3

Dear Rhys—

You once wondered what it would take to get me out of my greenhouse. Well, you hit upon it: I will be coming to London in a fortnight’s time.

I am as surprised as you. You have Leticia to thank for convincing me—and for convincing my father. Although he did not take as much persuasion as I expected. I had some odd notion of the entire affair throwing him into spasms—and it did, at first. But he was quickly reminded (by me) that I’m not going down to partake in the delights of the season, and he would not need to buy the full new wardrobe that comes with it. Then he was positively delighted to discover that Leticia had her husband write to his friend Lord Ashby—a friend of yours as well—and they happily agreed to host us while we are there. I am told the gardens at his London house are suitable for my needs.

And yes, I said “we.” Leticia and Mr. Turner will be escorting me, as Mr. Turner is finally going to speak with the banks about acquiring that new mill. Helen will be staying with my father—to assuage him in his loneliness, she explained.

Reading back the previous sentence made me realize you might think it contains sarcasm—and it might have, had not my father taken me aside after dinner tonight and asked me if I had everything I needed for the journey and was all right traveling so far. He said he would come down with me if I wanted.

I suppose that’s his way of saying he’ll miss me.

I know I will miss him as well, but I’ll be home before he really notices I’m gone—considering he still has yet to notice the second greenhouse.

So, barring any change of plans or large felled trees across the road, we will be on Lord Ashby’s doorstep on the ninth. I dare to hope to see you shortly thereafter. The nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach would calm upon seeing a friendly face, I’m sure.

Your friend—

Margaret

It was not an exaggeration to say that Dr. Rhys Gray was elated to receive Margaret Babcock’s latest letter. A letter from Lincolnshire always made him smile, but this time he knew its importance and rushed to open it—and as soon as he had, he hurried over to Ned’s house first thing and confirmed the good news.

“Yes, John wrote that he and Leticia are coming down,” Ned answered, blinking in surprise. “But what are you doing here? You never come to town without giving me warning.”

“Rhys, how lovely to see you!” The light voice floated down from the staircase, followed quickly by a gentle but firm, “No, don’t grab that! No touch.”

“Good afternoon, Phoebe. Good afternoon, little Rhys.” Rhys smiled at the six-month-old child wiggling in his mother’s arms.

“His name’s not Rhys,” Ned said sardonically. “It’s Edward.”

“It’s Edward John Rhys Granville, and I choose to ignore the first two names.” Rhys smiled as Phoebe snickered. “Besides, don’t you think he looks more like a Rhys than an Eddie?”

“Over my dead body,” Ned said darkly, but then laughed and kissed the top of his boy’s head. “But you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here—is it the royal duke again? Or the Earl of Liverpool this time?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Phoebe said. “He’s here because of our impending guests.”

“Yes, John and Leticia,” Ned said. “I just told him. But—”

“Not John and Leticia,” Phoebe replied. “Miss Babcock.”

“Who’s Miss Babcock?” Ned said, turning to Rhys.

“Good lord, did we read the same letter?” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Miss Babcock is the young lady they are bringing with them. She’s quite the horticulturalist, and she’s coming down to present a shrubbery of some kind to the Horticultural Society.”

“Oh yes!” Ned cried. “Now I remember. But what does that have to do with Rhys?”

“Because Rhys is the one who contacted the society on her behalf.”

“Rhys is also the one who is standing right here,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Miss Babcock and I have been corresponding since last year—”

“You have?” Phoebe’s eyebrow went up.

“On topics of academic interest, yes. I keep up a number of correspondences like that. Ned can confirm.”

Ned shrugged. “It’s true. If you want to know something random and obscure, chances are Rhys is in correspondence with someone who will have the answer.”

“Anyway,” Phoebe replied, “we are to host Miss Babcock as well as John and Leticia, and Rhys is here to . . . well, I’m not entirely certain why. Only that it has more to do with Miss Babcock than with John.”

“Yes, well . . . it has to do with them both, actually,” Rhys said, feeling oddly flustered. “I wanted to invite myself over to dinner when they arrived. Welcome them to town, as it were. Heaven knows it will be difficult, traveling from Greenwich every day, but—”

“Of course we’ll have your room ready for you, Rhys, don’t doubt it,” Ned said, his attention taken by the baby’s sudden fascination with pulling his father’s ear.

“Excellent,” Rhys said upon receiving the invitation he had been angling for. “I’m much obliged. And I should mention, Miss Babcock will need a place to work with her plants.”

“We have the conservatory off the garden; we never really go in there . . . it’s a bit of a mess, I hate to say,” Ned said. “Our old gardener had been here before even my uncle took on the earldom—when he retired a year ago, we never really replaced him. But as long as Miss Babcock doesn’t mind . . .”

“Ned, forget the conservatory. He can’t stay here!” Phoebe said. “Not if we are chaperoning Miss Babcock!”

“Wait—we’re chaperoning her now? I thought we were just hosting them—”

“That’s what hosting means, when it’s a young girl of marriageable age.”

“Er—not to quibble, but Miss Babcock and I have stayed under the same roof before,” Rhys offered, confused. “At her home in Lincolnshire I was a guest of her father—”

“That was in Lincolnshire,” Phoebe said with a kind of pity for the thick male mind. “This is London, which eats gossip and breathes scandal. And her father is not going to be here to protect her. It’s up to us.”

“Protecting her from Rhys?” Ned asked. “Why on earth would we need to protect her from Rhys?”

“My thoughts precisely,” Rhys added.

Phoebe sent her husband a pointed look. And as Ned remained his usual oblivious self, Rhys was the only one who caught it.

“I assure you, there is no need for such strict adherence to the rules,” Rhys said. “I have no such intentions toward Miss Babcock, nor she me.”

“Really?” Phoebe asked, her eyebrow skyward. “Have you asked her as much?”

“I don’t need to ask her—we’re friends, for heaven’s sake,” he replied.

“It sounds more like you are protecting Rhys from Miss Babcock than the reverse,” Ned replied dryly.

“I’m protecting everyone,” Phoebe said. “And you are invited to dinner and tea and even breakfast every single day our guests are here, but you shall have to put up elsewhere. On that score, my foot is down.”

“And a delightfully dainty foot it is,” Ned added, then turned to Rhys. “I apologize, my friend, but I must defer to the lady of the house.”

“You have become much wiser since you married.”

“It’s earned wisdom.” Ned nudged his wife’s side. She nudged him back, interrupting the baby from gumming his mother’s shoulder, causing a short wail.

“Come along my darling,” Phoebe said to the baby. “Let’s go find a nice toy to chew on, not mama’s pretty dress.”

Once Phoebe left, Ned turned to Rhys.

“I’m sorry about that, but I have a feeling she’ll be proved right,” he said, shaking his head.

“I understand. I think it ridiculous, but I understand,” Rhys acknowledged.

“But where will you put up? It’s the full swing of the season. I have to think the Carlyle is fully booked—”

“No matter,” Rhys replied. “I suppose I’ll have to put up at my house.”

“Of course there’s the British Hotel in Jermyn Street—wait, what do you mean, ‘your house’?”

“Well, my family’s house in town,” Rhys said, rubbing his chin. “Come to think of it, it’s just a few streets over—practically around the corner.”

“You’ve had a house in town this entire time?” Ned asked, incredulous. “I’ve been putting you up for years!”

“It’s been empty for ages,” Rhys replied. “My family doesn’t come to town anymore. And for me to open it up for just a day or two here and there is preposterous. Wasteful, even.”

“So I get to bear your expenses? Do you know how much you eat?”

Rhys just grinned at Ned and slapped him on the back. “No, but keep a tally when I come over for dinner tonight; I’m deeply curious.”

“You’re leaving?” Ned asked. “Where are you going now?”

“Your guests will be here in less than a week, by my calculations, and I have a house to open up. It’s a great deal of work. I imagine that come this evening I will be exceptionally famished.”

So it was that Rhys went two streets over into Berkeley Square and found himself on the front steps of the London residence of the family Gray. It was the first time he had been there in years. And for the first time in years, he was actually not ill at ease to be so.

No, what was making his stomach so unsettled was why Lady Ashby had felt the need to banish him here.

It was the most laughable thing—the idea that he and Margaret Babcock would be anything other than friends. Good friends, but friends still. When they first met, a year ago in Lincolnshire, Margaret had been such a shy thing, more than happy to hole up in the greenhouse and keep to herself. As Rhys also liked keeping to himself, they naturally gravitated toward each other. And they very happily kept to themselves side by side, working in Margaret’s greenhouse, or writing notes. The companionable silence was exactly that—companionable.

And while there might have been a moment or two when he’d suspected Margaret might have felt more than her demeanor let on, he’d never encouraged it. She was sweet and kind, and perhaps a time or two he had caught sight of her in a sunbeam, looking prettier than he suspected she knew . . .

But he had at least a decade on the girl! Such a notion was absurd. And obviously, any sentiment on her side must have passed, for her letters never hinted at any such feelings. Instead, they talked intensely of flowers and what he was lecturing on.

So the fact that Phoebe had put her foot down before she had even seen him and Margaret together was preposterous. And showed a distinct lack of trust, he thought, miffed.

But then again . . . Phoebe Granville was one of the most levelheaded people of his acquaintance—she’d have to be, to steady such a rocky ship as Ned. So if she said that society would frown upon them both staying with the Earl of Ashby, then that would almost certainly be the case.

And it would not be fair to Margaret for her first trip to London to be edged with gossip and whispers.

No, he thought as he knocked on the door of his family’s townhouse, that would not be fair at all.

He waited. And waited.

Someone should be there. The townhouse had a housekeeper and butler who stayed with the property, even though it had been unoccupied by the family for some time.

Gingerly he tested the doorknob. And felt his blood run cold when he discovered it was unlocked.

“Hello?” he called as he ducked his head in. He searched his memory for the name of the old family retainer who had been keeping the townhouse during its dormancy. “Mrs. . . . er, Watson?”

There was no answer from Mrs. Watson. And as Rhys made his way through the foyer, he began to worry that something terrible had occurred to the poor woman.

The entire house was in disarray. The furniture that hadn’t been touched in years had the covers thrown back, everything set at odd angles. One chair in the hall was overturned, a vase broken on the floor . . . a candlestick on the floor with red wax spilled across the black-and-white tiles—a grisly effect, even for a doctor used to carnage.

And as he peeked into the drawing room, he could see the remains of a fire smoking in the grate.

“Mrs. Watson?” he tried again as he picked up the candlestick. Good enough weight for a weapon, if necessary. “It’s Dr. Gray . . . and I have a weapon. And a number of friends just outside the door. Friends . . . from my army days.”

Hell, it could be true. Ned was only a few blocks away. And while he may not have been engaged in active combat, Rhys had been as close to the front lines as any solider and he knew how to fight.

A long, large couch had been pulled in front of the fire, the white cloth that had covered it for the past eight years askew, and as he leaned over the back and looked down, he saw it was covering something.

Or someone.

His entire body tensed. He held the candlestick aloft.

“Mrs. Watson?” Rhys said one last time before he whipped the cover back.

“Goddamn it to hell, why is there so much light?” came the pained cry from the young man curling into a ball on the sofa. A young man with sandy-colored hair and green eyes similar to his own.

“Daniel?” Rhys said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Rhys?” his little brother croaked out, a bloodshot eye peeking through fingers. “Can you shut the curtains? I’ve a splitting head.”

“The curtains aren’t even open,” Rhys replied. “You’re sitting in a darkened room with a sheet over your head.”

“And you’re holding a candlestick and interrogating me like I’m an intruder!”

Rhys looked up and noticed that yes, he was still holding the candlestick aloft. He swiftly lowered it, placed it on the floor.

“You are practically an intruder. What on earth are you doing here?”

“This is my house,” Daniel said, shooting him a look as he forced himself to sit up. “Our house.”

“Yes, but you’re supposed to be at Cambridge.”

“Not at all—was sent down.”

“Bloody hell,” Rhys groaned, coming around the couch to face his brother. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing, and that was the problem,” Daniel replied, flashing him a grin . . . then cringing. “Most schools seem to expect effort and work from the matriculating.”

“So you came to London?” Rhys said as he pushed the couch into its proper place. “And what . . . decided to destroy the house?”

“What? No!” Daniel cried. He looked up, and for the first time seemed to notice the carnage that surrounded him. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.”

“I met up with a friend—you know Haverford? He’s down from Cambridge too, although for doing too much up there, not too little. Last night he introduced me to some of his mates, we went to a club, and then another place . . .” He patted his pockets, searching for something. “I remember playing faro. I remember losing at faro.”

“You’re lucky they dragged you home, else you would have lost the shirt off your back too.” Rhys patted Daniel on the shoulder. The movement might not have been an intelligent one, as the jostling caused Daniel to turn a rather green shade.

“Oh hell,” Rhys grumbled as he jumped to his feet, looking for the bell pull, and of course, not finding it. “You need some water. Mrs. Watson!”

“Don’t yell,” Daniel moaned. “Yelling makes it worse.”

“Where is Mrs. Watson?” Rhys said. “And . . . what’s the butler’s name? Darrow?”

Daniel, his pallor slowly returning to just pale instead of verdant, blinked a few times. “What day is it, Sunday? If it’s Sunday I imagine Mrs. Watson went to church and then has her half day off. If it’s not Sunday, then I’ve been drunk longer than I thought.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a blessing, then.”

That at least would explain why the place had not yet been cleaned. Although if Rhys had Mrs. Watson’s command, he would force Daniel into scraping up his own spilled wax. That might make him appreciate the advantages of studying up at Cambridge.

But that was something his mother would never hear of. Not for one of her “darling” children.

Rhys had had the good fortune to never be darling.

The thought of his mother made him want to shove his head in his hands.

“I’ve going to have to drag you home to Somerset, aren’t I?” Rhys said. “Mother will be absolutely livid when she finds out you’ve been sent down.”

Daniel let out a scoff of laughter.

“She will,” Rhys replied, adamant. “And more to the point, she’ll be livid with me. Not you.”

“Rhys, don’t you know?” Daniel said through his laughter.

Bewildered, Rhys just shook his head.

“Why do you think I’m here? Mama said if I was to be down from Cambridge I might as well keep going down and open up the house for us.”

Something settled over Rhys’s body. Something cold, and something very, very sharp. Like the feeling he used to have when he stepped out of his medical tent on the battlefield.

“Us.”

“Yes. We’re all coming to town. Mama, Delilah, Jubilee, Benji . . . even Eloisa. She’s been visiting from Scotland for however long. Said she’d rather come to London than go back to McTiernan.” Daniel rolled his shoulders back, his color returning to his cheeks. It seemed that youth was the best weapon against the effects of drink, and he was feeling much more steady. “Darrow should be off at the hiring hall, getting a full new staff.”

“But Mother doesn’t come to town,” Rhys said, his jaw tight. “Not since Father.”

“According to Mama, that will soon be in the past.”

That cold sensation that had been running over Rhys’s body soon found its way to his chest, and held there. Waiting.

Waiting for what he knew was coming.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because Sylvia Morton is out of mourning,” Daniel said, a half-cocked grin on his face. “And she’s coming to London for the rest of the season.”

Rhys sank onto the couch. Suddenly he was the one feeling rather green.

“It’s time, Rhys,” his brother said, rising to his feet. “Time for you to do as you promised and finally get married.”