Eve reluctantly nodded. She could understand the need for a more mature tree—though she still thought the price scandalous. She made a neat notation in her accounts book, then took another of the papers from the box. “And this?”
Mr. Harte looked shifty. “Do you intend to go through all the receipts today?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Naturally.”
“Ah.” Mr. Harte pushed back from his table, standing up. “Well, unfortunately, I’ve a meeting with… er… MacLeish this morning. The roof, you know.”
“But—” she started as he strode to the door of the office.
“Sorry, luv. Can’t stop. I’m late as it is.” And he was gone.
Eve narrowed her eyes at the closed office door, then turned to Jean-Marie. “Doesn’t it seem awfully early to have a meeting about the roof?”
“Oui, it does indeed,” Jean-Marie said promptly. “Mr. ’Arte does not wish to ’elp you with this work, I think.”
“I suppose I should’ve expected nothing else,” she murmured, eyeing the bits of paper. She sighed and began sorting them.
It wasn’t ten minutes later when she was interrupted. The door opened and the woman with the beauty mark poked her head in. She was dressed in a dancer’s costume now.
“Oh,” she said when she saw Eve.
Eve sanded her paper, frowning a bit over the figures. At the rate she was going it would take at least a week to write everything down. “Yes?”
“Erm…” The girl shifted, looking vaguely about the tiny room. “I thought Mr. Harte was here?”
“Not at the moment,” Eve said, and added drily, “He rushed out for an important appointment.”
“Oh,” said the girl again, and began to chew upon her fingernail.
She didn’t look as if she was in any hurry to leave.
Eve folded her hands on her desk and smiled encouragingly. “Can I help you?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Can you?”
“Certainly,” Eve replied, rather optimistically. “What’s your name?”
“Polly,” the girl said promptly, and then in a gush of words, “Polly Potts. I’m a dancer at the theater but I don’t see how I can come tomorrow because of little Bets. She cries and cries and Mother Brown who is supposed to take care of her for tuppence a day declares she’ll not have her no more and I’d begun to think she wasn’t feeding little Bets the porridge I’d left for her, so it’s just as well, but there isn’t anyone else.”
Polly stopped to draw a deep breath and Eve took advantage to leap into the breach. “Little Bets is your child?”
Polly looked at her as if she might be a trifle slow. “Yes, that’s just what I’ve been telling you.”
“I see.” Eve knit her brows. Really, this was a problem for Mr. Harte, but it seemed to have a quite straightforward answer. “Why don’t you bring Little Bets with you to the theater until you can find another childminder?”
Polly’s eyes widened. “Can I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
A smile bloomed across the girl’s face. “Cor! You’re not a bad sort at all, even if you are a duke’s sister.”
And with that rousing statement of approval, Polly ducked back out of the room.
Eve blinked and then glanced at Jean-Marie. “Do you think I did the right thing?”
“We shall see soon enough, oui?” Her footman shrugged. “And besides, that one ’ad to find someplace safe for her little bébé. It is well what you did.”
Eve shook her head uncertainly, turning back to the pile of receipts still in front of her, and then she perked up, remembering. “I’m so glad I brought the tea things.”
She bent to the basket of provisions beside the desk, and took out her teapot and a tin of tea. She glanced at the fireplace. “Oh, but there’s no kettle in here.”
“I will find one,” Jean-Marie declared, standing. “If you do not mind my leaving you alone for a short while, mon amie?”
“No, no, go look,” Eve muttered, bending once more to her stack of incomprehensible papers.
She heard Jean-Marie leave and then all was silent for several minutes, save for the scratch of her quill. Eve was lost in her task, deciphering the different scrawled hands on the bits of paper and turning them into neat columns in her accounts book.
It was a while, then, before she realized that she was not alone in the office.
She became aware of a panting breath and a smell—one that always brought back nightmares even in the light of day—and she looked up, her entire body freezing. A great slavering dog stood in the doorway, its jaws agape, sharp fangs bared.
Eve screamed.
AFTER HALF AN hour spent calming both MacLeish and Vogel—the architect and the music master were arguing over the theater boxes of all things—Asa had headed back toward his office. This was mostly out of belated guilt. He knew he should help Miss Dinwoody wade through the debris of his business, but the mere thought of numbers and accounting made him itch, so he wasn’t moving especially fast when he heard a woman scream.
Somehow he knew at once who it was.
He broke into a run, pounding though the narrow corridors backstage of the theater. He made the office, panting, and flung open the door.
A mastiff dog, thin and hungry-looking, cowered at his abrupt entrance, but that wasn’t what held Asa’s attention.
Miss Dinwoody still sat at the desk, her eyes wide and fixed on the dog in absolute terror. As he watched he saw her draw breath and scream again, high, shrill, and mindless.
She didn’t seem to even notice his presence.
He moved toward her, reaching out a hand instinctively as her scream ended. She looked at him then, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and the sight made something in him rebel. Miss Dinwoody was prim and precise and everything that was irritating, but she was above all things courageous. She should not look so lost and alone.
“Miss Dinwoody,” Asa said. “Eve.”
But before he could touch her, he was shoved aside.
The blackamoor rushed past Asa and wrapped his arms about his mistress. “Shh, ma petite. Jean-Marie is ’ere now and nothing shall ’urt you, this I promise on my soul.”
Over the footman’s shoulder, Asa saw Miss Dinwoody blink and draw breath. Her face crumpled all at once, and she buried it in Jean-Marie’s shoulder and sobbed.
He felt as if he was watching something too intimate, as if she’d lost all her clothes before him and stood there naked and exposed.
The footman glanced around, looking first at Asa and then pointedly at the dog, who had sunk to the floor, whining. The message was clear.
Asa stepped toward the animal. “Shoo! Go on, you.”
The dog leaped up and scrambled from the room. It might have been big but it was scrawny and half starving. Hardly something to be afraid of.
Asa glanced back at the tableau by the desk. He knew she would hate him even more for witnessing her loss of control, and right now he didn’t want her to hate him. He wanted… he blinked in surprise. He had an almost visceral urge to shove the blackamoor aside and take Miss Dinwoody into his own arms.
Madness, that.
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Outside his office the dog had disappeared and he was confronted by a little crowd. MacLeish was at the front, his face worried. “What happened? Who screamed?”
Behind him Vogel had his mouth pursed, while two of the dancers gaped from one of the dressing rooms.
“It’s nothing to worry about.” Asa held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Miss Dinwoody has agreed to help with my accounts and she saw a… er… dog. It startled her, I’m afraid.” He grinned and winked at the dancers, though he didn’t feel very jovial after seeing the state Miss Dinwoody had been in. “Not used to stray curs running about the place in the part of London where she’s from.”
“Saw that mutt th’ other day,” one of the builders muttered, turning away. “Ought to catch and drown it. Mi
ght attack someone.”
“Diseased animals.” One of the dancers shuddered delicately before winking saucily back at Asa and withdrawing into her dressing room.
The crowd dispersed, people going back to the work they’d been doing before the alarm.
Everyone but Violetta.
She wore deep crimson today, the color highlighting her dark, exotic beauty. “Miss Dinwoody did not seem the sort to scream at the sight of a poor dog.”
Asa glanced back at the door and then took her arm, drawing her away from his office. “She was scared out of her wits, I vow. I’ve never seen the like.”
The soprano looked thoughtful as they walked toward the garden. “I knew a girl once. She had a terrible fear of dark rooms. She had been locked inside a root cellar, you see, when she had been but a child, by her mother—a terrible thing for a mother to do. She never screamed, this girl, but she would struggle like a wild thing if led toward a room without light.”
As usual Violetta’s “Italian” accent nearly disappeared now that she was alone with him and thinking intently on something. Asa had long wondered if she was from outside England at all.
Asa pushed open the door that led into the garden just as an odd deep scraping sound came from above them.
Instinctively he leaped, pulling Violetta with him away from the theater’s walls.
A horrific crash boomed as a pile of roofing tiles smashed to the ground exactly where he’d stood only seconds before.
“Oh, my God!” Violetta exclaimed, her Italian drawl now suddenly a broad Newcastle accent.
“What the bloody hell!” Asa stared at the roofing tiles and then up at the roof. No one was to be seen on this side of the theater.
The door they’d just exited burst open and MacLeish and Vogel rushed out. “What happened?” the architect asked.
Vogel merely spun and stared up at the roof as well.
Violetta gestured to the tiles. “Someone tried to kill us!”
“Surely not?” MacLeish blinked, horrified. “A careless workman must not’ve secured the tiles properly.”
He looked at Asa appealingly.
Asa glanced again at the pile of broken tiles. Had he been a trifle slower, both his and Violetta’s brains would’ve been dashed out. The accident had been very… ominous.
“I do not like such accidents,” Vogel muttered, voicing Asa’s exact thoughts.
“Nor do I,” Violetta said in a shaky voice. “I don’t like them at all. A fright like this is bad for my health. Bad for my voice.”
Asa placed a reassuring arm around the soprano’s shoulders. “It won’t happen again, luv.” He looked at MacLeish. “Make sure all the roofers know to secure their tiles. Another accident like this and I’ll fire the lot of them.”
“Of course.” The architect looked relieved to have instructions. He glanced back at the door, where the second crowd of the day had gathered. “Everyone back to work.”
He and Vogel ushered the disappointed crowd back inside and shut the door behind them.
Asa frowned at the broken tiles, hands on hips. He had his enemies, true, but—
“Come, caro,” Violetta said, Italian accent back in place and having evidently recovered from her shock. She pulled gently on his arm. “You were-a telling me of Miss Dinwoody’s so morbid fear of dogs.”
He shook his head, turning to walk with her in the garden. “She seems too sensible a woman to have such a baseless fear.”
Violetta shrugged. “Even the most sensible of us have such weaknesses. Besides, I saw this-a dog. It was not small.”
“No, but it looked near starving,” Asa said, still frowning. “Hardly a threat, I’d say, and yet she was so terrified I’m not sure she even knew I was in the room.”
She stopped, drawing him to a standstill as well. They were by the new musicians’ gallery, an open space with a flagstone pavement and the columns from the previous, burnt gallery left standing in a semicircle on the outside. Apollo had assured Asa that the effect would be that of a classical ruin, and Asa had to admit it was very similar. At night, with fairy lights and torches set here and there, his guests would feel as if they walked through ancient Roman ruins.
Violetta smiled up at him, an amused light in her eyes. “You seem much worried about Miss Dinwoody.”
Asa cocked an eyebrow at her, shaking his head. “I’m just worried about how all this will affect my garden.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “The garden is, naturally, the important thing.”
“I’ve worked all my adult life for this garden,” he growled.
“Yes, so you’ve told me before,” Violetta said serenely. “Many times. Probably, then, it is vital that you see how Miss Dinwoody is. You would not like to lose her brother’s credit once again—especially at this critical time.”
“You’re right,” Asa muttered, already turning back to the theater. “Damn that dog anyway for scaring her. She’s going to be harder than ever to work with after this.” He remembered the look in her blue eyes. He wanted to erase it. To see again Miss Dinwoody’s self-assured gaze, the crimp of her prim little mouth as she tried to take him down a peg.
“No doubt,” Violetta said, falling behind his long strides. “Perhaps you ought to invite her to sup with you instead of me tonight.”
Asa stopped short, wincing. “I hadn’t forgotten that I meant to take you to dinner.”
“I never doubted it.” She smiled up at him good-naturedly. “But you see, I have a duke—a royal duke—who has been sniffing about my skirts. As delightful as your company is, caro, he has more to offer me, I think. You do understand?”
Asa lifted the corner of his mouth wryly. He might have charm and he might have wit, but what he’d never have was a title and loads of money, so in fact he did understand.
He’d never be the permanent choice for any woman—that lesson he’d learned long ago.
He bent and bussed her gently on the cheek. “Make sure the bounder treats you as he should, Violetta, or he’ll have me to answer to.”
For a moment her eyes turned regretful, and she reached up and placed her palm on his cheek. “You are the best man I’ve ever known, mio caro, honest and masculine and good. I wish the way of the world could be otherwise…” Her voice trailed away as she stepped back and shrugged. “But it is not so, I fear. Go now and see to your Miss Dinwoody.” A secret smile flickered across her face. “I do not think it would do for you to lose her.”
Asa nodded and turned to stride to his office. She was such a prickly thing, Miss Dinwoody. Perhaps it would be best to pretend that he hadn’t seen her fear at all. But the bodyguard knew he’d been there when she’d screamed that second time. Had he told his mistress? And should Asa find and capture that dog—not drown it, certainly, for he had a soft spot for animals, but perhaps let it loose farther away from the gardens so it wouldn’t wander close again?
He shook his head, strangely anticipatory, as he pushed open the door to his office, but when he looked inside it was to find that Miss Dinwoody was gone.
EVE LAY ON her settee with a cloth dampened with lavender water over her eyes and wondered if she’d ever be able to face Mr. Harte again. He’d seen her. Seen her shameful lack of control. Seen her reduced to a little girl, crying witlessly at the sight of a dog.
Oh, if only she could go back and live this morning over! She’d never have let Jean-Marie leave the office. He would have prevented that animal from entering the room.
But that wasn’t the real problem, was it? Eve took the cloth from her eyes and stared sightlessly at the darkened ceiling. She simply wasn’t like other women, who could go about their days without the fear that they’d see a stray dog or accidentally brush against a man. They weren’t plagued by those scents and odd sights, sometimes very small things, that would make her freeze and make her heart beat fast and hard with pure terror. Make her remember that night, so long ago now, when she’d run from the dogs.
Run and been caught by
something—someone—far worse than the dogs.
Eve squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the memories, the sights, the sounds, and—oh, God!—the smells from her mind.
She was safe. She was safe.
She was safe, but she wasn’t normal.
She heard murmured voices downstairs then, Ruth telling someone that she was indisposed. It wasn’t until Cockney accents floated up the stairs that she realized that Val’s messenger boy was in her house.
Eve got to her feet, patted her hair to make sure it was still in place, and squared her shoulders. She might not be entirely like other women, but she refused to become an invalid.
She walked to the head of the stairs and called down, “Ruth? Please send up the boy.”
Alf appeared silently at the turn of the stairs. Eve shivered. The boy moved with unnatural, quiet grace, despite his feral appearance. He wore a tattered wide-brimmed hat pulled low over a clever, watchful face, a too-large waistcoat and coat flapping about his narrow shoulders.
“Ma’am.” Alf pulled off his hat, revealing long brown hair untidily clubbed back. “I ’as a package for you from ’Is Grace.”
He dug into one of the square pockets in his coat and pulled forth a grubby package, wrapped in paper and tied with string.
“Thank you.” Eve gingerly took the thing. She sat and began plucking at the string, and then became aware that Alf was still standing before her, gazing rather longingly at the remains of her tea. “Would you like some?”
“Ta.” Alf promptly sat on a nearby chair and poured himself a cup of tea with one hand while reaching for a biscuit with the other.
Eve looked down as the string on the package came loose. Inside were a tiny velvet pouch and a folded letter. She opened the pouch and tilted the contents onto her palm—then gasped. An ornate opal ring lay in her hand, the center stone surrounded by brilliant multicolored gems.
Eve glanced at Alf, who was pushing most of the biscuit into his mouth, apparently oblivious to the expensive gift she’d received from her brother. She wondered if the boy had any idea what he’d been carrying about London in his pocket.
Sweetest Scoundrel Page 5
