Heather and Velvet (10 page)

“What should I list as my vocation? Robber? Notorious criminal?”

She inclined her head, hiding a reluctant smile. “It will be quite a coup for Tricia to add a Scottish laird to her collection of French counts and Austrian barons.”

“And if she knew I was a deposed Scottish laird?”

“As long as you escaped with the family treasury, she wouldn’t care. The more deposed the better. Tricia loves a lost cause.”

Prudence was unprepared for the touch of his fingers as he tilted her chin up. Her skin tingled at the warm shock of the contact.

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked. “A lost cause?” His gaze searched her face, lingering on her lips.

Her smile faded. “What you are, my lord, is of no concern to me.”

With that cool dismissal, she turned away and caught the skirt of her wrapper in her trembling hands.

As she started up the stairs, he caught her arm, and she felt something akin to desperation in his grasp. “I never expected to find you in a household like Lindentree.”

She could not look at him. “Are you sorry?”

“Sorry is only the half of it, lass. I never wanted to lay eyes on you again.”

He did not protest when she gently disengaged herself from his grip. Prudence was barricaded safely behind her bedroom door before she realized her face was wet with tears.

Sebastian rose at dawn to prowl the sleeping house. The hollow silence and the vacant blue gaze of the china shepherdess in the entranceway drove him out into the manicured gardens. In a few short weeks, they would be his gardens. Beads of dew sparkled on mint green blades of grass. He reclined on a marble bench and watched the sky melt from gray to pink to powder blue. A slim Ionic column sprouted from the polished flagstones. It was a column that went nowhere and supported nothing, and to Sebastian it expressed perfectly the elusive flaw of Lindentree’s gardens. They were beautiful, but purposeless. Much like their mistress.

When they had met in London a few months ago, Tricia had seemed the perfect companion to his grandfather’s education—amusing, enthusiastic in bed, widowed, wealthy, and possessing more titles than any woman or man he knew. He had studied her with painstaking care, using his natural talent as a mimic to learn her speech patterns and manners. Any gentleman, he knew, would be well complemented by having such a woman as his mistress.

But Sebastian was no gentleman. He knew it was only a matter of time before he turned around at some London party and came face to face with Killian MacKay. Then all of society would know him for what he was—a common thieving bastard. To escape D’Artan and build any sort of future in a society that should rightfully despise him, he needed not a mistress, but a wife.

Sebastian stood. The serenity of the gardens only
mocked the hard edge of his restlessness. At every corner, at every bend of the path, stood iron trellises draped with velvety blossoms of honeysuckle. He plucked a bloom as he passed and pinched away the tender tip. His tongue darted out to catch the golden bead of nectar that welled on the delicate stamen.

He closed his eyes, haunted by the fragrant memory of Prudence’s unbound hair. Had his besotted senses imagined it or had her hair been scented with the elusive breath of honeysuckle? It took little imagination for him to conjure up the way she had felt when she had gone soft and pliant in his arms the night before. Her modest wrapper had done little to disguise her gentle curves. He could have held her all night.

Sebastian opened his eyes. He had not lied to her. He had hoped never to lay eyes on her again. Prudence Walker was dangerous. Far more dangerous than his grandfather knew. There was more at risk than just a shipment of gunpowder or the old man’s election to the House of Commons. Sebastian’s entire future hung on her discretion. His fingers curled into a fist.

I would like her dispatched
.

The memory of D’Artan’s icy commission darkened his eyes. He had never deliberately disobeyed his grandfather. He had learned long ago to laugh in his father’s face, knowing he would get no more than a busted rib or a bloody nose for his insolence. But with D’Artan, one was never sure what one would get.

Sebastian opened his palm. The crushed bits of the honeysuckle blossom scattered in the wind.

The dining-room door swung open. Sebastian glanced up for the twelfth time, only to be rewarded by the shriveled countenance of Old Fish. He returned his attention to his poached eggs, resisting the urge to growl.

His earlier request for breakfast had been met with a cool stare.

“The countess never takes breakfast before noon,” Old Fish had said.

“That’s all very well,” Sebastian had replied. “But I’d like something to eat now. Noon is five hours away.”

The butler had sniffed, and dared a glance at the clock on the mantel. “Perhaps I could serve chocolate in your chamber.”

Sebastian was not accustomed to ordering servants. He would have barked a command and boxed Jamie’s ears for such impudence, but he’d been momentarily perplexed at how to handle the butler. The vision of what Old Fish’s expression might be if he boxed
his
ears had given Sebastian the impetus he needed for a gracious smile.

“A very kind offer indeed, but I believe I’ll take my breakfast in the dining room.” Sebastian had paused. “Every morning.”

With a flare of his aristocratic nostrils, Old Fish had bowed his surrender.

Sebastian had seated himself at the end of the long table, fully prepared to be served day-old gruel. But Old Fish had been determined to get the last word, whether it was spoken or not, and Sebastian had watched helplessly as course after course of steaming food was wheeled in and placed on the cherry sideboard. Hot scones slathered with honey followed fresh kippers and chilled rosettes of butter. Thick slabs of bacon glistened next to mounds of strawberries and clotted cream. Even Tiny would have been hard-pressed to do justice to such a feast. Too late, Sebastian had realized he wasn’t hungry.

So he’d picked at his eggs and absently calculated the value of the silver warming dishes perched over the tiny candles. His gaze swung to the door each time it opened, as if by the sheer force of his will he could conjure up the person he wanted to see.

Old Fish hovered at his elbow. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Sebastian laid down his knife, realizing with chagrin that he had been eating with the blade. His untouched fork gleamed amidst the snowy folds of his napkin. “I believe that will be all.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Fish, does Miss Walker ever take breakfast in the dining room?”

The butler’s thin lips compressed to a line of disdain.
“She does not. I see no point in disturbing the servants for Miss Walker’s breakfast. She prefers to pick up a scone in the kitchens and carry it to the library.” He sniffed. “Very considerate of her, I might add.”

What sort of bizarre household was this where the servants were not to be disturbed for their masters’ comforts? Sebastian wondered. He would like to disturb personally anyone who intimated that Prudence wasn’t worth cooking for. How many times had she gone without breakfast or a warm fire to be “considerate”? When he was master of Lindentree, she would lack for nothing. He would see to it.

“Has Miss Walker already been to the kitchens this morning?” he asked.

“Nearly an hour ago.”

Sebastian jumped up. His knife clattered to the floor. “Very well. That will be all. Thank you.” He raced for the door. “The kippers were tasty,” he said over his shoulder to the gaping butler. “Nice butter too. Is there a trick to getting those little pats to look like roses?”

He was gone before Old Fish could reply.

Sebastian followed an arched corridor to the library he had discovered earlier that morning. The carved doors were shut. As a humming maid rounded the corner with an armful of linen, he pressed himself into a curtained alcove. He stepped out after she passed and gave his frock coat a nervous tug. When he was master of Lindentree, he would have to stop skulking like a second-rate French spy.
But that’s what you are
, he reminded himself. Only Tricia’s wealth held the power to set him free.

He pushed open the library doors and, seeing her, bit off a curse that would have made Tiny blush.

Prudence jerked her head up, her eyes widening in alarm.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I stubbed my toe.”

He had not stubbed his toe. He’d cursed because the alluring creature of last night had vanished once again. The fragile vision that had haunted him all morning might have
only been a dream—her hair tumbled, her nightcap askew, the delicate bones of her face framed by lace—all gone as if they had never been. The twist of Sebastian’s heart was more grief than irritation. Perhaps, he mused, he was dealing with a set of twins possessed by a diabolical sense of humor.

Prudence’s unbound hair had been replaced by a chignon so tight it made his head ache to contemplate it. Her spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, and her mouth had a pinched look about it. She untucked her legs from the wing-backed chair and brushed a stray crumb from the dun muslin of her skirt.

He closed the door. “I need to speak with you. Can we be undisturbed here?”

She laid aside her book with obvious reluctance. “I suppose. I don’t believe Tricia knows where the library is.”

He frowned. “How long has she lived here?”

Prudence blinked owlishly over the rims of her spectacles. “Ten years.”

Sebastian pulled up a brocaded stool and sat at her feet. The library was a cozy room, scented with the must and leather of well-worn books. Two long casement windows overlooked a meadow drenched in buttercups. It was refreshing to look out a window and see something more natural than clipped, rolling lawn and leering stone Apollos.

Now that he had finally found her, words deserted Sebastian. As he glanced at the book she had been reading, he smiled wryly.
“Sur la combustion en general?”

She covered the book with a protective hand. “Monsieur Lavoisier shared many of Papa’s theories regarding fulminating powders.”

“I wasn’t aware you were continuing your father’s research.”

“I’m not.” She picked up a pile of letters stacked beside her chair. “But these men are. Their pleas come in the post every week. They want my father’s notes, his formulas. But I can’t help any of them when I don’t know what went wrong in his calculations.” She laughed weakly. “Some of them even want money.”

Sebastian frowned at the pile. “Pesky lot, aren’t they?”

“It’s dwindled. It was much worse right after he died. They used to appear on Tricia’s doorstep, accost me at church …” She sighed. “I can’t help but wonder where they all were when Papa was begging for money to fund his own experiments.”

Sebastian wanted to touch her hand, but satisfied himself with caressing the worn spine of the book. Silent minutes stretched between them. They both started talking at once, then lapsed again into awkward silence.

“Go ahead,” he said.

She clasped her hands around her knees. “No, you.”

He flexed his long legs. “Why haven’t you betrayed me to your aunt?”

She sniffed with dignity. “If Aunt Tricia is silly enough to marry a highwayman, who am I to stop her?”

“Who are you indeed? I’ve been asking myself that question since I met you.”

“I fear you would be disappointed by the answer.”

She took off her spectacles and folded them into her pocket. Sebastian had placed himself near her in the hope that she would. He saw that shadows smudged the delicate skin beneath her eyes, as if she, too, had slept poorly. But the soft amethyst of her eyes was untarnished. He could not help staring at her, riveted by the pure curve of her cheek the view from the stool afforded him.

“It’s just as well you sought me out, Lord Kerr. I had planned on seeking an audience with you later in the day. I did not think you would be up so early.” She evaded his gaze. “My aunt seldom rises before noon. It never occurred to me that she might be awake at this hour … or that you might be awake or—”

He took pity on her flustered state. “I have no idea if Tricia is awake or not. Per my own request, my bedchamber is in the west wing.”

She met his eyes then, and there was reluctant admiration in her gaze. Sebastian felt like a knave. His bedchamber
was
in the west wing at his request. But he had held Tricia at bay on the pretense that he didn’t want the implication of their intimacy to corrupt her young niece.
Both Tricia and Prudence would pale if they knew how desperately he really longed to corrupt her.

Prudence cleared her throat in a purposeful manner, and he got the distinct impression he was preparing to interview a governess.

“I wanted to meet with you, my lord—”

“Sebastian,” he interjected.

“—to assure you that I will do everything in my power not to be a burden to you and my aunt once the two of you are wed. I don’t know if my aunt has made you aware, but I am quite capable of keeping detailed household accounts. I can tend to the more tiresome details of running a manor house such as Lindentree, freeing you and Tricia to attend balls or hunts or whatever social activities you choose for your amusement.” She bowed her head, and his gaze locked on the sleek cap of her hair. “I’m somewhat ashamed to admit that I lack a certain authority over the servants, but fortunately they adore Tricia, and even the lazy ones will do whatever she asks.”

He continued staring at her in stunned silence.

“I am also quite proficient in needlework. I can do simple mending, which should save you the trouble of hiring a seamstress for the more menial tasks.”

Sebastian wanted to stop her before she applied for the post of chambermaid, but her dignified recitation had rendered him speechless. He wondered what she would say if he offered her the post of his mistress. But no, that would be too cruel. And too easy.

At his silence, her voice faltered. “I can even turn my hand to light cleaning if you desire.”

“Of what? My pistols?”

The words shot out before he could stop them. She lifted her head, her eyes wide in mild reproach as if she did not find his jest amusing. Her fingers knotted in her skirts. “Lindentree is the only home I know. My aunt was kind enough to take me in after my father”—she hesitated for the briefest moment—“exploded.”