by Diana Quincy
“Is it?” The memory of the deep hurt etched in her face the other afternoon impressed upon his mind. “It’s just that you didn’t seem to mind that morning when I came to tell you I thought it best that we didn’t marry.”
“I really don’t see the point in dredging this all up again.”
“But you did mind,” he said gently. “Didn’t you?”
She was silent for a few minutes, before gulping in a deep breath. “Of course I minded, you dolt.” She finally faced him, her eyes blazing. “I wasted precious time because of you.”
Her fierce reaction took him aback. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head, her exasperation plain. “I’d been promised to you since girlhood. Consequently, I never learned to flirt with other boys, never even imagined wedding another.”
“I realize our broken betrothal hurt your marriage chances.”
“You almost destroyed them. Most girls perfect the art of flirtation, have their first season at ten-and-seven, and are married by the end of their second season. I missed my season and lost years on the marriage mart because I was promised to you. The future I expected vanished in an instant.”
He blinked. “I see.” She was upset—he’d been right about that—but for practical reasons. She was agitated he’d made it difficult for her to find a worthy husband. Her confirmation that no tender emotions had been involved should come as a relief. Instead, it left him feeling a bit…deflated. “I suppose I should apologize for impeding your chances on the marriage mart.”
“There’s no need,” she said pertly. “I’m betrothed to Edmund. As you can see, everything turned out for the best.” She headed for the exit. “Let’s go and find Sophie, shall we?”
When they arrived at Emilia’s home, her father greeted him warmly while Emilia excused herself to freshen up. The two men chatted amiably for a few minutes before St. George invited Sparrow to join them for supper.
“Perhaps another time. This evening I have a meeting with my new steward.”
“You’ve decided to give Boyd Douglas a try, then.” St. George nodded approvingly. “He’s been a most able assistant steward.”
“I’d best be going.” Sparrow put on his hat, a black silk topper his valet insisted was the art of perfection.
Emilia appeared at the top of the stairs. “My painting is gone.”
“Which painting?” Sparrow asked as she descended the carved mahogany staircase.
St. George put a hand on the bannister. “What do you mean by ‘gone’?”
“My copy of Youth in Profile is no longer in my studio.” She came to a stop on the bottom stair. “Someone has taken it.”
“Who would do that?” Sparrow asked.
“Perhaps one of the maids took it away to be cleaned or dusted,” her father said. “Or maybe it fell from the wall and the frame needed to be repaired.”
Emilia looked dubious. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” St. George said. “Let us find Mrs. St. George and get to the bottom of the matter.”
“Very well.” Emilia took her father’s arm.
St. George looked over at Sparrow. “You’d best be on your way if you hope to keep your appointment.”
—
Sparrow immediately took to Boyd Douglas, a serious sort of man with a friendly demeanor who appeared very knowledgeable about estate matters.
When Sparrow outlined some of the challenges facing the next steward of Vale Abbey, the man immediately made some preliminary suggestions for improvements that buoyed Sparrow’s confidence in him. The two of them spent a couple of hours going through the ledgers, discussing possible actions that could be taken to improve the estate’s profitability.
To his surprise, the conversation energized Sparrow. Land use and crop rotation weren’t particularly scintillating topics, but the challenge of turning his failing estate into a prosperous enterprise roused his competitive instincts. He’d always enjoyed testing himself.
“You’ll accept the position, then,” he said at length.
“If you’ll have me, my lord.”
“The position is yours. When can you start?”
The other man’s face brightened. “Right away, sir.” He paused. “That is, if Mr. St. George is agreeable to that timeline.”
“Excellent.” Optimism surged through him. Having someone as able as Douglas on board promised to hasten the revitalization of his estate. “Return on the morrow, in the afternoon. I’ll check with Mr. St. George. Your letter of introduction will also be ready for you then.”
“Thank you, my lord.” He turned to go.
“One more thing, Douglas.”
The man faced him. “Yes, my lord.”
“I’ve been looking into the history of the estate, and it seems the first Viscount Vale believed there might be some tin to be found on the estate, although he never actually went to the expense or trouble of looking for it.”
Douglas pondered this. “Devonshire is known for its tin, copper, and other metals, my lord. It is not outside the realm of possibility.”
“I agree. Once you get settled at Vale Abbey, I’d like you to look into it. Find someone, an expert in these matters, and see if he can discover whether there’s any metal of value to be mined out there.”
“Very good, my lord.” Douglas bowed and departed.
After he’d gone, Sparrow poured himself a drink. Searching for tin at Vale Abbey might be a long shot, but he had to try. Discovering valuable natural resources on the property would help mitigate his financial problems and save him from having to seriously consider marrying Amanda Harrington. He couldn’t make his tenants wait forever for their roofs to be repaired.
“To tin at Vale Abbey.” He raised his glass, toasting himself. “May it be abundant.”
And then he drank to that.
Chapter 9
The following morning, while on his way to Angelo’s fencing academy for a friendly bout, Sparrow stopped by St. George’s townhome to secure his approval for Douglas to begin working at Vale Abbey without delay. He also wanted to know if Emilia’s father had seen or received word from Dominick Ware.
“I haven’t heard anything from him since he sent his regrets the other evening,” St. George replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Your cousin is most elusive.” Ware had managed to lose Tanner, who’d been charged with following him.
“Dominick does tend to vanish from time to time.”
Will had also mentioned Ware’s frequent disappearances. “Do you have any idea where he goes?”
“No. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need to explain himself to anyone.” He eyed Sparrow’s attire. “On your way to Angelo’s?”
“I am. It’s been a while, but I’ll turn to fat if I completely adopt the idle lifestyle of a gentleman.”
“Care to challenge me instead of going to Angelo’s?”
He regarded the older man with surprise. “When did you take up fencing?”
“About four years ago.” St. George patted his barrel-chested midriff, which held a few more pounds than it had five years ago. “Staying fit at my age takes considerable effort. I engaged Angelo to give me private lessons here at home.”
“You hired London’s premier fencing master?”
“The very one. I might as well learn from the best. I’ve a fencing instructor out in Berkshire as well, but when I am in town, I see Angelo.”
“I wasn’t aware Angelo made house calls.”
“The right amount of coin can buy almost anything. What do you say? Care to take on an old man?”
Sparrow grinned. “Lead on.”
St. George rang for a footman and instructed the servant to prepare the equipment for a fencing session. A few minutes later, Emilia’s father led the way to a massive high-ceilinged saloon that had a gallery overlooking the main floor. Sparrow pivoted in a slow circle, taking in the grandness of the room—the marble floors, niches
filled with reproductions of ancient Greek statues, and the huge windows up on the gallery level that flooded the space with natural light.
He blew out a low whistle. “This is quite a hall.”
“Isn’t it? Mrs. St. George throws her parties here, but I find it to be an excellent place for fencing.”
“There’s certainly plenty of room.”
St. George led Sparrow to a table where the fencing equipment had been set out for their use. “Are you up for the challenge?” He turned and tossed Sparrow a rapier with a safety button on the tip. “I’ll try not to draw blood.”
Sparrow caught it with one hand. “You’re hardly an old man. Besides, I’ve been mostly idle since coming into the title.” His work with the Home Office had kept him in fine form, but he was feeling a little sluggish from inactivity since becoming a viscount. “My reflexes probably aren’t what they were.”
St. George came toward him with his rapier at the ready. “Let us put it to the test, shall we?”
—
“No one belowstairs has any news of your missing painting.” Sophie set the tea cakes and lemonade on the cluttered worktable in Emilia’s studio. “Or if they do, they are not admitting it.”
“Who would take it?” Emilia set aside her sketchbook and came over to help herself to a tea cake. “The copy isn’t worth much.”
“Je ne sais pas.” The lady’s maid poured her a glass of lemonade. “But if someone filched it, they aren’t going to confess to the crime.”
Emilia bit into a lemon tea cake, which was exquisite—light, airy, and delicately flavored. “I suppose I’ll go and ask Papa about it. I thought I heard him come in a while ago.”
“He’s fencing in the grand hall with Sparrow.”
She swallowed a lump of unchewed tea cake. “Sparrow is here?” she croaked through her clogged throat.
Sophie nodded. “If that will be all, I need to see to organizing your dressing room.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Emilia barely heard her. She was too busy envisioning Sparrow fencing with her father. Sophie had said he parried without his shirt on.
As soon as her lady’s maid exited, Emilia threw down what was left of her confection and gulped some lemonade to ease the tea cake’s way down her throat. She’d never viewed a man without his shirt on before. Not a real live male. She’d seen her father with his dressing gown open at the neck, but that hardly signified. And while paintings, drawings, and sculptures often depicted the bare male torso, one couldn’t really credit those either.
Taking another swallow of lemonade, she reached for her sketchbook. This might be her only opportunity to draw a bare male chest from a live model. She doubted Edmund would indulge her once they were married.
She made her way to the gallery overlooking the grand hall and quietly let herself in. She immediately heard noises from down below—a grunt, a laugh, the shifting of feet. She tiptoed over to the bannister and excitedly peered over.
Disappointment flooded her.
There was no bare male torso on display. Instead, Sparrow wore a loose white linen shirt, much like her father’s. Still, the way he moved captivated her, with the controlled self-assurance of an athlete who knows his body and what it’s capable of. He exhibited style and skill, making each parry seem effortless. Her father moved well, too, but he was much older and, as a result, heavier on his feet.
Sparrow paused, letting out a noisy exhale. “I’m soaked with sweat.” His voice echoed up to the gallery. “You’ve certainly made me exert myself.”
“Are you going to give up?” Her father taunted Sparrow in a laughing voice. “Allow an old man to best you?”
Sparrow grinned back. “Hardly.” Emilia’s breath caught when he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one quick motion, baring his chest. Tossing the linen aside, he said, “Shall we continue?”
Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t help staring. She’d always assumed artists exaggerated the male form—the splendor of the chest, the ripple of muscle down the waist and over the abdomen—surely no flesh-and-blood man could achieve such masculine perfection. Watching Sparrow now, admiring the play of muscle sliding beneath bronzed skin, she realized how wrong she’d been.
Down below, the men commenced again—lunging, passing, and redoubling—their movements as captivating as any choreographed dance she’d ever witnessed. Although she’d never seen a dancer who could compare to Sparrow when it came to sheer physical beauty.
The sight of his strong arms entranced her. Her gaze dropped to the wide breadth of his chest, which was dusted with dark hair, and over the sinewy musculature of his stomach. Sparrow in the flesh, vigorous and alive with gleaming muscles and graceful lines, surpassed any painting, drawing, or sculpture she’d ever laid eyes on. He was magnificent. Nothing, nothing compared to the real thing. In motion, he embodied power and command and an innate sensuality that totally enraptured her.
Desire shuddered through her. He was beautiful. Sketchbook in hand, she located a corner with a good view of the action below and got to work. Her pencil flew over the sketch pad in quick, confident motions, re-creating the vision of masculine splendor down below.
—
The following day, Emilia paced back and forth in the front hallway, across the entrance to the yellow salon, and back again.
“Restless, daughter?” Her father emerged from the direction of his study. He was dressed for going out. “Or are you attempting to wear a trail in the marble floors?”
She gazed longingly out the window, where a rare sunny London day shimmered as though trying to tempt her with its warm rays. “I despise not being able to go out for a simple walk.” She was beyond bored, and Sparrow wasn’t coming to escort her to the museum until the following day. “It’s intolerable.”
“Stop carrying on so,” he admonished. “The restrictions are for your own safety.”
“What about my peace of mind?” Having spent her girlhood roaming the countryside, Emilia wasn’t one to stay cooped up inside. “I’ll be fit for Bedlam soon.”
“Very well.” He smiled, indulgent as always. “Why don’t we go for a picnic?”
“Truly?” Her spirits lifted. “You’ll take me out?”
“Indeed. As fortune would have it, the basket is already packed. Your mother and I intended to take to picnic with Aunt Agatha, but we’ve postponed because your poor mama has a megrim and has taken to her bed. You and I could go now if you’d like.”
“Oh yes, let’s!” Emilia knew she should feel bad for poor Agatha, her father’s spinster aunt, who lived alone and enjoyed visits from her parents, but she was too excited about going out herself.
“Very well. I’ll have Cook ready another basket to be sent over to Agatha. Bring your maid along if you’d like.”
Before long they were in the carriage headed for Hyde Park, where the coachman set them down at a scenic spot on the lawn across the lane from the Serpentine. Emilia alighted with barely contained eagerness and twirled in a small circle, lifting her face to feel the sun’s warmth on her cheeks.
“You’ll be getting freckles if you insist on showing your face to the sun,” Sophie said.
“Too late for that,” Emilia said happily, in too fine a mood to let Sophie’s nagging dampen her spirits. “I already have them.”
Sophie harrumphed quietly—but not so softly that Emilia couldn’t hear her—and spread a blanket on the grass. They were mostly alone, except for the occasional gentleman rider along the row, because it was not the fashionable time to be seen in the park. Father and daughter settled upon the blanket while Sophie busied herself putting out the food. Emilia’s stomach growled when she eyed the cold chicken and apples.
Her father regarded her with fondness. “This was a capital idea. I’ve missed seeing that sparkle in your eye.”
She reached for a chicken leg. “It is lovely to be out and about with my favorite fellow.”
“Me?” he said, humor in his voice. “I feared
I’d been replaced by Edmund.”
“Never,” she said with feeling. She couldn’t imagine ever caring as deeply for her future husband as she did for her father.
Papa seemed cheered by her response, and they happily ate and chatted, watching the ducks swim by while enjoying the uncommonly clear day and convivial atmosphere. After polishing off her food, Emilia peeked into the basket and spied a wrapped parcel.
“What’s this?” Lifting the box out, secretly hoping it was dessert, she unwrapped the package to discover a leather-covered wooden container inside. Curious, she started to open the top when a strange scent she couldn’t identify reached her.
“Mon Dieu!” Sophie’s arm shot out and slammed the box shut before Emilia could fully open it, almost snapping the lid on her mistress’s fingers in the process. Leaping to her feet, the maid grabbed the box, dashed over to the water’s edge, and pitched the container as far from them as she could.
“The devil!” Papa said in surprise as they watched the box sail through the air. “What is the matter with that gel?”
“Sophie, what are you doing?” Emilia’s words were drowned out when the box exploded in midair, the loud bang reverberating through the trees.
Yellow-orange flames shot up in a violent flash of color and, almost as quickly, evaporated in a puff of smoke. Dozens of spooked birds seemed to appear out of nowhere, bursting out of the nearby trees with a shriek and hastening away in a noisy flutter.
Emilia stared, openmouthed, as the acrid cloud slowly dissipated over the sparkling waters of the Serpentine. “What just happened?”
Her father’s expression was grim. “Gunpowder.”
“Oui.” Sophie returned, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Poudre à canon.”
“How did you know?” he asked her.
“The smell.” Sophie wrinkled her pert nose. “I recognized it.”
Papa gazed out over the water where visible signs of the explosion had already all but vanished. “It must have been set up to ignite a spark when someone opened the top.”
“C’est vrai.” Sophie nodded. “It appears so.”
