With This Ring (6 page)

"She has no notion of what she is about," he said to Elf. "At the very least she will most certainly bring ruin upon herself. At worst-"

He could not finish the sentence aloud. If someone really was pursuing the Rings and had killed Lord Glassonby because of them, Beatrice could easily put herself in grave danger.

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He came to an abrupt halt. There was only one thing to do. He would have to discover the truth of the situation for himself. He was the authority on old legends and antiquities, after all. If anyone could find the Forbidden Rings and the alchemist's Aphrodite, it was he.

Mrs. Beatrice Poole, reader of horrid novels, would only create trouble and possibly embroil herself in some extremely dangerous mischief if she pursued this affair on her own.

He had to find a way to convince her to leave the matter to him. It was not going to be easy to deflect her from her quest. From the little he had seen thus far, it was clear that Beatrice was a formidable, extremely strong-willed -woman. In the course of her widowhood she had obviously gotten out of the habit of taking advice, let alone instructions, from the male of the species. He doubted that she had ever been particularly adept at it.

He needed some time to try to talk her out of her intentions. If that effort failed, which seemed quite likely, he required some time to prepare for the trip to London. His staff could handle most of the routine matters on the estate, but there was one piece of business that required his personal attention before he left.

He tugged hard at the velvet bellpull.

By the time Finch arrived, Leo had finished the glass of brandy he'd poured himself.

"M'Iord?" "In the morning you will inform Mrs. Poole that she cannot leave Monkcrest until the day after tomorrow at the earliest."

"You wish me to stop Mrs. Poole from leaving?" Finch's jaw unhinged. He swallowed twice, very quickly, and recovered his composure. "M'Iord, such an action may not lie within my power. Mrs. Poole is a very forceful lady. I'm not sure the devil himself could stop her if she took a mind to vacate the premises."

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"Fortunately, we need not look to the devil for assistance. I think I can handle this on my own."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Leo went to the window. "At dawn you will send word to Mrs. Poole that the river is in full flood. The bridge is underwater and will not be passable for at least another day."

"But the rain stopped an hour ago. The bridge will be quite passable in the morning."

"You do not comprehend me, Finch," Leo said very softly. "The bridge will be underwater for at least a full day." "Underwater. I see. Yes, m'lord."

"Thank you, Finch. I knew I could rely upon you." Leo turned around. "You may inform Mrs. Poole that I shall join her for breakfast. Afterward I shall conduct her on a tour of the greenhouse."

"The greenhouse. Yes, m1ord." Dazed, Finch bowed and left the library.

Beatrice inhaled the rich, earthy scents of the greenhouse and wondered if she had been tricked. She could hardly blame the earl for the flooded river, she thought. Not unless she was willing to subscribe to the Monkcrest legend and attribute, supernatural powers over the elements to him.

She refused to succumb to such foolishness. As intriguing as Monkcrest was, he could not command the forces of nature. On the other hand, the longer she spent in the earl's company, the easier it was to believe that he was no ordinary man. Intelligent, enigmatic, and imbued with an unsettling degree of self-mastery, yes. But definitely not ordinary.

His looks fascinated her far more than the legend that surrounded him. He had the stern, unyielding countenance of a man who did not compromise easily or well. Of course, he'd probably never had much experience in the fine art. This was not a man who had ever been obliged to defer to others.

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There was just enough silver in his hair to interest her. He was no raw, untried youth. Leo was a man who had seen something of life and had come to his own conclusions about it. His eyes were an unusual shade of amber brown. The expression in them was made enigmatic by the combined forces of his will and intelligence.

She knew enough about him now to realize that certain aspects of the legend were true. He was arrogant and opinionated. But there was no denying that he stirred her imagination in a way that not even Justin Poole had done in the days of their courtship.

She was a bit too old to be reacting this way, she thought, annoyed. The quickening of the pulse, the compelling curiosity, and the sense of acute awareness were for young ladies such as Arabella. A mature widow of twentynine ought to be well beyond this sort of thing.

Monkcrest would be shocked if he knew what she was thinking. The tale of his short-lived marriage was part of the Monkcrest legend. Aunt Winifred, always a fountain of information on such personal details, had given her the essentials of the story.

"Everyone knows that the Mad Monks are an odd lot," Winifred said. "Unlike most people, they follow their hearts in matters of love. I believe that the current earl was married when he was nineteen."

"So young?" Beatrice asked, surprised.

"They say she was the woman of his dreams. A paragon of a wife and a loving mother. He gave his heart to her and she gave him his heir and a spare. But only a few short years later she died of a lung infection."

"How sad."

"It is said that Monkcrest was heartbroken. Vowed never to remarry. The Mad Monks love only once in a lifetime, you see."

"And having gotten himself two sons, there was no

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pressing need for him to wed again, was there?" Beatrice said dryly.

Winifred looked thoughtful. "Actually, his story is very much like your own, my dear. A tragedy of great love found and then lost much too soon."

Beatrice was well aware that her own brief marriage had been elevated to the status of a minor legend within her family.

She pushed aside the memory of Winifred's gossip and glanced at Leo. He shifted his position slightly against the pillar. The small movement stretched the fabric of his coat across his broad shoulders. Beatrice wished that she was not quite so conscious of the way the well-cut garment emphasized the sleek, strong line of his physique.

It should not matter to her that the front of his linen shirt was unruffled or that he tied his cravat in a strict, stern style rather than in one of the elaborate chin-high arrangements so popular in Town. But it did.

He obviously did not concern himself overmuch with fashion, but his cool, supremely self-confident style would have been the envy of many. There was a dark, brooding quality in him that put Beatrice in mind of one of the heroes of her own novels.

She stifled a groan. This was ridiculous. It was only her writer's imagination that caused her to envision deep, stirring depths in this man. She must keep her common sense and her wits about her.

She leaned forward to cradle a brilliant golden orchid in her palm. "You have a most impressive collection of plants, my lord."

"Thank you." Leo propped one shoulder against a wooden post. "My grandfather built this greenhouse. He was consumed by an interest in the science of gardening.'

- "I hav6 nIever seen orchids of this particular color." "They were a gift from an acquaintance of mine who

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spent many years in the Far East. He brought them back from an island called Vanzagara."

"Gardening is obviously one of your many interests, too, my lord.' Beatrice paused to admire a bed of huge, strangely marked chrysanthemums.

"I have maintained the greenhouse because it contains many curiosities. But gardening does not fascinate me the way it did my grandfather.-

"Did your father also conduct experiments in here?" "Very likely, when he was young. But I am told that as he grew older, his interests concentrated on the study of mechanic,al matters. His old laboratory is filled with clocks and gauges and instruments."

Beatrice moved on to a bed of cacti. -You did not follow in your father's footsteps.-

"No. My father was lost at sea together with my mother when I was four years old. I do not remember either of them clearly. My grandfather raised me."

"I see." She glanced quickly at him, chagrined by her own tactlessness. "I had not realized.-

"Of course not. Do not concern yourself."

She moved slowly down the aisle, pausing occasionally to scrutinize a specimen. "May I ask what led you to your study of ancient legends and antiquities?"

"I was intrigued by such things from my earliest years. Grandfather once said that a taste for the arcane is in the Monkcrest blood."

Beatrice bent her head to inhale the fragrance of an unusual purple orchid. "Perhaps your scholarly interest fn legends and the like arose because you yourself are a product of legend.-

He straightened away from the post with an irritated movement and started down the aisle that paralleled the one in which she stood. "You are an intelligent woman, Mrs. Poole. I refuse to believe that you put any credence in the ridiculous tales you may have heard about me."

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"I hate to disappoint you, sir, but from my observation, some of the stories appear to have a basis in fact."

He gave her a derisive stare. "For example?"

She thought about some of the tales the innkeeper's wife had told her. "It is said that the Monkcrest lands have always been unusually prosperous. The crops are abundant and the sheep provide some of the best wool in all of England."

"That is most definitely not due to the influence of legend or the supernatural." Leo gestured impatiently to indicate not only the greenhouse but all the verdant fields beyond. "What you see here on Monkcrest lands is the result of a never-ending series of agricultural experiments and the serious application of scientific techniques.'

"Ah, science." Beatrice gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. "How very mundane. A bit of sorcery would have been so much more exciting."

Leo cast her a sidelong frown. "Not all the men in my family have been as fascinated with the study of soils and plants as my grandfather, but we have all had a commitment to our responsibilities."

"So much for the unnatural prosperity of your lands. Let me see, what other aspects of the Monkcrest legend have I learned?" She propped her elbow on her hand and tapped her chin with her forefinger. "I believe it is said that in the past, when there has been turmoil in other portions of the realm, the people of Monkcrest have been left in peace."

"It's true. But we owe that to our remote location. The monks who built the abbey at the close of the twelfth century chose this section of the coast because they knew that no one else would have any great interest in it. Because of their foresight, Monkcrest has never been much troubled by political matters."

"And so another Monkcrest myth dissolves into mist." His jaw tightened. "Are there any other tales you wish me to explain?"

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"There was something about the abbey being haunted." She smiled expectantly.

He grimaced. "Every house in England that is as old as this one is said to be plagued with ghosts."

"There was one rather odd rumor to the effect that the Mad Monks have been known to consort with wolves on occasion."

Leo startled her with a crack of laughter. "There are no wolves here, only Elf."

"Elf?" "My hound."

"Oh, yes, of course. He is quite large and fearsomelooking for an elf."

"Perhaps. But he is certainly no wolf. Pray, continue with your list of Monkcrest legends."

She cupped a strangely striped parson-in-the-pulpit in her fingers and wondered how far she should push the matter. She sensed that her host did not have a great store of patience for this subject.

"I assume I can dismiss those rumors of the Monkcrest males studying sorcery at an age when other young men learn Latin and Greek?"

"Absolute drivel." Leo's mouth curved with reluctant humor. "I admit that the men of my family tend to pursue their chosen interests with what some would call obsessive enthusiasm. But I assure you, none have employed sorcery in their pursuit of knowledge. At least-not in recent years."

Beatrice wrinkled her nose. "Why must you persist in turning an excellent legend into a series of very boring explanations?"

His amusement vanished so quickly, she could not be certain it had ever been there in the first place. She was surprised by the grimness that replaced it.

"You may take it from one who knows-legends have their drawbacks, Mrs. Poole."

"Perhaps. But they also have their uses, do they not?"

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"What do you mean?"

She was well aware that she was about to tread into dangerous territory. She looked at him across a clump of exotic ferns. "A man who lives at the heart of an interesting legend no doubt finds it a simple task to manipulate the more gullible and overly imaginative sort."

His brows rose. "Just what are you implying, Mrs. Poole?"

"No offense, my lord, but I think you are quite capable of using your own legend to achieve your ends."

"Enough of this nonsense." He planted both his hands flat on the bench that held the ferns. He leaned forward, his face set in lines of grim determination. "I did not ask you in here in order to discuss gardening or family legends."

He was too close. She had to resist the sudden urge to step back. "I assumed as much. You wish to try to talk me out of my plans to make inquiries into my uncle's death, do you not?"

"You are very perceptive, Mrs. Poole."

"It does not require any great degree of cleverness to deduce that you are opposed to the notion. I collected that much last night. May I ask why you are so personally concerned with my intentions?"

"I am against your scheme because it is potentially a very dangerous endeavor."

"I believe the true danger lies in failing to uncover the truth," she said.