Sadie sat back down, enjoying how his face went from smug to dismayed.
This was far more enjoyable and educational than she’d expected. For one thing, she had not expected to find Mr. Sykes in such a compromising position, or find him at all. She’d simply wandered out of the house to inspect the gardens, which were quite the loveliest she’d ever seen.
Everything was visible from a terraced lookout behind the house. There was a Gothic exedra curving around a round pool below, and a Doric seat, a tunnel arbor, late-blooming roses of every description, and vast lawns crisscrossed by packed earth paths that led to a rectangular reflecting pool at the center of the garden. Cunning little outbuildings and statuary were scattered everywhere, and a low boxwood maze wound up a distant hill. There were groomed forests and wild woods, water features, a stream, and a dovecote. Ostensibly she was out to dry her hair in the September afternoon breeze, and she had skipped down the stairs for a closer look.
A wide swath of lawn led to a charming asymmetric Jacobean-style folly, rather like a large doll’s house. It was a mellow, fading red, and red had ever been Sadie’s favorite color. So it was inevitable that she headed to it like a homing pigeon.
Sadie had never seen a full-grown man in the nude before, despite numerous thwarted attempts. She’d even wondered a little about the other Guest who was prone to dropping his pants. But Mr. Sykes was not a mad elderly gentleman. In fact, he was an exceptionally fine specimen, with broad brown shoulders and intriguing fur that dusted his chest. It was unfortunate that the bathtub was so full of soapy water, and that he was so diligent in protecting his manhood from Sadie’s prying eyes by rather capable-looking hands and a large sea sponge.
His hair was slicked back from a noble brow, and his blue eyes were piercing. If Sadie had been a different person, she might be intimidated.
“It was a social experiment, you see. I wanted to know how it would feel to move about without obstruction. Like a man. We woman are covered in all those heavy layers, you know. Wire cage bustles and yards of petticoats. It’s a wonder we can stand up and put one foot in front of the other and not topple over. And then once I put the trousers on, I decided there was no need for my boned corset, either, so I went without. Altogether it was very freeing.”
The tips of his ears turned red.
Interesting.
“I shall return the trousers, of course. If I can remember where I, um, found them,” Sadie added.
“Found them! You stole them from Arthur Babbage’s clothesline! He saw you at the fire and told me.”
For a brief, hopeful moment, Sadie thought he might rise out of the tub like a vengeful Neptune. But alas.
“Well, you can thank him for his inadvertent assistance with my experiment. I’m very grateful, and I’m sure I can alter them back to their original condition. Although they do smell dreadfully of smoke.”
“I’m sure he won’t care. What were you thinking? Theft is serious. So is breaking and entering.” He was glaring at her, his expressive eyebrows a little frightening.
“I didn’t break anything. The Stanchfields’ window was wide open.”
“Trespassing then. I won’t have that sort of behavior here at Sykes House.”
Sadie flicked her lashes, then looked down at the floor in faux contrition. “No, sir.”
“I don’t believe a word you say,” Mr. Sykes grumbled.
“I will try. I promise.” Her fingers crossed in the capacious folds of her borrowed dress. What it lacked in length was more than made up in girth.
It might prove very stimulating to experiment with Mr. Sykes. Nothing too outré—Sadie had to tread carefully. She sensed he would use any excuse to send her back to her father whether she was cured or not.
She cleared her throat. “I was wondering. While I’m here, do you think I might help your gardening staff? I know from the Welcome Packet I’m supposed to perform a Service before I leave, and since I’m here—” She twirled a loose copper lock around her uncrossed finger. She’d found the Welcome Packet to be less than welcoming, all the Puddling Rehabilitation Rules spelled out in menacing capital letters. But Sadie liked gardens—she didn’t know much about them, but how hard could tending them be? She could deadhead flowers and water things. She probably shouldn’t be trusted with a scythe, however. “Idle hands, etcetera.”
Mr. Sykes opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“Have I surprised you? I used to help in the kitchens at the castle.”
“My garden?”
“Well, I understand it’s really your father’s.”
“A garden is not like a kitchen, Lady Sarah.”
“Obviously. For one thing, it won’t catch on fire.”
“Hopefully. But with you in its vicinity, anything is possible.”
“I had nothing to do with the fire in the cottage!” Sadie said, feeling the warmth flood her cheeks. “Mrs. Grace said herself she forgot all about the Bath buns. Not that she’d give me any.”
Sugar or anything that might be construed as delicious was forbidden. She hadn’t eaten such revolting pap since she’d been an infant in arms. It wasn’t as if she needed to slim—Sadie was tall and lean, with the exception of her embarrassing breasts. She blamed her mother, who had been so well-endowed both physically and financially that her father had overlooked her common background and married her, much to their mutual regret.
“We have rules in place, even to the comestibles of our Guests,” Mr. Sykes said. “There is nothing wrong with plain, nutritious fare.”
Rules, rules, rules. Sadie was heartily sick of them. Sadie would bet Mr. Sykes wouldn’t sit still for the swill that had been served to her over the past month. She was hopeful that Mrs. Anstruther’s kitchen skills would be an improvement.
“You haven’t eaten Mrs. Grace’s cooking, have you?”
“I have not had that pleasure. Now, if that is all, perhaps you will leave me in peace. My bathwater is cold.”
Sadie stretched her neck, but was unable to see the effect of the cold water on Mr. Sykes’s person.
“That is all. For today. See you tomorrow at nine!” She hopped up, took one more lingering look at the scummy water, and let herself out the way she had come.
But not immediately. Sadie was curious about Mr. Sykes’s unconventional little house, and poked her head into each room as she passed. He had excellent taste in his furnishings—gleaming Oriental carpets, distinctive artwork, and plush furniture. His bedroom was particularly impressive, his bed a great carved thing covered in fur throws. For a second, she debated bouncing upon it, picturing his wrathful brows if he caught her at it.
Best not to stir up trouble. She needed to go shopping. The trouble could come after.
The small kitchen was scrubbed and well-equipped. The range looked to be of the very latest design, just as at the kitchen in the big house. Surely that would bode well for Mrs. Anstruther’s cooking and Sadie’s general comfort.
Sykes House was a vast improvement over Stonecrop Cottage, although that had been sweet in its way. She hoped someone would remember to feed the fish in the little pond—it was one of her duties as a Guest. The plants in the conservatory would need watering too.
She’d fibbed a little about the Gothic-style door of Mr. Sykes’s cottage being ajar. It had simply been unlocked, which had suited her curiosity. Now Sadie turned the handle, and faced the thin old man she’d seen from a distance. His gray eyebrows rose to the fringe on his balding pate, and he dropped the basket of vegetables on her feet. A huge head of lettuce rolled into the bushes.
She was having an issue with vegetables in Puddling.
“I do beg your pardon,” Sadie said, picking up an errant bunch of radishes.
“You!”
“Yes, I. Allow me to introduce myself.” She stuck out a hand, which remained ungrasped. “I am Lady Sarah Marchmain.”
“I know who you are.”
Hmm. There was no “my lady,” or any of the deference Sadie had been raised with, just a substantially evil glare. Not that she cared much—she’d never stood on ceremony. England’s archaic social system was really anathema to her. Her gormless cousin George could inherit her home just because he was a male, for example, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. She had begun to read Cafiero’s A Compendium of Das Kapital in translation before her father discovered her at it and tossed the book into the fire.
Not that she wished to give up all her possessions and toil in some field or take up arms against perceived injustice. She just wished everyone else had as much as she had.
Which, in the end, wasn’t very much. She had no home of her own. All her earthly possessions were either ruined by smoke or locked up at Marchmain Castle, quite far away.
“And you must be Mr. Anstruther.” She didn’t bother to bat her eyelashes. Here was a man who was not to be trifled with.
Poor Mrs. Anstruther.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just taking a walk. The folly is so charming, and naturally, I looked in. I didn’t dream it was occupied.” All perfectly truthful, but he was looking at her as if she were an ax murderess.
“Well, go about your business. Mr. Tristan has enough to worry about without you invading his privacy.”
Tristan. What a romantic name. Like Lancelot, her erstwhile imaginary puppy, or Gawain. She could picture Mr. Sykes in armor atop a trustworthy steed, a medieval hero brought low by the love of a woman.
But better yet, she could picture him naked without using much of her imagination at all.