An Unexpected Encounter ( Half Moon House, Novella 1) (3 page)

He drowned her out, letting loose an annoyed
growl, then stooping to pick the child up and hold her at eye
level. “Aurelia Tierney, you made me a promise.”

She hung from his grip like a rag doll. “I
know, sir. I tried to keep it.”

“And yet you did not, for here we are again.
Making a spectacle again.” He sighed. “What is the one thing I told
you I cannot abide?”

“A spectacle, sir.”

“But here we are, back at it.”

“Yes, sir.” No apology. No assurances. No
emotion
. He stared at his conundrum of a ward and wished
again that she were more like her father. Laughing, easy-going
Frederick Tierney had been one of his best friends.
He
would
have apologized. Hell, he would have shrugged and gone along with
the sensible order to wait for an adult escort.

Edmund had been devastated to learn of
Freddy’s fate. His friends were few and dear, and Freddy had been
the best of them. Nine years ago he’d watched his friend beaming
over a wrinkled newborn pate and agreed that yes, of course he’d
act as trustee to the waif, should anything ever happen to his
friend. Trustee was not the same as guardian, though, so he’d been
shocked to find a solicitor and the girl on his stoop a few weeks
after Freddy’s death.

There’d been no turning the chit away,
however. He’d looked into that small, solemn face and hoped she’d
forgive his lack of child-rearing skills, even as he sighed and
prepared to forgive continual disruptions of his work.

But, indeed, there’d been no shouting, no
feet scampering up and down the stairs, no persistent knocking on
his laboratory door. Aurelia had proved quiet, well-mannered and
biddable. So biddable, in fact, that she’d uttered not a word when
the nurse he hired to look after her had taken to spending her
afternoons sipping his best brandy from the nursery china. He’d
only discovered it when he’d gone looking for the child and found
her reading quietly in the schoolroom. The nurse he’d found next
door, passed out in the old rocking chair.

Who would have guessed that Aurelia’s silence
would worry him as much as another child’s boisterousness? Or that
her one major flaw would be this irritating propensity to slip out
of the house and through the streets to the museum? It had to stop.
It wasn’t safe. And today he’d had to interrupt the delicate
installation of a pneumatic tube to track her down again.

At his side, the well-meaning stranger
cleared her throat again. “Excuse me.”

Her voice sounded strained. He suppressed a
surge of boredom and annoyance at the thought of another timid
matron, frightened by his size. “Thank you for your concern, but I
will take charge of my ward from here.” He didn’t bother to look at
her as he said it.

“Your ward?”

Ah, not fear, then, but skepticism. He could
better respect that.

“Aurelia, is this man your guardian?”

“Yes. That is, I think so.” And no joy did
she find in it, either, judging from her tone.

“Nevertheless, I have a question or two, and
I’d feel better asking them if you would kindly put the child
down.”

Not timid, then, either. Interest peaking, he
turned to address the interfering female.

And slowly lowered Aurelia to the ground,
while simultaneously—
heroically
—keeping his mouth from
taking the same journey.

This was no sharp-tongued spinster, no
scolding matron. No, nothing so predictable or off-putting.

This was . . .
interesting
.

A young woman stood next to him. Not grandly
beautiful at all, but made up of so many disparately pleasing parts
that he found he could not tear his gaze away. Her hair was
chestnut, thick and just slightly disheveled. Her
eyes
—the
lightest blue, but with a remarkable dark ring around the iris. He
might not have been able to turn from them, had her mouth not
begged for his attention. No spinster had ever possessed such
perfectly plump, full lips, stung pink just now from being pinched
in disapproval.

Seconds and lifetimes passed as he stared.
Striking, that’s what she was. Not a conventional English beauty,
but an object of fascination, nonetheless. Like one of his beloved
machines, she was made of tiny, incongruous parts that came
together to make a wondrous whole.

He continued to look until all the corners in
her face—on her large eyes and past the ripe curves of her
mouth—started to turn down. He let his gaze move on, then, to
encounter more curves, encased in a sturdy carriage dress of some
quality. The wrinkled skirts held testament to recent travel and a
portmanteau sat at her feet. His gaze flew up to meet hers once
more.

Interesting
. Yes. Still the right
word.

“We don’t have to continue in this fashion
any longer, my lord,” Aurelia piped up. “Now that we have a
governess, I mean. Miss Moreton can bring me to the museum whenever
I need to come.”

Edmund blinked and found it difficult to pick
up the thread of his previous complaint. He glanced down at his
ward. “I waited all afternoon, and the governess from the agency
never kept the appointment.” He frowned. “And her name was Mrs.
Kirk.”

“There was some confusion,” Aurelia answered
earnestly. “That’s why they sent Miss Moreton instead—and rather
late.” She took a step closer. “I’m afraid I grew tired of waiting
and I . . . I slipped out again. Miss Moreton caught me on the
front walk, but by then I just had to come.” She looked down at her
shoes. “Sometimes it’s all that helps.”

Edmund softened. That had to be the single
longest stretch of words Aurelia had ever strung together in his
presence—and the absolute first thing of a personal nature she had
revealed.

“Miss Moreton didn’t think I ought to go
alone, but I was insistent, so she came along. We’ve got along very
well.”

He glanced over to find the young woman
directing a hard stare at the girl. “Is this true?” he asked
her.

She kept her eyes on Aurelia. “We have got
along remarkably well.” She turned to him and raised a saucy brow.
“My lord, is it?”

He made her a quick bow. “Edmund Banke, Baron
Cotwell, at your service, Miss . . . Moreton?”

She nodded and dipped into a curtsy.

“And are you not a bit young to be thinking
of going into service as a governess?” If she felt free to be
saucy, then he would indulge in the direct approach.

“She’s just exactly the right age,” Aurelia
insisted. “She talks to me. And she
listens
, too.”

Something passed between the two of them.
Something Edmund noted, but could not label. And for the first time
in a long time, something unfurled in his gut, something
wistful—and unacceptable.

“Please, sir,” whispered Aurelia.

Edmund would have given a great deal more to
answer the plea in her voice. He hitched a shoulder and addressed
the young woman. “In truth, you could not help but be an
improvement on our last nurse.” He used the excuse to run his eye
over her again. “Have you held such a position before?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, only looked
long between him and his ward. He noted the clench of her jaw
before she answered. “No, sir.”

“What could you bring to the post, then? What
sorts of things do you feel qualified to teach Aurelia?”

She thought a moment. “I play the pianoforte
passably well, sir. And my needlework skills are fine. I know
French and bit of German. I am well acquainted with history and
have an understanding of politics.” She straightened. “But I could
give her a thorough instruction on the running of a household. How
to oversee servants and keep accounts. How to manage a kitchen,
pantry and stillroom, set up a linen schedule, receive guests,
prepare for a party, and any number of duties a lady would need to
know when she takes over her own establishment.”

Well. That answered a few questions—and
raised a few, too.

He drew in a deep breath, glanced at Aurelia,
and let it out. “I’ve a house in Bedford Square. You’d have room
and board, of course, the salary that the agency agreed on, and
Sundays off. I’ll agree to give you a trial run at the position.
Should you like it?”

He suspected it was unwise in the extreme to
hope she did.

He glanced at Aurelia and hoped anyway.

She stood silent a moment, then she met his
gaze in a direct fashion. “I should like it, my lord. But I must
warn you, I can only take the position on temporary status.”

Aurelia smiled.

Edmund worked not to.

Miss Moreton threw her new charge a mock
glare. “I fear I hardly know what I’m getting into.”

Edmund coughed. Those were his sentiments
exactly.

Outside, Hestia Wright waited in her
carriage. From this point on Great Russell Street, between St.
George’s and the Dog and Duck, she could see the last visitors
making their way from the museum’s boxed entrance. There’d been no
sign, yet, of Miss Moreton or the young girl. She eyed the sinking
sun. Time, then, to intervene.

But before she could signal her attendants, a
porter bowed out a last trio of visitors.

“Now this is interesting.”

Hestia narrowed her eyes and watched closely.
Only one of England’s noblemen sported such a magnificent physique.
Lord Cotwell, to be sure. She racked her brain for what she knew of
him. It was not much. A bit of a recluse, she recalled. Unmarried,
so the child was not likely to be his . . . unless she was a
by-blow, perhaps? She’d had the impression that he avoided females
in general, but perhaps he was just discreet.

More fascinating by the moment.

She studied the small group intently. No
discernible sign of fear, hostility or coercion, so she would not
interfere just yet. She rapped on the ceiling and leaned close to
address the footman who responded. “Time to go home, John, but tell
Tom Coachman to take his time.” She glanced over his shoulder and
recalled another bit of information. “And tell him I’d like to take
a slow turn about Bedford Square first.”

Hestia leaned back in her seat so as not to
be seen, already making a mental list of those who could get her
the information she desired. She’d already put out feelers
regarding Miss Elisabeth Moreton. By morning, she would also have
discovered all there was to know regarding Lord Cotwell’s
household.

Chapter Three

In any normal London townhouse, that set of
rooms would be a welcoming formal parlor, with perhaps a private
sitting room or study attached. In this house, however, the sliding
doors were kept closed. Loud clanking occasionally sounded from
within, but just now, as Lisbeth hurried Aurelia past and toward
the front door, a servant slipped out, accompanied by a blast of
heat, a billow of smoke and a great deal of urgent shouting.

“Good heavens,” she said as they stepped out
into the wide streets of the square. Smoke was pouring from the
front window as well.

“That’s his laboratory,” Aurelia told her.
They were heading out for a lengthy walk, with a basket of stale
rolls donated by the cook so that they could stop and feed the
ducks in the park. “The staff says when the pocket doors are
closed, you daren’t go in, or even knock. He hates to be
interrupted when he’s working.”

“What is it he’s working on in there?” The
word laboratory, coupled with that spectacle, conjured up images of
dangerous chemicals, burners, flashing powders and leaking
gases.

“He’s building things. Machines.”

“Machines?”

“Big ones, all jumbled with ropes and pulleys
and engines. And small ones—the most cunning little wind-up people
and creatures.”

Lisbeth pondered that as they moved from the
square into the city’s busier streets. An incongruous picture it
made, imagining Lord Cotwell’s large form bent, manipulating tiny
figures with those big, competent looking hands. It was much easier
to picture him lifting, pulling, and banging to create something
massive and metal. Such a vision fit the baron’s . . . scale.

Though her father had been a big man, Lord
Cotwell was easily the largest male she’d ever encountered. He
dwarfed even her considerable height, and he might have been hewn
from a mountain, given the width of his shoulders and the rough
appeal of his chiseled features. He’d stalked up those museum
stairs, slightly rumpled, with a dark lock of hair falling across
his brow and she’d lit up brighter than her mother’s favorite
chandelier, aware of him in a way that she’d never before
experienced.

But he’d frightened her half to death when
he’d bodily picked Aurelia up as if she were a feather. Old fears
and frustrated memories of her arguments with her stepfather had
swamped her. Lisbeth had always felt powerless in the face of that
man’s obstinacy and his unwavering belief in her inferiority—and
he’d never been able to
physically
intimidate her.

She’d thought she’d already discovered what
had turned Aurelia into such a sad, solemn child. The death of her
parents was a natural explanation, but watching that display had
raised another fear—what if she was being neglected—or worse—in her
new home?

Thankfully her worst suspicions had been laid
to rest after just a short time in the pair’s company. Aurelia
wasn’t afraid of her guardian. But Lisbeth knew what it was to need
help, reassurance and affection. She knew how much it hurt to reach
for it and find no one there. The urge to offer her own hand had
been overwhelming.

Big, burly Lord Cotwell appeared to mean
well, but clearly had no idea how to handle his new ward. Good
heavens, he’d actually
growled
at her. Aurelia had been
unaffected, but the utterly masculine sound of frustrated intent
had poured over Lisbeth, setting her already sensitized nerves
afire and igniting a wish to help the man.