The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (13 page)

Pamela turned around to stare at her, mouth agape. Calliope shrugged.

“Is something amiss with my previous chair?” But even as she asked the question, she realized the servants would simply have rearranged the chairs, not her place at the table. Still, she could not fathom a reason why. Then, looking around at her hosts, awareness began to prickle down her spine.

Neither Montwood, Danvers, nor Brightwell looked surprised. In fact, both Montwood and Danvers appeared rather smug, as if they were privy to a secret.

It didn’t take a great leap for suspicion to enter her mind. Being singled out by Mrs. Merkel to act as lady of the manor had filled Calliope with shock but also with pride. Only now, she wondered if it all had something to do with Everhart instead of with her own merit.

The more she thought about it, the more she
knew
this was Everhart’s doing. It
had
to be. So then, was he merely toying with her?

As Danvers escorted her to the place at the head of the table, she started to fume. The flattery she’d felt earlier evaporated.

Oh, she was a ninny for imagining that Mrs. Merkel had reported to no one until this morning and a fool to think that Fallow Hall had needed her assistance. Of course, both the housekeeper and Valentine would report to the son of a duke. Why hadn’t she put it together before? And that
son of a duke
likely had arranged tasks to keep her very busy indeed. Was this his way of teaching her a lesson about the cost of disturbing the lion in his lair?

No doubt, both Mrs. Merkel and Valentine now had the wrong idea. They believed she’d been selected out of Everhart’s
preference
for her company, when the opposite was true. However, she would not make waves by explaining Everhart’s game of contempt. Instead, she took her new seat and focused on how she would spoil his efforts.

G
abriel hopped down the last stair leading from the loft, grabbed his cane, and crossed the map room to settle in for a pleasant evening. He’d managed to find the journal he was looking for—Etienne de Ponte, who’d sailed with von Humboldt during his last expedition to South America.

He’d only leafed through the first few entries when a figure appeared at the outer rim of his field of vision. Believing it was one of the footmen to retrieve his dinner tray, he didn’t bother looking up. He turned the page, his mind focused on the
Pizarro
’s days at sea, anxious for the entry written about finding land and setting anchor. That was his favorite part—stepping on new land for the first time.

When he caught no movement, he directed an absent wave toward the table. “The tray is there, if you desire it.”

“I desire no tray, Everhart.”

Gabriel’s head jerked up at the sound of Calliope Croft’s voice. The journal slipped from his hands and fell with a thud to the floor in a good imitation of what his heart had just done.

“For that you should be thankful,” she said. “Because if I had a tray in hand, I would surely knock it over your head.”

By the dark gleam in her eyes, he had no doubt. “And what have I done to earn such contempt, Miss Croft?”

A smirk flitted over her lips, and her arms crossed beneath her bosom. She wore a lustrous gold evening gown, with sleeves that rested on the very edges of her shoulders, inviting a man to imagine how easily it would be to tug them down. The bodice conformed to the tantalizing swells of her breasts—though he had not been present to admire them at dinner. He frowned.

“I know what you’re doing. Making a fool of me with the other houseguests and even the servants so that they now believe you and I are”—she drew a breath—“
friends
. Or perhaps more. But we both know the truth.”

Gabriel swallowed down a sudden dichotomy of emotion. Seeing the raw hurt and anger on her face knotted his stomach. Yet her allusion to
more than friends
unfurled a mainsail of desire. “And what is that truth, precisely?”

“You avoid me. You refuse to take dinner in the same room with me. You must be under the misguided assumption that I’m trying to win you over.” With each point, her arms had uncrossed and her hands settled on her hips. “All I want is to end the animosity between us. Can we not put the past behind us? Last night was . . . ” Rosy color washed over her cheeks and she did not finish.

He grinned. “Enjoyable? Mutually satisfying?”

“A low attempt at distracting me from what you assumed was my purpose,” she corrected, but without the vehemence necessary to convince him that was all she felt. “Then today, your tactic of using your position in this house as a means to subject me your latest amusement was reprehensible.”

“You thought I was distracting you for my own amusement and because of my
supposed
animosity toward you?” Relief washed over him. She still hadn’t guessed his true reasons for wanting to keep her out of arm’s reach. “Ah, you have figured me out, Miss Croft. I am quite the
conceited, condescending prig
.”

Pretending to ignore her, he reached down to the floor and retrieved the book, flipping through the pages to find his place again. At the moment, however, he couldn’t see a single word. The book could be upside down, and he wouldn’t know. His entire being still focused solely on the woman standing only a few feet away.

She tapped the toe of her slipper over the hardwood floor at the very edge of his carpeted domain, as if an invisible wall stood between them. And then she breeched the barrier. Stepping forward, she stopped directly at his side. At once his senses were assaulted with her unique fragrance. The warmth she emanated bathed his left side, making him feel incomplete and needing to be fully immersed, fully baptized. More than anything, he wanted to reach up for her hand and tug her down on top of him.

“I wholeheartedly agree, Everhart,” she said sweetly, but in a way that made him wary of the sugar.

He gave her his full attention. Lifting his gaze, he watched the firelight play against the wet-sand color of her irises. The weight of an anchor settled over his chest. If he was meant to say something in response, he could think of no reply. Instead of forming words, his tongue only had a memory of the taste of her skin, and his lips still tingled from the feel of those silken downy hairs at her nape.

“While you may enjoy certain methods of distraction, I have methods of my own,” she said, reaching out and effectively stripping the book from his grasp. Tucking it behind her back, she beamed at him in triumph. Then slowly, she sauntered to the door, taunting him with a waggle of the journal. “I will be more than glad to teach you that you cannot avoid the inevitable. We will have it out, once and for all.”

With those parting words, she slipped through the doorway.

“And yet
avoiding
is exactly what I plan to do,” he said to himself.

CHAPTER TEN

“H
earts are trump, Miss Croft,” Montwood said the following evening, smiling patiently at her from across the table.

She knew that, of course. Seeing her whist partner glance down to the table and then at her, she noticed that he’d already taken the trick with a lower card. Essentially, she’d wasted a perfectly good king. “I apologize. I don’t know where my head is this evening.”

“Think nothing of it,” Montwood said graciously as Brightwell and Pamela pulled the fish tokens into their pot.

Both yesterday and today had gone by in a blur. Managing a house as large as Fallow Hall was more difficult than merely helping her parents when the need arose. Of course, the house had been running smoothly without her minor interference here and there, but now Calliope had something to prove.

Although she still wasn’t entirely sure if she was proving a point to herself or to Everhart.

Either way, her efforts had been rewarded by an estate that now felt more like a home than a bachelor’s residence. Making full use of a neglected hothouse, she had added a vase of freshly cut flowers and foliage to the most frequently used rooms. In discovering a crate full of various bolts of cloth, from silk damask to crushed velvets, she’d begun sewing simple pillow fronts to accent the sofas and chairs in the parlor and drawing room.

“Was it my imagination, or was dinner
edible
this evening?” Danvers asked while circling the table like a shark, albeit a shark that whistled merrily.

Since Calliope had spent enough time in the company of Mrs. Shortingham—her beloved cook from London—she’d picked up a thing or two about how an effective kitchen should work. The kitchen at Fallow Hall had been a disaster area, with dirty pots piled high in the sink, nearly touching the ceiling. Mrs. Swan was a dispirited cook who ran her kitchen by yelling, but over the years the kitchen and scullery maids had grown deaf to her.

Using her newfound privileges to her advantage, Calliope had requested the use of two footmen to tackle the years of filth and grime that coated the solid bank of square-cut windows along the south wall. As for the kitchen and scullery maids, they were each put on notice, and told under no circumstances was Fallow Hall a place for delinquents.

Mrs. Swan was another story. She was too proud to admit that working in a kitchen as large as this one was difficult, especially when age had crippled her hands, and she couldn’t hold a knife properly any longer. Treading carefully, Calliope had suggested a plan to help Mrs. Swan with the tasks she
could
manage with ease. After a little cajoling, the cook had agreed to separate tasks for each maid, effectively giving them greater responsibility.

In the end, dinner last night had still been a disaster, but less of one. Dinner tonight had begun to show promise. The soup wasn’t curdled. In fact, it was actually quite good. The bread was chewy but no longer tough. The pies were still too salty, but the puddings weren’t terrible. All in all, it was a pleasant reward for her efforts.

“I believe we have Miss Croft to thank for the much improved fare,” Montwood remarked, tapping the corner of his jack of clubs on the table before laying it down over Pamela’s queen. Brightwell followed with a ten in the same suit, and so it was up to Calliope to win the trick. She looked at her cards.

“It’s too bad Everhart wasn’t present for her moment of triumph this evening,” Danvers added. “Though I imagine he kept track all the same.”

“I’m certain you are wrong,” Calliope murmured. Everhart apparently couldn’t forgive her for what she’d done to Brightwell. And the more she tried to tell herself that his dislike of her didn’t matter, the more she realized it did. Which was entirely silly. It wasn’t as if she’d likely see him again, or often enough to let it bother her. Then why
did
it bother her so much? Had she been this determined to make amends with Brightwell after refusing him?

Unfortunately, the sobering answer revealed a shocking lack of priorities on her part. After she’d broken it off with Brightwell, she’d never once tried to be his friend.

So why was she wasting any effort at all on Everhart?

Preoccupied, she laid down her card. Her thoughts were a jumble. Across from her, Montwood exhaled audibly. She looked at the table. Oh dear. She’d laid down a nine of clubs, when she held the ace in her hands. Where was her head?

She sent a look of apology to Montwood as another round began.

“Why doesn’t Everhart join us all for dinner any longer?” Pamela asked. “He was always a consummate host before my cousin’s arrival. I wonder what has changed. Is he ill, do you think?”

Clearly, Pamela did not know what she was saying—or at least, that’s what Calliope chose to believe. It was her way of fending off the insult at the mention that Everhart only avoided
her
company. She tried not to feel the sting, but it might have grazed her all the same.

“I’m certain it’s the splint,” Danvers added. “He is forever complaining about the nuisance of it.”

“Oh, look, I seem to have a trump after all,” Pamela said, laying down a heart as she glanced across to Brightwell, who’d been peculiarly silent this evening.

They’d all played cards during the previous nights and shared conversation. But tonight was different. Calliope wondered at the reason. Then again, perhaps he was just as distracted as she, but for his own reasons.

When it came time for her to lay her final card, she lost another trick.

“Forgive me, Montwood. I have been a terrible partner this evening,” she said and rose from her chair. “Mr. Danvers, I do hope you’ll fill in for me so that our friend can win back some of his ivory fish. I believe I’ll retire before I do any more damage at this table.”

“
Ivory
—now, that reminds me,” Brightwell said when she reached the open archway leading to the hall. His tone was more gruff than conversational. “You were looking for a patch box with an ivory handle, were you not, Miss Croft?”

Since the box in question allegedly held a letter from his wife’s anonymous lover, Calliope didn’t know how to respond. She imagined, however, that he wouldn’t have mentioned the patch box, had he known. All the same, she bobbled her head in an uncertain gesture.

Brightwell looked down at the table and straightened the new cards he was dealt. “My valet informs me that he last saw it in the north tower. I’m certain my wife would like to have her
distractions
returned.”

“Yes. That would be lovely,” Pamela said cheerfully, ignorant of the tension that had settled over the card table.

Why was she always being directed to Everhart’s domain? “Thank you, Lord Brightwell. Good night, everyone.”

After the farewell, Calliope left the parlor with every intention of going directly to bed.

Tomorrow, she would send Nell into the map room to locate and retrieve the patch box. In the meantime, she would write to her brother and ask him to send a carriage. After all, once she read the letter, there was no need for her to remain at Fallow Hall. She would begin to sort out clues to uncover Casanova’s identity either in Scotland or when she returned to London.