Winter Garden (6 page)

“I really think there is little fact behind it after all,” she admitted, sitting straighter in her seat and reaching for a third slice of cake. “I don't know if anyone even lived in the Winter Garden valley so long ago. Records are vague at best, and only kept through the church that far back. One could trace the history, probably, but Baron Rothebury likely only has information regarding his family after the time of purchasing his estate.”

“I should think Winter Garden existed then, being so close to Portsmouth,” Lady Isadora remarked with drawn brows. “That the baron's property is as old may be in some doubt, but I imagine there were people here.”

“Perhaps, Madame DuMais, you could ask the gentleman with whom you are living if he knows,” Mrs. Bennington-Jones murmured with a calculated twist of her mouth. “I've no doubt the two of you are…sufficiently acquainted by now. And he is, after all, a scholar, is he not?”

An awkward pause followed. A servant shifted feet on the creaking wooden floor, someone dropped a fork to her plate clumsily. All but the Englishwoman who had so brazenly asked the question looked elsewhere—to their tea, to the flowers, anywhere but to her.

So that was it. She lived alone with Thomas in a small cottage, and in less than one week speculation as to the depth of their relationship had started. Quicker than she'd expected, or than it would have in France,
she had to admit, and probably with more scrutiny and concern. In France, Thomas would be considered fortunate to have an attractive widow in his company; she, at the worst, would be ignored. Here, in this small village, he would be snubbed and she would be scorned, at least by respectable women. He had been right. They could never pose as lovers. Already these ladies questioned her scruples. But they also, for now, had nothing more enticing to go on than assumption.

Madeleine folded her napkin in her lap, meticulously, thinking with care as she spoke. “Mr. Blackwood is a scholar, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, but he is not from Winter Garden. I am uncertain whether he knows anything at all of its history.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Rodney inserted with interest.

Madeleine smiled dryly. They were all certainly aware of this and yet they chose to carry on as if ignorant. “He is also a rather quiet individual. I know very little about him other than what I have learned while translating his memoirs.”

“And how on earth did he ever find you among all the translators in France?” Mrs. Bennington-Jones asked with pointed meaning. “Naturally I don't mean to be insulting, but surely there must be other individuals who are better able to do the work.”

Madeleine gazed at her directly, pretending innocence as she clutched her napkin with both hands. “How so, Mrs. Bennington-Jones?”

The woman shifted her large body in her chair. “Well, I'm sure there are men—”

“Ahh…I'm sure that there are,” she cut in, composed and in flawless form. “But I've always wanted to travel to England, and this seemed a prime opportunity
to spend some time here. I am, of course, well-qualified for the position as I was extensively educated in the language during the six years I spent in a Viennese finishing school for young ladies, run by the very famous Madame Bilodeau. I'm sure you've heard of her?”

Mrs. Bennington-Jones blinked, taken aback by a question she had not foreseen. “I imagine so, yes.”

Madeleine lowered her chin, smiling tightly. “When I read Mr. Blackwood's advertisement in a Parisian newspaper requesting aid from a person of skill and good breeding to translate his memoirs, I wrote him with recommendations and a list of my credentials, and he chose me from among several. I left France only a few days after receiving word. As I am widowed, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, and without children, my time is my own. And now I am here.”

There was another pause of piercing quiet. Nobody moved or replied. Then Desdemona leaned forward in her chair, her blond ringlets spilling forward onto the table and into the crumbs on her plate. “Are you not a bit frightened of him, Mrs. DuMais?” she asked in a near whisper.

Her eyes widened. “Frightened of Mr. Blackwood?”

Desdemona hesitated. “He's rather…ugly.”

Madeleine was shocked, not so much by the young lady's candor and gross breach of decorum, but by the idea itself which had not struck her. Dark and formidable he was, his face and body scarred, but “ugly” would never be a word she'd use to describe Thomas.

“Desdemona, really,” her mother rebuked with some obvious embarrassment, fairly yanking her daughter back into an upright position.

“Of course, he is a large man, isn't he, dear?” Mrs.
Mossley corrected with the first touch of grace she'd shown since sitting at tea. “Intimidating I'm sure is what you meant.”

“Yes,” Desdemona replied tautly, staring now at her cup.

Madeleine pressed her lips together and smoothed her skirts, cautiously choosing this moment to correct all assumptions. “He is large, and perhaps intimidating to many, women especially. I don't find him at all frightening, Mrs. Winsett. I don't suppose he is dashing, either. But he has been a gracious host, charming to an appropriate degree, and I find him quite appealing actually. Handsome in a very rugged way.”

Confusion lit the room. They didn't know how to interpret that, which was exactly her intention. They'd been sure of a deeper involvement between them, perhaps even a beginning love affair. All but Desdemona, who seemed still lost between childish fantasies and the realities of the adult world.

Mrs. Rodney reached out and moved the cake platter, which didn't need moving, to a better position. “I don't find him particularly handsome, but he is a gentleman, and quite…virile. Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. DuMais?”

“Oh, yes, he is a gentleman,” she responded accordingly. She lifted her spoon, stirring more sugar and then cream into lukewarm tea she had no intention of drinking. “However, there are some…indications that Mr. Blackwood's injuries reach far above his legs, which are noticeably impaired, although I have not seen them to know this as fact.”

Not a sound could be heard above breathing. She waited, knowing she had their full attention, and that
nobody would speak again until she elaborated. The information they all hoped she'd reveal was far too captivating.

Madeleine placed her spoon on her saucer, then sighed and raised her lashes to regard them. “Without sounding indelicate,” she carried on very quietly, “and since we are all married ladies, I think I can safely inform you that Mr. Blackwood and I have no particular interest in each other beyond the work I was hired to accomplish.” She leaned into the table and lowered her voice to a whisper of intrigue she knew they all but felt. “You see, Mr. Blackwood also suffers from injuries that, well, make it difficult for him to enjoy the…intimacies associated with marriage.”

They all sat rigid as stone, unblinking and staring at her with varying degrees of fascination and utter disbelief that she would mention something of such a personal nature. Then again she was French, and they knew without doubt that the French spoke frequently and far too openly about marital relations. And naturally such incredible news was a great deal more invigorating than any hint of a love affair. They would not stop her until she finished.

“How on earth would you know this?” Mrs. Bennington-Jones pursued in a gruff exhale.

Madeleine smiled again and lifted her fork, slicing another piece of cake as they all watched. “It really is only a conclusion on my part, Mrs. Bennington-Jones. But consider this. His injuries cause him to limp markedly, and he has not the slightest interest in me as a woman. As women, I'm sure we'd all agree that we know when a man shows us interest in that way. I also
know we're all ladies of quality sitting here today, and understand perfectly the consequences of gossip.”

There was a sharp intake of breath at her understated warning. Madeleine noted with satisfaction how they all at once were so very interested in their tea—except for Desdemona, who gaped at her, uncertain but blushing a brilliant red as she suddenly grasped the meaning inferred.

“Mrs. Mossley,” Lady Isadora moved on at last, “are you playing the organ in church again Sunday or is Mrs. Casper feeling well enough to return?”

They'd reverted to safe conversation, and Madeleine sat back, listening politely, marvelously pleased at the turn of events. They couldn't dislike her—all but Mrs. Bennington-Jones—and even found her intriguing. She would be invited again. She may be French and a bit too free with her tongue, but she was also polished, educated, respectable, and absolutely not whoring for Mr. Blackwood. They believed that much, or at least had their doubts. She'd stifled the indecent talk.

The gossip had been steered in a different direction. By nightfall Winter Garden would be stirring with the details regarding the scholar and his war injuries that had left him impotent. Her only concern now was how in heaven she was going to tell Thomas.

M
adeleine sat comfortably on the sofa with her bare feet tucked under her gown and a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, staring into the slow burning fire. She'd returned from Mrs. Rodney's tea only a half hour ago, but it was already growing dark, and Thomas had yet to appear from an afternoon of observing Rothebury's property from afar. Clouds had gathered overhead again during her walk home, and she'd been sprinkled with the first of the evening rain, dampening her hair and clothes. Now drops tapped the rooftop in a soothing, steady drone.

She'd been watching the low flames for twenty minutes or so, contemplating all that she'd learned in the last few hours, but in truth thinking mostly about Thomas. Their first week together had been unremarkable as he'd kept his distance from her to an almost obvious degree. She knew he didn't find her
presence irritating or unwanted, but she had no idea whether he found her pleasing to be around or desirable as a woman. It had taken her days to concede that although his regard of her personally was quite irrelevant and that she really shouldn't care, it bothered her that she didn't know. The central problem, however, aside from the fact that her straying thoughts were interfering with her concentration on her work, was that an intimate relationship with Thomas really wasn't something she could just discuss with him over breakfast. Frankly, she wasn't altogether sure she wanted one. It would no doubt complicate their business association, and her work, regardless of personal circumstance, always came first and always would. She would never do anything to jeopardize that. Lovers might come and go, but her work was her only true form of lasting satisfaction in her life.

Growing warm at last, Madeleine pulled the shawl from her shoulders, draped it over the arm of the sofa, then looked behind her toward the door because she suddenly felt his presence in the room.

She hadn't heard him enter. The steady rainfall had covered the sound. But his commanding figure blocked the entryway from her view as he brushed water from his overcoat while plainly regarding her.

“Hello,” he said softly.

An innocent word, implying nothing.

“Hello,” she returned, studying the sparkling water droplets in his hair, his slightly furrowed brows as he lowered his eyes to concentrate on unfastening large, black buttons, his damp, glistening skin shining a dark bronze in dim firelight.

“Any luck today?” he inquired, hanging his coat on
the rack, then running his fingers once through his hair.

Quickly, before he caught her staring, she shifted her attention to the rug where she'd placed her shoes. “Actually, yes,” she said, squeezing her feet into soft brown leather. “It was a typical social gathering, so much of the conversation was little more than gossip. But I did learn some things worth noting, one or two of them interesting.” She heard him stride toward her, his gait slow and uneven, and she repositioned herself on the sofa to face forward, folding her hands in her lap. “How was your afternoon?”

“Cold,” he replied. “Generally uncomfortable. Surveillance is the part of this work I like the least.”

“So you didn't learn much of anything,” she acknowledged aloud.

He lifted the iron poker and stirred the embers in the grate. “I didn't expect to after only three days, although it's clear that Rothebury doesn't get many visitors. He keeps to himself and rarely leaves the house.” He sighed and lightly shook his head. “Still, without much surrounding property to manage, it does make me wonder what he does each day.”

“He probably does what the nobility usually do, I imagine,” she submitted with a hint of humor, noticing, even through his white, linen shirt, how the muscles in his back smoothly flexed. “He no doubt relaxes as he should, orders servants to draw his bath and cook his food and polish his shoes, while he basks in his accumulated wealth and the luxuries of his social class.”

She couldn't see his features clearly but she knew that amused him.

“Is that what you think the nobility do each day,
Madeleine?” he questioned in light amazement, replacing the poker and turning to face her, his backside absorbing the heat.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “That, or they carefully manage lucrative smuggling operations.” With an understanding smile into his eyes, she added, “It will probably take some time, Thomas. We might be here working together for several months.”

He smiled in return, vaguely. “I'm aware of that.”

“Would that bother you?” she pressed. Before he could answer, and because she didn't want the question to seem too personal, she clarified, “I mean, are you anxious to return to Eastleigh? To your home, family?”
To your lover?
It dawned on her suddenly that she hadn't considered that before. If he had a lover at home, someone he cared for deeply, it would explain his reluctance to respond to their obvious physical attraction to each other. Then again, during their first conversation about chess he'd implied that he hadn't been with anyone for some time. Neither had she. She squirmed on the sofa.

He stood very still for a moment, his dark eyes fixed with hers. “I'm not anxious to go home when there is work to be done here, Madeleine. I'm an extremely thorough man, and I intend to stay in Winter Garden until my objectives are at least tried. I take them very seriously.”

Objectives are tried? She had no idea what that meant, and she would have brushed the phrase off had he not seemed to plan with care exactly what to say in reply. If there was one thing she knew about Thomas already, it was that he did not ever mince words.

“Well, then,” she expressed through a loud exhale,
“I suppose it's just you and me alone indefinitely.” She looked over his left shoulder to the clock, rubbing her fingers along her skirt at the waist, feeling the prickling of lace on her skin. “I assume no one in Eastleigh will care that we're working so closely together.”

She said that as a statement of fact, watching the second hand pass the five, then the ten.

“I don't have a lover, Madeleine,” he revealed very softly.

Her gaze shot back to his face as her palms grew moist and her belly fluttered and her cheeks became hot. His expression was intense and centered, though giving nothing away.

“Nobody will care that we're together intimately or otherwise,” he continued, subdued, “except for those in the village. I trust that came up in conversation today and I'd like to hear what you learned.”

Madeleine blinked. Her mind floated to thoughts of seduction while his returned to the business of work. He always so smoothly returned to the matter of work. Why was that? Because he was uncomfortable discussing them personally? A creeping warmth descended from her shoulders to her toes as she also realized that by doing so he'd just saved her the embarrassment of explaining herself. Instinctively she knew he'd done that on purpose.

He crossed his arms over his thick chest, waiting.

“My day was very enlightening,” she explained at last, hoping her voice didn't sound as dry as her mouth felt. “There were five ladies present at tea: Sarah Rodney, Penelope Bennington-Jones and her daughter, Desdemona Winsett, Catherine Mossley, and Lady Isadora Birmingham.”

“I've met them all,” he interjected.

Her body relaxed again as her thoughts focused on the events of the afternoon. “They were gracious, but suspicious of me at first. French, you know. For a time they ignored me, and then I made my presence obvious by asking them who owns the house on the lake.”

He passed her a look of approval in a very slight nod, and she carried on, placing her elbows on her thighs, hands together as she dropped her chin to rest on her knuckles.

“Mrs. Mossley and Lady Isadora know nothing of any significance. I'm sure of that. Mrs. Rodney knows a good deal about Winter Garden obviously, and the baron's home. She's convinced it was originally a monastery. Rumor suggests it was also a haven for those not afflicted with the Black Death, although she did admit this is unproven and probably far-fetched.”

That grabbed his interest. “It's also fascinating.”

“I thought so as well, but I can't imagine what this might have to do with Rothebury and any illegal enterprise the man might be engaging in now.”

He considered that, then shook his head minutely. “Likely nothing, maybe something. The original house structure is very old.”

Her eyes brightened, and her mouth lifted in a mischievous smile. “Maybe Baron Rothebury has found the burial ground and is hiding stolen opium inside the ancient tombs of dead clergy.”

For a second or two he seemed confused by her sudden attempt to be droll. Then his lids narrowed. “Madeleine…”

She liked the way he said her name. A brandy-rich voice drawing the sound out in playful warning. She
grinned fully now and he did the same.

“Perhaps they're angry about it,” she continued. “Desdemona says she's heard rumors of lights in the night and ghosts on Rothebury's property.”

His smile faded. “What?”

“Bizarre, is it not?” Her tone grew serious again. “I think, however, that if there are any lights to see and ghosts to hear, she's seen and heard them herself. And they are not dead clergy.”

He stared at her for a second or two, concentrating. Then he dropped his arms and began to slowly walk away from the grate, allowing its brightness and heat to fill the room again. She straightened, adjusting her skirts a little and angling her body toward his chair, but he didn't sit there as expected. Instead, he moved around the tea table and lowered himself onto the sofa, only a foot or so away from her.

The fire hissed and crackled, and the rain came down harder still, thumping the windows in steady rhythm, and she found the intimate atmosphere and his unexpected nearness momentarily disconcerting.

“Anything else?” he asked, stretching one booted leg out and under the table.

She pulled away from him a little. “Desdemona is a bride of two months, but I'm nearly positive she's carrying a child she conceived before her wedding night. Other than that I don't have any conclusions about her except that I don't think she is the innocent, demure lady her mother presents her to be. But she is naive.”

His brows drew together, and he studied her. His gaze lingered on her hair, her cheeks and lips, then met hers again. He leaned his side into the sofa back, raising his arm to lay it lengthwise along the top, his
hand at a right angle to her body. With any other man the action would have meant nothing; with Thomas it seemed somehow provocative.

“And her mother?”

“Her mother didn't like me,” she replied levelly. “Even after I explained my position as a properly raised lady and respectable widow, as well as my very functional reason for being in Winter Garden, she was the only one to remain openly hostile.”

“You threaten her,” he said simply.

“Probably, although I'm not certain why.”

“Work on Desdemona.”

“I intend to.”

He nodded as if he expected that. “What happened to Lady Claire?”

“Invited but under the weather.” His fingers were now less than an inch from the top of her bare shoulder, but she tried to overlook that. She lowered her voice and added, “Apparently it's becoming a regular occurrence. If she's addicted, it's the opium affecting her life, and it will only get worse.”

He started rubbing the cushion very gently with his fingertips, brushing her sleeve almost imperceptibly. She had no idea whether he did it on purpose, but the closeness, without obvious further action or intent on his part, felt invasive. He pondered her words, though, with no indication that he even realized her uneasiness, or what he was doing.

“We need to see her,” he maintained. “I want your impressions, to rule her out if nothing else. I'll arrange a luncheon with her on Saturday.”

“You'll arrange a luncheon at her house?” Her lips curled up at one corner. “You're that confident she'll
invite you?”

“Us, Madeleine,” he corrected. “And yes, we'll get an invitation. She enjoys my company and finds me…charming.”

“Charming,” she repeated flatly.

He cocked his head. “Don't you find me charming, Mrs. DuMais?”

She was fairly certain he was teasing her now, his tone low and coaxing, his body so close she smelled outdoor woodlands mixed with the freshness of rain-water and his own individual, male scent.

“You flirt with her,” she clarified unsteadily, ignoring his question while trying to ignore the desire to reach for him.

His warm eyes narrowed as he continued to caress the sofa beside her. And then his fingers grazed the skin on her neck, just once, barely felt. The touch shot her through with tingles, jarring her inside, disorienting her because she wasn't so sure it was accidental. But she didn't move.

“She's lonely, and I flatter her,” he explained quietly, every bit in control. “I don't have the personality or appearance to be flirtatious.”

Yet in a manner Madeleine knew he was flirting with her now, teasing her, exciting her physically. She sensed it all as she felt his nearness. She was experienced. She recognized the various forms.

“I wonder what the lady will think of me?” she asked a bit impishly, one brow raised, knowing she was pushing.

His eyes scanned her face again. “I imagine she'll be jealous—of your beauty and your presence at my
side.”

She flushed but didn't look away. Neither did he, which she found oddly gratifying. She couldn't stop there, though. “You think she'll be jealous when there's obviously nothing between us?”

Without pause, he whispered, “She's not blind, Madeleine. She'll see it.”

That made her pulse quicken.
What exactly will she see, Thomas?
she wanted to ask, but couldn't. She gazed at him in speculation, trying to keep a sharp focus on the issues as her thoughts strayed to his hard, mesmerizing features: his magnificent eyes centered intently on her; his large, powerful hands so close to her body, and the vivid intrusion of what they might feel like grazing the skin on her throat and shoulders, the tips of her breasts.