Powder of Love (I) (11 page)

Lady Williamsford sniffed. “Oh, dear me. I can tell you need me here. I’ll just go to my room to freshen up, and then I can act as chaperone. My usual room, yes, dear?”

Rosalie nodded.

Mr. Reed bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I must go meet my friend.”

“Go on, then. You walk him to the door, Rosalie, and then come right back. I’ll wait to freshen up.”

They were silent as they walked down the hall. He paused by the palm at the front entrance. “Your mother is—” He faltered, and she knew what he was thinking. When he ended with “charming,” she wasn’t convinced.

And as if he’d asked, the words were wrenched out of her. “You see why I am wary of my own behavior with men?”

“No.” He raised his eyebrows. “Wary?”

“She is rather like my late cousin, Lord Williamsford.”

He scratched his cheek. “Oh.”

“I might have inherited a most unnatural appetite. My father called it vulgar.”

“He spoke this way to his daughter? About his own wife?” He sounded angry.

She wanted to defend her father, explain that he had been warning her to watch for such tendencies in her own character. But it suddenly occurred to her that Mr. Reed was right to sound astounded. She was grateful to him for that revelation. They stood silent, not looking at each other.

“Thank you,” she said at last and held out her hand. They were close enough that the servants waiting in the hall wouldn’t hear. “I won’t allow myself to regret those kisses. And, well, I…I thank you for your help with Dr. Leonard too.”

“You seem to be bidding me adieu.”

Her heart seemed to shrink, because he was right, and she couldn’t think of a proper reply. What else could she want from him besides more kisses, and she had already ruled them out. She enjoyed her calm life and should continue to enjoy it with a man such as Mr. Wentworth. The passion aroused by Mr. Reed was intoxicating, but she also avoided strong drink. With hot blood running in one’s veins, one did best to stay with cooler situations. Too much passion was a recipe for misery. She’d tasted so much craving in just those few kisses, they would cause her to lie awake tonight, restless and near out of control with longing for danger.

He grasped her hand and squeezed it for a moment before letting go and putting on his hat. Mr. Reed walked to the door, where Beels stood.

In a normal, cheerful voice, he said, “I will call again, if you don’t object.”

“I should be glad to see you,” she said automatically and wondered if she would be glad. Those kisses had stirred the placid surface of her life, a calm steadiness she required. And now her mind was a muddy mess and her senses far too awake and yearning. She watched him walk away, a man at ease with his body and who knew how to use it. Even the way he shoved his hands into his pockets as he strode away from her house made her want to go after him and beg for another kiss. A small brush of the lips would be enough.

No, it wouldn’t.

When she’d leaned against him, she’d felt the strength and appetite in his body and wanted more.

Wanting didn’t mean taking. She could long for something and survive its absence.

Rosalie heaved a sigh.

Her mother would soon put a stop to any chances for introspection.

Deirdre had already settled herself by the tea tray and helped herself to a piece of cake. As always, she started her annual visit with a mixed pronouncement about the city. “I do not like the traffic and dirt, but New York does invigorate the blood. How do you thrive in such a world?”

Rosalie wasn’t certain “thrive” was the word she’d use. But the only use for self-pity was to make changes, and she had no notion of what she’d change. A smile, a man’s hand, even kisses weren’t enough to throw away her quiet, content life.

“Mother, you are looking well.”

“As are you. I must say, your father’s features are delectable on your face. Speaking of your father, I am considering a change. Perhaps I will visit England.”

“No. Why would you?”

“I didn’t give it a fair shake. I think as a widow I’ll fare better. Want to come along?”

She ate a forkful of cake and behaved as if she hadn’t just lobbed an incendiary device at her daughter.

Rosalie decided to play along. “I have occasionally thought about returning. I’d like to see my aunt again.”

“Your father’s sister is a silly woman with no interest in anything but gravestones.” Lady Williamsford waved a dismissive fork.

Rosalie watched a crumb fly, then asked, “Never mind England for the moment. What treats do you have in mind for this visit to New York?”

“To tell the truth, I haven’t planned anything. Wandering off without a plan. That might be a treat even better than those electrical massages I discovered last year.” Her mother swallowed the last bite of cake and reached for another slice.

Deirdre could probably consume a whole cream-filled pastry, and it wouldn’t add an ounce to her body. “I liked the looks of that Mr. Reed. Well-built young man. Rougher than usual. He wasn’t well-enough dressed to be one of your usual suitors.”

“You haven’t met many of my suitors.” There weren’t many to meet.

“Certainly. That Wentworth is always around, taking tea, acting nearly English. I always thought you’d be going after the artistic type, but you prefer the polished dandy. The dude, they call them here.”

“Mr. Wentworth is certainly not a dandy. I prefer no such—Oh, you are teasing me. Less than ten minutes, and you manage to set traps for me. Mr. Reed had been helping me with…a problem.”

“Interesting.”

Her mother’s vague blue-eyed gaze didn’t fool her for a minute. “And this problem would be?” Deirdre prompted.

“Did you ever meet Father’s heir?”

“Your cousin, you mean? Once. He was perhaps thirteen at the time and tried to put his hand down the front of my dress.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Deidre popped some apple cake into her mouth and chewed. She swallowed and said, “Johnny, that poor thing. He died recently.”

“Yes, and he left his possessions to me.”

Her mother put down the plate and began to laugh. She laughed so hard, a tear trickled down from the corner of an eye.

“It’s not that funny, Mother.”

“Yes, it is. And I can tell you’re annoyed—you always call me Mother when you are. But ah, that is funny. You of all people. I know all about Johnny Ambermere, Lord Williamsford, and he was a thorough reprobate. Your father wrote me a long diatribe about how you went to visit Johnny. I never thought the rascal and you had become such fast friends despite your father’s rants. You poor thing.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Go on. Where does your Mr. Reed fit in?”

“He’s helping me dispose of those possessions. That’s all.”

“Ah. And that dark hair that looked as if he’d been out in a wind? He ran here?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you well enough to see when you lie, dear. You do something with the inside of your lip. No, stop. Don’t worry. I shan’t tease you any longer. But I would love a tour of bad Johnny’s objects.”

She rose to her feet and brushed nonexistent crumbs from her front. “Where is your companion? Miss, er…?”

“I’m sure she’ll be down soon to see you.”

Her mother laughed. “I doubt it. I scare the woman. And she doesn’t approve of me at all.”

Rosalie remembered what Mr. Reed had said. She’d spent years avoiding the topic, but lately she’d wondered. “Deirdre, does it bother you that people don’t approve of you?”

Her mother stopped and raised a well-shaped eyebrow. “Bother me? No. I worried about you sometimes, with parents like us, but you’ve turned out happy and independent. Your father wouldn’t have approved of the second, but he’d be glad you are thriving. You are, aren’t you?”

That was the second time she’d asked, and perhaps for once, Deirdre was expressing interest in another person. Rosalie began, “I suppose I am, but—”

“Good.” Her mother’s brief foray into someone else’s concerns was over. “Let’s see Johnny’s toys. I expect there might be something fun to play with.”

Rosalie smiled as she followed her mother through the hall. Her mother was entirely self-centered, but at least she was good-humored. Lady Williamsford never complained that Rosalie had inherited the wealth that should have gone to her. This house had belonged to her parents, and when they died, Lord Williamsford took over his wife’s fortune, as any good husband would. All of Deirdre’s family money had gone to him—and he’d cut his wife from his will.

Lady Williamsford had an inheritance from an uncle, but that money was a drop in the bucket compared to her parents’ wealth, which had gone to Rosalie when she’d turned twenty-five.

Miss Renshaw was in the library, fussing around a shelf of books. She looked up at their entrance and gave an audible gasp.

“Lady Williamsford.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I wasn’t sure when you were arriving. I must get things in order.”

“And you are so good about such things, Miss… Umm. I know you’re the reason there are always flowers by my bed.”

Miss Renshaw blushed. “Gracious, it’s only a small gesture.”

“They all add up to the bigger ones.” Lady Williamsford wandered over to examine Cousin Johnny’s collection of curios and objects that were still haphazardly left on a tabletop, a shelf, and inside a crate. “What’s in here?”

Miss Renshaw gave a small cry and darted forward. “You mustn’t. No, no.”

Lady Williamsford straightened. “Oh? Whatever is wrong?” She looked at Rosalie, who shrugged and tried to look indifferent.

“It’s a horrible, horrible substance.” Miss Renshaw went to the shelf where most of the strange objects had been stored after the initial inventory—started the disastrous night Rosalie privately thought of as Miss Renshaw’s “Big Misadventure.”

She gave a gasping shriek. “But it’s gone. My dear Miss Ambermere, where has it gone? Has someone stolen it? You couldn’t have thrown it away, risking the health of everyone in the city.”

“Miss Renshaw, I promise it’s safe. I’m taking care of the matter.” Rosalie wished her mother wouldn’t watch her so closely.

“The matter?” her mother asked. “And what is the matter?”

“A dried substance”—Miss Renshaw spoke in a low, throbbing voice—“that does horrible things to anyone who touches it. An indecent effect.”

“Knowing what I do about your late cousin, Rosalie, I can guess. And I can guess from your agitation, Miss Renshaw, that you have seen…” She stopped and raised her eyebrows. “I wonder if you have actually felt these effects.”

Not hard to guess, since Miss Renshaw had gone past the noblewoman’s ride in the tumbrel and now wore the look of an aristo stepping up to the executioner’s block. Pale and with trembling lips, she gave a single nod. “I have been under the influence. And the experience was—It was horrible.”

Rosalie wanted to argue and point out that she’d claimed to feel alive, but best that her mother not hear anything good about the powder. She didn’t need her mother joining in the race to somehow get her hands on the dratted box.

“How long will you be staying with us, Deirdre?”

“I’ll overlook your rudeness in asking. A little longer than a month, I think. Not too disruptive, eh? Although, I hope you can make the arrangement we had the year before last.”

“Ah. So he’s back?”

“Not him. A new friend of mine.” She held a bizarre carving of a fat, overly buxom lady and now walked close to Rosalie with the purpose of whispering. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d allow Miss Renshaw to hear about her latest beau. “He’s a rather interesting sort of a man who deals with livestock.”

For a moment she had the vision of Hawes staying in a guest bedroom, and then suddenly Rosalie wondered if that would be an answer to Miss Renshaw’s problem—bringing him into the house rather than pushing Miss Renshaw out the door. But then her mother nudged her with an elbow. “He’s no mere cowboy. A rancher.”

“And he’s visiting New York?”

Her mother nodded. “Staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I wondered if you might invite him to stay here.”

“Mother,” she began.

Deirdre held up a hand. “No, you’re about to get all stiff-backed, supercilious with me. It won’t work. Just say yes or say no, and save us the lecture.”

“I will agree to invite your friend if you promise to be more discreet. I don’t want the servants finding you in his bedroom in the morning.”

“You have become even more plainspoken. Good for you. You’ll end up like my Auntie Elizabeth in Boston, the scourge of every librarian and bookseller on the East Coast.”

Rosalie regarded her occasionally sharp-eyed mother with some dismay. Hiding her growing feelings for Mr. Reed was going to be difficult enough. And then there was the powder. This might prove to be a long, potentially horrible visit anyway, and it would be worse if she felt injured in every conversation with her mother. But she couldn’t seem to hold back her indignation. “Auntie Elizabeth should be under the supervision of a brain care specialist. I only want peace in—”

Her mother interrupted. “Silly girl. Of course, I promise. And so far there hasn’t been anything to be discreet about. He has such a pleasant room at the hotel, I shall probably sneak over there. So where is this horrible powder your companion was just speaking of?”

“Mr. Reed is helping me dispose of it.”

Deidre walked away and in a louder voice said, “That means it’s still on the premises? Shall we play hotter colder? You loved that game when you were a baby. Am I hot or cold?” She walked across the room. “Am I getting colder? Hotter?”

“Mother,” she said, then, appalled by the peevish note in her voice, tried again. “Deirdre.”

“Lady Williamsford, no, you mustn’t.” Miss Renshaw was unusually outspoken today. “I know Miss Ambermere has done the right thing, hiding it from everyone. We must not look for it.”

“You’d like to find it yourself? Interesting.”

“No! No, I don’t want it!” Miss Renshaw shuddered. “Never!” She looked at the door, and Rosalie knew she wanted to flee.

Time to employ the knitting ruse again. “Miss Renshaw, would you fetch my yarn from the sitting room, please? Although I think the blue is upstairs.”