Within minutes, he convinced himself he had been mistaken, as she continued their walk and discussion as though she had never even noticed camellias. To cover his confusion, he took the opportunity to hand her the bouquet, setting her blushing as she took in the scent, then placed the flowers gently, carefully, in the basket.
“You honor me, Sir.” To cover confusion, she continued questioning him. “Did you have some purpose in your journeys besides getting into trouble?”
“Mostly trouble, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “But I was loosely expected to advance the Northope interests; I’m sure my parents hoped I would marry an Italian princess and bring her home enceinte a year later. Since I was otherwise inclined, I learned cartography and mapped a bit, though nothing that significantly changed our knowledge of the world, and I made a study of the few natives not inclined to kill me on sight in South America and the South Seas. It’s how I met Eliz—” He cleared his throat. “Lachlan and Elizabeth Macquarie, with whom, I understand from your husband, you are acquainted. They hosted me for almost a year.”
Her head shot up, and her voice held a horrid fascination. “No. You didn’t. With Elizabeth?”
He scoffed, “Of course not,” but his eyes felt like a rabbit dashing into a hidey-hole.
“I thought they were madly in love! And she was always so proper.”
“They are and she is. However, life among savages is not something one discusses in company.” He tried to shut down the line of conversation with a stern stare, but she would have none of it.
“The wife of the Governor of New South Wales can hardly be considered a savage, no matter whom she might take as a lover.” Nick could hear the sound of gossip in the making, though Lady Huntleigh didn’t strike him as the type to besmirch either his name or a woman with whom she was, reportedly, good friends. “I cannot credit it. You and Elizabeth Macquarie.”
“I’ve said no such thing. The Governor was nothing but the most gracious host while I was there—”
“Two doors down from his wife’s bedroom for almost a year.”
“—and Mrs. Macquarie was but another scholar of the native culture, with whom I shared research.”
“Research,” she said archly. “I see.”
He groaned inwardly, but there was nothing more to be said. He had always prided himself on perfect discretion, but continued denials would only confirm his guilt. Thankfully, she kept any further opinions to herself, only giving him a wry grin and a giggle every few steps until he finally felt the blush leave his cheeks.
The path wound around a glasshouse as large as a ballroom. When they drew up to the side door, she found it unlocked, so looked over her shoulder at him and the trees behind, tightly grasping the handle of the basket, apparently waiting to see if someone would tell her no. He was surprised she would suddenly invite him into the Orangery, filled as it was with celebrated trysting spots, but he wouldn’t think of disappointing the lady by declining. He nodded his encouragement, then followed her.
“Would you like to see something of which I am quite proud?” She walked backward before him, her hands and basket clasped behind her back, cheeky grin pulling him along in her wake. The grin was yet another facet to her that he hadn’t seen before today, and therefore, more enticing.
“I would be honored, my lady. Lead on.”
“I visit every time I am at the palace,” she said, turning back to keep an eye on the path.
“I would love nothing more than to know where I might find you when you visit, my lady.”
“You are doing it too brown, Your Grace,” she said, poking him companionably in the arm. “I’ve not pulled you into the Orangery for an assignation. I think you will find this of interest as a man of intellect, and as we are passing… I actually know this one part of the garden better than you, I will wager two shillings.”
“I am certain that is not true of the Orangery, my lady, but will concede the point rather than steal your pin money.”
“I know so much more about this hothouse than you, Sir, such a wager is almost criminal.”
She took him down the path through the tropical fruit trees: citron, pineapple, bananas, papaya, mango, all sheltering benches in lush configurations with thick shrubbery and forest ferns, inviting hidden embraces. The number of times Nick had kissed a lady senseless in the Orangery while ensconced in the smell of a Bahamian forest—
“Papaya and mango are almost universally used in native religions to inspire love and romance,” she observed.
“What?”
“They are aphrodisiacs, medicinally, so physically and spiritually speaking, this is a very good place for beguiling encounters.”
He almost caught her words fast enough to say something romantically inspired, but not quite.
“And these blossoms appear ornamental,” she said, holding out a flower he couldn’t identify, “but one can cook them down into a very effective treatment for sour stomach. They are quite bitter, which I find rather contradictory.”
His brain lurched. “Sour stomach?”
Bella spent the next ten minutes telling him the culinary and medicinal uses of every plant in the tropical herb beds, learned from old native women whose mothers’ mothers’ mothers had taught them the ten different uses of a fern. Every time she spoke, she told him something new and interesting about the Orangery, and never again did she mention assignations. A pity, as at the mention of aphrodisiacs, he had begun stockpiling romantic nonsense to use next time the topic arose.
Her last turn ended at a simple plot the length and width of two hay wagons, fenced in with sticks and string, tools in a wooden bucket in the corner. It was neat and tidy, but not at all in keeping with any part of Prinny’s spectacular garden. There was nothing to which he could point and say, “The rudbeckia is lovely,” or “Is that agapanthus?” This ground belonged alongside a two-room peasant cottage, not in the king’s solarium.
“Do you work this plot, my lady?”
“No.” She paused. “Well, that is not entirely true. Once in a while, I pull a weed or do a bit of watering, but not unless I’ve been invited.”
“Please indulge me. Do you have a claim?”
“I rather do,” she said smugly, leaning against a rickety post, smiling at the watering pots. “These are all from seeds I brought back from my travels. The royal gardeners are tending them to make sure everything will grow in England, and what sort of soil and such, but eventually, my plants may become part of His Majesty’s new gardens. He had my sketches and notes copied and bound for his library, and Mr. Aiton says he visits often.
“This,” she pointed out, “is a very rare ginger and these are peppers from Tobago. Best not touch them without gloves. His Majesty insisted on tasting the fruit a few weeks ago and vows to cultivate it as a weapon.”
Nick kept his hands firmly behind his back. “I believe, my lady, you are a horticulturist masquerading as a diplomatic wife.”
Her eyes dropped in the bashful, modest—Heaven help him, virginal—look that was unaccountably, impossibly, still in keeping with the cheeky grin and the carefree girl and the dangerous woman with an affinity for swordplay.
“No, Sir,” she said shyly, “only a studious girl who enjoys flowers.”
He wanted to know if that pink blush across her chest would spread across her shoulders, down over her—
He wanted to carry her to the nearest room with a lock.
“Lord Huntleigh was only interested in trade crops, but I gathered seeds from less valuable flora—flowers, trees, folk medicines. I never discovered any new species, but some have never been cultivated in England before. That there, with the white flowers, is an Asian form of boneset—eupatorium—used to treat dengue fever.”
“My lady, I am very nearly speechless. Young ladies do not spend their time in such pursuits. Dengue fever, indeed.” He was trying to tease but was afraid his shock at every subject, and finding a lady who would talk about them all, masked his true impression: that
she was magnificent.
All enjoyment blew off her face, as if by a cold wind. “Perhaps young ladies do not, Sir, but I am hardly young, and only barely a lady by all accounts. We should be on our way before we are accused of impropriety.”
“I didn’t mean—Lady Huntleigh—”
“I quite understand, Sir. I must remember bluestockings are never in fashion in London.”
“My dear lady,” he said, holding his hand out to grasp her arm. He turned her and stepped forward before she realized she could retreat. “I, for one, find bluestockings always in fashion. Your garden is the most stirring thing I have ever shared with a woman. I am enthralled beyond measure.”
He bent his head to kiss her, his hand reaching for her hair, but she squeaked like a vole and ducked under his arm, all but sprinting toward the door. He followed more slowly, giving her time to compose herself, hoping she wouldn’t be streaking to the palace at a full run when he joined her outside.
She was not, merely waiting for him beneath a catalpa tree, basket at her feet, picking flowers he didn’t recognize from this distance. When she tipped her head back to drink what must be honeysuckle nectar, he wanted more than anything to leave kisses on her lovely throat, but he didn’t want to encroach on her solitary pleasure. And, he decided, this was assuredly flirting. Far be it from him to interrupt that.
She dropped the blossom, perhaps unknowingly, onto the path at the sight of him and turned away to hide behind her lashes. He was certain she had been trying to entice him. Now, he presumed, she was embarrassed to be caught out and sure it couldn’t possibly have worked. He was spellbound.
Nick came up behind her and picked another bloom. He had thought to feed her the droplets of nectar, but she could barely speak through her unease, so he merely tucked it behind her ear.
“It is unusual to find honeysuckle so early in the season, is it not?” he asked.
She stammered, taking up her basket, and fell back into step with him, managing, “No, not the japonica, though it is a bit early for blossoms.” After she touched the petals gently, pulling her hand back stained with pollen, she giggled and added, “Only in the king’s garden do flowers obey the orders of His Majesty, not the natural world.”
“I am sure he has decreed it so,” Nick agreed, carefully blowing the yellow powder from the shoulder of her gown. “Where did you come by your interest in plants and flowers, my lady?”
“That, Sir, is a tale for another time, as I see we have found the roses.”
He tried to guide her into a summerhouse when her attention was caught by the wisteria covering the walls, but she shook her head, “No, thank you, Sir. I’m afraid my husband will be looking for me soon, and I would hate him to find me in close company with a gentleman. He promised me the King of Kings could not keep him from Giulio Cesare this evening, and Lord Huntleigh is most insistent on the subject of Handel.”
“I shall look forward to continuing our conversation another time then, my lady,” he said, surprised to find he had not at all missed finding a trysting spot.
“Oh, the roses smell heavenly, do they not?” She leaned over to surround herself with petals, apparently requiring no response. A good thing, as he wasn’t sure he could force words from his throat, watching her skirt drape across her hips. He leaned his hand against the summerhouse wall to keep himself upright.
She began poking at the soil and rubbing leaves between her fingers. “I understand some of these varieties are unique to this garden, but I don’t know enough about roses to discern which. Do you think if we find a groundsman, he might tell me?”
“I’m sure he would, my lady.” Nick managed to choke. As long as it didn’t require coherent thought to accomplish, Nick would slay every dragon in Christendom to ensure it.
The hesitation before her next words was just a bit too long to seem casual. “I wonder if he might be talked around to giving me cuttings. Or would such effrontery be taken before The Lords?”
“The Lords, my lady? Over roses?” He felt more continuously muddled every minute he spoke to her. “I know the legislative body can seem frivolous—”
“Or some horrible royal punishment that applies only to common rose thieves? Flaying by thorn bush? Boiling in scented oil?”
“I cannot imagine rose thieves are so common, and have you not earned your right to a clipping or two without being flayed or boiled?”
Her prim look would be at home on any governess he’d ever known. “Giving the king rare plants and taking them from his garden are two very different goings-on, and if I can imagine the grisly end of a flower thief, surely His Majesty can, too.”
Nick was always uncomfortable stating the obvious to women, because it usually turned out he was missing something terribly obvious, but he had to pose the question: “Have you not asked His Majesty?”
“Well, of course I wanted to ask him. I would have asked him. It just seemed such a small thing to mention to the King of England when he has ten score gardeners better placed to help. But when I asked anyone else—even Mr. Aiton—they all said, ‘these are His Majesty’s roses, my lady. No one can just give away His Majesty’s special roses.’ Now, if I mention it to the king, it will seem as though the gardeners are unhelpful or I am gainsaying Mr. Aiton, both the very opposite of my intent. I so hate to cause anyone trouble, least of all His Majesty when he is so very kind to me, but it is easier to establish a trade route through Siberia than splice a spinosissima altaica.”
As usual, the thought process of a female was very nearly incomprehensible. “Both seem equally difficult to me, my lady, but I do see your point.”
He so wished he saw her point. Under no circumstance would His Majesty begrudge Lady Huntleigh a shrub, but Nick would never squander this opportunity to send her a message of devotion written in rarified red roses. Prinny would box Nick’s ears if he proved such a jolter-head.
“If you will allow, my lady, securing cuttings from the Royal Gardens would be an excellent use of my exalted name, even knowing it may end at Newgate.” Her beatific smile made even flaying by thorn bush worthwhile.
“You are most fortunate,” Nick promised. “I have hidden from my mother in every shed on the property, so I expect we can locate a gardener without much trouble.”
Chapter 13
Nick had spent all night and most of the morning addressing the concerns of the steward at his Irish estate, Rathemore, then re-reading current related bills in Parliament, then writing a floor speech is support of the downtrodden, who would surely, given no change in British policy, go the way of all peasants too brutally oppressed. Now, he was finally immersed in the day’s papers, which were only making his arguments more difficult to support.
Nick’s factotum, Blakeley, knocked lightly on the library door, interrupting his concentration. Nick’s eyes never left the newspaper, but his thumb rested alongside the last line he had read.
“Yes?”
Blakeley had been with Nick since his earliest travels, his first stop being his old friend Adolphus’ viceregal court in Hanover. Though Blakeley had been Adolphus’ dresser since childhood, he had been intrigued by the idea of Nick’s planned expeditions overseas. The Viceroy, holding both men in great regard, allowed Nick to take his valet into service. Though the two men had seen countless disreputable adventures together, once returned to England and having been trained to serve royalty, Blakeley’s ideas of propriety had become far more stringent than Nick’s.
“The Earl of Huntleigh to see you, Your Grace.”
Nick let the newspaper fall slowly onto the desk. “Huntleigh?” he repeated, disturbed straightaway, as he had perhaps not been as discreet in his attentions to Bella as he might have been. The only other reason the earl would come calling was Nick’s investment, also cause for concern at nine in the morning.
“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I show him in, or ask him to return at a more appropriate hour?” Blakeley’s frown subtly displayed his displeasure at anyone disturbing the morning rou
tine—whether the master’s routine or Blakeley’s, Nick couldn’t determine.
“No, I’ll see him now.” Nick stood, stretching his back and legs, then donned his jacket. “Ireland will still be a tinderbox in an hour.” If he read every one of the seventeen thousand, eight hundred, fifty-six books in this room—twice—he still wouldn’t find the answer to the problem of violent revolution.
“I daresay, Your Grace. Will you be requiring refreshment?”
“Please.”
Blakeley peered into the coffee pot and poured Nick the last, placing the empty ivory pot on Nick’s breakfast tray, using the napkin to sweep nonexistent crumbs off the desk. After the man left the room, Nick drained the dish of lukewarm coffee, then added coal to the fire and stirred it, staring into the flames, wondering if he wanted to know what was about to occur.
Huntleigh was announced formally and entered, looking up at the clerestory windows. Above the secretaire where Nick had been sitting, overlooking the room from the second-story balcony, was another, much larger desk that Nick still thought of as his grandfather’s, flanked by two leaded glass cabinets. Behind the glass on the left were illuminated manuscripts collected by every Duke of Wellbridge for four generations. On the right, dozens of curios from around the world, brought home from foreign ports by younger sons for generations, except Nick’s mementos, which decorated his bedchamber.
Before Huntleigh could remark on the décor, Blakeley returned through a servant’s door with a rolling cart carrying a silver service, a plate of pastries, coffee, tea, and various accoutrements. He placed the cart in easy reach of the grouping of chairs around the fireplace and installed himself in the corner.
Huntleigh bowed correctly and said, “Please forgive the interruption at such an hour, Sir.”
Nick waved off the formality permeating the room. “No need for apology, Huntleigh. You know me well enough by now to forgo the protocol, and frankly, I prefer it. How may I help you? It must be a matter of some concern, or you would never be here so early.”
Royal Regard Page 15
