Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (30 page)

She knew little of the current fashion, but she recognized quality. The clothing he wore was very expensive, and it showcased his manly proportions to a nicety. Orion Chase had become a stunningly attractive man, and no woman in her right mind could fail to see that.

“I wonder,” Lady Lindenshire said idly, “if you and my son had got on better as children if your father’s family would have been so quick to cast you off.”

It was a bold, well-nigh rude thing to say, and Artemis looked at the countess sharply.

“Oh, dear,” the older woman said. “I have spoken too plainly. Forgive me, my dear. You look so like your mama that for a moment I forgot ... ”

Her kind eyes held no trace of animosity or ill grace.

Artemis waved her hand dismissively. “I do not mind in the least. Friends speak to each other with openness and honesty. I am not my mama, but I prefer plain speaking, just as she did, and I give you every leave to speak the same way to me as you did to her.”

Lady Lindenshire nodded. “Done.” She sipped her tea thoughtfully.

“Is there a new Lady Lindenshire?” Artemis asked. “If so, I should enjoy meeting her before I leave.” It would be very interesting to see what sort of woman Orion had taken to wife.

“No,” the countess answered, “My son has not yet married, drat him. As far as I have seen—and much to my annoyance—he has not yet begun to look for a bride, though I hear rumor of his having shown some interest in a certain young lady this past summer. Even if the rumors are true, however, nothing came of it The lady in question has married, and Orion has not spoken of it, even to me, and we enjoy a rather close relationship,” she said with some pride. “Still, close or no, I shall strangle the rotter if he does not give me grandchildren. He owes me!” She dimpled just like her son. “It is high time he found another lady, I vow.”

“He is but four-and-twenty,” Artemis said gently. “There is still time.”

The countess dimpled even deeper. “Yes, of course ... but I am impatient. More tea? And—goodness, my dear!—I have forgotten my manners. Are you hungry?” Without waiting for a reply, she went on. “Pray sample these lovely biscuits Cook made, and I will ring for something more substantial.” She pressed a biscuit into Artemis’s hands. “Now, about your staying here for only one night ... I have an idea. I travel to London soon, and a number of my servants will precede me to make ready for my arrival. They depart in two days’ time, and you may travel with them, if you wish.”

“Why,” Artemis exclaimed, “that would put me in London a day or two earlier than—” She was going to say, “
than if I walked
” but checked herself. “ —than I had planned,” she finished.

“Precisely. And we would be able to enjoy the pleasure of your company for another day.”

“Oh, Lady Lindenshire, I am only too happy to accept!”

“Good! And, of course, I will write you a reference. You were born a lady after all, and you are well spoken, and I daresay that with my recommendation you can do much better than serving maid or seamstress, my dear. And I insist you agree to stay at my house in Town for as long as it takes to procure a suitable position.”

“Oh,” Artemis said on a sigh, “thank you so much, Lady Lindenshire!”

“Nonsense,” the countess said. “It is my pleasure. And you must call me Belle!”

“Belle.” Artemis nodded happily.

Their conversation turned to other things. As they chatted happily, Cook provided a delicious meal of cold chicken, warm bread, three kinds of cheese, with sweet milk and an exquisite pear tart. The countess picked at a small portion to be polite, while Artemis tried not to eat too much and failed miserably.

Midnight approached, and they were both fighting yawns as they reminisced about Artemis’s mama. Artemis missed her mother very much, and it was comforting to talk to Belle, who really had loved Mama dearly. Artemis hated to see the night end, but finally, after she’d yawned thrice in one minute, Belle sent her off to bed with the promise of more time to talk on the morrow.

A maid showed Artemis to a magnificent room, much like the one she remembered occupying at Branleigh. As a footman filled a hip bath, the young maid delivered a soft cotton night-rail that probably belonged to Lady Lindenshire, for it was much too long for Artemis. Her dusty garments were soon whisked away to be washed, and Artemis was left alone.

Outdoors, November’s chill nipped the air. She thought of Anna asleep in the wagon. The night was cold, and, though Artemis trusted her older friend Isabel to keep Anna warm, Artemis still wished the little girl could be here enjoying this lovely fire.

Artemis looked about her. The room was large and held a clothespress, a huge four-poster, a dressing table, and a window seat. The polished wood floor was covered with a thick, blue carpet, and the walls were hung with blue and gold patterned paper and lovely gold draperies. How Anna’s eyes would fill with wonder at a room such as this one. She’d never seen anything fancier than the inside of a small cottage or the common room of a wayside inn.

Artemis heaved a sigh, for it was unlikely Anna would
ever
see a room so fine as this one, unless she were the maid cleaning one. Anger rose inside Artemis, but she pushed it down. There was no sense in mourning or raging over that which could not be changed. As Artemis bathed, toweled dry in front of the glowing fire, dressed in the soft night-rail, and finally slid between the crisp, clean linen on the bed, the optimism that came to her naturally took over. It was best to focus on the good things. She would not have to walk to London with holes in her boots, she would have a place to stay while she found a position, and she would have a very influential letter of reference. Everything was going to work. She could feel it.

She had forgotten what a real bed was like, and she stretched luxuriantly, savoring the sleepy minutes before she fell asleep. Once again, the signs had led her where she needed to be. It seemed she’d found a friend in Belle Chase.

If not for Orion, everything would have been perfect.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE

next morning, it was as though nothing unpleasant had happened between them. Artemis ate breakfast with Belle, and Orion joined them after in the morning parlor, where they passed the time amiably enough.
Artemis forgave him last night’s outburst—she had provoked him, after all!—and his temper, as it always had when they were children, had cooled. He even apologized quite sincerely that morning at breakfast—something he’d never once done in the past—and he’d acted as a gentleman should ever since, and Artemis had quite relaxed around him. It was lovely to be treated as a lady.

It had been sixteen years since Artemis had been treated like anything but a common Gypsy, and at first it felt awkward to be treated like the granddaughter of an earl, even if she
were
the granddaughter of an earl. Her surroundings, too, felt uncanny—familiar and yet
un
familiar. She could remember the tall ceilings with their cared moldings, but she’d forgotten how sound echoed off them. She remembered piano fortes, but she did had forgotten how lovely the smooth keys felt under the pads of her fingers. She knew the candles of the rich were made of beeswax, not tallow, but she had forgotten their sweet, honey smell. Still, no matter how much pleasure she took from drinking tea from a delicate china cup instead of a rough tin mug or from curling her toes in the thick Aubusson carpet, she tried not to show it, for she didn’t want her hosts to feel sorry for her.

She was having trouble not feeling sorry for herself. And when she considered Anna, who had never experienced such things
—oh!—she wanted to cry. In those moments, she almost wished she had not come to Stonechase Manor, but the signs had led her here, and that was that. The signs were never wrong, and there was no doubt that they had led her down the right path.

After luncheon, Belle declared she would nap, and Orion suggested a walk about the grounds. It was the height of the pear harvest, he explained, and they couldn’t possibly be construed as unchaperoned, for the grounds would be crawling with workers.

To Artemis’s amusement, they’d ended up at the ruins, where they used to play as children. The afternoon sun
was veiled behind a thick blanket of gray clouds, and Artemis sat, watching Orion climb atop the jumble of stones.

Though he’d certainly changed on the outside, Orion was much the same inside, she fancied. And that which
had
changed did not seem to fit with what hadn’t.

He’d been a curious little boy, forever exploring and minutely examining the world around him, and logical to a fault even then. She remembered him being fiercely annoyed with behavior he saw as illogical, and, since people often did things that made no sense, poor eight-year-old Orion had isolated himself.

That, at least, had changed.

Orion had become a man of fashion, his mother had told her last night. More than that—he was a regular tulip, to hear Belle tell it. And, apparently, he was often in London attending balls, salons, musicals, picnics, balloon ascensions, the opera, and routs—any fashionable entertainment, really. He’d somehow shed his desire for social isolation. Lady Lindenshire’s account made it sound as though he’d turned completely around. According to her, he didn’t just gingerly, judiciously partake of Society’s offerings; he basked, wallowed, reveled in them.

And yet he wasn’t looking for a wife.
Why
?

Judging by Orion’s intensely negative reaction to the story of how the signs had led Artemis to seek his mother—something Artemis knew he could not fit into his neatly-ordered concept of how the universe functioned—finding a wife was going to be difficult. There couldn’t be very many ladies in the upper ten thousand so intensely interested in fashion
and
so fiercely dedicated to laws of science and the pursuit of knowledge.

It was an odd combination of interests, but what had she expected? Orion had always been odd.

Still, for a man of fashion, he was friendly enough to a wandering Gypsy. He was cordial, if a little too formal for her liking, and he gave free reign to his curiosity about life in a Gypsy caravan. He had questioned her at length about it as they’d walked about the grounds, and their conversation had filled several pleasant hours. It had been a warm and pleasant day, in spite of the dreary clouds that now seemed intent upon filling the sky.

“I am relieved,” she remarked, watching as Orion leapt confidently from stone to stone.

The sky was now quite gray and the wind was rising. A sudden gust whisked through the lindens above them and sent autumn’s spent leaves bouncing and wheeling over the meadows. In the orchards, the workers were singing, their voices reaching the ruins on the wind. They were still within view of the orchards, but the farther they’d ranged from the house and the more distance they’d put between them and other people, the more relaxed and open Orion became.

He stilled and regarded her thoughtfully. “Relieved?”

She gestured toward the pile of rubble beneath him. “Yes ... well, when I first arrived yesterday, I thought you’d become too high in the instep for such things as climbing the ruins. You are so clearly a man of fashion these days.” Even now, on their walk, he was elegantly attired in a bottle blue coat, silver waistcoat, and expertly tailored black breeches. “You look like you should be paying a morning call at some famous lady’s salon rather than rambling over the countryside with a Romany maid.”

Orion gave a comic bow from atop the rubble. Beneath him, a great slab of ancient, brown-stained stone teetered. He nearly lost his balance, corrected, and then cocked a self-assured smile at her. “There is no one I would rather impress than you, Gypsy.”

She laughed. “Perhaps that is because there is no one else around.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Nothing escapes you,” he said impishly.

She looked down at her clothes. “I am afraid my own garments do not compare favorably to yours. We must be a curious sight.” She had on the same black skirt, red-embroidered chemise, and boots as yesterday, but she had made an effort to modify the costume by pinning her hair up, rather than letting it flow loosely over her shoulders, as usual. And, though she was still wearing a scarf, it was her blue one, and she was wearing it as a shawl instead of tied about her waist. “I am afraid I would be thrown out of a fancy London salon.” She laughed.

“Even so,” he said with a nod, “I would not dishonor you by conducting myself with any less decorum than I usually do.”

“You always dress this way now?”

“I do.” He nodded and stepped with sure-footed confidence from one giant piece of rubble to another, his golden brown eyes scanning the jumble of lichen-covered stones. Suddenly, he stilled and bent his head to one side. His eyes narrowed, and he bent to peer into the deep shadow under a slab of marble, his expression taking on a serious cast

At once, she realized he was looking for bugs or some other crawly things, and she well-nigh laughed aloud. There he was, Orion Chase, the dashing young Earl of Lindenshire, a paragon of good taste, a man who had obviously dedicated himself to the pursuit of a fashionable existence, and yet at least one corner of his mind—or more, judging by the look of concentration on his handsome face—was still very much concerned with beetles and salamanders!

He hadn’t changed one whit, she realized. Not on the inside, at least, but on the outside ...

“Why?” she blurted, and he tilted his gaze in her direction. “Orion, you are at home, not in London or Bath or Brighton. You are roaming the grounds in the company of a Gypsy. Yet you are still dressed in the first stare of fashion, and your mama says you always dress this way. Why?”

Pressing his generous mouth into a straight, heavy line, Orion appeared to be framing an answer, but then he looked suddenly toward the horizon. “I believe a storm is coming,” he said. “We should return to Stonechase.”

Without further comment, he climbed down, tucked her arm in his, and set off.

He had also neatly changed the subject.

Orion was obviously uncomfortable talking about himself, and Artemis wondered about that, too, but she decided to let the matter drop. She didn’t want to spoil their time together with any further unpleasantness. She was having a lovely time at Stonechase. And Orion was everything that could be expected from an attentive host and friend.

In fact, thus far, she would have found him a most pleasing companion but for the fact that he had ignored her whenever she spoke of the signs—which, of course, was often. Any mention of portents had him veering off on another subject if they were sitting together—or veering off on another footpath if they were walking together. It was quite annoying. As logical and as intelligent as he was, Orion couldn’t see what was right in front of his nose.

Perhaps
, she thought with a little sigh,
he still needs spectacles after all
. He certainly could not see the signs clearly—not that it would do any good to mention them. “The woods and fields are as lovely as I remembered them,” she said, instead. “Thank you for the tour.”

“I had a lovely time escorting you, in spite of the dreary weather.” The sky was now hopelessly overcast with dark clouds, and the rain that had been threatening since yesterday seemed imminent.

“Do you still play chess?” she asked as they reached Stonechase Manor, remembering that her father had taught them both to play shortly before he died.

He looked over at her speculatively and then shrugged. “Not much. Boring.”

“
Boring
?” she exclaimed. “Then I daresay you do not truly understand and appreciate the game.”

“Oh, Gypsy, you misunderstand,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I meant only that the game is not challenging enough for my own enjoyment, for I always win.”

“Indeed!”

“Do you still play?” he asked.

“Well,” she said carefully, “I would not call what I do ‘play,’ my lord. I am quite serious about the game.”

“Oho! That sounds like a challenge.”

She inclined her head and smiled. “I suppose I would not mind ...
instructing
you for a game or two.”

“By Jove! Instruct me, will you? I see. I think you are the one who has something to learn, Gypsy, not me.”

She laughed. “If you can teach me anything, Lord Logic, I would welcome the opportunity.” The game was afoot, and they strolled toward the east parlor companionably until they reached the gallery.

The room was long and narrow, with a cavernously high ceiling and was indirectly lit from whatever sunlight came through the large windows on either end. The high walls were full of pictures and portraits large and small, for the family had been very wealthy even before the first earl. No window that might admit damaging sunlight broke the smooth planes of the dark green-papered walls. Though it was still early in the afternoon, the approaching storm had brought with it a gathering gloom, and a footman came through the gallery as they passed into it, lighting lamps.

Artemis paused to admire one particularly fine likeness of one of Orion’s ancestors. The portrait was of a young woman dressed in an old-fashioned gown. The eyes bore a resemblance to Orion’s, a striking golden-brown and keenly intelligent, but the hair was well-nigh white-blonde, and the woman was petite. Artemis wondered who it was.

Seeing that most of the frames including this one had tiny golden nameplates attached, she drew closer, squinting at the tiny, engraved script on the nameplate.

“This must be one of your great-aunts. I remember them from when I was a girl. They seemed ancient.”

“They were. They both died in my tenth summer, aged ninety-and-seven.”

“Very respectable. Which one is she?”

Orion leaned forward and peered minutely at the nameplate. “Geor-gi-ann-a,” he pronounced, as though he were reading the name.

“That is not what it says!” Artemis gave a most unladylike bark of laughter. “You cannot see!”

“What?”

“You cannot see! I had thought your eyes improved themselves with maturity. I thought that was why you no longer wear your spectacles. But that is not it at all. You are
simply
too proud
to wear your spectacles.”

Orion looked annoyed—and confused.

She skimmed her fingers over the nameplate. “There is no name here. It says only
Twin Sister
. You only pretended to read the name. Come now, admit it!”

Orion’s strong jaw line set solid, and he said with tight formality, “For once, Miss Rose, even I cannot deny the logic of your conclusion.”

He moved toward the parlor at a brisk pace, and Artemis hurried to catch him. “But why?” she asked. “I understand vanity, but why lie
to me
, of all people? Surely you have no interest in impressing
me
.”

He stopped next to a tall window in the next room, a small parlor done in golds and greens. He looked down at his hands, and his jaw worked. Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour of four, and Orion blinked, then blew out a small, forceful sigh. “Forgive me, Artemis. It was not my intention to
lie
to you. It was ... force of habit.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a certain reputation to maintain among the
ton
. I am much in London, and spectacles are not ... not part of my Town image.” He hesitated for a moment, as though uncertain of his next words, but finally he said. “It is very simple, really. Nothing more to tell. End of story.” Though the clock had just struck the hour, he pulled his watch from his pocket and strode off, looking at it, seeming almost to have forgotten her—though Artemis was not fooled. She was amazed at the vehemence of his response.

“No more to tell?” she muttered behind his back. “Hah!” It was obvious to Artemis there was a great deal more to tell. And then, at that moment, as Orion examined his watch minutely to cover his discomfiture, the sun broke through the clouds, streamed through the tall window at the far end of the gallery, and limned his brown hair with a halo of golden light.

He stopped and turned to look at the sky. “Amazing!” he exclaimed. “I thought those clouds were impenetrable.”

Artemis smiled and shook her head. “I am not amazed at all. I know that sunbeam for what it is: a sign.”

Orion glanced back at her. “A sign—bah. What rot!”

She motioned to the watch in his hand. “Beneath the smooth face of a watch lies a complex mechanism, hidden away in the dark and difficult to discern. That break in the clouds, the light streaming in upon you—it is a sign that things are indeed more complex than you let on.”

He scowled. “You are speaking nonsense.”

She shrugged. “Then that makes two of us. You, after all, are the one who chooses not to see clearly.”

He threw two exasperated hands in the air and, grasping her arm, propelled her toward the parlor. “Come lose at chess, Gypsy.”

To her relief, he did not seem angry, just annoyed.

“You might be surprised,” she said. “Gypsies love chess. We invented it.”

“Ah, but you are not a Gypsy. Not a true Gypsy.”