An Unexpected Encounter ( Half Moon House, Novella 1) (11 page)

Her muscles unlocked. She drew herself up and
stepped away. “That is no longer possible.” It had been ruled out
the moment she entered his house as a servant.

“Perhaps if I spoke to your stepfather—”

“No!” Her eyes widened, but before she could
panic at the thought of what mischief such a thing would bring, one
of the maids knocked at the door.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord, but Cook sends
her regards and asks if she should continue on with the muffins
without Miss Aurelia? If they are not in the oven right soon, they
won’t be ready for tea.”

Lisbeth spoke sharply. “Without Miss Aurelia?
Do you mean to say she’s not in the kitchens?”

“No, Miss. Cook’s been waitin’ on her.”

She looked to Lord Cotwell. “How long ago did
she leave you?”

He looked grim. “An hour ago, perhaps less.”
They shared a glance.

“I think we know where she’s gone.”

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They found her in one of the natural history
rooms. One of the big glass cabinets had been shifted to make room
for a pair of stuffed antelopes. Aurelia sat on the floor beneath
the belly of the male. She spotted Lisbeth and the baron as they
walked in, opened her mouth, then closed it and promptly burst into
tears.

Lisbeth flew to her. Kneeling down she took
her hands and cradled them to her middle. “Oh, my darling,” she
crooned.

Aurelia tried to speak, but the force of her
sobs prevented it. Lisbeth let her go for several minutes, but when
she showed no signs of stopping, she tugged her out and gathered
her close.

Gradually the storm lessened. “I’m sorry,
sorry,” Aurelia gasped.

“Don’t be sorry,” Lisbeth whispered. “Let it
out.”

The baron crouched in front of them, awkward
but well meaning. “But I don’t understand. What is wrong?”

His question brought forth a fresh spate of
sobs. “Wrong? Nothing is right! Everything is all mixed up.”

“In what way?” he asked simply.

“In every way,” she blurted wildly. I am
afraid
.”

“Why, dear?” Lisbeth held her tight.

“Because I’m always angry. Or sometimes I’m
not—and I’m afraid that is wrong. Sometimes I am happy—helping you
in the attics or exploring in the laboratory or sketching
insects—and then I am afraid and angry at once. For how can I be
happy? My mama is
dead
! My
papa
is dead!” She began
to sob again, as if her heart would break.

“There is more, is there not?” Lisbeth
asked.

Aurelia nodded, wiping at her eyes.

“Tell us. All of it.”

The little girl sniffed. “I hate that man. I
never want to go and live with him.”

“You’ll never have to,” Lord Cotwell assured
her.

“Never?”

“Never. Not if I have to go to the highest
Chancery court in the land.” He regarded her solemnly for a moment.
“Aurelia, there is a bench in the next room.” He began to climb to
his feet. “Let’s go in there and sit.”

He helped his ward to her feet and held a
hand out to Lisbeth, but she acted as if she did not see it. She
stood on her own. As she must, from here on out. She followed as
the baron led Aurelia to the bench and took up a position behind
it.

The sight of them—the broad shouldered man
taking up most of the bench, his head tilted toward the little girl
who, for perhaps the first time, leaned trustingly into him—nearly
broke her heart.

“There’s something that I think it will help
you, if you understand,” Lord Cotwell said to his ward. “There are
some people who come and go in our lives, and there are some who
will always be with us.”

Aurelia looked up at him, frowning. “How do
you know which is which?” she asked.

“Love,” he said simply. “Love is a . . .
connection, Aurelia. One that can never break. Wherever your
parents are, they still love you. You are still connected to them.
Your love for each other will bind you forever.”

Aurelia nodded. “Miss Moreton told me.”

“Do you recall when you first came to my
home?”

Cautiously, she nodded again.

“I told you then that I loved your papa. Do
you remember?”

“Yes.”

“ I knew then that I would love you, because
of him.” He ran a finger along her tear-stained face. “Even if you
were a horrid child.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m not!”

“Thank goodness, you are not,” he agreed.
“And even though we have not been together for long, still, I’ve
grown to love you. So we are connected. And we always will be.
Things will change, with time. But that will not. Not ever.”

And Lisbeth ached, because she’d poked and
prodded the man and he was responding, opening up—but only far
enough to let Aurelia in. An accomplishment she could take the
greatest pride and relief in, to be sure, but it wasn’t enough. She
wanted in, too.

Aurelia glanced at Lisbeth. “What will
change?” Tears welled again. “Miss Moreton is leaving, isn’t she? I
don’t want you to leave!”

“Miss Moreton will leave,” Lord Cotwell said
baldly.

So easily said. As if it meant nothing to
him. As if the words did not rip a jagged hole in Lisbeth’s heart.
Ruthlessly, she shut an internal door on the pain. Later she would
suffer. Now she must reassure Aurelia. “But we are connected as
well, Aurelia. Even if I cannot stay on as your governess, I will
always be your friend.” She reached down and laid a hand on the
girl’s shoulder. “We will write, and visit when we can, if Lord
Cotwell permits.”

“There will be other changes to our
household,” the baron continued. “I will marry eventually.”

“When?” Aurelia interrupted.

“When I find the right lady.” Lisbeth felt
the weight of his gaze on her, but she could not acknowledge it or
shift her own. “Miss Moreton assures me she is out there
somewhere.”

Blow after blow he destroyed her with light
words and casual disregard. He waited a moment, as if inviting her
to comment. Perhaps he suffered a twinge of conscience after that
kiss. Well, she’d be damned before she eased it.

“In any case, I will marry and likely will
have children. They will be new connections for me, but they won’t
change the one I share with you. And you will make new connections
too, but I will feel safe, knowing you will still feel the same for
me.” He held up a finger. “And another thing. Anyone who has this
sort of connection with you wants only what is best for you. They
want you to be happy. Imagine your parents. You have mourned them,
as is right and proper. We will continue to do so and we will
continue talk about and remember them. But do you think that they
want you to be
forever
sad and full of despair?

She shrugged.

“They don’t. I feel sure of it. They would
want you to gradually learn to be happy again, to go on building a
new life.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am positive. I knew your father, remember?
Even longer than you did.”

“That’s right,” she said slowly.

“So, let us do as he would wish and go home
to begin our new life.” He stood. “In fact, I’ll share a surprise
with you. It’s in my laboratory. I’ve been making something for
you, but perhaps you might like to help?”

Nodding, Aurelia stood beside him. The poor
child looked exhausted, but also clear-eyed and lighter,
somehow.

“Shall we go home, Miss Moreton?” The baron
pitched his tone to be soft and soothing.

She knew, suddenly, that she could not.
Staying in his home longer would only hurt Aurelia. It would only
prolong her own pain, kill her aching heart with a slow bleed
instead of a quick stab. She reached suddenly into the pocket
folded into her skirts and found Mrs. Hollendale’s letter.

“No, thank you. As you two will be occupied,
I think I will seize the opportunity to take care of some
business.”

Lord Cotwell objected. “It’s growing
late.”

“It’s important.”

“Very well. You take the carriage and we’ll
walk.” He grinned. “Aurelia knows the way.” Taking Aurelia’s hand,
he started downstairs.

And she followed, just a step behind.

* * *

They trooped through the entrance hall, all
three of them, while James’s gut churned.

He’d come today, to the spot where he should
have met Lisbeth, because he could not erase her from his mind.
Because he’d been sober now for more than a few hours straight and
because he could not quite believe what he’d done, what he’d meant
to do, what he’d allowed himself to become.

He’d been on the wide landing, staring out
the window, as Lisbeth must have done on that day. Was he punishing
himself? Looking for answers? He scarcely knew. But then she’d come
tearing by, with Cotwell beside her.

They hadn’t noticed him. Swept right on by as
if he didn’t exist. Anger tore swiftly through his veins, though he
could not summon a good reason for it. He’d descended to the entry
to await them, though he could not think what he wished to say.

God, but he was a mess.

Now they passed him by again, with the girl
this time, thoroughly caught up in their private drama—and anger
punched him again. It fled swiftly this time, though—leaving him
empty, aching and longing for . . . something.

He took a step in pursuit, not knowing
whether he intended to make mischief or ask for help—when a
feminine voice, very low and close, said his name.

“There are better ways to get what you are
looking for,” it said.

He spun around. A woman emerged from the
shadows behind Roubiliac’s Shakespeare.

He knew her, of course. Everyone in London
and most of Europe knew Hestia Wright, the breathtakingly beautiful
Courtesan Queen.

He was in no mood, however. “How could you
know what I want?”

She smiled, a predator’s expression full of
wisdom and certainty. “I know because I’ve been where you are. I
know what it is to want to destroy someone so badly you’ll
sacrifice anything—even yourself.”

Shocked, he stood silent.

“There is a better way.”

“Is there?” He could not suppress the weary
bitterness that seemed to have invaded his soul.

She laughed. “Oh, yes. Do you not see? The
greatest triumph lies in surviving.
Thriving
. Imagine your
father’s fury when his predictions do not come true. When you do
not perish in the flames of your own making, but you grow strong
and successful in your own right, instead.”

He made an involuntary sound of protest.

“I don’t ask you to give up the battle, sir.
Only take it underground. Keep your nemesis befuddled, bewildered,
never sure if it is you he fights or his own fate.” She laughed,
low and throaty. “You think him a little mad now? Just wait.” She
sobered. “But first you must heal yourself.”

James closed his eyes. “I don’t know how. Or
if it is even possible.” He looked toward the door, after Lisbeth.
“I’ve done things—”

“I know. But you ask forgiveness and you make
amends where you can. And then you learn how to fight without
damaging yourself.” She pulled a hood over her shining curls and
pausing, offered an arm. “Would you care to take me to dinner and
discuss it further?”

James hesitated—but then did as he had not
done in a long time and followed his heart. “The Dog and Duck—”

“Oh, I had something finer in mind. And more
visible.” She cocked her head. “For what do you think your father
will say when he hears you are hanging about
me
?”

Chapter Eight

Once before Lisbeth had sat in this parlor,
waiting. She’d been with her mother that time, who had sat just
there, on the maroon settee. There’d been papers to sign after her
father’s death. So many papers, having to do with settlements,
jointures and trusts. They’d come to London to sign them, just for
a day or so, because her mother had needed a change after the
first, dark weeks of her bereavement. And she’d thought it proper
to pay a call on her cousin, the man in charge of their financial
futures.

Mr. Thorpe had been less enthusiastic. He’d
stood just inside the parlor door and rubbed a hand across his bald
head. “Your visit is unnecessary. Did you not understand the nature
of the arrangement I made with your husband? You are to do the
nurturing, the guiding. I am to handle the money. I am good at
handling money. I made your husband a fortune, which is why he
asked me to act as trustee for your children. But that is the
extent of my interest and involvement.” He’d made a curt bow. “Good
day.”

Now Lisbeth wondered if the man would even
consent to see her. But she wouldn’t be dismissed without a fight.
She fought back a sob. She was tired of being shunted aside,
overlooked. Her choices for her future were rapidly dwindling. She
was going to seize upon Mrs. Hollendale’s position as her best
option.

For nearly two years she’d run Aster Park.
Thorpe knew her work. She’d kept strict accounts and sent him
quarterly reports. Once he’d responded, questioning the high price
of seed. It meant he’d read them, at least. And now he could exert
himself long enough to write her a recommendation.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but it appears that Mr.
Thorpe is from home.”

Rising, she answered with sarcasm. “Oh, what
unfortunate timing.”

The man’s servant did not meet her eyes. “If
I might suggest, he’s certain to be home on Friday at two o’clock.”
He bowed and waited for her to follow him to the door.

Calmly, she turned right instead and started
toward the back of the house.

“Now, wait,” he called.

She paid him no heed and began opening doors.
Why was the house so musty? It felt dank and unused. Not until she
reached a double door and swung it open did she understand.

Here was where all the living in the house
was done. If it could be so called. It was a cavernous room,
perhaps once a library. Now the bank of windows were covered with
heavy draperies and the walls were covered with endless bits of
paper. Maps, charts, shipping schedules, clippings and lists.
Several points of heavily concentrated lamps created bright spots
in the shadows. In one of them, at a paper-strewn desk, sat her
trustee.