by Regina Scott
Her big eyes, a misty green, gazed at them so trustingly. If she hadn’t asked about Harry, Patience could easily have believed her the innocent she seemed to be.
“He is detained on estate business,” Patience told her as they entered the room. At least, she hoped it was on estate business. She didn’t like the idea of him sitting in his study writing love letters to some lady.
He’d said he was reforming. She should believe him until he proved otherwise.
Miss Villers blew out a breath. “Oh. Well. I suppose we might find something useful to do.”
“Gussie has no plans for the day?” Miss Thorn asked, wandering toward the sofa. As Patience shut the door, Miss Thorn released Fortune to allow the cat to scamper about the room.
Miss Villers shook her head. “Gussie never has plans. Beau and I generally have to suggest possibilities every time we visit.”
Which sounded quite frequent. “The manor must be a challenge to you,” Patience said, moving toward the window, where Fortune had jumped up onto the sill to peer out. “The countryside can be very quiet.”
The view confirmed it. Greening fields swept away on every side, dotted with copses of trees. Birds darted about the branches, keeping Fortune’s attention. Through the thickening leaves, Patience spotted the dark grey waters of the Channel.
And someone moving among the shadows. It seemed that bottle green coat had had a purpose this morning, for it made Sir Harry almost invisible as he hurried away. Where was he going? Why did her chest hurt to think of it?
“Very quiet,” Miss Villers said, joining her.
Patience purposely put her back to the window, blocking the view. “You are lately come from London, I understand. You must miss the excitement.”
“A bit,” she admitted. “But Beau says it’s important to spend sacred holidays with friends and family.”
She could like him for that. “I quite agree. My mother loved preparing for Easter. She’d clean the house from top to bottom, decorate with flowers, boil and dye eggs, and bake all kinds of treats.”
Miss Villers clapped her hands, pretty mouth turning up once more, even as Fortune started. “Just the thing! You must ask Harry to do that here. Not the cleaning, of course. But searching for flowers and coloring eggs might be entertaining, and you could suggest menus to the cook.”
Patience dropped her gaze to the blue and white pattern of the carpet. “Oh, I couldn’t presume.”
Miss Villers dipped her chin to see up under Patience’s gaze. “Why not? You’re engaged to be married. Surely he would expect you to have some say in family festivities.”
Miss Thorn joined them. “I believe Miss Villers is correct. And I’m sure Gussie would be glad for the support.”
Oh, right. Helping Gussie was Patience’s job, not following Sir Harry with her eyes like a love-struck schoolgirl. “Then perhaps we should discuss the matter with her.”
Miss Villers was no longer attending, gaze latching onto Fortune, who had peered around Patience’s waist at her mistress’s arrival.
“And how is my precious girl?” Miss Villers said in a sing-song voice. She rubbed Fortune’s head.
The cat’s ears flattened, and she ducked away.
As Miss Villers made cooing noises no doubt intended to put Fortune in a more receptive mood, Patience leaned closer to Miss Thorn. “Inconclusive?” she murmured.
The lady’s mouth quirked. “Oddly enough, Fortune is quite fond of Miss Villers.” She raised her voice. “Perhaps a subtler touch, my dear. Enthusiasm can only carry one so far.”
~~~
Correspondence, Harry had claimed, as if anything ever arrived at the manor besides bills and instructions from Lord Hastings. As it was, Harry had no idea what to say to his superior. I lost your best informant hardly seemed the report his lordship expected. And it certainly did nothing to aid the war effort.
So, Harry moved from tree to tree across the estate, on the lookout for trespassers. The landing cove Undene and his men used was on the edge of his property, and he’d given them leave to embark and land from it so long as they agreed to carry information, and occasionally him, along with the goods they smuggled to and from France. The fact that no revenue agent had come knocking on his door, demanding to know why he abetted criminals, confirmed his suspicions that the shot last night had not come from the Crown. Someone else had met the boat. Who? Why?
He found no indication of trespass. Daffodils raised sunny heads from the grass, making a golden carpet that would have showed any sign of disturbance. The air smelled fresh, clean, with no scent of smoke from a careless camper’s fire. If only his conscience felt as clean.
I am watched more closely, Yvette had written in her last note. It may be time for a change.
He had thought she’d meant to disappear in France. Now he wondered whether she’d been hoping he’d bring her to England. She’d been a child at the start of the Revolution when her family had been taken from her. Since turning eighteen ten years ago, she’d risked her life to secretly work with the British, hoping to pull Napoleon from power. That she might be willing to leave those efforts behind told him how dire her straits must be.
Had someone else expected her to come with Undene last night? Had the shot been meant for her?
Or him?
He couldn’t have been so careless as to reveal himself. In the area, only Undene, his men, and Gussie knew he sent and received news from France. His family reputation provided sufficient diversion that no one thought to ask what else Sir Harry might be doing at night. Yet someone knew something. He had to learn more.
He cut across the woods for the village beyond. When his great-grandfather had built the manor, he’d wanted to distance himself from his prior profession of privateer. He’d ordered a grand house that showed pride in his elevation to the title, paintings by every itinerant artist in the area to commemorate his success. He’d dug a fine cellar for his wines, and the goods that arrived in the dead of night. Harry’s grandfather and father had encouraged a trade that brought them illicit luxuries few could boast.
It was, oddly enough, because of his forefathers that the villagers trusted him now. They thought he was happy to continue turning a blind eye to their trade, so long as it netted him a profit. Most had no idea that profit wasn’t in wine or silk but the information that was vital to England’s defense.
Now he intended to discover whether anyone else knew the identity of the shooter from last night. It was early in the day for Undene and his men to frequent the common room at the inn, but the innkeeper could answer his two most urgent questions: the safety of the smugglers and the presence of a stranger in their midst. He was relieved to hear that Undene and the crew from last night had all been seen going about their work, hale and hearty. It seemed he had been the only one shot. Curiouser and curiouser.
The innkeeper also reported that no one had seen any revenue agents in the area recently.
“And the only strangers are your friend Mr. Villers and his new manservant,” the burly fellow confided, pausing as he swept the common room floor. “But then, as often as Mr. Villers visits, folks have generally become accustomed to seeing him wandering about.”
Perhaps too accustomed?
Harry couldn’t help wondering as he made his way back to the manor. No one in the village would have shot at the smugglers—too many depended on the income from the trade. If there were no revenue agents or other strangers about, that left only Beau Villers. Harry had originally assumed the fellow had spent the evening with Gussie and the other guests. But Lydia had mentioned he’d been out until after Patience had retired for the evening. Had he been on the grounds? At the shore? Why? And why shoot at Harry?
Or was it merely his habit to escape the company of the ladies? He had made a point of spending time with Harry on previous visits, but as he had spent much of that time praising his sister’s merits, Harry had been fairly certain why Villers had singled him out for attention. Or had he another reason for
visiting the manor beside trying to throw his sister at Harry’s head?
He couldn’t very well ask without giving away the game, but he resolved to keep a closer eye on Lydia’s brother.
Now, if he could just convince himself he shouldn’t keep an equally close eye on Patience Ramsey, for entirely different reasons.
Chapter Five
Gussie was more than glad to conscript Miss Thorn into Easter planning.
“I’m not terribly good at entertaining,” she said, straightening from the tulips she had been beheading in the garden, where Patience and her benefactress had finally located her. “I generally put everyone in a room and hope something happens.”
Patience could imagine any number of things happening among Lydia Villers, her brother, and Sir Harry, and few were good. She and Miss Thorn had barely managed to escape the withdrawing room without Miss Villers dogging their steps. In the end, she had agreed to stay and take care of Fortune, who looked only slightly mollified at being left with the young lady and a shiny blue ribbon.
“Nevertheless,” Patience told Gussie now, “you hired me to assist you in your laboratory. I feel some concern in abandoning you for entertaining.”
“I would far prefer you at my side,” Gussie assured her, “but I know from experience that, left to their own devices, the Villers tend to get into trouble. Mr. Villers nearly lit the house on fire by adding entirely too many candles to the kissing bough at Christmas, and his sister insisted on baking implements into the Twelfth Night cake. I nearly choked on the bean.”
Miss Thorn shot Patience a look.
Gussie paused to frown at the already-wilting pink flowers in her hand. “What do you think, Patience? Tulip petals to provide that silky feeling against the skin?”
She had heard of people who conflated visual or sensual properties for healing abilities. It seemed Gussie was one of them. All the more reason for Patience to be in the stillroom with her employer instead of the withdrawing room with Lydia Villers.
“I’m not sure that would be efficacious,” Patience said gently. “I believe I read in my mother’s stillroom notebook that the bulbs can be poisonous if ingested. Rubbing them on the skin, particularly open wounds, might prove equally harmful.”
“Oh.” Gussie dropped the dead flowers back into the bed and dusted off her hands. “Ah, well. It was a thought.”
“And I’ve had another,” Miss Thorn put in. “Perhaps you two could discuss activities, and I’ll consult with the cook about current plans for Easter. We can reconvene shortly.”
“Excellent.” Gussie waved her free hand, and Miss Thorn headed for the back door of the house.
Clutching her sheers close, Gussie peered in both directions, as if expecting someone to come darting out from behind one of the prickly shrubs.
“Come with me,” she murmured to Patience, grabbing her arm with one hand.
“But Easter plans,” Patience protested, trying not to dig in her heels on the gravel.
“Yes, yes, we’ll discuss those shortly.” She towed Patience across the garden and drew up before another door at the back of the house. Releasing Patience, she threw the door open, and the combined scents that escaped nearly knocked Patience backward.
“My laboratory,” Gussie said with an expressive wiggle of her brows. “Watch where you put your fingers, and don’t eat or drink anything.” She sailed through the door, tossing the shears onto a shelf with a clatter.
Patience followed her more slowly into the long, low room. The white plastered walls and the carved door leading back into the house gave testament that the space had served as a more formal room once. Now neat blue cabinets with high shelves and low drawers lined two walls. Books and strange substances in glass bottles crowded the shelves. Steel bowls, copper kettles, delicate spirit lamps, and more sturdy braziers littered the stained marble top of the walnut worktable in the center of the room. Herbs hung drying from the beam in the ceiling, and a mist fogged the windows overlooking the garden. All Patience could think was that, in another age, Augusta Orwell might have been branded a witch.
She was all business now, moving down the room with brisk efficiency. She stirred that pot, sprinkled powder into another.
“My goal,” she announced to Patience as she peered into a marble mortar, “is to create cosmetics and healing balms for various afflictions of the skin without the aid of deleterious substances.” She whirled and thrust a finger at Patience. “Did you know many face powders contain lead or arsenic?”
“No,” Patience admitted. Her mother had never allowed her to use cosmetics. She’d thought it because of an old-fashioned notion as to the character of the women who employed such artifice, but perhaps her mother had known the physical dangers as well. She had been talented in the stillroom, bottling tonics for indigestion, ointments for chafed hands, and aromatic sachets for a happy spirit.
“Most of them,” Gussie declared. “I contend that Nature herself has provided a better pattern in the plants around us—lavender, witch-hazel, gum Arabic.”
“Roses,” Patience added. “My mother was convinced they had healing properties.”
“Roses.” Gussie rubbed her chin, leaving a streak of green. “No, too plebian. But we will persevere. Let’s get to work.”
Patience glanced down at her dress, which was one of her best. Still, she could hardly protest, given that Gussie’s gown was made from far finer wool and more fashionably cut. Instead, she searched around and managed to locate an apron already well speckled with Gussie’s work. At least, she hoped the reddish-brown stains were plant-based.
Gussie set Patience to grinding some dried thyme into a powder in a mortar and pestle.
“Fresh would be better,” Gussie fussed, peering over Patience’s shoulder. “Lord Carrolton has a greenhouse, does he not? Perhaps he has thyme.”
Patience twisted the pestle against the marble. “Lord Carrolton may not be willing to do us a favor, considering that I left with little notice.”
Gussie waved a hard. “He’s known Harry for ages. They attended school together. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Perhaps not. Lord Carrolton was by far the kindest person in that household, his easy-going nature at odds both with his magnificent physique and his mother’s and sister’s constant complaining. He had made no effort to detain her. Had the eligible earl even noticed her departure? It was rather lowering to think that, though Lady Carrolton had called her indispensable, no one had protested her resignation. The butler had actively assisted her in leaving, as if he couldn’t be rid of her fast enough. But then, it couldn’t be easy serving as head of staff in that household, particularly with Lady Lilith’s frequent tantrums. The earl’s sister had gone through four lady’s maids in the last year alone.
Knowing she’d left all that behind fueled Patience’s work. She had a chance for more now, first helping Gussie, and then, wonder of wonders, leaving to start a new life. Gussie kept hopping about behind her, so Patience finally handed her the mortar and pestle and began tidying things around them instead. They had just added the powdered thyme to Gussie’s most promising formulation, when the door to the laboratory opened and Mr. Villers poked his nose in.
The guests. Easter. Oh, dear.
“Ah, there you are,” he declared. He opened the door wider to admit himself and his sister. Miss Villers stared around the room, eyes even wider than usual. Apparently Gussie didn’t share her laboratory with everyone.
“What are you doing?” Miss Villers asked.
Patience waited for Gussie to explain, but her new employer merely put a lid on the formulation and turned her back to it. “Nothing of any interest, I’m sure.”
Miss Villers craned her neck as if to see beyond her host. “I’m quite interested. Miss Thorn came to fetch Fortune, so I am entirely at your disposal. Is it something edible, something for Easter, perhaps?”
“No,” Patience hurried to assure her. “Gussie is perfecting a formulation to improve the skin.”
Patience eyed her creamy complexion, which hardly appeared to need improvement. But perhaps Miss Villers’ perfection came from a bottle.
Her brother didn’t seem to think so. “Nonsense,” he said with a scowl her direction. “You have no reason to be interested in such preparations.”
His sister looked at him, eyes wide. “Gussie is interested in them. Miss Ramsey is interested in them.”
His scowl deepened, but he wisely decided not to comment.
“Our fascination need not be yours, Miss Villers,” Patience said. “It can be tedious work, even for those who enjoy this sort of thing.”
“Painstaking,” Gussie added. “Exacting. I’m not sure you have the temperament, Miss Villers.”
Another woman might have taken umbrage, but Miss Villers stepped forward with a flounce of her dainty white gown. “I promise you, I find this sort of thing fascinating. Science in the service of mankind and all that. What have you tried so far?”
Her eager curiosity won over Gussie, who drew her closer and began going over all the details as to the ingredients and ways of preparing them, Miss Villers nodding encouragement.
Her brother put his hand on Patience’s arm and drew her aside. “Thank you for humoring her. She bores so easily. Sometimes I run out of ways to entertain her.”
Watching Miss Villers stir more of the thyme into the formulation, gaze rapt, Patience found it hard to believe her so vapid.
“Perhaps you should try a different approach,” she suggested. “Instead of insisting she pursue the expected, allow her to find what interests her.”
He spread his hands, smile engaging. “But Miss Ramsey, everything interests my sister. Just not for long. Not every lady has your perseverance or refinement of spirit.”
She wasn’t sure she had either some days, and he certainly had no basis on which to claim such, having met her only this morning. As she gazed up at him, his grip on her arm tightened. He leaned closer until she could smell the bay rum cologne he wore even over the myriad of other scents in the laboratory.
