London, April 1848
Reginald pushed open the door to his father’s study. The old man was there, working at his desk. He glanced up and set his pen down as Reginald marched into the room.
“Father. I do believe there’s something you’ve been meaning to tell me.” He set his hands on his hips. “The little matter of the new daughter you intend to acquire.”
Lord Denby sighed and removed his spectacles. “You have heard about the adoption plans, then. I am sorry I did not tell you sooner, but the petition process is a long one, and I wanted to be certain everything was in order first. I am not deliberately keeping secrets from you, you know.”
The devil he wasn’t. Reginald knew what his father thought of him, had seen the frown on the old man’s face, which he had quickly hidden when Reginald had entered the room. Ever since his father had taken Caroline and her brother in he had felt it—the subtle message that he, Reginald, was lacking. At first he had fought against it, but it had become easier with time to just accept the fact, to become in actuality what his father had thought him. And in a way it was satisfying—he was fulfilling his father’s expectations at last.
“I’ve never been enough for you, have I? Better to just replace me with someone more biddable, someone more decent?” He sneered the words.
“Enough!” His father stood. “I am not adopting Caroline in order to replace you, Reginald. This is something I have been considering for months. She deserves to have a place, a full place, in our family.”
“Yet she will take only half my inheritance. I suppose you want me to be grateful for that, and for giving me a sister.”
“You are my heir, heir to an earldom. Nothing can diminish that! And if you do not consider her as a sister”—Lord Denby shook his head—“it is not for lack of opportunity. Both she and her brother have long treated me as more than simply their guardian. I intend to bring her formally into the family—where she belongs.”
It was too damned much. “She belongs as a vicar’s wife in some rustic hamlet! I can’t believe you would throw over your own flesh and blood like this.”
“You have never understood—”
“I understand perfectly.” Reginald forced his hands to unclench. “You plan to adopt Caroline, whatever I may feel about it.” Why couldn’t his father just give the chit a dowry and marry her off? The man was too sentimental for his—or the family’s—good. Certainly too sentimental for Reginald’s good, as his recent violent encounter with his creditors had proved. He still felt a faint twinge in his ribs every time he drew breath.
“It is for the best. You will come to understand that in time, when the weight of the title rests on your shoulders.” Lord Denby’s lips tightened. “Meanwhile, I suggest you reconcile yourself to the idea.”
Not bloody likely. He would have no shoulders for a title to rest on if something wasn’t done to stop the adoption. But it was clear he was going to get no further here. He gave the old man a cold stare. “I see how it is. Good day…Father.”
Back straight, he left the study. He had not thought he could change his father’s mind, but some barely acknowledged part of him had hoped his feelings would influence the old man. Rubbish.
He collected his hat and cane from the butler and let the heavy doors of Twickenham House shut behind him. He would, as usual, have to rely upon his own devices. And if it ended up causing his father pain, well, he had brought it on himself by insisting upon such a foolish course of action.
“To my club,” he directed his driver as he entered the coach, after first giving the man a hard stare to determine it was indeed his driver. The day was advanced enough that when he arrived there was a good chance he would find Viscount Keefe there. The man was predictable in his habits, and, luckily for Reginald, those habits seemed to be worsening.
He leaned back, propping one ankle across his knee. His father had been given his chance. Now it was Reginald’s turn, and the plan he had concocted was brilliant, if he said so himself.
~*~
Once at the club he selected a table positioned just at the edge of the shadows, but close enough to the center of the room that he was still clearly visible. Wouldn’t do to be too inconspicuous, not when he wanted Keefe to seek him out. Reginald had no doubts he would. A few judicious words dropped into the right ears assured the man would come to him.
It did not take long. He sipped his whiskey and watched as his target casually made his way over.
“I say, Rowland, may I join you?”
Reginald waved to the other chair. “Be my guest.” He studied the tall, well-proportioned man taking a seat across from him. Viscount Keefe—golden, handsome, popular with the ladies, and possessed of a particular weakness.
The perfect tool.
Reginald signaled the waiter. “What are you drinking, Keefe?”
“The same, thanks.” The viscount crossed his legs and affected to look nonchalant, but spoiled the effect by drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop. “I’ve heard some interesting things about you recently.”
“Interesting? In what way?” Reginald kept his voice bland.
“Well…” Keefe leaned forward. “Aside from some gossip about an opera dancer, word is you are about to embark on a very lucrative financial venture.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled inwardly. The rumors he had seeded had indeed reached the proper ears. The potential lure of easy money had done its part to pull Keefe in.
“Dash it all, Rowland, do you have to be so secretive? You know I consider you a friend.”
He knew no such thing, but if Keefe wanted to imagine they were friends, so much the better. “Why so interested? Doesn’t your family give you an ample allowance? I can’t imagine you’d want to be involved in my little schemes.”
Of course he knew full well the viscount was in nearly as much difficulty as he himself was, financially. It was not easy to maintain a certain lifestyle on what the older generation considered a proper allowance. Certainly his family provided for him, but Keefe’s tastes had begun to far outstrip his income.
Due primarily to his secret vice. Opium. Opium of the quality and quantity the man seemed to crave was not cheap. Ultimately it would devour him. But not, Reginald hoped, before the wedding.
“I am interested, actually.” The golden-haired man gave him a smile full of charm and bright, even teeth. “My income could stand to be fattened up a bit. And, frankly, a man likes some independence from the dictates of family.”
Reginald nodded. “Family is one of the great curses of a man’s life.”
“Too true.” Keefe knocked back the rest of his whiskey. “My dear papa, under pressure from Mother, is going to tie off the purse strings if I don’t procure a mate this coming Season. As if I had either the time or inclination to go chasing down a suitable chit. Blasted inconvenient.”
Excellent news. Reginald concealed a smile behind his raised glass. “Dreadful news. Any prospects?”
“God, no. Though I need to start looking. There must be some well-heeled heiresses about. Can’t put it off any longer. In fact, Papa has already cut back my incidentals a bit more than is comfortable.”
Reginald set his glass down and leaned forward. “This may be our lucky day, Keefe. You need a suitable wife and income, and I know someone on the marriage mart whose value is about to rise. Significantly. Best of all, nobody else is aware of this fact.”
The viscount’s green eyes sparked with interest. “Go on.”
“Think of it, my friend. You can be first off the mark, wooing and winning the prize before the competition has even caught the scent.”
“Who is she? You must introduce me immediately.”
Reginald held up his hand. “If I tell you her name and give you the key to her heart, I’m going to want something in return. This information doesn’t come cheaply.”
“What’s your price?” Keefe ran his fingers back and forth over the leather armrest, though he kept his voice cool.
“Thirty percent of the dowry.”
The viscount frowned. “That’s a steep price.”
“It’s a rich dowry.”
“Then why don’t you marry the chit yourself if she is so well endowed?”
Reginald shuddered. Perish the thought he ever be shackled to that do-gooding harpy. “The truth is, she would not have me. But you…With my information there is little doubt she would be eating from your palm within a fortnight.”
“I’ve had my success with the fairer sex.” Keefe smiled his even smile.
“Then there’s nothing to lose. If she won’t have you, you spend nothing but the effort of wooing. If she will have you, then your father restores your allowance, you gain control of her income, and you get to keep two-thirds of her dowry. What do you say?”
“Twenty-five percent.”
Reginald hid his amusement. “You insult me.” He made to stand.
The viscount, a flash of panic in his eyes, waved him back. “Sit down, sit down. I was jesting. Thirty it is. But who is she? I won’t have her if she’s hideous in appearance or manners—though you wouldn’t suggest such a woman, would you?”
“No. She’s not a remarkable beauty, but passable. You’ll find it easy enough to sow your seed there. And I’m sure I needn’t remind you that beauty is fleeting, but a substantial annuity brings joy for a lifetime.”
“It does, indeed. Now who is it?” The man was drumming his fingers again.
“Caroline Huntington. My cousin. She’s going to be adopted by my father.”
Comprehension flashed through Keefe’s eyes. For all his dissipated ways, the man was no fool. “Ah. Made part of the family. With part of the family’s fortunes attached.”
“Indeed.” How it galled.
Keefe nodded. “I’ve seen your cousin—tolerable-enough looking. And the Huntington fortune—even a fraction of it—is quite respectable. I imagine I could take on some ‘regular’ expenses here and there.”
“Very practical—for both of us.” Reginald lifted his glass. “To romance.”
“To wooing and winning.” Keefe followed suit.
“To substantial annuities.” Their glasses came together with a satisfying clink. “I’ve no doubt you can court my cousin successfully. Especially as I will provide you with details of her habits. Blind her with kisses, marry her, and install her out in the country somewhere. Before long you’ll be back in Town, living the merry life.”
And Reginald would benefit, far more than 30 percent of the dowry. Keefe was a scandal waiting to happen—a big enough one to discredit even the most charitable-minded of chits. Although the timing had to be just right, so Reginald could save his own skin while getting his damned cousin out from underfoot.
“I’ll call on your cousin at her earliest convenience.”
“There is one problem.”
Keefe rubbed his fingers along the armrest. “I thought you said there were no other suitors.”
“There are none. But Caroline is abroad just now, in the Mediterranean. She’s expected home quite soon. Be assured, I will notify you immediately upon her return.”
“The sooner the better. I can’t stave off my tailor’s bills much longer.” Those emerald eyes glinted as Keefe rose. “I await your word. Good day, Lord Rowland.”
“Good day, indeed.”
Crete, April 1848
Alex set the woven basket down and straightened his coat, then rapped on the door of Miss Huntington’s quarters.
“Pen?” her clear voice called from inside.
“Not Pen,” he replied.
“Mr. Trentham. One moment. I wasn’t expecting…”
He heard rustling from within, and a sound that could have been the scraping of a chair. Finally, after several moments she bade him enter.
He was pleased to find her resting in bed—not attempting to sweep cobwebs from the ceiling, or organizing the villagers into a volunteer fire department, or engaging in whatever other endeavors might pop into her head.
“You’re here rather early to inspect my arm, aren’t you?” she asked, the covers pulled up to her chin.
He went to set the basket on the table, but the surface was covered with stationery, correspondence and, oddly, sheets of paper with numerals written large.
“There has been a change in plans. Madame Legault needs Pen this afternoon, so it has fallen upon me to play nursemaid.”
“You?” Her fingers tightened on the blankets. “It’s not necessary. I assure you, I will do quite well on my own.”
He set the basket down and looked at her more closely. Her color was good, her eyes were clear, but there seemed something peculiar about her, or more accurately, the shape she made beneath the coverlet. It appeared bunched in odd places, and her toes raised the blanket in two sharp points.
He stepped closer. “Have you been spending adequate time resting, Miss Huntington?”
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes were wide. “Just as you advised.”
“Is that so?” He bent and with a quick tug whisked the covers off the bed.
“Mr. Trentham! Why—” She reached for the blankets, but it was too late.
“Yes. I know. An outrage. And do you always wear full skirts and shoes beneath the bedclothes?”
She laughed then and blushed most charmingly. “You have, quite literally, uncovered my secret, sir. I’m afraid I am incapable of lying about during the day. I know—I’ve been a terrible patient—but if you do not let me outside, I shall have to throw myself out the window, upsetting all those lovely geraniums in the process!”
He tried, without real success, to keep a stern look on his face. “It’s obvious to me that leaving you unsupervised would be utter folly. What with you leaping into and out of bed, diving out the windows, perhaps even turning somersaults.”
“No, not somersaults. They make me dizzy.”
“It’s a good thing I had the foresight to plan an outing to distract you from such mischief.”
She looked up at him, interest sparking in her brown eyes. “An outing?”
“If you feel strong enough.”
“Yes, yes, of course I feel strong enough. How fortunate that I find myself pre-dressed for an outing.” She offered him her hand, and he helped her rise to her feet, where she teetered for a moment before recovering her balance. “Let me just fetch my pelisse and hat.” She moved to the wardrobe and handed him her pelisse, turning so he could drape it about her shoulders. One-handed, she fumbled at the catch.
“Let me fasten that for you.”
It should have been a matter-of-fact enough thing, closing the pelisse, and yet suddenly it was not. Her hair smelled of rosemary, and his hand was so close to her throat that he could not help but be aware of the delicate pulse there. For a bare second his fingers brushed against her skin.
She stilled, heightened color touching her cheeks. “Would you help with my hat as well? I have yet to master the art of tying a bow single-handed.”
She tipped her chin up, bringing their faces close. Too close. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his, and he had to force his fingers to move. What would those soft lips, so near his own, feel like? Warm. Delicious. He had to fight to keep from bending, laying his mouth over hers and tasting for himself….
He finished tying the ribbons and stepped away, then gestured her toward the door.
Outside the sun was dazzling, reflecting off the whitewashed walls of the village. She stopped on the doorstep and sighed, then closed her eyes as she lifted her face to the light. The breeze teased a strand of hair against her cheek, and Alex felt a sudden, insane impulse to reach and tuck it behind her ear. He gripped the basket handle tightly and turned his head toward the sea.
“Where are we off to, kind sir? And what is in your basket?”
“We are having a picnic at the seashore.” It suddenly seemed a frivolous and foolish thing to do.
A smile tilted across her face. “A picnic sounds just the thing. And any respite from my rooms is very welcome.”
“Take my arm—the going is uneven in places.” And though his steps might be uneven as well, he suspected she would need the support.
As they walked she leaned more heavily upon him at times for balance. He forced the doctor to the forefront, viewing her with the clinical detachment that had once been effortless. From the rhythm of her steps, he guessed she had not been completely truthful about the extent of her vertigo. Still, the improvement was noticeable, and she did not seem to be tiring as they reached the wave-swept sand that ran flat and even from the edge of the rocks to the sparkling turquoise of the Mediterranean.
“Pen is spending the afternoon with Madame Legault?” she asked. “Am I right in thinking Madame took the girl under her wing after her father left?”
“Yes—although it is you, Miss Huntington, who seems to be restoring her spirits. Whenever I see her she talks of nothing but your projects.”
She glanced at him. “I think assisting me makes her feel strong, and keeps her from dwelling too much on her unhappy situation. And in truth, her help is quite invaluable.”
“She did mention you dictate reams of letters.” He thought back to the papers in her room. “But I saw more than correspondence on your table. Do you have Pen practicing her numbers?
“Ah. She did not tell you about my arithmetic project with the village children?”
Alex felt a smile lift the corner of his mouth. “No. Perhaps because she knew I would only remind her that you should be resting, not setting up a school.” The woman was incorrigible, but somehow he could not begrudge her this. Not with the sun glinting off the sea, the scent of sweet herbs in the dry air.
“Well, I am having Pen do most of the teaching, if that sets your mind at ease.”
“Marginally.”
“The girl has quite a talent for it. It’s a skill that could serve her well in her future.”
“I don’t think Pen has much considered her future,” he said.
How could she, waiting here abandoned, hoping her father would return? An event that seemed less likely with each passing month.
“Well, I have.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He assisted her over the low ridge separating the main beach from the smaller shore, watching intently. Any moment now she should catch sight of it.
“Goodness!” Miss Huntington halted, surprise and pleasure lacing her voice. “How perfectly lovely. Is that for us?”
“Yes.” Satisfaction flared through him at her delight. He gazed at their destination trying to view it through her eyes.
A makeshift pavilion stood on the shore. Lengths of white cotton billowed in the breeze on three sides, while the fourth was open to the sea. Through the cloth he glimpsed a woven mat covering the sand, cushioned chairs, and a small table, ready for the luncheon he carried. It was a haven, a place apart. A place, he hoped, that would amuse his reluctant charge. He did not inquire too closely of himself why that should be important.
Had he made it too elaborate? But she did need a shade for her fair skin, and a comfortable place to rest.
“This is far more than a rustic picnic.” She tucked her good arm through his as they made their way down the beach to the shelter. Once inside, she settled on a chair and gazed about like a newly crowned queen surveying her realm.
“You look comfortable.”
She turned to him, eyes dancing with amber lights. “It’s delightful. I promise to be a model patient from here forward.”
For a moment Alex could not see a patient before him at all, only a woman, vibrant and whole in the sunshine, smiling up at him. He took a step toward her, then caught himself, changed course to set the basket on the table.
“No more thoughts about diving out the windows, then—although you do have a balcony.”
“Are you suggesting I tie my sheets together and lower myself one-handed from it?” She was laughing at him. “It’s maddening to be able to see everywhere and be able to go nowhere. Although”—she glanced about her once more—“this is certainly somewhere, and a fine somewhere at that. I have always loved the shore, perhaps because we lived far from it. It seems so exotic.”
“I grew up by the sea.” It was a harmless enough admission.
“How delightful! To be able to beach-comb whenever you wanted. Did you find many treasures?”
“I don’t remember. And it was not peaceful and tame like this. Storms would blow in that no sane person would want to be out in.” He shut his teeth over more words, slamming the doors of memory shut. He would not, must not, go back there, even in thought.
His hands trembled as he opened the basket, and he had to fight off the sudden urge to flee back to the safety of his cottage. No. No, he was here—on Crete. This was a different sea, a different sky, and Miss Huntington was here as well, speaking to him, her voice a quiet melody. He let the sound of it wash over him, carrying him back to the present.
“…had any number of fantastical items in his collection,” she said. “My grandfather was always fascinated by the natural world. Why, he discovered an entirely new species of flower in Tunisia. Last year my brother, James, was able to go collect it.” She paused and looked over the blue waters. “Which way is Tunisia from here? Straight across?”
He squinted across the waves, grateful for the distraction. “No, Egypt is to the south. Tunisia is that direction.” He pointed to the right. “As is Malta.”
“Malta.” She shaded her eyes with her hand, and he knew she was thinking of Mrs. Farnsworth.
He began setting out their luncheon. “I hope you like the local food. I’m afraid cucumber sandwiches were in short supply this morning.”
She left off scanning the horizon and turned to face him. “Oh, I do, very much. I’m glad there’s no gruel with treacle anywhere on the island.”
“Happily, living here means an escape from English cooking. Although eventually one tires of olives. Sometimes I long for a nice brisket of beef with boiled potatoes.”
“Mr. Trentham.” There was something cautious in her voice. “How long have you been here? On Crete?”
Alex pulled a loaf of bread out and set it next to the pale slab of goat cheese. He took a long moment before answering, calculating the seasons in his head. The answer surprised him. “Three years.”
“Three years? But, what about your family, your friends in England?”
He frowned, shoulders tight beneath his coat. “There is nothing, and no one, for me there.” What he had done ensured it.
“I truly doubt that,” she began. “You seem—”
“Miss Huntington”—he jabbed his thumb into an orange and began tearing the peel off with sharp movements—“if you are eager to speak of England, then do so. Tell me about your family.” Anything to deflect her interest.
He could feel her watching him as he finished peeling the orange and divided their lunch onto the plates set out for them.
“My family.” She shifted in her chair.
He handed her a plate, then took the opposite chair and concentrated on ripping his bread into bite-sized chunks.
She ate an olive, then at last answered him. “My parents died when I was quite young, and my brother and I were taken in by my uncle.”
Yes, he recalled their conversation that first night, when she had named herself orphan. “Did he treat you poorly? Is that why you champion the cause of orphans?”
“Heavens no! Uncle Denby has been nothing but kind ever since he made us part of his family. No,” her face grew pensive, “I have been aware for a long time that there are others far less fortunate than myself.”
“Why make it your mission to help them?”
She gave him a thoughtful look. “What are we here for if not to make things easier for one another? I find myself in a position to help. It would be remiss of me not to do so.”
“That’s very noble.” He poured two glasses of water and set hers beside her plate. She reached, placing her hand over his before he could pull away. Startled, he glanced into brown eyes dark with concern.
“Mr. Trentham, I have found that sometimes it helps to speak about one’s troubles. If you need to…well, please consider me a friend.”
Her skin was warm, and for a brief moment he was tempted not to move away from her touch—but no. The last thing he wanted was to see her turn from him, disgust and horror in her eyes. It was his burden to carry. Alone.
He pulled away. “Thank you. Talking does not help me.”
“Very well.” She took up her glass and drank, staring out at the sea once more.
The strained silence between them slowly eased as they sat. The sunlight playing in the light fabric of the curtains, the constant hushing of the waves, slowly chased the darkness back. It did not belong here, in this day, in this place.
Her voice laid itself over the quiet, her tone pensive. “I don’t think helping others when I can is noble. More that it’s right, and human. But we needn’t speak of that.” She turned to him, a determinedly bright look on her face. “Tell me about working with Monsieur and Madame Legault. Has the excavation turned up any treasures?”
If she wanted to steer the conversation onto safer ground he was happy to follow. They had already skirted too close to the edge.
“If you mean fabulous caches of gold and jewelry, no. There have been some fine pottery jars”—he would not mention the one she had inadvertently shattered—“and a few items of beaten silver and bronze. I don’t think Legault is interested in finding treasure, which is odd for a man who likes to dig in the dirt. Although he does think there are other possibilities scattered about the island.”
“I’d imagine he is right. After all, Crete is the birthplace of Zeus, the home of King Minos, the Minotaur, the labyrinth.”
Alex shook his head. “King Minos is just a myth, Miss Huntington. I doubt his palace, or any sort of labyrinth, actually exists.”
“But certainly they do!” She leaned forward. “What seems to us to be ancient legend must have some basis in actual history. Something mystical must still linger in the Cave of Zeus. Pen tells me you have been there.”
“Yes. It’s a few hours’ ride from the village.”
“I was hoping to see the cave before—well, before this happened.” She lifted her splinted arm, a rueful expression on her face.
“It’s an interesting place. The locals still bring offerings, as they have done for generations. There’s a feeling of great antiquity there.”
Miss Huntington nodded, listening intently, and despite himself Alex found the afternoon brightening once again. He went on to describe his visits to the cave, and thought that, in the retelling, it had indeed been a place of mystery.
“But I am keeping you from dessert. Have you tried the local version of baklava yet, Miss Huntington?”
“I haven’t. It looks…sticky. But delicious,” she said, eyeing the honey-drizzled triangles.
“Both.” He offered her one of the delicate desserts.
She took a tentative bite, then a look of bliss crossed her face. “Oh…it’s like tasting pure sunlight.” Her tongue flicked out, chasing a stray bit of pastry from her lip, and he abruptly forgot what they had been talking about.
Honey. Her hair holding glints of it, tawny flecks in her eyes. He was certain she would taste of it, and the urge to go to her, lift her in his arms and savor her mouth with his own was nearly overwhelming.
“Thank you for the most agreeable afternoon.” She let out a pleased sigh. “It was so good to get out of my rooms.”
He cleared his throat. “Then we’ll have to see it happens more often.”
Although he feared he had not been the most agreeable company—alternately brooding and enthralled. Still, if she was happy then the picnic could be counted a success. He stood, tucked the used dishes back into the basket, and brushed the crumbs from the table. The lads would be along later to dismantle the pavilion, though perhaps he would have them wait a few days so Miss Huntington could return. He could picture her here again tomorrow, reading a book and drinking tea. “Now, though…”
“Yes.” She glanced at the sky, where orange streamers of clouds preceded the dusk. “Time to go back.”
He held his hand out to her and she set her good hand in his, smiling. “See how obedient I am? Not even dragging my heels in the sand.”
“Most impressive. You’ll be fully cured in no time.” And on her way back to England.
He raised her hand to his lips, a courtly gesture, and she stilled, her breath indrawn as he brushed his lips across her skin. Heat flashed through him, and he lingered too long, but he could not help himself. Her hand was soft and he yearned too much for that softness. At length he straightened and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, not meeting her widened eyes.
The sun slanted low across the beach as they made their way back toward the village. At length Miss Huntington looked over her shoulder and he followed her gaze to the pavilion, white cotton gilded nearly to gold, a swirl of gulls calling overhead, the wavelets running up, and away.