Persuasion (11 page)

“Then I will make the time to do so. Simon—” she hesitated “—is something bothering you?”

He faced her, eyes wide. “You call me Simon now?”

She trembled. “Grenville, then. I sense that something is amiss, although I may be imagining it. If something is wrong, I would like to help.”

“Of course you would.” His stare was hard. “I hope I have not made a mistake, Amelia, asking you to join us here in London.”

He was having regrets, she thought, stunned. “I know that this is awkward, but the children need me. I am glad to help. I am glad to be here. Even if you hadn’t asked me to become your housekeeper, I would do what I could to help you and the children.”

He paused for a long moment. “Your determination—compassion—loyalty—they all amaze me.”

“In time, we will both become accustomed to our new relationship,” she said, still not believing it herself.

He raised a brow, clearly skeptical. Then he drained his wine. “You deserve more than to be embroiled in my life.”

She was so surprised by his words. “I want to be here. Otherwise, I would have rejected your offer.”

“I hope you do not come to regret the decision you have made.”

“You are confusing me,” she heard herself say. “I know you are in mourning, Simon, but sometimes I wonder if it is only the crisis of Lady Grenville’s death that is affecting you.” When he did not respond, she tensed. “Last night, I realized you were worried about something. I thought it was the boys. But you were in a terrible rush to return to town. And your expression is so dire. What is bothering you?”

“If I have frightened you, I am sorry.” His smile was tight. “Nothing is wrong. I am overwhelmed, that is all.” He set his glass down and walked over to the desk.

She stared, wishing he would be honest with her.

“I forgot. You have come downstairs not to enjoy my morbid company, but for writing utensils.”

As he opened the desk drawer, something banged twice, very suddenly. It banged again.

Amelia assumed it was a shutter, banging against the house. But Grenville withdrew a pistol from the drawer and rushed around the desk.

“What are you doing?” Amelia cried, shocked.

He glanced at her, his eyes blazing. His expression was savage. “Stay here!”

She gasped, following him to the threshold of the room. “Simon!”

“Someone is at the door,” he told her, his face hard and set. “I said, stay here!”

“Simon—it was a shutter!” she cried.

“Do not move from this room!” Giving her a frightening look, he rushed into the hall.

Amelia was stunned. She was certain the banging had been a loose shutter, not someone knocking on the door. And even if someone were at the door at midnight, it was probably a neighbor in distress. She followed Simon into the hall, hurrying toward the entry.

The front door was open. Simon stood there, holding the pistol, gazing out into the dark, cloudy night. Suddenly he pulled the door closed and locked it. Then he turned. Their eyes met.

“You were right.”

Amelia realized that there was sweat upon his brow, trickling down his temple. And she saw him tremble.

Why would he think it necessary to go to the door with a loaded gun? She walked over to him. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

He didn’t hear her. She saw a faraway look in his eyes. It was haunted; worse, it was fearful. “Simon!” She clasped his arm.

He jerked and glanced at her. The faraway look vanished. “I told you to stay in the library.” He was furious now.

She studied him, taken aback. “Who did you expect to see at this hour?”

His expression tightened. “No one,” he finally said.

And Amelia knew he was lying.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
MELIA
CLOSED
THE
BIN
beneath the large table in the center of the kitchen. “And we also need onions,” she said to the maid, a slender girl with freckles and red hair.

Jane nodded, but she made no move to put on her cloak or leave.

Amelia had just given her an extensive list of the foodstuffs that she would need to make a satisfactory breakfast for Grenville and his sons. Not that she would cook their meal. She didn’t see the point in defying Grenville, especially when the issue seemed so silly. Jane’s aunt would be arriving shortly; she was an excellent cook, or so the maid claimed, and she was eager to help in these circumstances.

“And please, do hurry. It is almost seven,” Amelia added, rather impatiently. When Jane began to slowly don her wool cloak, Amelia said, “Now, shoo!”

Jane started and rushed from the kitchens.

Perspiring, Amelia sighed. The maid was very shy, and possibly dim-witted. She certainly hoped the rest of the staff was more energetic. Noticing a speck upon the island table, she reached for a rag and wiped it off. Although the table was used for the preparation of meals and the cleaning of pots, pans and utensils, the oak surface was highly waxed and gleaming. Every surface in the kitchen—from the stove to the ovens to the sinks—was spotlessly clean.

The kitchens were vast, and boasted every possible convenience. A woman could always tell the nature of a household by its kitchens. Amelia was pleased and impressed.

She had learned that Lambert Hall had been a part of Lady Grenville’s dowry. She did not have to ask to know that Grenville would not care less about modernizing his kitchens. This room, and all of its equipment, was the work of his wife.

It also had a door which let out onto the street, which was very convenient for the receipt of deliveries and groceries. Jane had left the door ajar and Amelia went to close it, glancing outside at the deserted London street. A single carriage was moving down the tree-lined block. Handsome homes with shady drives faced her on the adjacent side. It was a very posh neighborhood, indeed.

Lambert Hall took up most of the block. The gardens formed an interior courtyard of sorts, the house shaped in a U around it. It was very early, but Amelia had been up since five. She had explored the house as thoroughly as possible, given the fact that she felt very rushed and had a huge list of tasks to get through. She had discovered the staff’s sleeping quarters upstairs, on the third floor, in the wing of the house where she had slept last night. The rooms belonging to Signor Barelli, Mrs. Murdock and the rest of the servants were being aired and refreshed by the other housemaid.

She had discovered three salons downstairs, in the central part of the house. The west wing of the house boasted a music room and a ballroom, the east side the dining room and the library. Every room was magnificently furnished. Royalty would be comfortable here.

The only rooms she hadn’t explored were those belonging to Grenville and his sons. The family’s apartments took up the entire second floor of the west wing. She had refused to set foot there.

Nor would she even think about the conversation they had had last night, the drink they had shared—or Grenville’s odd reaction to the banging shutter. She did not have time to worry about the loaded gun he kept in his desk, apparently expecting an intruder he might have to shoot.

Grenville and the boys remained abed, but she imagined they would all be up shortly. A sterling tray was already set with biscuits and jams, and water was boiling on the stove. At least the family would have a small repast when they awoke.

She had already set the dining-room table, but she left the kitchens to inspect the table one last time.

The dining room was a long chamber with pale blue walls and dark gold damask draperies. A crystal chandelier was overhead. The table could seat two-dozen guests. The delicate, bone-colored chairs had elaborately scrolled backs, the seats upholstered in blue and gold.

She had set the table with gold-striped linens, Waterford glasses and gilded flatware. White roses and lilies from the hothouse behind the gardens formed a beautiful centerpiece.

Grenville would be pleased, she thought, smiling.

And then a movement outside caught her eye.

Amelia quickly moved to the window. A man was crossing the gardens.

He had obviously just entered from the street, and he was approaching the house!

For one moment, she watched, her mind spinning. Were the gates not locked? Or were they kept open, so anyone could enter? Was he trespassing? She could not imagine why someone was in the gardens.

She noted that he was tall and lean, his hair white. His coat was royal-blue, and he wore breeches with white stockings.

He was most definitely hurrying toward the house!

“Harold!” she cried, rushing out of the dining room. She ran into the library, directly to Grenville’s desk. The pistol was in the drawer there, as it had been last night.

“Miss Greystone?”

She whirled at the sound of Harold’s voice. He was a young man of perhaps eighteen, who did odd chores around the house and helped in the kitchens. “Have you seen St. Just? There is someone outside—I think a stranger means to sneak into this house!”

Harold paled. “His lordship remains upstairs, abed. Should I go rouse him?”

“Damn,” Amelia cried. By the time Harold returned with Grenville, the intruder would be inside. “Do we have a neighbor who would call at such an early hour—by way of the gardens?”

“I know of no such neighbor, Miss Greystone,” Harold said, wide-eyed. “Who would call at seven in the morning? Besides, who knows that his lordship has even returned to town?”

The man was an intruder! “Come with me. And grab a knife—no, seize that poker, in case you have to use it.”

Of course, there could be a simple explanation, but she would not give the stranger the benefit of the doubt, not in these times of war. Amelia rushed from the library, not bothering to wait for Harold, but she heard him following her. She wished that there had been time to genuinely become familiar with the house. She didn’t know which rooms had doors leading outside onto the gardens.

The doors to every chamber had been opened that morning, however. They rushed past the largest salon, a gold-and-red room, leaving the center of the house. She continued past the music room. Then she thought the better of it and about-faced, crashed into Harold. She seized him and dragged him with her into the small, airy room. A piano and harp was in its center. Two dozen gold chairs surrounded it. Behind the instruments was a pair of glass doors that opened onto a small brick patio and the gardens.

Panting, she halted at the doors. The gardens would soon be spectacular—blooms were emerging everywhere. But she did not see a gentleman in a white wig and blue jacket. “He is already inside.”

“I should get his lordship.” Harold was terse.

Amelia wondered where the gun closet was. “Follow me,” she said. And as she left the music room and turned right, she saw Grenville approaching.

His eyes widened. “What are you doing? Why do you have my gun?”

“There is an intruder in the house!” she cried, trembling with relief.

He reached her, removing the gun from her hands. “You are shaking!” He put his arm around her. “Amelia—what are you saying?”

“I was checking on the dining room when I saw a man in the gardens—heading for this side of the house! But he is gone now—he must be inside,” she cried. She looked at Grenville. What was he doing wandering about the west wing on the ground floor?

He handed Harold the gun. “Take care, it is primed,” he said. Then he took both of her hands in his and smiled. “I think you are imagining things. I have been making a cursory inspection of the house, Amelia. I went through every room in this wing. I did not see anyone. Are you sure you saw someone outside?”

She stared at him in sudden confusion. “Yes, I saw a bulky man with white hair. He was on the far side of the gardens, by the street, and he was heading toward the house.”

Grenville did not seem alarmed. “Harold, please put the pistol back in the middle drawer of my desk in the library. And you may put that poker back, as well.” He put his arm around her. “What did you intend to do, if you found an intruder? Do you know how to fire a pistol?”

“I most certainly know how to fire a pistol—I am an excellent marksman,” she cried. “We should search the house, Simon. I saw someone outside.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. Taking her arm, they went to the threshold of the ballroom. The doors were closed. Grenville pushed them open.

Amelia stared into a huge room with gleaming wood floors, red walls and gilded columns. Above her head, there were four magnificent crystal chandeliers. An entire wall of French doors opened onto a large flagstone patio, which overlooked the gardens. “This room is stunning,” she said. She had never been to a ball, but she could easily imagine the room overflowing with guests in silks and brocades, diamonds and rubies.

“There hasn’t been a ball here since Elizabeth and I were engaged.”

His tone was odd.

Distracted, Amelia looked up at him. Had they had an engagement ball, then?

He grimaced. “I haven’t thought about that night in a decade.”

She realized the memories were not pleasant. They were standing side by side, so closely that her skirts brushed his thighs and hips. She did not move away. Instead, she studied him. He lowered his gaze and stared back at her.

Her heart raced. Nothing had changed since the previous evening. Neither the specter of an intruder or the vast list of tasks she must get through could diminish his effect upon her. “There is no intruder,” she said softly.

“No. There is no intruder.”

“I did see someone in the gardens, Simon.”

“Perhaps you did. But he is gone now. I am an early riser. I will keep an eye out tomorrow, and instruct the staff, when they arrive, to do so, as well.”

His body was hard and warm, dwarfing hers. Amelia knew she should put some distance between them, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to do so. “Why aren’t you alarmed?”

“Because I can’t imagine why a thief would attempt to steal into this house when the entire household is awakening.” He did not move away from her, either.

She realized he was right. A thief would break in at night, when everyone was asleep. “If I am correct, and a man was in your gardens, then he was not a thief.”

Grenville’s brows lifted.

“This is a time of war, Grenville. There are stories I could tell you,” she said, thinking of Julianne’s husband, who had been one of Pitt’s spies.

“Are you suggesting that you could tell me war
stories?” He smiled, as if amused.

“Julianne became quite a radical—she was a huge Jacobin supporter, until she fell in love with Bedford.” She decided that now was not the time to fill in the rest of the blanks. “You must have heard about the French deserters who showed up in St. Just parish at Squire Penwaithe’s.”

“I did. Are you also suggesting that a spy—or a Frenchman—was in my gardens?”

“All I am saying is that you must keep the gates locked, and that anything is possible.” She was firm.

“I will keep that in mind,” he murmured. He gave her a very odd and thoughtful look, indeed. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

She slowly shook her head. “I slept fitfully. My mind kept turning over all I wish to do. I have been up since five. But, I am usually up at six,” she added, suddenly feeling foolish. She was such a sensible woman, but she was rambling. She hoped Grenville did not think her a hysterical ninny.

“I can see that you are going to try to build Rome in a single day,” he said softly, but his mouth was curving slightly.

“I meant it when I said I intended to try.” She smiled back.

“Harold heard me call you Amelia.”

She started.

He touched her cheek, very suddenly. “I am sorry you were frightened.” He dropped his hand. “I am going to rouse the boys, if they are not up already.”

And before she could respond, Grenville had turned and was striding away, leaving her standing there outside of his magnificent ballroom, aware of that insistent yearning again.

* * *

H
YDE
P
ARK
WAS
MAGNIFICENT
in the spring. Daffodils were blooming, the lawns were emerald-green, and the elms and oaks were thick with new foliage. The sky was perfectly blue. No clouds marred it. The sun was bright and strong. It was a perfect day.

Or was it?

Simon sat the dark bay Thoroughbred hunter he had recently purchased through an agent. The mare excelled at the hunt, and was fearless when it came to jumping high hedges and wide stone walls. He had heard that she would take an “in and out” without the slightest hesitation. He looked forward to their first hunt.

Now, though, he kept a loose rein, allowing her to walk slowly along the riding path.

The park was very busy that day. Other gentlemen were on the path, astride their mounts, and at least a half a dozen open carriages were in sight, filled with gentlewomen in their afternoon finery. Pedestrians abounded, too, the ladies with parasols. King Charles spaniels were afoot. One gent walked a mastiff. He was recognized by everyone and greeted warmly. He responded in turn with a brief nod or a curt “hello.”

He did not mean to be abrupt, but his mood was hardly light. Jourdan’s contact had failed to show.

He had left the house before five that morning, in disguise, to meet the Jacobin. But no one had been waiting for him at the cobbler’s shop on Darby Lane.

That failure meant one thing. His contact had either been imprisoned or he had been killed.

And either scenario was threatening to him. If Pitt’s agents were onto Lafleur’s men, they might eventually uncover his masquerade.

But there was more. Amelia had almost caught him returning home.

His heart lurched. He would not make that mistake again. The next time he went out as his French cousin, he would make sure to change his clothing before he came within sight of his house. As it was, he had shed the white wig and the blue coat the moment he had entered the ballroom. He had left the items behind a love seat. After Amelia had returned to her duties in the house, he had fetched the items and burned them.