Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (21 page)

“Edward. This is unconscionable.” His mother’s voice was close to shrill when he failed to respond. “Did you know about this?”

The cup and saucer rattled in her hands, threatening to upend on shimmering skirts.

He raised his hand, halting the feminine stream of words from the settee. “You know how I feel about hysterics.”

Miss Montgomery spoke into the fray, tugging her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “There are plenty of female artists. Why Clara Peeters of Flanders does wonderful still lifes and supports herself admirably—”

“Ahhh,” the countess groaned, shocked speechless. She touched her hairline where Edward was sure a
mal-a-tête
, real or fake, formed.

“And there’s Lavinia Fontana, an Italian artist. People pay a pretty penny for her work,” Miss Montgomery said with firmness, defending her position like a stalwart soldier.

His mother winced and groaned anew at the mention of something so crass as a pretty penny. Jonas finished off his biscuit in silence, his alert stare darting from one woman to the other, and Miss Montgomery battled on with her defense.

“And there’s Maria van Oosterwyck. Why you have one of her paintings here in your own gallery.”

Edward pushed off the chair, deciding to interject objectivity into the heated arena of female emotions. No, with his mother, simple reality would do. He wasn’t decided yet on what exactly to do about Miss Montgomery’s ambition, but he’d dissemble that topic later. There wasn’t time, however, to negotiate for another future countess. His deadline loomed, and he rather liked the current candidate sitting in his study, truth be told.

But he needed to deal with one issue at a time, and Edward grudgingly admitted his mother had some parts right. Miss Montgomery needed lessons in comportment, if only to ease her navigation of Society as mother to the Greenwich heir would require. Women could be such cats, making life miserable for another of their sex, if they so decided. Miss Montgomery deserved a fair start, and his mother was the perfect teacher for that realm. But first things first. He needed calm in his household.

Edward strode to his desk, where tangible materials for his point waited. Some bits of straw remained scattered on the floor, crunching under his boots. He heard the loud rustle of silk behind him as the countess must have swiveled around on the settee to follow his path to the open crates. When he looked over, he saw a great deal of the whites of her eyes.

“Edward, are you listening?” His mother gripped the back of the settee as one might grab the rail of a small boat—while watching her larger ship sink.

“They’re all fine artists, my lady. Their work’s well received here in England.” Miss Montgomery’s voice raised a notch in volume and firmness as she defended what was clearly a passion of hers.

His mother groaned. “Yes,
Continentals
, all of them.” She pivoted on the settee, and when facing Miss Montgomery, her voice rose to quavering heights. “It’s simply
not
done in England.”

Edward picked up the small creamer pitcher he’d examined earlier, remembering his joy and awe at the triumph of science and invention. He glanced at the tableau before him: his mother outraged, her earbobs swinging from the furious movement of her head jerking from Miss Montgomery to him; Miss Montgomery’s glass-green eyes were as set as her stubborn chin; and Jonas, sitting a safe distance behind the battle line of upset women, hiding his amusement in what now must be lukewarm tea. Edward cradled the creamer in both hands and planted his hip on the side of his desk.

“Ladies, would you join me?” One boot braced the floor, while he hooked his knee over the desk corner. “I’ve some things to show you.”

His mother touched her temple and spoke sharply. “This is not the time to discuss Greenwich dishware.”

“I say it is.” The firmness of his tone brooked no disagreement as he faced the women. “Both of you. Over here.” Then he tipped his head and softened the command. “If you please.”

Miss Montgomery’s mouth pursed like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, but she slid off the settee. She sauntered over, jamming her arms across her chest, and the holes in her shawl stretched even more across her shoulders. His mother followed, sighing and pinching her skirts. She moved to the other side of Edward, keeping a mutinous distance.

He waved an arm over the display. “Please, examine the dishes and tell me what you see.”

His mother huffed but picked up a soup bowl, and Miss Montgomery held out her hand for the creamer cradled in his.

“May I?” She gave him a level gaze.

Her eyes burned dark green, but the way her gaze flicked from the small dishware and back to his eyes told him she would bear him out on this. Good. He liked that quality; that bespoke the ability to give and take reason. More women needed this, in his opinion.

“What you hold in your hands, ladies, is the perfect joining of art and science: the work of a chemist friend of mine, William Cookworthy.” He took a slow breath and said quietly, “A commoner whose genius may save us with the manufacture of light, pretty porcelain dishes affordable for the masses.”

Miss Montgomery’s gaze snapped wide as he spoke. Did she comprehend his subtle clue? She stepped closer, and that simple movement into his sphere stirred his senses. Her lemongrass scent, a slight whiff, reached him. Her head tipped in that subtle way when she listened intently, and a new, smoldering current radiated between them.

But beside him, his mother bristled as she turned the soup dish around for cursory inspection.

“That’s all well and good. But I fail to see how dishware saves anyone,” his mother said with stinging sharpness. “Your preoccupation with science, your scientific friends…it dwarfs even your father’s past preoccupation. And this”—his mother clutched the bowl with both hands, as if she would use it as a battering ram—“this
dish
is a paltry thing compared to the matter of the Greenwich family line. Why are we wasting time here?”

Eyes locked with Miss Montgomery, Edward rubbed his scarred jaw, and his gaze traced her green eyes and dropped to her full mouth. He hadn’t tested those lips yet. Why not? He was so close outside the gallery. The way one of her thick brows shot up, she knew the lay of thoughts. Was he that transparent? The brown shawl was adjusted across his quarry’s shoulders, a subtle statement that that avenue was shut for the moment, and he’d better finish his point.

“Because, I expect these dishes, and many more like them, to keep you living in the manner to which you are accustomed.” He broke eye contact with Miss Montgomery, and facing the countess, he picked up a plate. “The sale of this plate and many others like it will pay for lots of fancy carriages, maintain both your luxurious households, and keep you in those shoes you insist on buying at prices that boggle the mind.”

His mother’s red lips clamped in a tight line, but she replaced the bowl carefully to its spot on the desk.

“Edward. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you want to continue to receive your exorbitant annual allowance, we need commoners, and we need commerce. This hard-paste porcelain”—he tipped the flat of the plate toward his mother then returned it to the desk—“sturdy and inexpensive, will enable us to continue living well.”

Miss Montgomery studied the creamer, turning it over in her hands.

“What you see here,” Edward said while waving his arm over the desk, “will lead to the fruits of commerce, however vulgar that may be to your delicate ears. Truth is, after Jon’s death, Sanford Shipping fell into disarray. Between that and Father’s illness, the family coffers dwindled. The Greenwich entailment yields middling rents, and Father’s investments of years ago went dry long before he died.”

“Then make up for it with an advantageous marriage,” the countess said, tipping her nose high.

“And repeat that debacle with the Blackwoods?” His mouth stretched into a wide, unfriendly smile. “No thank you.”

“There are others,” his mother huffed.

“I’d rather handle fiscal matters the only way I know how: science.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Cookworthy approached me about a partnership last year. His chemistry was sound, and Sanford Shipping, thanks to Jonas, had a good year. So, I invested. Now he’s perfected what the Chinese have mastered for years, a hard-paste porcelain. As we speak, our solicitor attends the patent of our joint partnership with Cookworthy Dish Manufacturer. The success of which I am confident will buy as many ostentatious carriages as you could ever imagine owning.”

“Oh, Edward.” Lines bracketed his mother’s mouth, but this startling knowledge stymied her for the moment.

“You tolerated Jon’s foray into shipping because it provided a distraction—”

The countess’s head snapped to attention, and his words that flowed so easily froze. A mosaic of emotions etched fine lines around his mother’s eyes. Edward softened his voice, treading with care in that most painful of places.

“But Sanford Shipping proved to be a boon. Needful commerce, if you will.”

Dull aches, like an awful healing bruise, pressed him everywhere as he recalled the agonies of the past. Despite their distance, he was still his mother’s son; he needed to tread with care. For no matter what barbs they exchanged, from testy words to harsh rancor, when the countess hurt, so did he. Edward never forgot the day Jon died. His mother cried bitter tears, wailing eviscerating self-recriminations for supporting the first ship that turned into a sizable venture, the venture that swallowed the life of her firstborn son.

After Jon’s death, she was so fragile. To bring that history to the fore hurt them both.

She hated all things to do with ships, which made what loomed on his horizon all the more thorny. His mother lightly brushed a dish and turned shrewd eyes on him: she didn’t rise from daughter of a borderland baronet to elevated noblewoman without the skill to hone in on the unsaid.

“Very well, I understand the dishes, but why the rush to marry a woman so far beneath your station?” His mother reached out to touch his sleeve, the first true show of tenderness since she arrived. “You’re a young man in your prime, still rather handsome, despite your scars and…” Her voice trailed softly as she searched the smooth and scarred planes of his face. “In time, we’ll find the right woman for you.”

“That’s just it. We’re running out of time.” He gritted his teeth at what was coming.

“So you’ve mentioned a time or two before,” Miss Montgomery said as she set the creamer back in its spot. Her direct green-eyed gaze demanded unvarnished truth. “What do you mean by that? And don’t dare brush me aside.”

“One of our ships,
The
Fiona
, leaves in precisely seventy-eight days.” Edward sucked in a deep breath, the same as he did before diving in for a cold swim. “I’ll be on it. Gone for two, maybe three years…on a scientific expedition sailing the world. I accept that there’s the possibility I may not return…and wish you both would do the same.”

Thirteen

If you want to know the mind of a man,

listen to his words.

—Chinese Proverb

Loathsome quiet hung over the cavernous study, a pall as oppressive as a sudden death notice. Emotions jumbled through Lydia, but one of truth’s bitter pills surprised her: the earl was like every other man of her life’s acquaintance, who in the end, would leave. She harbored the heart of a realist. Men were driven to sate their lusts, be they of the flesh or selfish ambition.

And women of all types and relations were left scattered in their wake.

The earl, like other men she’d known, inveigled matters solely to meet his needs, drawing a woman close with a promising beginning, then left, or would leave, at his convenience. Well, Lord Greenwich hadn’t left yet, but his eyes, distant and shuttered, told her in some ways he was as good as gone.

Why
did
men
have
such
difficulty
staying?

“But you could die.” The countess wheezed as one hand braced the desk’s edge. “You cannot leave me.”

Lydia clutched the ends of her shawl low across her abdomen. A protective gesture? But the countess, the way she blanched under white powder, sharp, blinding pain writ years on her fine-boned features. Lydia couldn’t say she cared for the noblewoman, but the gut-wrenching news her son delivered just then would level any woman hanging onto her progeny by a thread. She had to act.

“My lady.” Lydia wrapped a comforting arm about the countess’s shoulders. “Come take a seat near the fire.”

The countess accepted her assistance as Lydia shot Lord Greenwich an incriminating glare, but his eyes stayed woefully blank. He rubbed his scarred cheek and watched Lydia coddle his mother, withdrawn from the displays of emotion. What? Did he think his mother wouldn’t be affected by this latest news? Men and their irritating bluntness. She settled the countess on the settee, and like a mother hen, sat near the older woman, fussing over her, pouring tepid tea that was refused.

The earl moved to the hearth and rolled a new log onto the waning blaze. He poked and prodded the fire to new life before he turned around to address the consequences of his words. Mr. Bacon, Lydia noticed, sat straight-faced and silent. The blighter probably knew all along what his lordship planned and was in on it. Thick as thieves, those two, and Lydia’s harsh stare swept accusingly from one to the other. Lord Greenwich was man enough to speak up first.

“Now you know why I need a wife and that she is…
enceinte
before I leave. I’m making every effort to protect the line, as well as the family coffers, if I fail to return. That was the nature of the promise I made to Father before he died, though he was especially concerned about financial arrangements.” His lordship tapped ash from the poker before replacing it on the stand. He clasped his hands behind his back and gave Lydia an apologetic grimace. “Forgive me. This is indelicate but necessary.”

“But you could die.” The countess, with her tear-glossed, red-rimmed eyes, repeated the words like an accusation. “I need you to stay.”