She stared.
The paper was covered in a pattern of the most vulgar "Egyptian" and "Roman" ruins and pyramids that had no meaning and no place at Holbrooke. She was only surprised not to see a replica of the Coliseum complete with trumpeters and human sacrifice.
Behind her she heard footsteps re-entering the parlor.
"Shawcross!" she cried. "Cast your eyes upon this monstrosity, if you please!"
"Monstrosity?" the gardener protested softly. "I rather thought it was my best work."
"Shawcross! Come quickly and see this."
The butler approached gingerly. "Madam?"
"I cannot...I cannot be sure of mine own eyes. They are dazzled by the horror." She spun around to face Radcliffe so suddenly and violently, that he stumbled back a step. "Are you insane, sir?"
"I don't believe so, madam."
"How can you perceive of despoiling Holbrooke in this fashion?" Minty must have had a hand in it, of course, but was he not supposed to be a skilled designer? He ought to be able to rein in that woman's poor taste to some extent. "I saw you and your men trampling about for the past few days, wrecking the place, but I never imagined—"
"Madam, your coffee!" Shawcross gently ushered her to a chair and handed her a cup.
The china rattled in its saucer as she waited for the parlor to cease spinning. "Good god, I cannot believe Albert has sanctioned such a plan."
"Do not distress yourself, madam," Shawcross urged. "It is too early in the day. Here, madam, perhaps a marzipan?" He gestured for Nell to pass the little glass dish from the mantle. "Your favorite."
But even marzipan would not make this better. As she waved the beloved treat away, Nell cast her mistress a worried look and turned her eyes to the butler in wonder. He took the dish from the maid and told her to get on with the fire.
Meanwhile, Radcliffe, uninvited to do so, dropped into a chair across the hearth, hitched his arrogant buttocks to the edge of it, reached for the tray, and poured himself to a cup of coffee. All this much to Shawcross's visible amazement.
"Well, I must say," the villainous intruder remarked coolly, "I expected a better reception, even if you do have a sore head, madam. I thought you'd be glad to see the plans and exceedingly grateful to me for bringing them."
"Grateful? To see that...heinous mess?"
He must be mad. She knew there was something "off" about him the moment they met.
Meanwhile, Nell, kneeling by the fire, gazed over at the gardener with evident admiration and had twice dropped the tinderbox to the hearthstones, her face flushed scarlet. Shawcross briskly redirected the wide-eyed maid to her purpose and opened the chimney flue before they might all be lost in smoke and soot.
"This is excellent coffee," the gardener exclaimed to her butler. "The best I've had since I was in Italy."
"I am glad you think so, sir. Her ladyship has discerning taste."
"Yes, I can see she enjoys her comforts and requires pampering. I'm sure you have your work cut out for you. I wouldn't coddle her so much, if I were you. But I suppose that's why she doesn't like me. I would not treat her like delicate china. I am not to her refined taste, because I am too honest and say what I feel."
Shawcross cast Persey a questioning look, but she once again pressed fingers to her brow as the pain throbbed against her skull, which seemed today to be made of paper.
"Don't pretend you swoon in horror, madam," the cheery gardener exclaimed. "I'm wise to your tricks. You're not in the least dainty, feeble and limp-boned."
"I won't let this devilry happen to Holbrooke," she managed shakily. "I promise you that, young man."
"No. I'm quite sure you're plotting my demise, even as you sit there feigning a dizzy spell."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You might fool other men into thinking you harmless and lovely, but not me. Not a second time."
"This is much too early in the day to have any sensible conversation with you." She felt as if he spun her in circles again, as he had done when they first collided.
"But if you went to bed at a decent hour, you could be up early enough to keep better watch over me. As it is, by the time you're up and about, I've been at work several hours already. You never know what might go on while you still slumber peacefully in that bed upstairs. Dreaming of lord knows what."
She shot him a sly glance from under her fingers. Good thing he didn't know what she dreamed about.
But he was not a dream. This was a real problem. A flesh and blood man, the gardener, sat in her parlor, boldly helping himself to coffee, and disrespectfully chiding her. Chiding her, the Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke. As if she was simply long-legged Meg, the maid of all work, caught telling ghost stories when she was supposed to be scrubbing the floor.
Persey took a few gulps of coffee to wet her dry mouth and then managed a sour, "It is none of your business whether the hours I keep are decent or indecent. I am well beyond the age when I need approval from anybody. Especially from my daughter-in-law's gardener." She felt a little better, recovered some of her usual backbone. Thank goodness for Shawcross and strong, sweet coffee. She glared at him over her cup. "I would like to know, Master Radcliffe, where you came by the idea that it is at all proper and permissible for you to barge into my house and lecture me? At any hour of the day."
The gardener grinned at her. "Like you, your ladyship, I'm long beyond the age when I want approval to do anything." Indeed. There he sat, with his thighs apart, filling a chair with his over-brimming energy. For all the world as if he owned the house. And her. "Christ!"
Suddenly he winced and looked down at his hand. For the first time, Persey— fully awake now— realized he still wore it wrapped in that bloodstained scrap of linen.
"Shawcross, would you fetch a cup of vinegar, a basin of warm water, some of my herbal salve and a fresh bandage? Nell can make toast, if she can be trusted not to burn it this time."
"Very good, madam."
As the butler and maid left the parlor once again, Persey became aware of the gardener's deep brown eyes studying her intently.
Quite suddenly, he muttered, "You look ravishable this morning, your ladyship."
After all her attempts to be the opposite? "I hardly think—"
"Like an angel fallen to earth, slightly broken but beautifully so."
"I've had some compliments in my day, but none quite like that."
"Ah, there goes my brazen honesty again. I cannot help myself."
"It seems you do not try very hard." He was the sort who could do anything he wanted if he set his mind to it. The quiet capability rolled off his skin like mist curling across the fields in autumn.
"But there is one thing missing to complete the pretty picture." Abruptly he shifted to the edge of his chair and reached out, turning his bandaged hand, palm up toward her. It was one of her earrings from last night. She vaguely remembered removing them before she went up to bed.
Before she could take it from him, he was out of his chair and down on one knee before her. She drew back, almost spilling her coffee. Didn't he know that lowering himself to such a position left him vulnerable to being cracked over the head?
"Hold still then, woman," he said.
Hold still then, woman? Was that any way for a gardener to address a dowager marchioness? But not only did Persey remain rigid in astonishment, she held her breath, while he moved a stray lock of hair aside and very carefully put the found earring back where it belonged. His knuckle very lightly grazed her cheek and then the side of her neck. For such rough hands they had a remarkably gentle touch. It seemed to last forever and she closed her eyes, rather than look at his shoulder or anything else about him.
Outside her window a lark sang and ivy tickled the old glass panes. Beside her the fire wheezed and chuckled huskily. All was pleasant and normal. But on the inside her heart galloped recklessly, a racing messenger carrying urgent notes to all parts of her body. Was the news good or bad? She could not tell. It was indecipherable�
� some language she'd never known before. Something missing from that ragbag quilt of a self-gleaned education.
At last he returned to his chair.
And she could breathe again.
"My daughter-in-law will dismiss you on the spot if she ever hears that you've shown me your plans." Yes, better remind him that this was quite forbidden.
"Eh." He shrugged. "It's only money."
"Only money?"
He stretched out his legs, scuffing his muddy heels across her carpet. "She wouldn't dismiss me. I'm in high demand. Everybody wants me." He sighed heavily as he sank further into the embrace of that chair, fingers linked and rested on his waistcoat. "As you said yourself, madam. It's a bane I must bear, to be so sought after."
"Make the most of it, young man. Such success cannot last forever."
"I have barely begun my climb. Plenty of heights yet to conquer."
She thought of those hideous plans he'd spread over her table. It was difficult to believe his designs were so popular, but then there was no accounting for taste. Fashion was an odd thing, led by no more than a handful of pretentious rich folk. Wealth had no bearing on judgment, or a discerning eye.
"Tell me about those bodies buried in the rose garden," he said suddenly, his eyes gleaming with curiosity from the shadow of the winged chair-back.
"Why? Afraid you might end up there?"
"I like gruesome stories and tall tales. Knew a girl once who... liked them too."
Her heart was suddenly in her throat. But he had mentioned it casually, nothing sinister in his tone or his expression. As if the thought had leapt into his mind even as he spoke. He looked away from her, in fact, gazing at the wall, looking through it and beyond it, his brow lined again with the effort of deep thought.
Even the clanging of the door bell did not break his reverie.
Persey stood, setting her coffee cup back on the tray. "Oh, lord! That could be Honoria or somebody else from the house and you shouldn't be here. What would Min—the younger Lady Holbrooke have to say?"
"Good morning, perhaps? What else? Her husband might have hired me to improve his grounds, but he has not purchased my leisure time. That would be too costly even for a man of his riches."
"I would like to know where you acquired your extraordinary lack of concern for boundaries, Master Radcliffe. It might even be amusing if it wasn't responsible for waking me at such an ungodly hour."
"I was born insufferable," he replied, the wide-eyed innocent who had claimed her chair and flung his limbs all over it without the slightest nod to modesty and etiquette. "Nobody could ever tell me what to do. I decided long ago that I would make my own way in life and not bow and scrape to the upper crust. They put their breeches on one leg at a time. Same as me."
"But you need them now to make your living, do you not?"
He had nothing in reply to that, of course, for she was right.
Shawcross re-entered the parlor bearing a large basket of peaches, grapes and pineapples. "This just arrived by messenger, madam, sent by Lord Thornby with his warmest regards."
"Good gracious. How lovely!" At least it wasn't Minty, coming to find her wayward gardener.
Radcliffe sat up in the chair and glowered at Thornby's gift. "What could one woman want with all that fruit?"
"Lord Thornby and I were discussing the usefulness of glasshouses yesterday evening and he told me about the wonderful pineapples growing in his own." She quickly helped Shawcross with the heavy basket, setting it down on the gardener's plans.
"So he was one of your late guests yesterday."
"My late guests, Master Radcliffe?"
"One of them was here till after two. Was that him?"
Aha! So it was the gardener watching her from that oak tree! Persey had felt some beast stalking her last night while she stood by her gate. Several soft curses had travelled downwind as, whatever animal watched her, almost lost its balance and came close to falling from the branches several times.
"So I heard, in any case," he added with a sniff.
She smiled but kept her face turned away, pretending to admire the fruit. It was in fact, too much, an overabundance that she could not possibly use all to herself. It must quickly be distributed to folk in the village before it rotted. "Lord Thornby is a very pleasant gentleman. Well-mannered and obliging. He would certainly never wake a lady this early in the day."
"I would wager Chelmsworth doesn't know that your fruity fellow stayed so late last night after the others had left."
"And why would that be a matter of interest to Lord Chelmsworth?"
"Might not be too happy to know one of his rivals for your attention stayed alone with you in this parlor until after two." He paused, scratched his chin, and added sulkily, "So I heard."
"Setting aside your impertinence, and not that it is any business of yours, Radcliffe, but Lord Thornby and I were discussing the grounds of his manor. In fact, I've been invited to visit and give him my opinion. He, at least, values my green fingers, although I cannot command the princely sum of five guineas a day. As Lord Thornby pointed out to me last night, this might be a good time for me to travel, while the weather is fine. Especially since I am unwanted here at present and I cannot bear to see my beloved Holbrooke so torn about. His country house is only a few hours from here in a coach and four, which he has promised to send for me if I accept the invitation. Yes, it might be as well for me to go now."
She turned as he stood upright and almost banged his head on the low beams.
"If I were you," he muttered, "I wouldn't leave Holbrooke for any extended length of time, madam. Never know when I might decide to dig up that secret garden inside the labyrinth and uncover all the bodies you've hidden there."
"You wouldn't dare dig that garden up. All those years of work by previous generations!"
He said nothing, just looked, his jaw tight. Suddenly she didn't know whether they were still talking about the garden, or something else. What did he think she had buried? His eyes were too thoughtful, weighing her as if she were a sack of corn at the exchange. He had said he once knew a girl with a fondness for stories...
But no, she was letting her imagination run away with her. If she had ever known this man she would remember him. Besides, he would have been too young.
"I thought you came here to keep your side of a silly bargain and offer an olive branch," she said carefully. "I begin to think you had another motive entirely. To poke your nose into my business and give me a sore head."
"You had a sore head before I came in. Nobody's fault but your own, madam."
"And now it's worse." She touched the earring that he had replaced for her and realized her hands were trembling. When he moved that lock of hair aside he would have seen her scar, yet he had said nothing about it. Sometimes, when she caught sight of that faded car, or accidentally trailed her fingertips across it, she felt the pain and fury anew. She raised her voice and sharpened it. "Having examined those dreadful plans I do not think my head will ever recover, young man."
He took two steps toward her, bristling with energy and heat, like the sun itself— as if a part of it lived inside him. "Then you'd better be more attentive to what I'm up to, madam, from now on. I'm up with the lark, and I need no more than a few hours sleep. You can't afford to go trotting off to canoodle with one of your sweethearts, or to be caught napping. Who knows what I might do next to your beloved Holbrooke?"
Of course she had not seriously considered leaving the estate while all this was going on, but apparently he believed her. And he assumed the gentlemen guests he'd seen were her suitors. Not a challenge to guess from whom he heard that rumor. Persey might have been amused by the word "canoodle", if she wasn't so angered by his tone and those assumptions.
"I shall go where I please, Master Radcliffe, and I am curious to see Lord Thornby's glasshouse—"
"I could build you a glasshouse, if you wanted one. Right here on the estate. And you could grow all the blasted fruit you wanted."
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"But you're not working for me, young man," she reminded him coolly. "I'm not a part of your plans, and I'm certainly not included in my daughter-in-law's vision for this estate. She wants me gone from it."
He ground his jaw for a moment and then turned stiffly. "Thank you for the excellent coffee, Master Shawcross," he said. "The lady is lucky to have you in her service." In the next moment he was striding out of her parlor and through the front door, closing it hard behind him.
As the scent of burning toast floated across the hall from the kitchen, Persey stood at the window to watch her early guest stride away down the path. He didn't waste time on her gate latch, but leapt easily over it in a display of athleticism that— if he meant it for her benefit— was entirely unnecessary.
"His hand will be infected if he neglects it like that. Foolish man," she muttered, squinting against the sun. "And he left his ghastly plans behind."
"Yes, madam."
"I suppose we should return them to him."
"I doubt he would want them back, madam."
She turned away from the window. "Why not, Shawcross? Whatever do you mean?"
"Madam, did it not occur to you, that Master Radcliffe, of the youthful joie de vivre, might have shown you plans that are not, in fact, his own? But a version drawn merely to amuse."
She glared. "I don't understand."
Shawcross smiled politely. "I rather think he did it, madam, to tease you."
"To tease me?"
"Yes, madam. I have been lead to believe this is the customary practice when one wishes to raise a smile, or to put somebody at their ease. Or even, perhaps, to repay them for some other mischievous prank, real or imagined."
Persey stared after the disappearing figure, who walked at a jaunty pace, hat swinging at his side. He had called her a beautifully broken angel. To look at him one would never think him so soppy. "Then he is highly impudent."
"Indeed, madam, and in possession of those high spirits often found in particular abundance among those of youthful stamina and resistance to boundaries."
The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Page 14
