Ivy hastened to match her pace, taking extra care not to trip and fall as she had done yesterday, utterly humiliating herself in front of Lord Harrow, not to mention Jasper Lowbry and the rest of her new “mates” who had been watching and laughing from two stories above.
It was the trousers. The weight of the fabric kept informing her brain, wrongly of course, that her legs had become tangled in her petticoats, thus setting off an instinct to kick them free, which threw off her stride and sent her tripping over her own feet. So much for a lifelong belief that trousers would be less confining than skirts.
Below in the hall came the sounds of servants going about their daily tasks. A peek over her shoulder brought two maids, one with a mop and one with a duster, into view. A footman hauled a ladder across the hall while a second liveried manservant trailed him with an armful of fresh tapers. She resisted suggesting that they attend to the chandelier. Instead she asked Mrs. Walsh, “Er, is Lord Harrow up and about yet this morning?”
“His lordship is in his laboratory.”
Ivy felt a burst of excitement at the prospect of finding Victoria’s stone this very day and making a hasty departure back to London. “Shall I report to him there?”
Mrs. Walsh came to a dead stop. “Certainly not. No one goes near the master’s laboratory without his express permission.”
Their ascent continued.
“But I am here to assist him.”
“And you’ll wait until his lordship sends for you.”
“How rude,” Ivy murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
At the top of the stairs, they crossed the gallery and turned down a corridor, passing many doorways along the way. Larger by far than Thorn Grove, Harrowood made Ivy feel dwarfed and lost, as though she might never find her way out. Nonsense, of course; she could leave any time she pleased.
It was just that she had decided against writing home and alerting her sisters to this sudden change in plan. She hadn’t seen the point in alarming them, which they most certainly would be if they were to discover her living beneath a man’s roof without a proper chaperone. Especially a madman’s roof. Good gracious, could Lord Harrow truly be attempting to resurrect his wife? And . . . would he expect Ivy to assist?
Mrs. Walsh interrupted her thoughts by pausing and drawing a heavy ring of keys from her apron pocket. Their clattering jarred Ivy’s already unsettled nerves. The woman unlocked the door before which they had stopped.
“This is your room,” she said unnecessarily. “Though why his lordship chose to house a fledgling apprentice—a servant, really—in the main portion of the house is beyond me. Perhaps to better keep an eye on you.”
“Perhaps.” Ivy bit her tongue to rein her true thoughts in. If only this crotchety woman knew whose servant she was—oh, what she wouldn’t give to see Mrs. Walsh’s face then!
“You’ll find bed linens in the bottom drawer of the clothespress. Hot water will be brought in morning and night, and soiled laundry carried out each afternoon. Luncheon is at eleven thirty. Not noon, so mind you don’t be late.” The woman turned to leave.
“Is there to be no breakfast served?” Ivy’s stomach had been giving off ominous rumblings since before she had left her residence hall.
The housekeeper’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, the first Ivy had seen so far. “Breakfast has already been served. Seven o’clock sharp each morning. Why else would Lord Harrow want luncheon so early?”
“Wonderful.” As the woman strutted off down the passage, Ivy shut the chamber door with a thud loud enough to convey her frustration, not caring a whit if Mrs. Walsh heard or not.
She found herself in a room of generous proportions, with tall windows and darkly masculine furnishings. And why not? Surely Ned Ivers should not have been accommodated with flowers and chintz. But . . . Lady Gwendolyn’s room would certainly meet such a description. Ivy wondered which room it was, and whether the runaway lady-in-waiting might at that moment be awakening in her bed and preparing to start her day.
Had she given her brother Victoria’s stone? Did he know of its existence?
Ivy crossed to a set of curtained French doors and peeked out to discover a half-round balcony overlooking the rear of the house. As she stepped outside, her breath caught. Formal gardens, far grander than any Thorn Grove boasted, spread out below her. Laid in a sprawling pattern, the flower beds and walkways flanked a magnificent fountain that boasted four marble cherubs playing tiny trumpets around an angel from whose wings and outstretched hands the water flowed.
Blazing autumn colors had already c
laimed the trees, sharp and bright enough to make Ivy’s eyes water. Despite the fall chill, flowers blossomed in abundance: delicate purple asters and drooping hydrangea, fiery chrysanthemums and marigolds, bold red cockscomb and camellias, and roses of every color, dotting every twist and turn along the graveled paths.
Though on a far more modest scale, there had been a rose garden at Thorn Grove, lovingly tended by Uncle Edward himself. It had been there, eight years ago, that Ivy and her sisters had first learned their dear little friend Victoria would one day be their queen; it was there they had pledged to be her secret friends and servants.
The vista before Ivy blurred beneath a bout of home-sickness unlike any she had experienced so far. Until now, she had been too intent on fitting in at the university and ensuring that no one guessed her secret. And there had been Lord Harrow’s challenge, and the discouraging prospect of letting Victoria down.
But Ivy had played her hand and won the gamble—so far. Now here she was, all alone in this secluded old house where a woman who had died might be here still, her preserved body hidden away by a mad scientist and his beastly housekeeper. . . .
Trousers or no, Ivy’s legs brought her downstairs quicker than she could say Frankenstein’s Monster. A startled footman ran to open the front door for her. Once outside, she gulped cool air, still damp with morning mist, and circled the house at a run. Into the gardens she hurried, desperate to surround herself with the beauty and freshness of—thank heavens—living things.
From a window high up in his circular laboratory, Simon gazed down in puzzlement at his new assistant. Where was the lad running? Had Mrs. Walsh frightened him off already?
Perhaps he should have warned the boy, but then again anyone so readily put off by the housekeeper’s moods would be equally ill suited to the regimen of Simon’s experimentation. With a grin he acknowledged that, like his challenge, the dear woman presented yet another obstacle that must be breached. It disappointed him to think that Ned Ivers had broken and run so soon.
Then again, perhaps not, for the lad gradually slowed and came to a halt in front of the Chorus of Angels fountain. Hands on his hips, Ned leaned back and opened his mouth wide, apparently sucking in drafts of air. When he had caught his breath, he straightened and looked around, taking in the singular beauty of the garden—Aurelia’s garden, designed by her and meticulously maintained down to the smallest leaf and blossom, ever since her death.
Simon’s heart contracted around the ache that had become a familiar companion this past year and a half. If spirits indeed walked the earth, as some people claimed and he often hoped, he liked to believe that Aurelia continued to inhabit the garden she had loved so much and taken such pride in.
His smile was both bitter and sweet. At times he’d wondered if she had been prouder of her creation than of him, but she had never given him cause to doubt that she had loved him more. In almost the same spot Ned now stood, only without the fountain and magnificent surroundings, Simon had asked for Aurelia’s hand and she had bestowed it. . . .
Gripping the stone lintel, he shut his eyes and shook away the memories, but not the pain. Never the pain. It was a grip he couldn’t break, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how deeply he immersed himself in work.
He opened his eyes. Ned was now ambling along a winding path that led down the tiered levels to the base of the gardens. Stopping along the way, he stepped over a border of scarlet and white gladiolus to cup a rose in his palm and lean his nose close to the crimson petals.
A vague uneasiness prompted Simon to prop his arms on the sill and lean out. He studied the odd sway of Ned’s hips and how when the lad paused again for a deep breath, he propped one hand at his waist and arched his back. When he straightened, he raised both hands and patted his hair into place. . . .
The fussy nature of that gesture held Simon immobile while a fantastical notion formed and bubbled, only to burst with a conviction that balled his hands into fists.
Could it be? Pushing away from the window, he hurried over to a cabinet and found the spyglass he kept there. He returned with it to his vantage point and brought Mr. Edwin Ivers into focus.
Mr. Ivers, indeed. Galileo’s teeth!
Chapter 5
“Your young rapscallion from the university has arrived, my lord.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Walsh. I know.” Simon threaded his way past busy servants, returning their morning greetings with curt nods and attempting to keep his temper in check until he stepped outside the terrace doors. He barely resisted slamming them shut behind him, but what good would come of shattering his own property when what he wished to snap was a certain young man’s slender neck?
Except that the young man didn’t exist.
Damn. Simon didn’t enjoy being made a fool of, not in his own home, and most especially not within the context of his own challenge, designed to discover a brilliant young scientist, not a clever little charlatan. Down the terrace steps he stomped, hoping Mr. Ivers hadn’t yet gone to the trouble of unpacking his bags.
His quarry’s burgundy frock coat stood out against the foliage near the bronze sundial, and Simon hurried through the Grecian colonnade in fast pursuit. Ned Ivers had seen his last of Harrowood’s gardens, and any other part of Harrowood for that matter. Ah, Simon was going to enjoy this, was going to relish every moment of tossing his soon-to-be former assistant out on that shapely arse of his.
“Mr. Ivers,” he shouted. The figure clothed in that artfully tailored frock coat jolted to a startled halt.
Quite against his intentions, Simon halted, too, arrested by the sight of her soft mouth and cream-fresh skin and most of all her eyes, velvety soft yet filled with a boundless spirit that captivated him.
Ah, this explained so much. No wonder Simon had felt so discomfited yesterday, so oddly enthralled by the boy.
How could he have missed the glaring truth? Yes, the clothes had been subtly altered to hide her womanly curves. Her hair had been cropped short and she had used something to shadow her chin and upper lip. He supposed that at the university people, himself included, had seen what they had expected to see.
But here in the vibrant garden her femininity sang out, a full chorus of ripe womanhood and tempting sensuality. And something else . . . something that made his righteous anger falter . . . and then slip away entirely.
With a frown of uncertainty she started toward him. “Lord Harrow, good morning. I hope I am not breaking any rules by being out here. Mrs. Walsh was explicit about my staying away from the laboratory without your permission, but she mentioned nothing about the gardens.”
She came toward him, and through her open coat he again observed the graceful swing of her hips. She wore thigh-hugging breeches tucked into those same black and tan half Wellingtons that had proved so burdensome yesterday. Funny, but they didn’t seem to hinder her stride at all now, and for the first time in his life Simon found himself savoring the tantalizing play of muscle and flesh on a woman’s thighs beneath formfitting fabric.
“Sir? Are there other rules I must know about?”
Simon blinked and gave his head a shake. His pulse raced; his breathing became labored. He grasped his hands behind his back and came to a sudden decision that shocked him. “There are plenty of rules you must learn, Ned, but all of them pertain to the laboratory. As for the rest of the property, when you are on your own time, you may come and go as you please.”
Her almond eyes narrowed. “But I may not leave.”
Her simple statement held a world of dangerous, sobering implications, ones Simon took into account before he replied. Knowingly taking a young woman into his house posed serious hazards for both of them. He had encountered enough loose women in his lifetime to know of a certainty that this woman, with her wide-eyed, hand-raising, eager naïveté, was not one of them.
Was she even aware, then, what this charade of hers could mean for her future? Discovery would result in instant ruination. She would never again be respectable in soc
iety, never make any decent man a proper wife. It would not matter whether Simon took her into his bed or not—
A heated tremor traveled his length and pooled in his loins. Why wouldn’t he wish to have this bold woman, with her perceptive mind and her sleek legs, in his bed? The tremor became a throb, the impulse to gather her into his arms a mounting temptation.
One he tamped down with a reminder of the price they would both pay. For her, a stained reputation. For him, a blot on his credibility. Whores were permissible, as were widows and married women who had reached “understandings” with their often elderly and impotent husbands. Such affairs were to be winked at, dismissed as a man’s predilection.
Besmirching an innocent virgin was not excusable. He was a man of science, a scholar to whom integrity meant everything. Without it, any benefits his work might one day yield to society would be lost, scorned and ignored, because he would be a man without honor, not to be trusted.
Then why the devil had she donned a man’s breeches and feigned her way into his home? And why had he yet to expose her reckless charade?
“Tell me.” He fought the urge to reach out and trace the sensual curve of her mouth with his fingertips. “How is it that you alone understood my challenge?”
The breeze sifted through her short curls, tossing a few strands into her face. She brushed them back and said, “Your procedure exhibited nothing new. Humphry Davy created potassium by separating the elements of potash more than twenty years ago. Oh, your voltaic pile was far more powerful than the one he used, but otherwise the science involved was rather elementary.”
Simon couldn’t help grinning at her arrogant show of confidence. To hide it, he started walking, beckoning for her to accompany him. “Go on.”
“Knowing you had conducted two previous challenges, I could not believe that everyone before me had failed to grasp the principles of the process. I suspected they had all gone hobbling down the wrong avenue.” She tipped her chin and smiled. “You designed that challenge to trick the candidates, didn’t you?”
Outrageously Yours Page 6
