An Unexpected Encounter ( Half Moon House, Novella 1) (7 page)

He strode away, leaving her standing there
alone.

Chapter Five

The frustrating man did not need
fixing
. A day later, Lisbeth still berated herself for her
mistake, even as she waited to speak to the owner of the Hollandale
Employment Agency. Cook had offered to spend the afternoon teaching
Aurelia the art of making macaroons, so Lisbeth had taken the
chance to come and confess her sins—and inquire after possibilities
for a new position.

Her heart beat a bit faster as she recalled
the moment she’d burst into his laboratory. He’d been shocked,
bewildered—and clad only in his linen shirt with his sleeves rolled
partially up. She’d almost turned away like a coward when he’d
thrown open the door and she’d come up against that gloriously
broad chest and intriguingly muscled arms. But she’d swallowed her
awe and ignored the hot flare of excitement in her gut and surged
forward. She’d won him over, too, until—curse her wretched tongue
and managing nature—she’d offended the baron and demonstrated
definitively that some controlling position in service was all she
was fit for. She sighed. Perhaps it was for the best. For she was
very much afraid she was becoming too attached to Aurelia—and far
too interested in her guardian.

She hadn’t meant to imply any criticism of
the man. His size was so intimidating—awe-inspiring, really—that it
became easy to imagine him invulnerable.

Clearly, he was not. The more she learned of
him, the more she recognized a kindred soul. At home she’d used her
abilities to create a niche for herself within her family, to forge
a place where all the attributes she lacked didn’t matter so much,
where she could turn all the negatives they bemoaned into
positives, where she could hide from the pain of not fitting into
her rightful sphere and have a chance at being valued and accepted.
She rubbed her brow, understanding suddenly that she was still
following that same path, but knowing that she didn’t have another
choice.

Lord Cotwell did. He used his mechanical work
in the same way she’d used managing her home. Only he’d taken it a
step further, living secluded and using his gruff manner to keep
others away, to rebuff them before they could do the same to
him.

It was a shame, really, because once one grew
close enough, it was easy to see all the admirable qualities his
rough ways hid. He deserved respect, admiration, and yes—love. Had
she the time, she was sure she could persuade him to take the
chance and reconnect with people again. A nudge here, a bit of
encouragement there, and she highly doubted he would be able to
resist if she challenged him to—

“Pray, do excuse me, Miss Moreton.” Mrs.
Hollendale re-entered the office carrying a stack of papers and a
wrapped parcel. “Some things in business simply require your own
hand.”

“Of course, I understand.”

“Now, as to your confession, I harbor no ill
feelings. If my candidate did not keep the appointment, then as far
as I’m concerned, she did herself out of the job and I’m glad to
know, so as not to recommend her again.”

“That is a relief, ma’am, because I thought
to request your aide in finding another sort of post.” She
explained Aurelia’s needs and Lord Cotwell’s idea of a châtelaine’s
position.

“Hmm . . . it’s quite a compliment that your
current employer would suggest something so . . . weighty.” Mrs.
Hollendale raised a brow. “I assume he is willing to provide a
reference?”

“He is.”

The woman pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t
presume to imply anything untoward, but I’d be remiss did I not
explain that prospects of such a place will be more difficult to
obtain for one so young. Especially with only a single employer’s
recommendation.” Her brow lifted again. “And a bachelor employer,
at that.”

Lisbeth frowned. “I’m certainly glad that you
are not implying anything untoward, Mrs. Hollendale.”

“We must face the realities of the situation.
Chances are slim in any case, but they’d be better if you had other
recommendations. And better still if one had a woman’s stamp upon
it.” She paused. “Is that a possibility?”

It should be. Were all things fair, Lisbeth’s
mother should be willing to provide her a glowing report. After
all, she’d turned nearly all of her household responsibilities over
to her eldest daughter years ago. But Lisbeth wouldn’t ask.
Couldn’t ask. Her mother had listened to her new husband berate her
daughter repeatedly, and without protest. She’d actually consented
to the man’s scheming plans for her future—

“Miss Moreton?”

Her attention snapped back. She needed
employment. She wanted a place in the world, a means of supporting
herself. Taking on the part of housekeeper or châtelaine would not
be perfect, but she would have independence, the sort of authority
she was used to, the chance to use the talents she possessed. She
would
find another recommendation. Perhaps one of her
father’s friends, who knew the work she’d done after his death.

Inspiration struck.

She straightened. “Yes, Mrs. Hollendale. It
is a possibility. I’ll make arrangements—and then I’ll return.”

* * *

“Wait.” Frowning, Aurelia suddenly turned
from the carriage window. “Where did you say we were going?”

“We’re to visit . . .” Lisbeth paused. How to
describe James Vickers? An old beau? The rakish nobleman’s son who
had stolen her first kiss and eventually captured her young heart?
The man who had so recently offered his help, raised her hopes and
then cruelly dashed them to the ground? “A friend,” she finished
lamely. “We’re to visit a friend.”

Aurelia turned back, but she began to fidget,
obviously growing uneasy as they made their way along Queen Street.
“I don’t like this place.”

“We won’t stay long, I promise. We’ll be home
before luncheon.” Where she would continue to avoid Lord Cotwell,
despite a growing desire to do the opposite. She found herself
thinking about him, wondering about him as she worked with Aurelia,
as she oversaw the continuing work on his house.

It was a marvel to her how differently she
viewed him as opposed to James. James was the pattern card of a
charming rogue, classically handsome, genteel, with a biting wit
and a view to making her laugh. He’d annoyed her at first, but won
her over with his flattering attentions. She’d always felt a little
nervous in his company, a little out of control, as if the
possibility for chaos and wicked disarray followed him
everywhere.

She should perhaps have felt the same with
Lord Cotwell. Certainly the potential for violence lived in his
large frame and irregular manner. And yet, she felt comfortable in
his company and utterly safe in his house. He was all fascinating
contrasts, big and rough and burly on the outside, but softer
inside. Sometimes, when she was polishing silver, her fingers
itched to instead be exploring the breadth of his chest or the hard
muscles of his back. She dreamed of picking him apart like one of
his mechanical marvels, showing him and the rest of the world all
the shiny, beautiful parts he hid away. Surely some lucky, lovely
girl would recognize them and he would find the happiness he
deserved.

Except that the way he avoided her told her
that he did not want her help. Perhaps he didn’t want happiness.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about it, which was why she had to
go. Before she seriously annoyed him or made a fool of herself.

She smiled reassuringly at Aurelia. Perhaps
she should have left her at home. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come
at all. But as fascinated as she was with Lord Cotwell, she could
have gone a lifetime without seeing James Vickers again—until she
thought of a way that he could help her out of her predicament.

James knew the work she had done. They’d met
when his father, tired of his wastrel, scandal-courting ways, had
sent him to rusticate at one of his lesser estates, the one that
just happened to border Lisbeth’s own home. Over the months of his
stay he’d seen the workload she carried, remarked on the breadth of
knowledge she’d gained and sense of duty that drove her, and joked
that his father should hire her to run his property.

Well, he could put that knowledge to good use
by writing her a letter of recommendation—and if he could write it
on his mother’s stationary and somehow see her signature affixed as
well—then so much the better. It was the least he could do after
luring her to London and leaving her high and dry.

The carriage slowed. Aurelia stared with
trepidation at the slightly dilapidated home. “Your friend lives
here?”

“He has rooms upstairs, I believe.” Lisbeth
stared too. “It doesn’t look very promising, does it?”

“We should just go home.”

“Soon,” she promised. Climbing out, she made
arrangements for the hack to wait, then spent a few minutes coaxing
Aurelia out. By the time she’d succeeded, a woman had emerged from
the house. She stood on the stoop, adjusting her faded brown hat
and eyeing them with displeasure.

“What’s this, then?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Vickers.” Lisbeth
smiled. “Are you the landlady here?”

“Aye.” The woman narrowed her eyes at Aurelia
and frowned. “Some folks just don’t learn the first time, do
they?”

Lisbeth didn’t understand, but she reached
out to stop the woman as she tried to brush past them. “Is Mr.
Vickers at home?”

The woman shrugged.

“May we go in and try his door?”

“Do what you will, much good it will do,” the
woman huffed. “Second floor. On the right. And if you see him, tell
him rents are due at the end of the week.”

Lisbeth stared after her. “Well, that was
unpleasant, wasn’t it?” She took up Aurelia’s hand and led the way
into the house and up a somewhat grimy set of stairs. Aurelia’s
grip grew tighter and she edged a little behind Lisbeth as they
stopped before the door. She gave her hand a reassuring squeeze,
then disentangled her hand to give a knock.

They waited.

She knocked again, and when there was still
no answer, she blew out a breath of exasperation and gave the door
a good pounding.

“He’s not here,” Aurelia whispered. “Please,
let’s just go home.”

Lisbeth swallowed and lifted her fist away.
“All right, then.”

Wasn’t it just like James Vickers to not be
at home? Still, she wouldn’t let him defeat her. She’d make the
trip again, perhaps on her free day.

It was time for her to focus on her
future.

* * *

James Vickers heaved over in bed. Wincing, he
dropped an arm over his eyes to block the indecently bright light.
A constant, low moaning sounded somewhere near. As the rhythm of it
kept respectable time with the heaving of his gut, he felt fairly
certain that it came from him, but at least the incessant pounding
in his head had quit.

Wait.

He moved his arm away—a little too fast—and
groaned again. No. No. The devil’s pick axe still slammed in his
temples. The noise that had invaded his dreams and then woke him
with its abrupt ceasing had been something else. What?

And what the hell time was it? Too damned
early to be awake, judging by the light in his rooms. Gingerly he
lifted his head and looked around. Alone, this time, thank God.

His gaze drifted across the mess of his
bedroom, to the sitting room and the door. Ah, that was it. There
was someone at the door. Absurdly glad to have solved the mystery,
he rolled over to go back to sleep. But something pricked
him—something more than the diamond stickpin listing from his
halfway unraveled neckcloth. He had the nagging feeling that he’d
forgot something.

With a grunt he urged his brain to function.
What could it be? Not the rents, not yet. Not a gentleman’s debt—he
always paid promptly when he lost, draining his coffers as quickly
as he could just to poke his father’s annoyance into full
flame.

He sighed. Whatever it was, it was not going
to let him sleep. He stumbled out of bed, waited for the world to
slow down to its normal spin and threw open the door.

Only to find no one there. He stared blankly
at the empty passage for a moment, then looked over his shoulder at
the sitting room window, facing the street. Gripping furniture as
he went, he made his way over and leaned on the sill.

There. A hack in the street below. Breathing
heavily, he waited.

Beneath him, a woman and child emerged from
the building. He narrowed his eyes. Yes, it was Freddie’s chit
again, wasn’t it? Did they think to try leaving her here again?
Hadn’t he told them he couldn’t care for a child? His life’s work
was set and every day he drew closer to his goal of driving his
father utterly mad. Let Cotwell have her, the pompous prick.

Disgusted, he turned away, intent on going
back to bed. But something drew him up short. The woman. There was
something about her.

He turned back, but saw only the flick of her
skirt as the carriage door closed. He frowned as the carriage moved
away. There had been something familiar about that profile. It hit
him as he staggered back towards bed. Lisbeth. She had reminded him
of Lisbeth.

The bigger realization burst in his brain
like fireworks over Vauxhall. Oh, God. Lisbeth! He’d meant to meet
her, here in Town. He’d sent a reply, had he not? When? What day
was it? Where was that damned letter? Frantic, he tore through his
desk and then his apartment, but could find no sign of her missive,
or his answer.

Damn!

Gut roiling, head pounding, he sank down into
an armchair. He’d meant to help her. He’d been genuinely fond of
Lisbeth once—and helping her escape her stepfather’s machinations
promised the added benefit of a scandal that would send his father
right up into the boughs.

Oblivion called, pulled him back into the
cushions. He rested his aching head. What the devil had Lisbeth
been doing with Freddie’s chit? The mystery tugged, but exhaustion
won out.