The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (23 page)

The tender gesture of her hand on the window caused Gideon’s stomach to tighten and his resolve to melt—he wanted nothing more than to be with her. At the same moment his brother turned to look at him, and he dropped his gaze from her chamber window, following. “Good God, man, must you act like a dandy?” he grumbled, marching past him.

Perry followed Gideon up the grand staircase as Stapleton appeared. “Your Grace, we had not received word.”

“There’s no need to fuss. We are to retire, as should you. There will be no further disturbance.”

“We, Your Grace?” Stapleton asked before he noticed Perry. “My lord Trumbull, I did not— I will have your rooms readied immediately,” he said, turning on his heel and shuffling into the darkness of the first floor as yet another sleepy face appeared.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Weston said with a sleepy smile. “Oh,
my lord
! Welcome home,” she said excitedly, pushing past Gideon to embrace Perry. He squeezed her hard, lifting her from her feet.

“Oh, I see how easily I’m to be displaced.” Gideon folded his arms as he waited.

“My lord... Peregrine, you need to unhand me!”

“Why yes, of course I do, but it’s been so long since I’ve had the chance to unsettle you, I couldn’t resist.”

Mrs. Weston pulled away from him, straightening her robe. She adored Perry. He was such a wonderfully happy soul, and he brought an air of lightness with him whenever he visited. She realized that as much lightness as he brought, his older brother carried just as much tension. She sobered.

“Your Grace, I haven’t said anything to Miss Francine. We’ve kept a close eye on her, but I didn’t think you’d want me to be the one to tell her.”

“I take it the entire household is aware?”

“Indeed, Your Grace, I thought it necessary the staff know of any danger.”

“Certainly. Thank you for your astute assessment, and for notifying me so quickly. As always, you are an irreplaceable asset.”

Perry burst out laughing and Gideon rolled his eyes, then turned toward his suite.

Mrs. Weston admonished Perry for his insolence with a stern look and a light smack on the shoulder. He stifled his laughter, accepting her reprimand with a smile. “So, Westy, do tell me of this mystery woman. Everything. Leave nothing out.”

“Well, I don’t see how that would do much good right now, do you? Tis the middle of the night!”

“Nonetheless, I want every detail. I imagine Gideon may need a few strong pushes in the right direction,” he said as Mrs. Weston stared at him with wide eyes.

“Perry, you do not think—”

“No, Westy, I do not... I
know
,” he replied, giving her the grandest smile he could muster.

Mrs. Weston drew her hands together, clapping with excitement. “Well in that case, I’ve slept entirely too much lately, anyway. Let us go chat.” She headed toward the kitchen. “How about some kippers and milk?” she said with a wink.

“Kippers, yes,” he replied with a flash of teeth, “but big boys drink whiskey,” He returned the wink.

Mrs. Weston smacked his shoulder. “You are an irrepressible rogue.”

Francine rose as soon as Mrs. Weston entered. She had slept soundly, and looked forward to seeing Roxleigh in ways she couldn’t explain. Her skin was tight over her muscles, she could feel every breath she took down to her toes, and every shift of fabric and air around her made her jump.

“Up already, Miss Francine?” Mrs. Weston asked as she filled the tub. “His Grace returned last night.” Francine perked up, listening intently. “Lord Trumbull, his brother, accompanied him.”

Of course, he has a brother.

“His younger brother,” Mrs. Weston clarified. “Lord Trumbull spends his time at his bachelor house in London. It’s not often he makes his way home. Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen Trumbull in some two long years,” she said wistfully.

The housekeeper poured vanilla and lavender into the tub. “Oh, I do go on. I beg your pardon, miss, I just adore the boys. Known them for the whole of their lives, you see. But it isn’t right for me to go on,” she said, shaking her head.

Francine smiled, walking over to the tub and sliding in, as Mrs. Weston turned to take the kettles out of the bedroom. Francine sighed as she sank, disappearing below the surface.

“I am impressed with what you’ve drawn up so far, Mr. Shaw. You must be off in the north wing, however, because you haven’t missed any rooms or passages. It’s not an issue—as dark as some of the passages are, they could have easily been misread. I will assist you so we can verify them properly.” Gideon looked up. “I trust you arrived safely and found your suite accommodating?”

“Of course, Your Grace, you are most considerate, and I would very much appreciate your assistance with verifying the measurements.”

“I am curious about the hedgerow sketch. You have a general idea of the perimeter shape, as well as the fountain. Were you able to navigate the maze yourself?”

“No, Your Grace, at least not well. In fact—” He paused and shifted. “To my disgrace I lost myself quite effectively, which has never happened. Even without a key I’m generally quite spatially adept, but since I also seem to have created space in your manor that doesn’t exist, I choose to believe it is the manor itself which is attempting to bamboozle me.”

Gideon let out a laugh. “So if Eildon Manor is bamboozling you, how did you find your way out?”

“Miss Francine, actually.”

Gideon stilled. “And how is that?”

“Well, Your Grace, she must know the key. She found me in the maze, took me to see the fountain, then brought me back out again without so much as one incorrect turn.”

Gideon felt his muscles tense through his abdomen. What Shaw said wasn’t possible, as there was no key. Gideon himself had memorized the maze out of sheer determination.

“I apologize for any appearance of impropriety,” Mr. Shaw said, attempting to break the silence. “It was only out of fear of being marooned in the labyrinth that I accompanied Miss Francine. I should have requested we leave directly, but she was charming and I— I beg pardon for the transgression.”

“I understand how you could be taken with her. She is…exceptional. I appreciate your candor and hold no fault against you. I trust any meetings with my charge have since been properly chaperoned?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen her since. I’ve been quite busy with the measurements and plans, and I imagine she had no interest in rescuing the likes of me again, even though the conversation was refreshing.”

“You spoke with her?”

Shaw nodded. “My sister is profoundly deaf, Your Grace, and she studies at the Braidwood Academy for the Deaf and Dumb in Hackney. I endeavored to learn the language for her and, although it’s terribly unfashionable, I enjoy it.”

Gideon was dumbstruck. He thought of the motions she’d made with her hands. He’d thought she was just trying to convey something; he hadn’t realized she was actually using language. He should have known better. “So this”—he motioned with his hand—“means what, thank you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Shaw seemed to ease a bit.

“And this, what does this mean?” he asked as he lifted his hands and imitated the sign she’d made from the window when he quit the estate.

Mr. Shaw paused. “I believe it means to convey a deep sadness, Your Grace.”

Gideon thought for a moment. “I’d like to learn a few more phrases, if you have the time.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Francine rested at a small table on the terrace overlooking the gardens. The cloudless sky was a clear, bright blue, almost lilac. She enjoyed the peacefulness here, but longed for some distraction. When would she see him? She’d missed the duke at breakfast, and Mrs. Weston said he was currently meeting with Mr. Shaw. Then, of course, there was the brother. When would she meet him?

“Well, hello,” Perry greeted her.

Francine’s heart skipped a beat as she looked up the staircase that went to the upstairs parlor to find an impeccably dressed, younger version of Roxleigh leaning arrogantly against the balustrade. She waved at him nervously with just the tips of her fingers as she braced herself. This man wasn’t like his brother, she could see that much from the way he carried himself. This man was the quarterback, the prom king, Mr. Popular, the ever-elusive crush who didn’t know you existed, and here he was with her, giving her all of his attention.

He spoke quietly. “No doubt you are Miss Francine, my brother’s… houseguest.”

She studied him warily from beneath her eyelashes and he returned a grin so blatantly satisfied it curled her toes.

“I am most honored to make your acquaintance.” He descended the final stair and bowed before her, one leg thrust forward, sweeping his arm to the side with great fanfare. “I am Lord Peregrine Trumbull, Viscount Roxleigh.
You
may call me Perry,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. He straightened, and as an afterthought then added, “
When
you are able to call me, that is.” The sound of his words came more from his chest than his throat. Like Gideon.
Gideon
. The name sounded strong and safe in her her mind.

“I understand your voice is injured. I am terribly sorry, as it does leave you at quite a disadvantage, particularly since I love to talk.” He approached the table.

Francine smiled bashfully. The quarterbacks of the world had never paid much attention to her before, and she felt terribly overwhelmed with this one.

“It’s true, he does love the sound of his own voice,” Gideon said. Francine stood abruptly, toppling her chair. The defensive lineman had arrived.

She was quite effectively pinned to the spot as she looked from one man to the other; they were both dressed in crisp white shirts with black trousers that pulled sharply to the bridge of their black shoes. Though the viscount was finished with a dove grey cravat and waistcoat, whereas Gideon appeared to have foregone them both at some point.

“Please, Miss Francine, sit. I insist you finish your tea. For your voice,” Gideon said as he righted her chair. “Please,” he implored again, looking into her eyes.

Francine’s breath hitched as she gazed back at him. She sat down and he lifted the teapot, warming her tea, while she motioned to the chairs at the table for the brothers to join her. She felt quite like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Perry was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and— She wasn’t sure who Gideon was. Perhaps the handsome prince Lewis Carroll forgot to include.
Such an oversight
, she thought with her own Cheshire grin, before it occurred to her that Mrs. Weston was much like the easily startled White Rabbit, always running off as if she were late.

Gideon and Perry—no, Trumbull; she didn’t feel right using his name. And how odd was that?—exchanged glances, pulling two chairs next to each other opposite Francine as she reached to pour tea. She frowned, realizing only one cup had been brought out, and glanced up apologetically. She wanted to pull her feet up on the edge of her chair and hide behind her knees. She was generally beset by the sight of one Gideon, but two— Now she felt downright conquered.

She stared, wide-eyed, into her cup of tea as they watched. She willed her legs to steady and her feet to remain on the ground, pretending to blow across the tea to cool it. She cupped it with both hands while attempting to hide behind the tiny piece of china. What she wouldn’t give for one of her giant lattés from St. Mark coffee house. Certainly there was more of a cup to hide behind.

She glanced from one man to the other. Trumbull was focused on her eyes, but Gideon was focused on her—
mouth
. She squeaked and placed the teacup on the table with an audible clink.
This must be what it feels like to stand before a firing squad
.
Something
has got to give or I’m going to pass out
.
Are they oblivious to their effect?
She twisted her skirts in her hands.

Gideon’s concerned gaze and Trumbull’s curious stare held her fast. She could tell that Trumbull was, in fact, not oblivious to their effect on her as his grin kicked up on one side of his mouth. She started to tremble.