by Elisa Braden
“… until Maureen invited him to dine with us. Heavens. Were I Lord Holstoke, I should find such an invitation rather uncomfortable.”
Genie blinked. Glanced sideways at her sister, who wore an elegant green habit and a hat with a plaid ribbon but, sadly, no feathers. “Holstoke?”
Kate shot her an annoyed glance. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
“I stopped listening when you started singing. What was that bit about Holstoke?”
“He will join us for dinner this evening.”
Genie frowned. “But Maureen and Dunston will be there. Won’t that be dreadfully—”
“Uncomfortable. Yes.” Kate released a long-suffering sigh. “I am not about to repeat our entire conversation because you cannot be bothered to pay attention.”
“You are only vexed because I insulted your singing.”
“Everyone says I have a lovely soprano.”
“Everyone is wrong.”
For several minutes, Kate was silent, her lips pursed, eyes trained forward upon the path.
Drat. Regret ate at Genie’s stomach, turning two bites of ham into a caustic brew.
Kate fancied herself a performer of some merit. She’d been obsessed with music and theatre since before she could walk, and while her talent was middling, she didn’t deserve to have it stomped upon because Genie was having a wretched week. The scandal had made her sister’s life difficult enough.
“You would do better to strive for alto,” Genie offered. “Your natural pitch is lower.”
Kate squinted in her direction. After a long while, she clicked her tongue. “I knew it. That dunderpated tutor repaid Papa’s coins with dreadful advice. Why did you not say something sooner?”
Genie shrugged. “Your future consists of planning meals and producing your husband’s heir, Katie, not performing the Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute. It serves little purpose to offer my critique.”
“But you are right, I suspect.”
“Of course I am. Now, tell me about Holstoke.”
As they exited the park, turning back toward Grosvenor Street, Kate described Holstoke’s bizarre effect on marriageable young ladies, turning them into frightened ninnies. She then explained that Maureen had—in Maureen’s usual fashion—imagined she was being kind by inviting Holstoke to dine with the Huxley family.
“Hmmph,” Genie commented. “More likely, she felt sorry for him. Which is perfectly silly. His troubles on the marriage mart are due to his peculiar nature. He could, if he wished, lower himself to pretend normalcy and thus solve the problem. The ton despises nonconformity.”
“Well …” Kate bit her lip as though biting her tongue.
“Well, what?”
“There is the small matter of his mother.”
Genie bit her own lip, reconsidering. “Yes. There is that.”
“And his father.”
“Most unfortunate.”
“And his sister.”
Sighing, Genie frowned at Kate. “None of which is his doing.”
“No. But you know how gossips like to wag their tongues. Everyone thinks him mad, like his mother. Some speculate he was the Primvale Poisoner.”
“What a lot of rot. Holstoke is odd, not murderous.” She looked at Kate, her curiosity striking again. “Is Maureen perhaps thinking you and Holstoke …?”
“Good gracious, I hope not.”
Genie glowered in her sister’s direction. “Surely you don’t believe the gossip.”
“No. But I also don’t fancy marrying such a humorless man.”
“He is not humorless. Exactly.”
“Really, Genie. He acts as though laughter would crack his teeth.”
“He laughs.”
“I have never seen it.”
“Then, you have not paid attention.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed upon her again. “Apparently, you have.”
Genie would have scoffed at the implication, but they’d already arrived at Berne House’s small stables. Dismounting with help from their grizzled old groom, Genie patted her mare’s neck before following Kate into the house.
In the oak-paneled corridor leading to the main staircase, Emerson appeared with a report that lightened Genie’s spirits. “I have located Mr. Moody, my lady. Shall I send a footman to deliver a message?” He handed her a small, folded slip of paper.
“No. Thank you, Emerson. I shall go and speak with him myself.”
The butler blinked, his eyes saying what his careful expression could not. “The direction is in Cheapside, my lady.”
She glanced down at the paper. “Yes, so it is. A hack might be best.”
Lingering ten feet away, Kate drifted back to join the conversation. “Are you mad? You cannot go to Cheapside in a hack.”
Genie lifted a brow. “Shall I go in a phaeton?”
“Genie! Do not be such a—”
“I am going. I owe him that much.”
While Kate ranted that Genie must cease behaving as though her reputation meant nothing, Genie gazed down at the address and wondered whether she should don one of her work gowns before heading to Cheapside. Yes. That would be best. Mr. Moody might be intimidated by her finest riding habit. It was rather splendid.
“… still a chance you could marry one day, you know. Do you wish to toss that chance away, willy-nilly?”
Genie glanced up at her sister, whose hands rested indignantly upon her hips. Even if she’d wanted marriage—which she did not—her chances had evaporated years ago. But she didn’t know how to tell Kate such a thing. So, instead, she shook her head and replied, “Let us leave the fairy stories to Shakespeare, hmm?”
Distantly, she heard Emerson greeting a guest at the front door. Over Kate’s shoulder, she spied a towering shadow sliding across the entrance hall’s marble floor.
Her sister continued arguing, but it was not Kate who claimed her notice. Instead, it was a man’s voice, flinty and low. “Thank you, but I shall keep it. Of late, my hats suffer great indignities when they leave my possession.”
The seriousness with which those words were uttered brought on Genie’s grin for the first time in three days. She brushed past a consternated Kate and strode toward the man who had spoken them.
“Holstoke. Missed me dreadfully, did you?”
He turned, his expression forbidding. “Lady Eugenia.” Those pale eyes lingered upon her for several heartbeats before sliding over her shoulder. “And Lady Katherine.” His dark head lowered briefly. “A pleasure.”
“You are a bit early for dinner,” Genie teased, depositing her gloves and the folded paper on the console table near Holstoke, who stood staring down at her like a great, green-eyed raven.
“Not too early to give my regrets, however.”
“Regrets?” The spark of pleasure she’d had upon seeing him so unexpectedly in her entrance hall deflated.
“I accepted Lady Dunston’s invitation in haste. I’m afraid I must—”
“Do not cry off.” She stepped closer, finding it easier to read the subtleties of his expression—tension around his lips, flaring around his nose, shifting of his gaze—at greater proximity. “Come now, Holstoke. You are among friends. We are quite fond of you.”
He frowned. “So you have said. What I do not understand is why.”
Blinking, Genie opened her mouth to answer and … nothing. Why, indeed? He was a peculiar man—taciturn, abrupt, and consumed with plants.
She propped an elbow on her wrist and tapped her lips with her finger.
His eyes followed the motion, though his frown only deepened. “You are taking a long time to answer.”
“I am thinking.”
“Try not to strain yourself.”
“The explanation is not so simple. You are far from charming.”
“Neither handsome nor charming.” His nostrils flared. “A mystery, indeed.”
The flare of his nose equated to annoyance—she was now certain of it. He was annoyed with h
er. She tapped her lips again. His eyes riveted upon her finger and flashed with … something. More annoyance? She could not be sure.
Drat, the man was difficult to decipher.
She blew out a breath and shrugged. “I cannot explain it. We like you, Holstoke.”
“That is irrational.”
“Yet true. You must accept our high regard and let us help you.”
“I do not require help.”
“Nonsense. If Kate’s account of Lady Randall’s fete is accurate, you need us far more than I thought.”
Pale eyes flashed. “Why not help yourself first,” he retorted, his voice hard and low. “Leave that rubbish milliner and engage in activities better suited to a lady of worth.”
Her head snapped back. Her heart stuttered. Her chest squeezed around an awful, hollow ache. For a few moments, she’d forgotten. She’d seen him in her entrance hall, and they’d begun talking, and reality had disappeared.
The reality of her failures—first, as an earl’s daughter whose only task was to marry well and avoid scandal. Then, as a milliner-in-training whose only task was to learn her trade and avoid being dismissed.
Behind her, Kate was murmuring with Emerson. In the distance, she heard footsteps as maids went about their work. She breathed the scents of beeswax and lemon and mint. The wool of his coat, so recently outside. The faint hint of shaving soap.
But all she could see were his eyes, snapping with disapproval.
She swallowed. Raised her chin. “That rubbish milliner is no longer my employer.”
“Good,” he said with a gleam of satisfaction. “You’ve seen reason at last.”
For a moment, she considered correcting his assumption, but promptly rejected the idea. Let him believe she’d left of her own accord. She hadn’t much pride left, but what she did have, she intended to cling to with all her—
“In my opinion, she is well rid of that position,” said Kate from behind her. “The cheek of Mrs. Pritchard to dismiss someone of Eugenia’s talent!”
Genie’s heart shrank. Her skin prickled. She’d long ago ceased flushing at every indignity—there had been too many—but this appeared to be an exception. Because he was here. And she wanted him to think well of her. And being dismissed was the most dreadful, pride-sinking experience she could imagine.
Apart from being caught with one’s skirts up around one’s chin, of course. That had been worse.
“She dismissed you?” For some reason, Holstoke’s soft, ice-edged utterance gave her a chill.
Genie answered with a brief nod.
Kate—ever helpful—chimed in, “Her friend, too. Mr. Moony.”
“Moody,” Genie corrected, turning to address her pest of a sister. “Whom I intended to pay a visit before I was distracted.”
“For the last time, you cannot go alone to visit a man in Cheapside,” Kate replied. “I shan’t allow it.”
“Cheapside?” The single word from Holstoke had an ominous ring.
Ignoring the looming lord, Genie focused upon her sister. “I am the reason he lost his position, Kate. Unlike you or me, he hasn’t an allowance and a grand house and a high-flown honorific to sustain him. He has been given the sack without a reference.”
Kate’s chin went up. “I shan’t allow it,” she repeated.
“I am going.”
“Not without the direction.”
Genie’s eyes flew to the table. No paper.
“I have instructed Emerson to send the carriage and a footman for Mr. Moony.”
“Moody,” Genie growled.
“Yes, well. Harry is headed there now. He will return with your friend soon, and you may conduct your discussion properly chaperoned.”
Genie flattened her palm against her forehead. “He does not know who I am and has no reason to trust Harry. Devil take it, I must catch the carriage and go myself. What were you thinking, Kate?”
Again, Holstoke intruded with a low, ominous lash. “Perhaps Lady Katherine was thinking you’d lost your head. She would be correct in that assessment.”
Spinning to face him, Genie found herself stunned breathless. Holstoke was … furious. About what, she could not say, but for the first time, she could read his eyes without trying. They were afire.
She started to speak, but her mouth had gone dry. He seemed larger, closer, darker. Holstoke in full dudgeon was a sight to behold.
“What did she say?” he uttered, his jaw tight.
Genie blinked and signaled her confusion with a small shake of her head.
His face hovered above hers like a great cloud. “Your employer,” he snapped. “What reason did she give for dismissing you?”
“Oh,” she said, struggling to catch her breath. “Mrs. Pritchard offered no reason, particularly.” She swallowed. “Only that I should leave and not steal anything.”
His nose flared. His eyes narrowed.
Drat. Perhaps she should have kept that last bit to herself.
“I shall discuss the matter with your father.”
“P-pardon?”
“Everything about this is unacceptable.”
“Holstoke.” She grasped his arm as he charged past her. The muscled limb slid through her hands until all she held were his fingers. She clung and took hold of his wrist, only to be dragged six feet before he stopped and glared back at her.
“It—it is nothing to do with you,” she sputtered.
Abruptly, he tugged until they nearly bumped noses, dropping his hat and trapping her hands against his chest. “I should have informed her of your proper title. That was my mistake. No one should be permitted to speak to you the way she did.”
Her heart gave a queer leap. “You only kept my secret because I wished it.”
“As I said, my mistake.”
A throat cleared delicately. “Ehrm, Genie?”
“Yes, Kate.” Why did her voice sound breathless? And why had she never noticed how defined his lips were? As though they’d been drawn by a newly sharpened pencil.
“Perhaps you would like to release Lord Holstoke’s hands. I am certain he needs them for other purposes. Retrieving his hat, for instance.”
She glanced down. They were clutching at one another, pressed close enough to be dancing. Or kissing.
What a strange thought. She did not enjoy kissing. And even if she did, she certainly would not be kissing Holstoke. He’d once proposed to Maureen, for pity’s sake. He might have been family, had Dunston never existed.
Kiss Holstoke? What a ninny-headed notion.
Another throat cleared pointedly. This time, it was Emerson. “I do beg your pardon for the intrusion, my lady, but Lord Berne would be glad to receive Lord Holstoke in the library, now.”
Slowly, she untangled her fingers from his.
Holstoke held her fast. “Do not go to Cheapside.”
It might have been an order, a plea, or a threat. How would he respond when she refused to comply? She could not be certain. The man had many oddities, which made him unpredictable. He’d taken a good deal more umbrage at both her employment and dismissal than was warranted by their acquaintance.
She raised her chin. “Very well. I shall remain here—if you do likewise.”
Green eyes narrowed. “Likewise.”
“Dinner?” she prompted.
His nose flared.
She smiled in satisfaction.
“Done,” he said.
Her smile faded. Drat. Unpredictable, just as she’d predicted. “Maureen will be here,” she reminded. “Dunston, too. And their children. They have four.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. “I know.”
“And let’s not forget Lady Wallingham! And my mother—”
His hold upon her loosened. Gently, he lowered her hands and let her fingers slide away from his. “I know,” he repeated. “Do not go to Cheapside, Lady Eugenia.”
This time, she knew it was neither a plea nor an order. It was a warning, written inside those pale eyes like a sign above a door: Defy
the Earl of Holstoke at your own risk.
Silently, she watched him gather up his hat and follow Emerson up the stairs, a tall, dark, looming form disappearing past streaming light and dust motes.
“Well, now,” said Kate. “Lord Holstoke, hmm?”
“What of him?”
“Oh, nothing. A bit … proprietary is all.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Kate’s fingers clasped Genie’s chin and tugged her around until she focused upon her sister, rather than the empty staircase. Genie brushed her hand away, and Kate grinned like an imp. “Silly or not, had I realized his persuasive talents where you are concerned, I might have invited him here days ago.”
Genie snorted. The sound lacked conviction. “Holstoke is mercurial. It is sensible to be cautious.”
Kate’s grin turned wry. “Sensible, cautious Genie. Yes, nothing unusual about that.” Her snort was far more convincing than Genie’s. She added an eye-roll for good measure.
“Go away, Kate.”
Her sister’s laughter stirred the dust motes as she, too, disappeared up the stairs.
*~*~*
CHAPTER FOUR
“A past without error is like a library without books—empty and useless. Though, I daresay, every library needs a good cleaning now and then.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Berne upon said gentleman’s complaint that Lady Berne’s feline companions twice destroyed both his draperies and his waistcoats.
This was the room where Phineas had proposed to Maureen. Blue draperies had since been replaced by gold ones, and he thought the carpet might be new, but otherwise, the library at Berne House remained as he remembered: Wood-paneled and small, it was as cluttered and comfortable as the Huxleys themselves. A winged chair sat between the window and fireplace, the worn, age-crinkled leather beckoning hours of reading. A small sofa sat along the opposite wall, and the large writing desk beside it was littered with papers, an open book, and a teacup steaming beside a pen.
Phineas remembered this feeling—as though he’d wandered in by mistake, a stranger from a frigid, desolate land discovering warmth and chaos and ready affection for the first time. The last six years had changed many things, but this feeling was not one.
“Holstoke.” Stanton Huxley, the Earl of Berne, rose from the desk, his smile wide and welcoming. “By God, it is good to see you.” The lean, silver-haired man extended his hand.
