Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (19 page)

Lydia brushed his shoulders of miniscule dust, like a shopkeeper’s wife sending her husband off to his labors, and his lordship stood for the commonplace gesture. Her mother’s letter, however brief, was a noticeable weight in her pocket. And she’d let her brain fall into a muddle with this man. But now was not the time to plead her mother’s case. Soon.

Void of words, she let her hands drop to her sides, curling and uncurling them. Very much, she needed her hands on paintbrushes and canvas and paint, to mix pigments and oils, creating something new. How many days since she last painted? She needed linseed oil on her hands, a bland aroma to many but perfume to her. Her senses buzzed with the need to express herself in her favorite form: painting.

Lord Greenwich defied her brand of logic and understanding, turning her neat, ordered world on end.

And as surely as she breathed, Lydia wanted Miss Mayhew gone.

Twelve

Because a thing seems difficult for you,

do not think it impossible for anyone to accomplish.

—Marcus Aurelius

Rough, water-stained crates promised good news, or so he hoped. The pair of them, lined up end to end before his desk, was as out of place in the well-appointed study as rabble-rousers gathering for teatime. So was Jonas, for that matter, his shaved pate showing black stubble. His friend and man of business, garbed in coarse attire today, often bore the brunt of quick judgment from those assuming the worst, but common veneers often veiled treasures within.

Edward ambled quietly across the carpet with another question hanging: What would the artistic eye of Miss Montgomery think of the contents? That such a question sprang to mind made him smirk with self-deprecating humor. Her morning sketches pleased him. Her skills, so far, went beyond the typical “I-can-sketch” boast of many females listing their qualifications. What’s more, he wanted her to be equally enthusiastic about what nestled in the straw. That he valued the opinion of an uneducated woman was at once humbling and enlightening.

Neither could he ignore truth’s pressure: much rode on the success or failure of what they pulled from the crates today.

Jonas wielded a crowbar, and wood and nails whined at the Colonial’s intrusion, but the crate’s lid opened wide its maw to reveal an abundance of yellow straw. Jonas, his sleeves already rolled up, dug into the straw ’til he found a prize. Out came a bright blue and white dish, painted in facsimile to the high-priced Chinese style that was all the rage in homes, from merchants of some means to England’s finest estates.

“Has Cookworthy done it?” Edward asked when he drew near.

Jonas glanced up from his labors and nodded. “Think so. Feels light to me.” One meaty hand clamped a plate that he held up for scrutiny. “Looks the same as the goods from China.”

Edward reached for the plate. “Let me see.” He examined the dish, lifting it high to overcast daylight spilling through sheer white curtains. Light limned the thin, round rim of the plate.

Victory. The sublime marriage of art and science finally achieved.

“He’s perfected the hard-paste process,” Edward said with awe. “This one feels light as air.” He tapped the dish on the desk gently, then banged harder. “Doesn’t shatter.”

They pulled out the porcelain piece after piece, lining up dishes on his mahogany desk, the bright white and brilliant blue dishware so out of place with the somber greens and browns of his study. They made a point of raising each one to the window’s light, checking for telltale markers, translucent rims, followed by tapping the dishware for durability. They worked in silence, occasionally murmuring a comment or two. Then Jonas raised an oval serving tray to the light, shifting the platter this way and that.

“How goes it with your guest from the Blue Cockerel?” He passed the tray for Edward’s inspection.

Neither man gave eye contact while keeping up the business of their tactile and visual inspection of the goods.

“She’s surprising, stimulating, and…” Edward let his words drift as he traced the rough, imperfect border of cobalt blue paint on a small creamer.

“And?”

“Fascinating. Defies words.” He put the creamer on its miniature plate setting. “David’s report failed to convey her true essence.”

“Is that possible?” Jonas stood up, dusting off his hands. “Hire a solicitor to investigate the
essence
of a woman? Especially one you’ll be shackled to ’til your eternal reward.”

His friend grinned from ear to ear as he rolled one of his thin beard braids between his thumb and forefinger. Edward shrugged away the jibe and went to pull the servant’s bellpull near the window.

“What else could I do?”

“The normal things. Dance attendance on her, talk with her. You don’t
read
about a woman to understand her.”

“I’m not a complete imbecile with the fairer sex. You know very well the genesis of my bargain with her, as well as my…time constraints and singular situation.” Edward set one hand at his hip and searched the space beyond Jonas, seeking the right word to describe what he wanted. “I seek…to enjoy congenial relations with her. That’s all. This is not meant to be a love match.”

Jonas’s eyes rounded a fraction. “Then there’s the possibility? Of love?”

Edward snorted at that. “Don’t go maudlin on me. I want a peaceful household. Period.” With good humor, he finished with a friendly verbal jab: “And what makes you the expert on women? When’s the last time you had successful parley with a woman that lasted longer than a minute?”

Jonas scratched his hairy cheeks, grinning. “Call me a cautious combatant. Sharing what little I’ve learned with a fellow foot soldier as I come and go.”

“Precisely. You can afford your freedom, while I cannot.” Distracted, Edward checked the window where dust billowed in the distance. An oncoming carriage?

“Have you sampled her charms?”

That snapped his attention back to Jonas. His friend’s direct question was not a surprise; they shared deep trust earned by trying times, but the query struck a tender nerve. He didn’t want to sully Miss Montgomery’s already tarnished reputation, and more important, he didn’t want his friend to think less of her.

Edward leaned his hip against the windowsill and chose his words with care. “Let’s say we’re observing certain proprieties.”

Jonas stopped twirling his beard braid and studied him a second in that flat, assessing way of his. That thread of conversation ended when Rogers appeared in the doorway, adjusting his livery.

“You rang, my lord?”

“Yes, please ask Miss Montgomery to join us for tea and—” Edward pivoted toward the window, every sense alert.

He groaned at the sight of the ominous carriage tearing through the distant Greenwich gate. He squinted to be sure, and like any stalwart warrior facing a difficult skirmish, he swore softly under his breath.

“What is it?” Jonas asked.

“Make that tea for four,” Edward called to the footman.

He gripped a handful of curtains, making certain he’d correctly identified the oncoming carriage, but there’d be no denying the owner of the black conveyance trimmed with lots of flashy red and yellow.

“Very good, milord.” Rogers bowed and was in the act of shutting the door.

“And, Rogers.”

“Yes, milord?”

“Gird your loins, man.”

The footman blinked, holding the door half-open. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Alert the staff, especially Miss Mayhew, my mother’s come to call, and by the muster of trunks strapped atop her carriage, she’ll be with us a few days.” Edward nodded at the oncoming carriage and four, not relishing the next hour, much less the next few days.

Rogers’s eyes bulged like two marbles. “I will, sir.”

Jonas began to replace the dishes in the crate. “Shall I make myself scarce?”

“No. Stay. And leave the dishes. I’d like Miss Montgomery to see them.” Edward crossed his arms as the coach, pulled by immaculate grays, heaved to a halt. “It’d be good for the countess to see them as well.”

Jonas reached behind his back and pulled a pair of pistols tucked into his breech’s waistband. Then he grabbed another hidden in his boot.

“What shall I do with these?” His large hands gripped the barrels, muzzle down, but his eye sparked with mischief. “Or do you need to arm yourself?”

“Tea is still a peaceful pursuit. Or will be in my home.” Edward yanked open a drawer in his desk, but his attention focused on the minor uproar beyond the window. “Put them here.”

Jonas settled his small armory and shut the drawer to brace five fingertips on an open space atop the desk while watching the production outside with a bemused smile. Edward was thankful his friend abided the countess’s sharp, disapproving tongue with good humor and patience. He grasped a handful of curtains for a better view of the unfolding drama on his front drive. Cold emanated from the clear, tall panes. His mother never comprehended how her good life came to fruition, nor did she understand the sacrifices he made to keep the deathbed promise given to his father, a promise of deep personal cost.

His rubbing shoulders with commoners kept her in the manner she dearly enjoyed, such as paying for the pair of footmen who scurried from the back of her ostentatious carriage. In mere seconds, those strapping lads had adjusted their wigs, tugged on bright red livery, while brushing travel dust from their sleeves. One set red lacquer steps at the carriage door, while the other unrolled a narrow red carpet stretching the distance to the front stone steps. The brawny lads exchanged a speaking glance, nodded once, and taking a deep breath, one opened the door with a flourish while the other raised his arm as a banister for the elegantly clad virago stepping from the carriage. First came a well-shod foot, a high-heeled golden silk shoe tied with an oversized red bow, followed by another well-shod foot, and volumes of gold and white silk.

Jonas picked up some loose straw from the floor and stuffed it back into the crate. “Not a planned visit, I take it?”

Edward waved from the window when his mother caught sight of him, and a delicate frown marred her perfect face. She would not condescend to wave; instead, her gloved hand patted the high sweep of powdered blond hair off her forehead while her maid fussed and fluffed her ladyship’s ensemble. Public displays of affection, even on Greenwich Park’s front drive, never made for good appearances.

“Planned? No, but inevitable.” He sighed, letting the curtains fall. “Before the meeting at the Blue Cockerel, I sent word to her about my plan to marry Miss Montgomery. Should’ve waited on that.”

“And now she comes to meet your intended.” Jonas unrolled his wrinkled sleeves as they moved to the seating area by the hearth.

“More likely to voice her disapproval of my decision.”

“Does that matter?” Jonas put on his plain, black-skirted coat and settled himself in the leather great chair, facing him.

Edward removed his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair by the roaring hearth. That small rebellion of his youth would remain. He took his seat with an eye to the door.

“Approve or disapprove,” he mused aloud, tapping steepled fingers together. “I don’t care, but I want her to like Miss Montgomery…at least be affable to her.”

“Like her? Doubtful. Your mother’d find fault with Queen Charlotte’s daughters, if any were old enough to wed.”

“What about you?” he asked, watching his friend for subtle reactions to the sudden question. “Do you like Miss Montgomery? What little you know of her, I mean.”

Jonas’s black brows shot up at that. “Does it matter?”

Edward was spared having to answer that nettlesome question when the countess entered the study, and all fell within cannon range of her sharp opinions. His mother swept through the partially open doorway unannounced, patting three blond coils perfectly arrayed over her collarbone. She gave the half-open door a slight frown. In his mother’s opinion, doors in an organized household were opened all the way or shut completely: anything else signaled a home on the brink of shoddy management.

She moved past that minor household catastrophe, her wide silk skirts swishing a fierce sound as terrifying as any cavalry charge. She stopped short of her forward march and waited in the middle of the study like a captious general pulling rank.

“Well?” She clasped lily-white hands together high on her waist. Her arms formed parts of two perfect triangles, with lace-encrusted elbows jutting from her sides.

The countess had come to do battle.

Edward slipped from his chair, stiff armed and stiff necked, as he moved across thick forest-green carpeting.

“Welcome, Mother.” He lightly touched her shoulder and bent his unscarred cheek toward hers.

Of course, he honored the rules on how to greet her: maintain an inch of space so as not to disturb the light dusting of pale powder on her cheek. Her rouged lips kissed the air beside his ear, but one soft hand gripped his arm with iron will, not letting him pull away.

“I hope you had a good journey,” he said. “What brings you to Greenwich Park?”

“I did not, thank you very much. How could I, after I received your dreadful missive? And you know quite well why I’m here.” Her sharp glance shot toward the fireplace, where Jonas rose from his seat. “Where is she?”

Edward ignored the question and escorted her to the settee facing the fire, and propriety first, motioned to Jonas. “You remember Mr. Bacon.”

“Good to see you, ma’am.” Jonas bent low from the waist.

“I see you still prefer spending time with rough Colonials.” She sniffed, causing her nose to tip a notch higher, but at least she gave Jonas a tight smile.

“Jonas is a friend and does excellent work for Sanford Shipping. And he’s from the East Midlands, remember?”

The countess perched herself on the settee’s edge, her back plumb-line straight, but her manicured fingers dug into his arm as he leaned near, only a step away from the safe haven of his great chair. Today, she could not be bothered to give further commentary on Jonas; his mother had bigger battles to wage.

“I ask again, where is this
commoner
you claim you’ll wed?” Her voice shook with unrestrained ire.