“Florence, why are you pouting? This is glorious. I must say I’ve been trying to find a way to get in the Spinsters’ Society and this is as good as in reason. Surely, they’ll be wishing to know who drew the image of King Kerry.”
Her head snapped up. “You can’t possibly be thinking to tell anyone I drew it.”
Elipha frowned. “No, I was thinking of saying that I did.” She walked over and sat in a chair that had been done with yellow lining to match the room that Mary and Lily shared.
The girls were once again playing alone quietly, which bothered Florence just as much as what Elipha had just suggested. She didn’t know how she felt about Elipha claiming her talent, though it would throw suspicion away from Florence.
Still, there was something intimate about that image of Rollo. It was never to be shared with the public. The only people to have seen it with her knowledge were her sister and Lord Lawton. Could they have had some hand in exposing her? She doubted her sister would do such a thing and her meeting with Lawton had been days ago. Surely, she would have noticed if one of her drawings had gone missing. Though, now that she thought about it, she had drawn so many pictures of Rollo she couldn’t count them. He filled in every page at the back of her book.
“I must admit,” Elipha said. “There is something very… noble about him now that I see him through your eyes.” She smiled at her. “I see why you like him so much now. Every girl in London is going to fall madly in love with him. It reminds me of when Prince Garrett married.”
Florence’s stomach turned at the thought. She remembered when the Prince of Lavenberg’s face had been put on a woman’s magazine. There’d been a bit of scandal surrounding Garrett, the grandson of George II, that ended with him wed that same year. The ton had been in a frenzy. There had been bidding to see who would win the hand of the man who’d been placed on the cover of the magazine. No other gentleman had mattered that Season. Poor man. Garrett was widowed now, however. His wife had died of fever and left him with two young sons.
Her thoughts returned to Rollo. Though she had no claim to Rollo, the thought of other women seeing him as she did didn’t sit well with her.
The sound of footfalls made her looked up, and she was surprised to see Lady Lorena.
“Hello, we came over to visit,” Lorena said while looking between her and Elipha. “I hope you don’t mind.” By ‘we’ she meant her and the maid who stood behind her.
Why Lorena thought Florence had any say in the matter was startling, but she stood to give her chair to the woman and moved toward a corner of the room.
Elipha stood as well and went over to greet Lorena with real warmth. Florence didn’t imagine anyone not liking Lorena.
Lorena’s maid came to stand by Florence but didn’t offer conversation, much less a smile. Her gaze remained on Lorena with such force that Florence would not be surprised that if the house were under attack the woman would fight tooth and nail to protect her lady.
The other woman was about her height with wheat-blond hair and pensive blue eyes. Those eyes turned to Florence and looked her over, perhaps wondering if she were some sort of threat, those eyes boring into her. Florence shuffled her feet and thought to move away.
“You are pretty.” The woman said it in a way as though she were confirming a fact that someone else had said.
Florence blinked and felt her cheeks sting. “Thank you.” Though it was entirely common for a lady’s maid to be pretty, since she was to be present with her mistress and a representative to the household.
“But black is not your color. You should wear brighter colors.” Her accent was so distinctive that Florence could immediately tell she was from the very heart of the city close to Covent Garden.
She lifted a blond bow as though waiting for Florence to reply.
Florence cleared her throat. “I wear whatever my lady wishes me to wear.”
“Do you want to wear black?” the woman asked. Then, as though no longer wishing for Florence’s response, she patted her shoulder and spoke to Elipha. “Your lady’s maid could use some color in her wardrobe.”
Florence felt her chin nearly touch her chest, and her eyes widened.
Elipha’s did so as well. “How dare—”
“I agree,” Lorena quickly said as she looked Florence over. “She would do well in colors. The black does nothing for her and equally nothing for you when she stands at your side. If you coordinated, she could even make your features stand out, Elipha.”
That seemed to gain Elipha’s interest. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes, Jane is right. Lord Dovehaven said a lady’s maid could ensure you look well in any room you’re in.” Lorena launched into an entire conversation about colors that she’d apparently had with Sophia’s father.
“There you go,” Jane told her with a sharp nod before looking around the room again, as though content that her voice had been heard.
Florence didn’t know what to say. Lorena seemed to become more puzzling by the day.
More footsteps sounded in the hall, and Florence choked as Aaron walked in followed by Rollo, Julius, and William. The men with their large bodies and dark suits stood out against the yellow room.
Rollo glanced around the room until his eyes found hers and smiled, the irritation he’d worn when he came in almost vanishing.
She smiled in return before lowering her head.
Mary and Lily stood and hung their heads in Aaron’s presence.
He frowned but didn’t dare shout for them to meet his eyes. He turned to Lorena. “I heard you were here. Rollo had a question.”
“I’m sure you saw this week’s issue of Babbler.” There was a hardness in his voice that shook Florence’s heart. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was once again irritated, though the word didn’t seem to do the emotion justice. He seemed livid. She glanced over and saw it with her own eyes. His expression was menacing.
Lorena straightened. “You are blaming the society for this?”
“Are you behind it?” he asked her straightly.
“It’s not fair that you would blame us so quickly. We’ve only been in London for a week,” she cried.
“Took you a single evening to burn down Emmett’s house,” Julius reminded her.
“But I didn’t burn down—”
“Calvin was nearly killed at your engagement party,” William put in.
“Well, now—”
“I know Sophia works for a paper,” Rollo accused.
Lorena put her hands on her hips. “She doesn’t work for a gossip rag. We didn’t do this.”
Florence saw Elipha bite her lip and knew her lady no longer wished to take credit for the drawing. A large part of her felt relief flood her veins.
Rollo shook his head. “Who’s responsible then?” It didn’t sound as though he were asking anyone in the room the question.
Still, Lorena answered. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken, and Jane went to stand by her lady. The girls moved to the shelter of Elipha’s skirts.
“That is not going to happen,” Aaron said coolly.
Julius moved toward her, his own eyes as hard as Rollo’s. “You and your friends will remain out of this.”
Lorena’s blue eyes blinked in innocence. “But Sophia is the best one to find out the truth. She not only works for the papers, but she’s been offered plenty of jobs by the magazines for details about you men. Perhaps she can find out the truth.”
Florence felt dizzy at the thought of being exposed. Even though she’d not been the one to submit the drawing for print, guilt filled her.
“No,” William said. “Once you and your friends get involved, bad things are sure to follow.”
“Swear you’ll leave this alone,” Rollo said in a calmer voice.
Lorena pressed her lips together but said nothing.
William cursed.
“Watch your words in front of the girls,” Aaron warn
ed the other man.
William bowed to Lily and Mary who were still by Elipha. “My apologies.”
Aaron asked Lorena. “How do you think your husband would feel about this?”
Lorena smiled. “Emmett is rather busy. He joined Morris and Frank to go over my brother’s books with him. They’ll be indisposed all day.”
Rollo shook his head. “Let’s go. We still have to stop by the museum.”
“Museum?” Lorena asked.
“The British Museum.” Rollo’s eyes flickered to Florence and whatever he saw on her face made his eyes soften again, and she knew the look that had bloomed on her face. She loved the British Museum. It was her favorite place in the world.
“Are you all going?” Elipha asked as she touched the girls’ shoulders. “It seems like a wonderful way for the girls to spend some time.”
Florence knew why Elipha wished to go. She wanted to be with the men. She still wasn’t sure which one was meant for her, but Florence didn’t care. She was simply excited at the prospect of going.
Aaron looked at the girls and said, “Do you think they’d enjoy it?”
“Of course,” Elipha said and looked at the girls. “Wouldn’t you two like to see some pretty things?”
The girls didn’t say anything, but they nodded.
“Can we bring out dolls?” Lily asked, referring to the ones Aaron had painstakingly picked out. Her eyes were on him.
Aaron nodded. “Of course.”
Florence’s heart warmed. He and Lily hadn’t necessarily had a conversation, but it was a start. Lily rarely asked for anything.
“To the museum then,” Lorena said.
Florence smiled and looked at Rollo again to find him grinning. It appeared that the life she’d imagined without them meeting again would not be so. Instead, they would be spending the day together in the same company. With too many emotions and thoughts running through her mind, she didn’t know how to feel.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
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“How is your mother?” Rollo watched as his presence startled the lady’s maid. Florence’s cheeks flushed before she turned away and heat burned in his gut. For the last hour, he’d been looking for an opportunity to get her alone and then he’d simply had to find a way to be alone. The moment he’d entered the museum, he’d become nothing more than exhibit himself. The Season was about to begin, and it appeared that more than one lady had decided to come to London early with the urge to look at old paintings and plant journals.
He’d been surrounded within minutes and it had taken both Julius and William to get more than a good portion of the women back just so he could walk. He’d lost sight of Florence amongst the crowd. Some of the women were even clutching the Babble in their hands, anxious hungry looks in their eyes. He’d been surprised to not have been eaten alive and had slipped behind a Japanese wall before daring to venture back where he’d last seen Florence.
He’d found her with the rest of their party in the Egyptian section, and his opportunity to get her alone came when Mary had spotted an elderly woman’s cat and began to run after the small creature with everyone on her heels.
Everyone but Florence, who’d been standing in front of the Rosetta Stone for such a long time that no one had bothered to pull her away. The British Museum had a way of drawing one where it wished. The museum first opened its doors to the public in 1759 and the prized Rosetta Stone had been one of its many treasures for the last decade.
Florence kept her eyes on the gray rock that seemed such a simple thing but, in fact, was the key to a language that had been all but forgotten a long time ago. “She’s well. Thank you for remembering.”
He nodded, glad for her. “What were you thinking about before I approached? Her?”
“No, I was thinking about your ring.”
Of course. The stone was the reason he’d come. He knew that a few of the museum’s employees were well educated on the collection. He turned back to Florence and asked, “What were you thinking?”
“Though I can identify what it is and where it came from, I can’t read it.”
“What can you tell me about it?” he asked, in an effort to prolong their conversation, but another part of him wanted to unravel the mystery surrounding her. He held out his hand to her, and she hesitated before clasping it between her smaller slender ones. Even through his glove, he could feel her warmth and enjoyed the way her hand felt on his.
“The scarab is a beetle. It represents Ra, the sun god who the Egyptians claimed rolled the sun into the sky each morning just as the beetle rolls a rock against the ground.” She let him go and then, as if realizing where they were, began to look around.
“Truly?” he asked to get her attention again.
Her eyes fluttered to his before her entire body turned back to the rock. “Yes. The Egyptians had many secret animals.”
“How do you know this?”
She sighed. “My brother. He’s a curator.” Her lips curved up slightly. “If you ask him, he’ll tell you he knows everything there is to know about everything.” She was obviously mocking whomever her brother was, but it was done with love. Then a softening filled her eyes. “He’s a very good curator. Nearly every collector in London knows who he is. He’s even met the king.”
That was a boon, indeed.
He moved closer to her. “I always wanted a sister.”
She smiled at him. “Really? Did you ever ask your parents?”
“I did.” He placed a hand on her elbow and started them walking, keeping in mind to keep his back to the crowd. He didn’t want them to be interrupted by any ladies that spotted him. Florence allowed the touch for at least half a minute before stepping away but not far.
He directed her toward the library where collections of old books were kept. As many as forty thousand of those books came from the museum’s founder, Sir Hans Sloane, who in his will wished to share his findings with the world.
The library was quiet with small groups talking in low voices. It was a long hall, books lining the walls with tables and chairs spread toward the distance.
Florence looked around nervously.
“Don’t worry, we’re simply a pair of friends taking a turn around the room.”
She caught his eyes boldly. “My friends do not look at me the way you do.”
He moved closer. “Are you certain?”
Her eyes widened.
He grinned and stepped back. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.” For at least another two weeks. He turned to a shelf and glanced at the books. “Tell me what else you know? What other historical lessons did your brother teach you?”
Her fingers touched the bindings of the old books before her. “Mainly art. Roman, Egyptian, French, English. I know the Earl of Ashwick enjoys Grecian art. I recall my brother mentioning meeting him a few times.” If Ashwick knew her brother, then Rollo knew her brother to be good at his job.
“Who is your favorite artist?” he asked.
“Henry Raeburn,” she said with a warm breath.
Rollo frowned. “Raeburn. Why is that name familiar?”
She looked over and smiled at him. “He lives in Edinburg.”
“You chose an artist who is alive?” He frowned and crossed his arms. “What’s so great about Raeburn?”
Her eyes lit up in a way that seemed to stab Rollo directly in his chest. He barely heard a word she said about the Scotsman who obviously had a place in her heart. There was something about figures and his work being real, the way his brush told a story. After a while, her words faded, and a tint touched her cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been going on for far too long, haven’t I?”
“If it’s to be about another gentleman, I would say yes.”
She blinked, laughing. “Are you... jealous?”
“Slightly,”
he admitted. “I was expecting you to say something like Arellius or El Greco.”
She looked down and whispered, “I enjoy their work as well.” When she looked up again, her eyes were full of laughter that didn’t make it past her lips. He liked that look and decided to let his jealousy over the Scotsman die. Rollo was there with Florence. There was no need for him to be jealous and in two weeks’ time, she’d be his completely. The smile that now adorned her face and made her glow better than any diamond could would soon be full of sexual undercurrent once he had his chance.
“I don’t think friends should be jealous?”
“When it’s a question of who you adore, I don’t see how a man could not.” The words left his lips before he could censor them. He flirted naturally with pretty women but knew he was crossing the line where Florence was concerned. He was not to make a move toward her for another fortnight.
Yet the stunned expression that softened her face made him glad that he’d taken little care from telling her the truth. He was jealous. He didn’t want anyone else to have her.
Ever?
The question flew through his mind but left just as quick as it came. His plans for Florence were not long term. He simply wanted her in a physical way and nothing more.
“Who is your favorite artist?” she asked him,
He sighed. “I’ve actually grown weary of artists of late.”
Her eyes moved away, and she turned to the books. “You mean the drawing that was put in the magazine. You’re upset?”
“How could I not be?” He tried to hold his temper but simply remembering the women who’d gathered around him at the entrance of the museum heated his blood. “I have every intention of finding out who was behind the image’s creation. I’m not even sure that image was truly me.”
She frowned at him. “Of course, it was.” Then, as if thinking better of her words, she said, “The writer said it was you, didn’t she?”
Florence’s Stupendous Spinster’s Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 13
