by Jane Goodger
“Ah. You are an ambitious man, I see.”
Mr. Standard smiled. “I am. I know, for example, that you inherited the title just four months ago when your grandfather passed away. My condolences. It’s all here, in this notebook.” He produced a small leather-bound book. “And I also know that your grandfather’s butler was an ancient man, who retired and whose modest pension is a bit of a drain on your limited accounts.” His smile was triumphant more than smug.
“And how do you know all this?”
“I make it my business to know. Working for an impoverished baron is far better than working for a wealthy tin miner.” He paused, his entire body tense, and Nathaniel stared at the man, still shocked by the amount of knowledge he had about what was a fairly obscure and unheralded title. “I shan’t tell anyone your secret,” he said finally. But Nathaniel thought he detected an unspoken and subtle threat.
“You do know you are attempting to extort a peer of the realm,” Nathaniel said dryly. When the other man blanched, he held up a hand. “And I will allow it, of course. It is imperative that you keep my secret and, as it happens, I will be in need of a butler, and from what I can see, you’ve done a fine job with a staff that isn’t particularly well-trained.”
Nathaniel watched as the butler attempted to maintain his dignity, but it was a losing battle, apparently, for his face split into a grin. “I shall be honored, sir, to work for you whenever whatever you are doing here is completed.” He hesitated a moment. “Might I be so bold to inquire why you are here working as a gardener?”
“No, you may not,” Nathaniel said, and appreciated it when the man looked slightly sheepish but not at all insulted. “Suffice it to say, I am doing nothing illegal and nothing that will hurt anyone in this household. I hope that alleviates your concerns, Mr. Standard.”
“Thank you, sir, it does. As much as I would like a better position, I will remain loyal to the Andersons for as long as I am in their employ. How long do you think that will be?”
Nathaniel let out a sigh. “I have no idea. Pray that it will not be long.”
“Is there any way I can be of assistance?”
Narrowing his eyes, Nathaniel said, “You are aware of the state of Lion’s Gate, are you not? It will not be nearly as luxurious as your current surroundings.”
“Creature comforts are not important to me,” he said. “Position is. Beg pardon, sir, but I have my eye on Clarendon. Their butler is in his sixties. By the time he retires, I shall be in a much better position to apply there.”
Nathaniel barked out a laugh. “And here I believed working for a barony would make you happy. You do have lofty goals if you wish to gain a position with the Duke of Chesterfield.”
“As you said, my lord, I am a man with ambitions.”
Standing, Nathaniel offered his hand to the butler, which the other man shook, his expression solemn. “It will be a pleasure working for you, my lord. And I would like to apologize in advance for any disrespect I will have to show you until our positions are put to rights.”
“Of course. I promise I will not take offense.”
Nathaniel left the butler’s office and maintained his composure until he reached the gardener’s shed. There, he grabbed the first tool he could find and threw it as hard as he could against the wall, smiling grimly at the large chunk of wood that flew back at him, nearly hitting his head. “Bloody fucking hell,” he shouted.
Behind him, he heard a feminine gasp. Miss Anderson, no doubt, and he closed his eyes, wishing himself back in London and as far away from this picturesque village as he could get. St. Ives was beginning to annoy him. It was too quaint, too quiet. He was beginning to loathe the clean smell of the sea and the pretty trees that reminded him of pictures he’d seen of tropical places. And he loathed gardening. “My apologies, Miss Anderson,” he said without turning around.
“You obviously didn’t know I was standing here,” she said, and he thought he heard laughter in her voice. Did nothing offend the girl? He was sorely tempted to find out. “What has you so upset, sir?”
“I…stubbed my toe,” Nathaniel offered lamely.
“Are you all right? Shall I have Cook take a look at it?”
“No. It’s fine, thank you.” He turned and wished he hadn’t for she was simply lovely and the sort of woman who would tempt the strongest of men. The early morning sun bathed her in a soft light, making her ethereal, a nymph come to tempt him to sin. God, what he wouldn’t do to find out what she tasted like. To hear the sounds she would make when he gave her pleasure. Nathaniel had never been much of a carnal creature, but there was something about this girl that called to his baser side and made desire rush through his blood like some mad beast. A peachy light shined softly on her, making her already fine features even more beautiful. How had her parents created a creature as lovely as she? They were both short, squat people, and here stood their offspring, slim and willowy and breathtakingly beautiful.
“I’ve brought back Mr. Smee’s book. It really is remarkable what he’s done.” She stepped forward and held out the volume, a shy smile on her lush lips. He wondered if she had the remotest idea what she was doing to him. Likely not. This girl was far too innocent and he had been far too long without female company to withstand her lure. Self-preservation kicked him hard in the gut. He had little doubt it would take only the smallest effort to seduce her, but that way led to disaster.
“Are you planning to hang about today and supervise me?” he asked harshly, wanting her to run away. Instead, she smiled.
“You are grumpy today, Mr. Emory. Have you eaten yet? Had your morning tea?” She smiled at him and damned if he didn’t smile back. No doubt Miss Anderson had learned at an early age that honey attracted more bees than vinegar.
“Just don’t expect conversation,” he said, pulling on his gloves.
“Oh, I shan’t. In fact, I don’t mind at all if you do not respond to my inquiries or opinions. I shall continue to murder insects whilst you continue to murder the earth with that spade of yours.” She smiled again, her eyes merry half-moons. “I’ve had my mother order gravel. I should like a gravel path, one that winds toward our little pond. And Mother has spoken to Mr. Billings—he’s the local builder, you recall—about building a hothouse this autumn. It’s all very exciting.”
“Yes, I’m filled with rabid anticipation.”
Miss Anderson giggled and spun around, the floppy straw hat she liked to wear nearly falling off. Nathaniel followed her, pausing to look around at the hated garden in an effort to gauge his progress. Doubts had begun to fill him that his grandfather might have been wrong. What if he dug up the whole garden and never found the damned diamond? What if he missed it? What if he found it and it wasn’t worth nearly what his grandfather had thought it was worth?
As he stood there, watching the lovely Miss Anderson begin to crush tiny insects, he decided he would give it one more month. If he hadn’t found the diamond by then, he would leave and good riddance. He would save the estate some other way. A sick dread filled him when he realized his options were woefully limited. His job as a solicitor wouldn’t make even the smallest dent in what was needed to make Lion’s Gate livable again. Nathaniel had never been averse to hard work, but the debt, the funds for sweeping repairs, was insurmountable without a large influx of cash that was only available two ways: the diamond or an heiress. Before he went down the route of hunting for a rich wife and throwing his pride and life away, he would try to find the diamond.
One month. Perhaps two. He looked out over the sweeping lawn that ended at the small pond and smiled when he spied two ducks swimming about.
“Oh, we have visitors,” Miss Anderson said. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if they had some ducklings? Though we hardly have room for a full family of ducks. I do believe I shall ask Mother about the possibility of expanding the pond.”
Miss Anderson’s vision of the
garden seemed to be getting grander by the day. It might be best for that vision if Nathaniel left sooner rather than later.
The two worked in the garden, Miss Anderson fussing over her roses—which Nathaniel had to admit were looking quite a bit healthier than they had been—and he outlining the curving path to the pond. Every once in a while, Miss Anderson would look up and he could tell she was envisioning the garden as what it might be one day. The straw hat let in tiny pinpricks of light, giving her small sunshiny freckles, and Nathaniel wondered if those dots of sun would result in real freckles. They worked in companionable silence until Clara’s sister came looking for her.
“Mother sent me to remind you about the luncheon. Some titled gentleman is supposed to be there and she’s all atwitter.”
Clara smiled brightly. “Tell Mother I’ll be in shortly to prepare.”
As soon as her sister was gone, however, Clara frowned heavily and let out a sigh.
“I take it you don’t want to meet the gentleman?” Nathaniel asked, amused by her reaction. A normal gardener likely would not have made that inquiry, but Nathaniel was not an ordinary gardener. Besides, he was curious.
“Lord Foster. He’s the third son of the Marquess of Piedmont. Boring. Ancient. Odiferous.”
Nathaniel tried to hold it in, but failed terribly by barking out a laugh. “Odiferous?”
“I do believe he has not bathed in years. His fingernails are black, his teeth green, his skin strangely yellow. And my mother would like me to marry him. I would rather marry a toad. A toad smells better and is far handsomer.”
Just the thought of some old man pawing at Miss Anderson caused Nathaniel’s blood to boil. “If he is so objectionable, why would your mother consider such a man?”
She looked at him as if he were daft. “I am the daughter of a tin miner. He is the son of a marquess. Marriage to such a man would be considered quite the coup. You see, it is my mother’s fondest wish that I marry a lord, one with a title preferably. Lord Foster has no chance whatsoever of becoming the marquess and his income is barely adequate to finance his love of French brandy—he always seems to have a glass of the stuff in his hand—which is probably why he’d even consider sitting in the same room as us. I come with that impressive dowry, which Mother believes will entice a titled gentleman to ask for my hand.” She let out a puff of air, which caused an errant curl to dance on her forehead. “You have no idea how lucky you are to not have to worry about such things.”
“Can you not simply tell your mother you refuse?”
She screwed up her face charmingly. “I could, but it’s so difficult. She gets so excited each time there is a prospective husband and I do adore her, so it’s nearly impossible to tell her no. And Lord Foster…” She let her voice trail off. “Mother says that he is old and would likely die and then I’d be left a widow and would forevermore be known as Lady Foster.” She plucked off a bug. “I’d be a lady.”
“And that’s what you want? To be a lady?” His words came out more harshly than he’d intended, and she snapped her blue eyes to his. He had no idea why, but dash it all, how could she be so foolish as to marry some old goat?
“I want my mother to be happy,” she said after a long silence. Nathaniel was about to argue that marrying someone simply to please a parent was foolish in the extreme, when she said, “And it would pave the way for Harriet. My mother has spent all her efforts on me and quite forgotten that Harriet is of age to marry. If I were to marry well, Harriet would have an easier time of it, I think.”
“Perhaps you could convince Lord Foster to bathe. You might unearth a dashing fellow.”
She burst out laughing, then, apparently belatedly, realized a lady did not laugh with such gusto, and pressed her mouth closed, but not before she let out a small, adorable snort. “He’s seventy-three. His dashing days are quite over, I’m afraid.”
“Really, I picture myself dashing at that age,” Nathaniel said.
She smiled and looked at him in a way that made his blood heat. “I think you shall be dashing at seventy-three.” They stared at one another for far too long before Nathaniel turned away and went back to work with frenetic energy.
Clara felt herself flush, a strange heat that started in her center and flew through her like a hot wave. It was so startling, she let out a small gasp and froze when Mr. Emory’s head snapped up. He turned and glared at her, his eyes stark and almost frightening. “A bee,” she said, and smiled. His dark eyes darted about, looking for the fictitious bee and Clara found herself stifling a laugh and wondering why she felt so incredibly happy.
“Clara! Mother is getting impatient,” Harriet called from her second-story window.
“Good-bye, Mr. Emory. Do take care of my garden whilst I’m away.”
He sketched a small bow. “I shall, Miss Anderson.”
Clara spun about, feeling odd and wonderful. Even the thought of spending an afternoon charming Lord Foster didn’t fill her with the dread it usually did.
When Clara entered the house, her mother was there looking frazzled, her cheeks slightly flushed. “My goodness, we have to leave in fifteen minutes, Clara Anne. You will never be ready in time.”
Clara waved her mother’s concern away. “If we are a bit late, Mrs. Crocker will not mind. Besides, you know Jeanine can have me ready in the shake of a lamb’s tail.” Clara lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs, ignoring her mother’s puff of displeasure. Three years in finishing school had not been enough to remove all her unpolished bits. Clara still laughed too loudly, walked too quickly, and ate with too much enthusiasm to ever be mistaken for a true lady, though when in lofty company, she did a much better job of it. Her mother, bless her soul, only knew what Mrs. Pittsfield told her—that well-bred young ladies were seen and not heard, sat up straight, and smiled vacantly and charmingly whenever addressed. Clara did her best to emulate that ideal, if only to please her mother, who had sacrificed so much for her.
The Andersons might have all the trappings of wealth, but they had far fewer funds than anyone knew. Too much was spent on appearances—gowns, fine carriages and cattle, lessons on dancing, elocution, singing, and painting. Endless money spent all to one end: finding a titled gentleman for Clara.
Until recently, Clara had been more than happy to go along with her mother’s lofty plans. Lately, though, she’d found the idea of marrying for position far less attractive.
Jeanine was nearly as flustered as her mother when Clara flew into her room, out of breath and laughing. “Your mother is in a lather,” she said, immediately tackling the buttons on the back of her gown and stripping it off in record time. “Lord Foster is attending the luncheon, you know.”
Clara wrinkled her nose as she removed her corset cover and Jeanine laughed as she tossed Clara’s everyday dress on the bed before returning to undo her stays. Once the corset was removed, Jeanine hurried to the wardrobe to retrieve the corset that would enhance her afternoon dress, a fitted green silk gown that showed off her small waist. The dress was by Worth and had a slight military construction that contrasted nicely with the feminine train. It was one of Clara’s favorites and had been one of her mother’s more lavish expenditures. She’d worn it just once.
Once the dress was on, Jeanine stepped back and grimaced. “Your hair. I haven’t a hope of getting it done in time.” Her thick, wavy hair was currently in a long braid down her back.
“Just pin it up,” Clara said, tugging on a clean pair of gloves.
“I’ll hear about it when you get home,” Jeanine grumbled as she pulled Clara over to sit before her vanity. In a matter of minutes, her simple braid was wound up at the back of her head and pinned in place. Turning her head to see what her maid had done, Clara smiled.
“Perfect, Jeanine. Mother won’t say a word, and if she does, I’ll be quite cross with her.”
Jeanine laughed. “You are never cross with your mother
. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen you cross with anyone.”
Clara smiled. “Being cross never solved anything,” she said, and Jeanine rolled her eyes.
Jeanine grabbed her hat, a jaunty number that looked like a miniature bonnet embellished with excessive ribbons and a small green ostrich plume, and quickly attached it to her head. “Shake, please,” she said, and Clara shook her head to make certain the hat stayed in place. Pulling out her pocket watch, Jeanine let out a sigh. “With two minutes to spare,” she said, letting out a breath of relief.
“One minute. I want to say good-bye to—” She stopped herself. Jeanine might be a friend, but she would never approve of Clara’s befriending their gardener. “—my garden. It’s so lovely. Have you taken a look? It’s coming along quite nicely.” Clara half ran to the window and looked out, her eyes not on her roses but the man digging holes nearby. She willed him to look up, and when he did not, she opened the window rather loudly. Mr. Emory looked up then, and Clara held her breath for a long moment, only releasing it when he tipped his hat and smiled.
Behind her, Jeanine said, “Your mother, miss.”
With great reluctance, she closed the window softly and turned away, her heart beating a bit faster than it should. Her gardener had tipped his hat, not blown her a kiss. Not that he ever would. And not that he ever should.
But wouldn’t it be thrilling if he did?
Clara dipped a deep curtsy, glad only that Lord Foster had not condescended to come over to kiss her hand. As usual, the man held a snifter of brandy, and Clara wondered if his frequent visits to Mrs. Crocker’s home were due to Mr. Crocker’s great love of fine French brandy. Mr. Crocker was first cousin to Viscount Pellingham. Mrs. Crocker came from a family with obscure ties to the Duke of Windsor, whom she had never met but whom Mrs. Crocker managed to bring up in most conversations, calling His Grace “my relation.” The woman had a perpetual smile, her prominent cheeks rounded, as if she was delighted with every aspect of the world. Clara had no idea why Mrs. Crocker regularly included Hedra on her guest list, for her mother had no connections. Harriet suspected it was because Mr. Crocker, who owned several tin mines, was interested in purchasing the Andersons’.
