Winter Garden (9 page)

A
t precisely half past nine, as he did seven days a week without exception, Richard Sharon strolled into his well-lit and lavishly adorned dining room to find his usual steaming breakfast of three poached eggs, ham, and toast awaiting him. Pouring tea from the silver pot, his butler, Magnus, bid him a prosaic good morning without looking up, then placed the pot on a sideboard and pulled a chair out for him at the head of the table. Richard sat comfortably, and without a word, Magnus laid his napkin in his lap, bowed his head once, and quit the room. Lifting his fork, Richard speared a thick slice of ham and began to eat in earnest.

Life was good, he decided, spreading a newspaper before him across his new and elaborately embroidered Spanish table linens. He perused the front page, noting nothing in particular of any great interest—more worker discord at the docks, a fire on the north end, the usual
irregularities at Parliament. Alas, it was rather old news by several days, but then that couldn't be helped when one lived in the country. And, of course, he would never dream of moving from his family home to the city. In Winter Garden his assets were many, his business lucrative, and with his latest endeavor he now reaped rewards beyond his first imaginings. Yes, life was very good indeed.

Cutting into his eggs, he continued to skim over mostly trivial information when his butler returned to the dining room and cleared his throat.

Richard peeked up in acknowledgment, knowing it had to be important because he had strict rules about being disturbed during meals.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but Mrs. Bennington-Jones is requesting a moment of your time. Are you receiving?”

Richard hid his smile well. He always received Penelope Bennington-Jones, and Magnus knew this. But it was the man's station to ask, and Richard invariably placed high value on servants who kept to their station. His excellent butler had been with him for six years and tirelessly followed direction without question—exactly as he should.

Looking back to his plate, he placed a bite of ham on his tongue, chewed slowly, and turned another page of the paper while Magnus waited, hands behind his back. After swallowing and reaching for his tea, he directed, “Send her in.”

Magnus once again left the room, and it was Richard's turn to wait, partly in anticipation and partly in dread. He'd sent a note yesterday requesting a visit with Penelope today, and although he didn't think she'd ar
rive so early, he knew she would come. He found the lady irritating beyond words, but she was his favorite Winter Garden busybody, mostly because she didn't realize how much value he placed on her nosy observances. Indeed, the woman had no idea he used her thus. Even so, she was remarkably adapted to the work.

Moments later he heard the click of her heels on his parquet floor, and he resigned himself to the meeting, though refusing to indicate his anxiousness. He continued to eat and read his newspaper as her ample figure filled the room.

“Good morning, Lord Rothebury,” she said brightly.

He raised only his lashes to regard her, catching the false smile upon her lips, the suggestion of mischief in her shrewd eyes, taking in her full, extravagantly designed gown and matching feathered hat that now inclined unnaturally on her head due to the force of the outside wind. The woman was a sight, and not for the first time Richard wished his best spy was a trifle more appealing to look at.

“Mrs. Bennington-Jones, how good of you to call,” he responded nonchalantly, shifting his focus to a jar of blackberry jam. With his elbow he gestured to an adjacent chair. “Please join me.”

It was a command, not a request, and she obliged, squeezing her large body and wide skirts into the seat beside him.

“Tea, madam?” Magnus asked, standing beside her with the pot and an empty cup.

“Yes,” she replied stiffly, not looking at the help when she spoke, but at Richard's food and his hands as he spread jam on his toast.

He knew she waited for an invitation to dine; but
she didn't need the nourishment, and he refused to feed her. Good food was costly.

Magnus poured, then returned the pot to the sideboard before taking his leave for a third time.

“So,” Richard started, indicating cream and sugar on the table, “how is your family?”

It now became apparent to her that he wasn't going to offer breakfast. She sniffed and reached for the sugar spoon. “Very well, thank you,” she answered curtly. “My lovely Hermione will make her debut come spring, if you'll recall, so we're already planning our visits to the city, engaging the services of only the best dressmakers, hatters, jewelers, and such. It's a very busy time.”

Naturally, he mused, deciding not to comment. He understood perfectly Penelope's intention of drawing him into a courtship with the second of her three homely daughters, and he refused to honor her remark with any indication of interest. “What of Desdemona?” he inquired instead, scooping up the remainder of his eggs.

Penelope bristled. “She and her weasel of a husband are expecting.”

He nearly dropped his fork. Desdemona and Randolph Winsett were expecting a child? Extraordinary. So much so he was suddenly quite nervous about the revelation. “How wonderful for them,” he mumbled after swallowing a thick coating of yoke. He lifted his wide, cloth napkin to his mouth to hide his stunned reaction. “When is the blessed event to occur?”

She sighed, obviously annoyed by the entire matter, but she didn't look up as she stirred a generous helping of cream into her tea. “In June, I expect.”

A rather equivocal reply. Richard wiped the corners of his mouth, making the calculations quickly. A birth in late June would put conception close to the time of the wedding night he supposed, if they'd had one at all, but then what other answer would her mother give? Still, regardless of the predicament, Desdemona was now safely married so it really didn't matter that she carried.

“My congratulations, then,” he offered, dropping his gaze once more to what remained of his breakfast. “I'm sure you must be quite happy at the prospect of having a grandchild.”

She ignored that, adjusting her large skirts in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position at the table. “I'm sure you've heard the news about the Frenchwoman who has invaded our village and is now living alone with the scholar in the Hope cottage.”

Invaded? Richard nearly snorted at the ridiculousness of it. She made it sound like the whole bloody French Army had descended upon them. If there was one thing Penelope Bennington-Jones most assuredly did not possess it was the gift of subtlety. What struck him, though, was that she'd brought this to his attention before he'd requested the information, which, as it happened, was the sole reason he'd invited her today. The Frenchwoman was creating quite a stir in their little community, and Penelope was greatly bothered by her.

“I haven't heard a thing, actually,” he maintained with a casual air, “but I have seen the lady from a distance.”

“She is
not
a lady.”

The strength of that assertion took him aback, but he didn't reveal any thought beyond indifference. “And why do you say that?”

“Well,” she huffed, “not only is she living alone in a small cottage with a man who is not her husband, but I've met her, my lord. I find her quite…invasive.”

“How so?” he asked, biting into the last of his toast, noting with interest that she'd used the same word choice twice in as many minutes.

Penelope's lips stretched thin as she stared hard at him. “She is obviously immoral.”

He nodded as he chewed, understanding that this broad statement was nothing more than conjecture, that she had no conclusive evidence of anything. He decided not to pursue it.

Penelope lifted one of her thick hands and tried to push her hat back up on her head without success. “She is a widow,” she added accusingly, “and not unattractive to look at, but frankly, I find her presence here suspicious.”

From what he'd seen of her in the distance, the Frenchwoman was lovely; and, of course, that's what bothered Penelope the most. What bothered
him
, for reasons unclear, was that such a woman spent her time with Thomas Blackwood: thirty-nine, Cambridge scholar, war veteran, and cripple.
That
is what he found suspicious. Odd that a lady of her background and beauty would intentionally reside with a man who couldn't possibly please her in any way.

Richard lifted a silver bell and rang it twice to inform the servant standing directly behind him that he required more tea and that it was time to collect his empty plate.

“So, madam,” he carried on through a deliberate sigh, “what do you gather she's doing among us in our small village, hmm?”

Penelope scoffed with an exaggerated toss of her hand. “She says she's here as Mr. Blackwood's employee. That she's translating his war memoirs into her native tongue.”

An intriguing piece of news he'd need to absorb, though not entirely implausible, he supposed. “When did you meet the woman?”

“Thursday last, at Mrs. Rodney's tea.”

That
had to have been an interesting affair. “What were your impressions of her?”

She straightened. “I found her to be quite French.”

How outrageously
profound
, he wanted to shout. Instead, he stirred more cream and sugar into his full, steaming cup, then leaned back easily in his chair.

“What do you know of the scholar?”

Her brows lifted. “Mr. Blackwood?”

What other scholars were they discussing? He nodded once, smiling tightly, withholding his impatience.

She shrugged nimbly, lifting her cup. “I've only spoken to him briefly, but he seems to be a regular gentleman, quiet, educated. A bit of a recluse.”

Again, not much substantial information. But something uncertain about it nagged at him, and Richard began to tap his fingers on the table, thinking. “What do you suppose
he's
doing in Winter Garden?” he pressed, voice lowered.

Penelope seemed genuinely surprised at the question. Truthfully, even he hadn't considered this until just now, but, of course, he had no intention of making her aware of it.

“He's never said,” she replied after a long sip of her tea. “I just assumed he was here because he wanted to spend his time in the solitude of our village, to retreat to a simple but socially adequate community.” Within seconds her lids narrowed, her lips puckered, and she eyed him conspiratorially. “That seems odd now, doesn't it, Lord Rothebury?”

He had to ask. “How so?”

“Well, it's not as if he's from Northumberland, or even London,” she explained gravely. “He's from Eastleigh. That's a rather quiet community in itself, isn't it? Small and lovely, and not too far from Winter Garden.” She leaned toward him, dropping her voice, to add, “Why should he come to our village to do what he could just as easily do at home?”

Why, indeed, Richard pondered with mounting qualm. If the scholar had spent a week or two—even a month—on holiday here, he would think nothing of it. Many of the gentry retreated to Winter Garden for its seclusion and beauty, especially during the cold season. But Thomas Blackwood had arrived from a town with a climate not unlike their own, had been here for nearly three months with no sign of leaving anytime soon, and was now even taking employees into his rented cottage. Penelope had posed a magnificent question, infuriating him immediately because she'd thought of it before he had. No reason to allow her to know that, however.

Smoothly, he said, “I've wondered this very thing myself, madam.”

“Have you?”

The intrigue in her tone and the widening of her dark, piercing eyes made him pause. This was a sensi
tive time in his prosperous business, and the consequences would be extreme should he fail. He didn't want her snooping openly into something that was starting to give him serious question.

With a blasé grin, he waved his palm to brush the matter off, then lifted his cup again. “But I'm sure there's nothing to it. He probably needed a change of scenery for a season, and the Hope cottage is peaceful and has an excellent view.”
Of my home
, he suddenly realized like a strike to the face. Something else that seemed enormously coincidental to the moment. Something else he'd need to give more extensive thought.

Penelope's forehead crinkled skeptically with his casual explanation, so Richard subtly, and quickly, reverted to his original topic. “What about Mr. Blackwood's relationship with the Frenchwoman? Are they…friendly, to your knowledge?”

If she found his endless questions unusual or prying she didn't show it. Indeed, a look of embarrassment overcame her as a flood of color crept up the sagging skin at her neck. She squirmed uncomfortably, lowering her gaze and once more attempting to fix the ugly hat on her head, once more to no avail.

He waited for her answer, sipping his tea, watching her with marked interest.

“According to the Frenchwoman,” she revealed at last, staring now at the embroidered leaves on his tablecloth, “there is no chance of a romantic involvement between them because of the…of his particular war injury. He cannot—he does not find her appealing.”

Richard blinked quickly and sucked in his cheeks to keep from laughing. He didn't believe this absurd bit of
female gossip for a minute, although he conceded that the ladies of Winter Garden likely did. Most amazing was that the Frenchwoman had discussed this socially.

He took another full swallow, then placed his cup back on the table to fold his hands in his lap. “What is her name?”

Penelope drew a long breath and squarely met his gaze again. “Madeleine DuMais,” she said succinctly. “And if that doesn't sound like a name one might use on the stage…”

She let the statement linger, her eyes now sparkling with implication, and it had its effect. Mrs. Bennington-Jones was a nosy bitch, but she was keen with perception and usually chose her words carefully. He knew that, and it had served him well in the past. But did she mean an actress literally or figuratively? Or just that the Frenchwoman was living indefinitely in Winter Garden using a false name for a purpose they didn't yet understand? He'd never ask Penelope to clarify for fear of appearing ignorant, or worse, stupid. It hardly mattered anyway, as he would no doubt discover the Frenchwoman's intentions on his own eventually. For now, though, Richard acknowledged that regardless of the scholar's reclusive nature and Mrs. Madeleine DuMais's beauty or background, both of them had come to Winter Garden under very odd circumstances and at a very peculiar time.