“What?” Asa turned to Eve.
She couldn’t help the spread of warmth through her middle at his gaze. Just last night he’d stared at her with those same dark-green eyes as he’d—
She cleared her throat and stood. “Several of the ladies have found that they have no one to take care of their children. Naturally they cannot practice in such a situation, so today I hired quite a nice woman to come and watch the children.”
Asa’s brows drew together. “Why wasn’t I consulted on the matter?”
“Well, you are quite busy, as you keep telling me,” Eve pointed out.
“And Miss Dinwoody’s ever so easy to talk to,” Polly said.
“Oh.” Eve felt a shy smile spread across her face. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“It’s true,” Mary said, which was quite remarkable, because as far as Eve could see Mary and Polly rarely agreed on anything.
“And you aren’t,” Theresa said bluntly to Asa. “Easy to talk to, that is.”
Polly shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Mr. Harte, but it’s true.”
Asa frowned, opened his mouth, shut it, and then said, “I see. Sounds like I should’ve brought in Miss Dinwoody much earlier.”
And he gave her a warm look.
Eve could feel herself blushing as she met his gaze, for Asa’s warm look was very close to the look that had been in his eyes last night in the carriage—before they’d been attacked by highwaymen.
One of the women cleared her throat and then there was a general exodus as they all decided they had things they must do.
When Eve tore her gaze from Asa and glanced over, they were all gone. She frowned for a moment, puzzled, before turning back to Asa. “I do hope you don’t mind that I settled their arguments?”
“No, not at all.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “Fact is, arguments between the actors and dancers and singers are the bane of my life.”
“Then I’m glad to help,” she said softly.
“Eve,” he began, but at that moment a very large man appeared at the office doorway. “Asa, I thought we were to discuss the gardens today—oh, I beg your pardon.” The man’s voice was slightly off—strained and raspy. His eyebrows had shot up at the sight of her.
Asa straightened. “’Pollo, this is Miss Eve Dinwoody, the Duke of Montgomery’s sister and his man of affairs in regard to his investment in Harte’s Folly. Miss Dinwoody, Apollo Greaves, Lord Kilbourne, the designer of the gardens.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dinwoody,” Lord Kilbourne said, bowing. He wasn’t a handsome man—in fact, rather the opposite—but he had a gentle manner.
Eve curtsied. “If I’m not mistaken, my lord, you’re also husband to the former Robin Goodfellow?”
A smile lit the big man’s face at the mention of his wife. “Indeed.”
“I’ve always admired her work upon the stage.” Eve smiled in return. “I fear you’ve stolen a great talent from London theater.”
“And yet I’ll not give her up,” Lord Kilbourne replied good-naturedly. “Though she does still pen plays. I’m afraid London theater will have to be satisfied with her writing instead.”
“Oh, we will, I feel,” Eve said. “I truly look forward to her next play.”
Asa cleared his throat rather obnoxiously.
They both looked at him.
He jerked his head in the direction of the door. “The garden?”
Lord Kilbourne looked amused. He bowed to Eve again, gesturing toward the door. “After you, Miss Dinwoody.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, pointedly ignoring Asa.
She swept from the room and nearly ran into Jean-Marie, holding a dish of water for the dog in his hands. Her footman lifted an eyebrow.
“I’ll be touring the gardens, Jean-Marie,” she said. “Can you see to the dog?”
He eyed both Asa and Lord Kilbourne and then nodded. “Of course. I’ll see if ’e can go out to do ’is business.”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully.
She turned to find Asa holding out his arm pointedly. “Shall we?”
She swallowed and nodded, laying her hand gingerly on his sleeve. She almost expected an electric shock. This wasn’t the same as their touch last night—there was no skin-to-skin contact—but even so she was very aware of the human warmth of his arm through the fabric.
She turned to Lord Kilbourne. “Mr. Makepeace told me that you were able to successfully transplant several mature trees into the garden.”
“Yes, indeed,” the garden designer replied, and Eve was treated to a fascinating dissertation on how he’d managed to do just that. This took them into the garden, where Lord Kilbourne pointed out the maze, which was apparently what he’d wanted to discuss with Asa.
“The evergreen hedges will take years to grow,” Lord Kilbourne explained, gesturing to the new plantings. “So I thought in the meantime to construct a sort of faux wall. It’ll be out of wood, but I have a man who can paint it to look like marble. It’s not permanent, of course, but your guests will be able to enjoy the maze until the hedges grow tall enough to disassemble the wooden wall.”
“But won’t the elements destroy the paint on the wall?” Eve asked.
Lord Kilbourne shrugged. “Yes, after several years, but as I say, by then the planted hedge should be big enough to use.”
Asa nodded beside Eve. “I like the idea.” He glanced at her pointedly. “And a wooden wall should be fairly cheap as well. I’m sure you’ll like that, Miss Dinwoody.”
“A monetary savings is always welcome,” she said primly.
Asa laughed, and the sound made her feel warm, as if they shared a secret joke between the two of them.
They began to stroll, Lord Kilbourne pointing out other planned projects. They’d almost made it back to the theater when they were met by a gentleman walking toward them. He was of middle age, with a sloping belly and arms so long they didn’t seem to quite fit the rest of his body. His face was reddened and dominated by a great lumpy nose. At the sight of him, Eve began to slow, feeling strange.
“Mr. Harte,” the gentleman called. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
Eve stopped dead. That voice.
She’d heard that voice before.
He extended his hand to Asa. The gesture caused his coat sleeve to pull back. On the inside of his wrist was a strange little design—a tattoo—of a dolphin.
Horror coursed through her.
She looked up to see that he was watching her. A genial smile broadened his lips. “Why, if it isn’t little Eve!”
And Eve remembered where she’d heard the voice before:
In nightmares.
Chapter Eleven
When Dove opened her eyes again, it was daylight and a man was glaring down at her. His hair was tawny, his shoulders broad, and his eyes as green as the forest leaves that surrounded them.
“You should not be here,” the man growled, looking quite put out. “Who are you?”
“My name is Dove. Who are you?”
“I am Eric.” With that he stalked away.
Which would’ve been the end of the matter—and my tale—had not Dove jumped up and followed Eric.…
—From The Lion and the Dove
Asa felt Eve’s fingers dig into his arm. He glanced at her sharply before looking back at the gentleman who stood before them. The man’s smile was friendly, his dress not of the first style, but certainly expensively made, and yet Asa found him just the smallest bit… oily.
He pasted on his business smile. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
The other man bowed—very briefly—still smiling. “I am George Hampston, Viscount Hampston, and I’m interested in investing in your gardens.”
Asa straightened. An investor was never to be disregarded, oily or not. A pleasure garden could always use more money. Still, Eve’s fingers were, if anything, clutching his arm even tighter, so he proceeded with caution. “And how do you know Miss Dinwoody
?”
“Oh, Eve and I have been acquaintances for a very long time.” Lord Hampston smiled fondly at her. “I was friends with His Grace, the late Duke of Montgomery, her father. Why, I’ve known Eve since she was but knee-high.”
“But…” Eve’s word was croaked and she stopped to clear her voice. “But I don’t have recollection of you, my lord.”
“Don’t you?” He inclined his head, looking at her intently from under rather bushy gray eyebrows. Asa fought down an unaccountable urge to growl. The man put his back up, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. “You were but a young thing and it was years ago, of course.”
“And yet you recognized Miss Dinwoody.” Apollo spoke up from behind Asa.
Lord Hampston looked at him. “And you are, sir?”
“Forgive my lack of manners,” Asa said. “Lord Hampston, Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne.”
“Ah, of course,” Lord Hampston exclaimed. “You’re designing the gardens, if I’m not mistaken. A pleasure to meet you indeed, my lord.”
Apollo nodded as he shook the other man’s hand, but his expression was wary. “Sir.”
Beside Asa, Eve shuddered.
He laid his palm over the hand on his sleeve without looking away from Hampston. Her fingers were slim beneath his, small and delicate, and as cold as ice. He ought to discuss business at once with Lord Hampston, strike while the iron was hot—or the investor eager, in this instance. But Eve was afraid.
Something primal and protective made him say, “I’d be most pleased to discuss my gardens with you at a later date. I fear that I have several appointments today.”
“Of course, of course,” Hampston replied. He inhaled, looking around the garden—they were nearly back at the musicians’ gallery. “You’ve done an excellent job rebuilding. I remember when Sir Stanley Gilpin first bought the place, nothing but a few buildings and a bit of marshland.” He grinned at Asa, revealing overlarge square incisors. “Tomorrow, then, shall we say, in the afternoon?”
“I look forward to it.”
Hampston nodded and strode away.
Asa immediately turned to Eve and lowered his voice. “Are you all right, luv?”
Her cheeks, which had gone pale, flushed a little at his words. “Yes, yes, of course. I don’t know what came over me. It’s so strange. His voice…”
She knit her brows as her words died away.
Asa watched her. He wanted to comfort her and at the same time he wanted to run after Hampston and confront him over… what, exactly?
“Perhaps some tea might help,” Apollo said.
Asa shot him a grateful look. “I’ve got a kettle in my office.”
“Thank you,” Eve murmured. “I’d like a cup very much.”
Apollo bowed. “Let me say again what a pleasure it was to meet you, Miss Dinwoody.” He sent Asa an amused glance. “I’m not used to Makepeace keeping such reputable company.”
“Oi!” Asa shot back good-naturedly.
Apollo turned to go with a last bow and Asa drew Eve toward the theater. He could feel tremors still racking her body every now and again, and he made a grim mental note:
Find out who bloody George Hampston was.
Fortunately, the corridors were mainly empty as he led Eve toward their office. The sounds of the orchestra drifted from the theater, while feminine voices murmured behind the doors of several dressing rooms. The corner of his mouth curled up as he recalled how he’d found Eve earlier, surrounded by the women of the theater. He’d been reluctantly impressed with her skill at solving the squabbling over dressing rooms. It was the sort of petty bickering that he found particularly maddening to deal with. In the past, more often than not, he’d been reduced to flinging up his arms and stomping away when one of the actors or musicians or singers complained to him about another performer.
He glanced at her as he opened the door to his office. Odd to think that he might miss her presence here when it was time for her to leave.
Odd to think that he’d once discounted her as stiff and prim.
He felt now as if an invisible wire linked his body to hers, making him aware of her at all times.
“Come sit down and I can make you some tea,” he began, and realized that she’d stopped just inside the door.
He half turned back. “What—?”
“Oh,” she sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, the dove.”
He looked at her desk. The cage was where it had been this morning, but the door was now ajar.
And a single feather lay on the desk.
Damn.
The dog had its bed directly behind her desk, and it had been half starved.
“Don’t look,” he said, spreading his arms to try to keep her away from the desk and whatever lay behind it. “Eve, please…”
But she was swift, ducking under his arms. “I have to see. Oh, Asa, I have to see.”
She halted.
He turned, placing his hands on her upper arms in case she collapsed. “The dog was very hungry, luv. I know it’s hard to understand now, but I don’t think we can hold him responsible for what he’s done. I’ll take him out and—”
But his comforting words were interrupted.
By a giggle.
He stared at her, concerned. Had the death of her pet turned her mind?
But her blue, blue eyes glanced up at him now, sparkling through the tears that still lingered. “Oh, Asa, look.”
He turned and peered behind the desk.
The mastiff lay on his side on the pile of discarded costumes, apparently asleep. On his back the dove was strutting confidently, apparently without a care in the world. As Asa watched, the dog opened his eye, glanced at the humans, closed his eye again, and sighed gustily.
The dove just cooed.
EVE HAD NOT had the nightmare for years, but despite the time between, she recognized it immediately.
It was the baying of the dogs that gave it away.
They panted behind her, their breath stinking of raw meat and hunger, and she ran blindly. Wildly.
Desperately.
Up an endless flight of stairs that suddenly turned back down again. Through doorways that grew progressively smaller. And now she could hear them as well. The men.
They were laughing and they were masked, the dolphin tattoo swimming over their skins.
Something nipped at her heels and she knew with instinctive dread what would happen next. Let me die, she thought desperately. Let me pass beyond this life before I feel the pain.
She was always a coward in the dream.
But it happened anyway, despite her pleas, her attempt at bargaining with an uncaring fate. She crawled around a corner and met a wall.
A dead end.
They were on her immediately. Men or dogs, she couldn’t tell, and perhaps it didn’t matter anyway. They were both ravenous.
And then came the wash of blood.
Eve started awake, her eyes staring in the darkness of her own bedroom. Her muscles were locked tight and she lay unmoving, as if by her very stillness she could remain unseen.
Hidden safe.
But eventually her breath evened, her muscles unlocked, and she realized rather prosaically that her bladder was full. Slowly, painfully, she rolled to the edge of her bed and got up. There was a little moonlight coming from the window and she used its guidance to find the necessary and relieve herself.
After that she should’ve returned to bed, but really it was no use.
So Eve donned a robe and made her way in the darkness to her sitting room.
There she knelt by the fireplace and stirred the banked coals. In another couple of hours Ruth would rise to do the job, but it seemed a shame to wake the girl now.
Let her sleep and dream of things other than blood.
Eve sighed and placed coals on the embers, using the tongs so she wouldn’t dirty her hands. It was rather soothing, doing such a mundane task. She watched as the coals took, as tiny orange flames licked al
ong their sides.
When the fire was well established she rose, lit a candle, and went to her desk. Dove was in her cage, her head tucked beneath a downy wing. Eve smiled slightly at the sight. She’d been so horror-struck when she’d seen the empty cage yesterday afternoon, so sure that the worst had happened.
And yet it hadn’t.
The dog she’d been so afraid of had proven as gentle as a lamb, letting Dove explore his back all afternoon. He hadn’t seemed to mind even when Dove had taken it into her head to clean the dog by pecking for bits of crumbs in his fur.
Eve had spent a good fifteen minutes watching the two friends, enchanted by the unlikeliness of it all.
Such simple happiness shouldn’t have been followed by the nightmare she’d had tonight.
And yet it had.
Eve sighed and turned to her work. She’d been painting a cupid, based on Rebecca Makepeace’s fat little cheeks. The second youngest of Concord and Rose’s children had seemed the perfect model for what was essentially a fat toddler. She sat and peered through the magnifying glass. The cupid’s curls were only half painted in.
Uncovering her watercolors, she wet a brush and carefully dabbed it in an ocher-brown.
And then she set to work.
The light was beginning to show through the curtains when Eve next looked up. She blinked, noticing that Dove was pecking at a few seeds at the bottom of her cage, and then she turned and saw Jean-Marie at the door.
Her bodyguard’s face was watchful and solemn. “Are you all right, ma petite?”
“Yes, of course.” She dipped her paintbrush in a lovely sky blue, but then saw that her hand trembled. She wiped the brush carefully on a cloth.
“Eve,” Jean-Marie murmured, and it had been a very long time since she’d last heard him so sad.
“I… I dreamed last night,” she said, still not looking at him.
She heard him walk farther into the sitting room. “Is it the pleasure garden manager? ’As ’e done something ’e shouldn’t?”
“No.” She looked up in surprise. “Asa Makepeace has been perfectly gentlemanly.” Well, not exactly gentlemanly, but he’d certainly done nothing to hurt her, and that was what Jean-Marie meant.
Sweetest Scoundrel Page 17
