Authors: Jo Goodman
"Let her go," Louise said to her husband. "I told you, it has been a trying day. Northam's attentions were rather more than she wanted, I think. He informed her that she had no talent for watercolors."
"Indeed," the baron said, his tone as dry as dust.
Elizabeth slipped out of the bedchamber as Battenburn was inquiring of his wife to provide more of the particulars.
* * *
The manor was quiet when Northam left his room. The servants had not yet been roused from their beds to begin preparations for another day's entertainment. From his limited observations, Northam believed the baron and baroness were exacting employers. There seemed to be no guest who was unattended, no whim that was not satisfied. He had overheard Lady Armitage complain that the floral arrangement in her chambers was not at all to her liking. Very plain, she had said. Insipid, really. It was not long afterward that he spied one of the maids ducking into a backstairs passage with an armload of roses. Later, when Lady Armitage commented that her room was a veritable garden, Northam felt certain she had been the recipient of the flowers.
Most assuredly it was not the baron and baroness who directed these things—more likely it was Lady Elizabeth Penrose—but she could not be acting outside the expectations of the baron and baroness. He wondered again at the arrangement that existed between the Earl of Rosemont's daughter and his hosts. It was something of a curiosity to Colonel Blackwood as well, which ultimately made it Northam's concern. It was, perhaps, not the most auspicious of assignments the colonel had trusted him with, and certainly it was not the most dangerous, but it was proving to be not without some rewards. Northam could think of many less pleasant ways to pass his time than living in the pocket of Lady Elizabeth.
Northam wandered the hallways of Battenburn, familiarizing himself with the twists and turns as he had not been able to earlier, when the majority of guests were still roaming. He did not want to be included in the games of hide and seek that were being played among some of the more adventurous guests. Lady Grace Powell, the lovely widow with a fortune and, by all accounts, no designs on a second marriage, had made her interests in South clear within minutes of their introduction. The viscount, never one to appreciate the strategy of a full frontal assault, had been in retreat most of the evening. Northam suspected his friend was sleeping soundly—and alone—in his own room, providing his candle wax trail had led him back to it.
The same could not be said of some of the other guests. Southerton had also mentioned seeing Lord Allen and Lady Heathering secreted in a room that appeared to be a linen closet. The viscount came upon them by accident and backed away with all alacrity when he realized his error. "One would think they would have the good sense to hold the door shut," he said. "Lord Heathering might have stumbled on them."
Northam suspected the cuckolded Lord Heathering would have to have left the arms of Mrs. Flagg in order to make that discovery. These lapses in discretion were the exception and Northam truly had no way of knowing to what extent the other guests at Battenburn were seizing the opportunities presented by too much fine wine and the great hall's peculiar architecture. He suspected this rout was in no way different from any of the others he might have attended this month. Any exposition of affairs would serve as a nine-days' wonder, nothing more.
Northam eventually found his way to the grand staircase. Potted ferns stood at post on either side of the landing. He was careful not to bump into one of the urns and send it crashing to the parquet floor below. Beneath his feet was a dark wine carpet runner. He held up his candlestick to make sure he found the first step and then started down. Northam had been shown the library earlier in the day when he expressed an interest in the baron's collection. He had no difficulty coming to it again. The handle turned noiselessly for him and he let himself in. The addition of light from an oil lamp made him blink. It took a moment to see beyond the circle of light at the corner of the baron's desk and to the occupant of the baron's chair.
"Lady Elizabeth," he said. Surprise made his manner somewhat stiff. Lulled by the stillness that had settled over the house, he had neglected to look for signs of occupancy before he opened the door. "Forgive me. I did not know this room was in use."
Elizabeth's eyebrows arched fractionally. She had the feeling she was not being apologized to at all, but rather taken to task for interrupting
him.
She placed her quill down slowly and, in the same deliberate motion, lifted her chin. She was wearing a hunter green flannel shawl across her shoulders, and now she adjusted the ends so they covered more of her bosom. Her cotton nightdress was less revealing than the gown she had chosen to wear at the musicale, but since it was clearly intended for the bedroom, she felt more exposed. To his credit, Northam's eyes remained on her face. Far from being insulted, Elizabeth was relieved. "May I assist you in some way?" she asked in polite but reserved accents.
Northam remained where he was. "I thought I might find something to read."
"How fortunate you have come upon the library, then."
"It is not by accident," he assured her, "but by design."
Elizabeth withheld comment, her skepticism communicated by her silence.
Northam lowered his candle and his gaze fell on the quill and foolscap in front of Elizabeth. "Your letter to the colonel?" She nodded. "It is rather late, is it not, to be composing your missive?"
"Months late. As you pointed out this afternoon."
He did not correct the meaning she took from his question, suspecting that the misunderstanding was deliberate. "May I intrude upon you long enough to search for a book?"
She made a graceful sweep with her arm, indicating he could go where he would. Elizabeth made no attempt to return to her writing, but chose to watch Northam instead. "Is there one in particular you have in mind?"
"The one containing Malthus's
Essay on the Principle of Population,"
he said. "I believe I saw it earlier."
"Are you certain hot milk would not be more to your liking?" He laughed out loud at that, and Elizabeth was reminded anew how very enjoyable that sound was. She regretted she was not a more amusing person, for listening to his laughter would surely be a pleasure. "It is to your right. One shelf up."
Northam's index finger swept the gold-embossed bindings, guiding his eyes. He stopped suddenly and raised his candle. The yellow light burnished the dark leather spines, deepening and enriching their color. "Ho," he said, his interest arrested by one particular book. "What's this?" He picked out the book carefully, grinning as he examined the cover.
"Castle Rackrent,"
he read aloud. "'A Gothic novel.'" He checked the spine for the author's name. "By Maria Edgeworth. A pseudonym, no doubt, for who would willingly give over their name to the penning of a Gothic novel?"
"That is very small of you. It is highly entertaining."
Still grinning, Northam somehow managed to arch one brow. His bright crosshatch of yellow hair gleamed in the candlelight. "Is it?" he asked, his tone signifying great cynicism. "Is it yours?"
"It is her ladyship's," Elizabeth said coolly. "But yes, I have read it. That is how I know it is entertaining. You, on the other hand, have no experience by which to judge its content."
"Well said, my lady." He slipped the book under his arm and continued to search out the Malthus essay. "Aaah. Here it is." Northam put the candle down in order to take the collection of essays from the shelf. He fanned through the pages, making certain it contained what he was looking for, then folded it under his arm with the Edgeworth Gothic tome.
Amused that he intended to take
Castle Rackrent
with him, Elizabeth nevertheless did not comment. He did it for show, no doubt, because she had managed to sting him a bit with her comment. The Earl of Northam probably considered himself to be of a liberal bent. It was the fashion among the younger set. The baroness said he was two and thirty, which clearly placed him on the outer edge of that wave of thinking.
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, finding her breathing coming easier now that Northam's mission was accomplished. She could not have said that she found his presence uncomfortable when he had first entered the library, but now that he was preparing to leave, she knew for a fact that it was true.
Northam did not set off for the door, however, but approached the dark walnut desk instead. "Will you send my regards to the colonel?" he asked.
"Of course." She made no effort to pick up the quill.
"Shall I wait and escort you back to your room?"
That was the last thing she wanted. Evenly she said, "It is not necessary. I know my way much better than you."
"Then perhaps you would be my escort?"
Elizabeth shook her head, her smile a trifle forced. "That would not be seemly, my lord. Someone might attach the wrong meaning to our association. You are adequately attired." Indeed, he had not changed from his tailored evening jacket and trousers. "While I..." Her voice trailed off because modesty forbade her from calling attention to her nightclothes. Unconsciously her hands tightened on the tails of her shawl.
"While you are very much in the common mode for this late hour," he finished for her. "I understand." Still, he hesitated. He studied her raised face, the fine curve of her brow and cheek, the more strongly etched curve of her mouth. Her eyes, almond-shaped and nearly a perfect match for her gold and brown hair, were her most arresting feature, but only if he did not allow himself to gaze below the prim neckline of her nightshift or refine on what was hidden beneath her flannel shawl. "I wonder if you would ride at my side at the hunt tomorrow?"
She blinked up at him, the invitation outside of anything she expected to hear. For a moment she could not speak. Finally her voice came coolly. "I am flattered at the honor you—"
"It is an invitation to ride, Lady Elizabeth, not a proposal of marriage."
If Elizabeth had been standing, she would have taken a step backward. As it was, the lightly mocking tone pinned her back into the chair. It was on occasions such as this that Elizabeth had cause to remember she was every inch of her the Earl of Rosemont's daughter. "I should accept your offer," she began, "for the pleasure of making you regret it. I will restrain myself, however, not because you don't deserve it, but because it is not worthy of me. In any event you will find my seat on a horse as singularly lacking as my talent for painting. It is on those grounds that I must decline your invitation, my lord."
"A fine, cutting riposte," Northam said in the neutral tones of an observer, not the target. He hitched one hip on the corner of the desk and laid down his books. Crossing his arms in front of him, his posture casual yet somehow challenging, he continued. "I assure you, I will be vastly entertained by your attempts to make me regret my request, for I find your company, even at its most provoking, is more to my liking than that of any other number of your sex I could name." He gave her no chance to insert a single word, though he thought she was warming nicely to an entire harangue. "As for it not being worthy of you, I concede your point. Your sensibilities are far more refined than mine, so I understand your reluctance to extend yourself on my account. Your point of refusal, though, is a transparent piece of work. You cannot pretend that you were in the least offended this afternoon when I commented on your lack of talent for watercolors. Not when you so clearly found it amusing—and true. Lastly, as to the matter of your seat, I had reason to observe you riding back to the keep and I could find no cause for any sentiment save admiration. Lady Battenburn also informed me that you are an accomplished horsewoman."
"You spoke of me to her?" she asked incredulously.
Northam remained unperturbed. "I believe her ladyship saw the direction of my interest and was moved to comment."
Elizabeth doubted the baroness had confined herself to a mere comment. She saw now that Northam's invitation had Louise's fingerprints all over it. "Louise is trying her hand at matchmaking," Elizabeth said, going straight to the heart of it.
"I know. Her remarks could not properly be called hints. She commented on your qualities with all the subtlety of a Greek chorus." Northam regarded Elizabeth closely and correctly judged she was unamused. "It could not hurt to permit her to think she has succeeded, could it? I believe she will rest her attentions elsewhere if we appear to fall in with her plans."
Elizabeth's gold-flecked eyes narrowed. "I believe you are as manipulative as Louise," she said after a moment.
Northam's brief smile was unapologetic. "What say you, Lady Elizabeth? Aren't you the least bit intrigued that Lady Battenburn thinks we would suit?"
Intrigued? No, that was not the word. Terrified. That was a far better descriptor."You would be better served to attach your interests to another of my sex," she said. "For all that you might find them less entertaining, you will also find them less taxing." Elizabeth could see by his patient regard that she had not dissuaded him in the least. "Oh, very well, my lord. I shall accompany you on the hunt. As for the remainder of your stay at Battenburn, we shall see."
Northam scooped up his books and candle. He let the light flicker over the promise of sunlight in Elizabeth's hair. "Good evening," he said, his tone gentle now, respectful.
Elizabeth Penrose made no reply. Her gaze dropped away from his with a certain deliberateness that was not avoidance or surrender, but dismissal. She heard Northam chuckle softly and take his leave. When she looked up from her letter as the door closed, her vision was blurred by tears, and the hand lying over the quill was shaking.