An ache grew in his chest as he watched her. In full daylight, she dazzled him as she had on that day in London despite her dishevelment and the dirt streaking her face. Ever since, he had only encountered her by candle-light, in the dim interior of his cabriolet, and beneath a starry sky. In each circumstance she had blazed with un-equaled radiance, but here, with her golden curls spilling out from beneath her hat and her porcelain skin fresh and glowing, he found her as luminous as sunlight slanting through a garden.
The comparison drew a silent groan. Had he really just waxed poetic for a woman who threatened everything he was trying to accomplish here in Bath?
“Truly, Cousin, could you
be
more preoccupied?” one of the twins griped in an octave that set his teeth on edge.
“I am no such thing.” Finding an empty blanket near their parents, he bade all three of his cousins to sit, then flashed a teasing grin and tweaked one of the girls’ corkscrew curls. “I am merely baffled as to which of you is the more lovely.”
Sanford rolled his eyes as the sister to his right exclaimed, “Me, of course. Everyone declares it to be so.”
“Oh, Edwina, no one makes any such claim.” Ah. Now that Aidan knew which was which, he saw that Emily’s dissatisfied scowl deepened as she peered out at the latest arrivals to reach the crest of the hill. “So many people here today. How will everyone fit?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sanford retorted. “This hilltop is adequate and then some, or we would not have come. Father said the Summit Pavilion is to be Bath’s grandest facility yet. But then, as females you cannot understand the complexities of such matters.”
While the siblings argued, Aidan contemplated the party dispersed beneath the three canopies. Many had already visited the buffet tables, returning to their blankets with plates piled high with cold meats and slices of pigeon pie, fruits, cheese, pastries, and tarts.
Laurel and Melinda had settled with Fitz, Beatrice, and Devonlea beneath the largest of the canopies. At Fitz’s encouragement, Laurel held her cup out to the stream of wine flowing from the footman’s pitcher.
Fitz had also encouraged her to sample Rousseau’s elixir at the Pump Room. Did he hope to render Laurel inebriated in order to take advantage of her? It wouldn’t be the first time Fitz had relied on liquid persuasion to have his way with a reluctant woman.
“I do say, the view of Fenwick House is splendid from here,” Edwina mused between sips of the lemonade a footman had just handed her. “A pity Lady Fairmont lives there all alone. A waste of such a grand estate, in my opinion.”
Sitting straighter, Aidan twisted round to follow his cousin’s gaze. Surprise went through him. He had not realized how close this property lay to Melinda’s. So close, in fact, he surmised that the parcel of land intended for the Summit Pavilion had originally lain within Fenwick’s eastern border.
His mind raced with what he knew about the estate. Unentailed to the Fairmont title, the house and surrounding land belonged outright to Melinda, bequeathed to her long ago by her maternal grandparents. He also knew that while originally the property did not extend this far east into the Cotswold foothills, Melinda’s husband had purchased all the land within two miles of the house for the purpose of safeguarding the pristine views.
Melinda’s involvement with the corporation—was this what Dr. Bailey had alluded to the day she took ill? Why in God’s name would she have sold this parcel of land? She could not have needed the money. Aidan knew for a fact that her annuities paid over eight thousand a year.
Or had those annuities somehow proved insolvent?
Turning back around, he snatched Edwina’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, my dear. You are most astute.”
“Am I?”
“Is she?” Emily’s nose wrinkled indignantly.
Sanford’s lips twisted in disdain.
“If you will all excuse me.” Their protests hot on his back, Aidan set off, ducking as he stepped out from beneath the canopy.
“Such breathtaking scenery,” Laurel exclaimed. Having finished eating, she was walking with Melinda and Lord Munster beyond the pavilions. The hilltop’s grassy ridge commanded spectacular views in all directions.
To the south, the city’s spires, turrets, and domes lay sprawled like the pieces of an intricate puzzle. To the north, a lush, rolling landscape tumbled to the edge of a hazy horizon. “You say these enchanting hills are the Cotswolds?”
“The southern Cotswolds, yes,” Melinda said with an indulgent smile. She seemed to derive great pleasure from Laurel’s enthusiasm.
Laurel had worried that this afternoon’s activities would overtire the countess. She had even suggested that they spend a quiet day together at Fenwick House instead, but Melinda had insisted on coming. Looking at her now, with the silk flowers trimming her bonnet complementing the rosy hue of her cheeks, Laurel had to admit that the past days’ rest had done wonders to restore the woman’s youthful vitality.
Reassured, she gazed out at the panorama before them. “I had not realized how close the Cotswolds are to Bath.”
“B-but a stone’s throw away.” Lord Munster picked up a pebble and sent it skipping down the hillside. He went on to describe the limestone aquifer that ran beneath the hills, channeling the mineral waters that had made Bath famous.
Laurel barely took note as she stared out over the blue-green hills stretching as far as she could see. However little she remembered of her early childhood, she did know that her life had begun somewhere in this region.
Uncle Edward had provided only the vaguest details about Billington, the village the Sutherlands had called home. Assuming he had found it painful to dwell upon memories of the sister he had lost, Laurel had eventually stopped pressing him for information. Now he was gone, and the answers were forever sealed with him in his grave.
Unless she discovered something on her own . . .
Lord Munster droned on as she continued gazing out at the knolls and vales she had once called home. Why could she remember nothing of that life? Every part of her, down to her fingertips, trembled with a desire to touch something of her past.
Melinda took Laurel’s hand in her own. “Is something wrong, dearest? You look pale and . . . and your hand has grown quite cold.”
That was because her heart had clenched around a painful longing, yet in all those idyllic miles, nothing struck a chord of recollection. How could that be? True, she had not glimpsed these hills for many years, but should she not feel some connection? Some twinge of belonging here?
She managed a smile for Melinda’s sake. “The breeze has grown chilly. Let’s return to the others now.”
“Another g-glass of wine will warm you, Laurel.”
She felt Melinda’s reaction to Lord Munster’s use of her given name in the slight tightening of her fingers. Laurel met her gaze and quirked an eyebrow as if to say, “It is not my idea,” and hoped the other woman understood.
They returned to the bustling activity of the footmen circulating through the pavilions collecting the tableware. Everyone else had come to their feet.
“Mr. Giles Henderson of the Bath Corporation is addressing questions concerning the Summit Pavilion,” Lady Devonlea informed them. “Then he will conduct a tour to show us where each wing of the facility will stand.”
Lord Munster pressed a goblet of wine into Laurel’s hand. She thanked him absently, her attention captured by Aidan’s easy, long- legged stride as he came into view. He halted at the edge of the crowd gathering before the alderman.
His neighbors politely shifted to grant him a place in their midst. Women curtsied; men bobbed their heads. Several exchanged a few words with him before returning their attention to the speaker.
Laurel experienced a welling of emotion at how readily Aidan commanded a crowd, how easily he could command her with a mere word or gesture, if she let down her guard. She already
had
yielded to temptation, once when she allowed him to kiss her at the theater, and again yesterday when she had followed him to Avon Street. She had done so to learn more about him, and what she had discovered had given her more reason than ever not to trust him.
Will you tell me what you were doing at that place, and in those clothes?
she had asked him.
Just as you told me why you once donned yellow when you should have been in black?
Thus they had reached a stalemate. What now?
Beside her, Lord Munster misconstrued the focus of her interest and offered his arm. “Come, Laurel, let us m-move closer and hear what Mr. Henderson has to say. The S-Summit Pavilion and Rousseau’s elixir are intricately intertwined, for each shall ensure the success of the other. Are you interested in investing in the s-spa?”
She almost said no, that she had no resources for luxuries such as investing in resort facilities. But as a wealthy widow, she would most certainly possess such funds. Not only that, but expressing an interest in an endeavor that held such importance to him was guaranteed to keep him talking.
At yesterday’s luncheon at his sister’s home, much of the talk had centered around politics, as Laurel had hoped, yet her expectation of finding herself surrounded by Radical Reformers had met with disappointment.
The group around the dining table, Lady Devonlea included, eschewed many of their new queen’s policies. They felt that as a woman, Victoria allowed her Whig ministers too much freedom, and that soon the influence of the landed classes would give way to a system in which even the poorest workman had a voice in the government.
Laurel had wondered if that would be so dreadful, but she knew better than to voice such a sentiment. Lord Devonlea in particular seemed to fear that loss of power would lead to loss of wealth. Lord Munster had merely grumbled about the consequences of placing a crown on the head of a naive young chit.
Though disparaging, the talk had hardly been treasonous. These were traditionalists, Tories, not radicals, and Laurel was beginning to wonder if Victoria had been wide of the mark concerning her cousin. Then again, perhaps George Fitzclarence had wisely concealed his revolutionary opinions from his sister and mutual acquaintances.
Perhaps he and his fellow rabble- rousers met in secret . . . say, in derelict parts of town where people such as Lord and Lady Devonlea would never dare tread.
Where Aidan had gone yesterday, in disguise . . .
“Are you, Laurel? Interested in investing, I m-mean?”
The repetition of Fitzclarence’s question snapped her out of her reflections. She blinked. “Why, yes, I am most interested. Perhaps you might advise me as to the proper course to take in such a venture.”
His chest visibly swelled. “I should be d-delighted to. This project is of vital importance to me. I have invested m-much into its success.”
Mr. Henderson began leading his audience from place to place on the hilltop, describing the future layout of the facility. As Laurel and Fitzclarence followed, he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. Given the uneven terrain, the gesture would not be considered improper, except that George Fitzclarence had a wife. Laurel continually thought of poor Mary Wyndham Fox, at home with the children while her husband pursued affairs with other women.
With Laurel, at present.
She resisted the urge to pull her hand away, or to use it to smack sense and prudence into the man. “I have no doubt,” she said evenly, “that the Summit Pavilion will prove highly profitable.”
“Oh, but my d-dear, this means infinitely more to me than mere m-money. I wish to contribute to this city, to help create a thing of c-consequence. A legacy, one m-might say.”
He looked out over the distant spires, his face suddenly younger, animated, filled with dreams.
Her heart gave an involuntary squeeze. “A most noble goal, sir. I do believe the venture will prove a great credit to such aspirations.”
“Do you expect they’ll erect a p-plaque in my name somewhere on the p-property?”
Good heavens, were those tears in his eyes? Did a slight tremor accompany his words?
Was this vulnerability to be believed, or had he inherited his mother’s acting talents? Smoothing a frown of puzzlement, she replied, “I am certain of it. Given your partnership with Monsieur Rousseau, you are certain to succeed.”
Beneath her hand, his forearm tightened. From the corner of his eye, he stole a peek at the French scientist standing by Lord and Lady Harcourt, Julian Stoddard, and several others. “Partnership? Ah, you m-mean my investment in his elixir. You will have a s-second chance to sample his formula before we leave here today.”
Laurel gazed up into his protruding brown eyes, grown heavy-lidded with wine. He had forgotten their talk at the theater, she realized, when he had admitted to collaborating with Rousseau, and others like him, to usher in a “new age.”
He had been in his cups then, too, and could not keep his stories straight. Which was the truth? If his interests truly lay in establishing a meaningful legacy, why would he lie about his relationship with Rousseau?
“Are you certain you’re feeling better?”
While Giles Henderson explained the system of cisterns, piping, and pumps that would redirect the thermal system running beneath the hillside into the Summit Pavilion’s future bathhouses, Aidan walked beside Melinda at the edge of the crowd. “If you’re tiring, I’ll accompany you home.”
With a coquettish gesture, she tossed her head. “Don’t be silly. I feel glorious. Who would not on such a day?”
Aidan glanced out over the western sky where somber clouds were gathering. “As long as those thunder-heads keep their distance.” He looked back at Melinda, taking in the brightness of her eyes and the restored glow to her complexion. “You do look exquisite, and young enough to tempt a man half your age.”
“Perhaps more of those will return to Bath once the Summit Pavilion is built.”