FORD HURRIED to the kitchen, not least because he had a feeling Violet Ashcroft was poised to bolt. And he couldn’t allow that to happen.
Philosophy. Truth be told, he loathed the discipline—if one could even call the study of unprovable and oft indecipherable prattle a discipline. But at least this Violet seemed to have a keen brain in her head, which was uncommon, in his experience. Not that the ladies he knew were simpleminded, but he tended to gravitate toward girls of the fun and frilly variety. To be perfectly honest, after a long day at his studies or in his laboratory, he was seeking a diversion, not a fellow academic.
Tabitha, for instance, had been a lovely diversion. But a diversion was the last thing Ford needed just now, and as he’d come to realize he couldn’t avoid all of womankind entirely, he’d decided to limit his female contacts to those who proved practical. Hilda, for example—his housekeeper—was a useful woman to have around.
And as for Lady Violet…
With her thick, chocolate-brown plait and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was nice-looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn heads. Which was fine with him, since he wanted his head right where it was, thank you: square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his work.
If he could convince Lady Violet to stay a while and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow, perhaps he could finally sneak away to his laboratory. In which case he’d have to admit that his twin, Kendra, was right—ladies were good for more than just flirting and adorning one’s arm.
Though not to her face, of course.
As he barged into the kitchen, his housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query. “Yes, my lord?”
“Are the refreshments ready?”
Hilda never answered a question—she always had one of her own. “Is Lady Trentingham here?”
“No,” he said, wondering where Harry, Hilda’s husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the aristocracy’s—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.
“Lady Trentingham is at home,” he told her. “The countess’s daughter came instead. Lady Violet.”
“The sensible one?”
“Come again?” Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen’s scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over.
“The oldest, yes? Lady Trentingham calls her ‘the sensible one.’ The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is ‘the wild one,’ and the youngest, Lily, is ‘the sweet one.’”
“She has three daughters? All named for flowers?” How absurd.
“Are you not aware that her husband enjoys gardening?”
“Yes. I am.” He slid one of the small, round biscuits off the tray and popped it into his mouth. Mmm, cinnamon. Dusting crumbs off his fingers, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. ”How do you come to know all this?”
Hilda frowned. “Why shouldn’t I know my neighbors?” She shoved at a gray hair that had escaped her cap, then went back to polishing the silver. “Lady Trentingham, she’s a perfumer, you know. Every once in a while, she drops by with a new bottle. Spiced Rosewater, I prefer.”
“Spiced Rosewater?” He paused to reach for another biscuit.
She slapped at his hand. “Leave it, will you? I laid them out in a pattern.”
He scrutinized the tray, but his mathematical mind could discern no regular design.
“Do you not like Spiced Rosewater?” she asked.
He leaned close to a wrinkled cheek and sniffed. “It’s lovely.” In truth, she smelled like one of her cinnamon biscuits. But whatever made her happy.
“When Lady Trentingham brings the perfume, she likes to sit a spell and chat. I’ve heard all the stories of her girls as they’ve grown.”
“Lady Trentingham sits and talks to the household help?”
“And why not? We’re people too, you know.”
Of course they were—he just didn’t think about it much. And he was woefully ill informed about his neighbors. It seemed Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.
“Here comes Harry,” Hilda said, watching out the window. “Don’t you think it’s time to serve these refreshments?” She shoved a steaming pitcher into Ford’s hands and, taking the tray of biscuits, hurried out of the kitchen before her husband could make his way in.
Hilda came up to Ford’s shoulder and seemed as wide as she was tall. Obediently carrying the hot beverage she’d prepared, he followed her ample behind down the corridor to the drawing room. They stepped inside to see Violet Ashcroft on her hands and knees, her bottom jutting into the air beneath its layers of petticoats and sturdy, serviceable skirts. Which weren’t frilly in the least. A fitting gown for The Sensible One.
Even through all that fabric, Ford could tell she had a rather nice bottom. Especially compared to his housekeeper’s.
He frowned, mentally clamping down on his thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to be noticing any female’s bottom. He was supposed to be appreciating women for their practical uses only.
Lady Violet’s brother was under the low, square table that sat before the couch. “Rowan,” she said. “You come out here this minute.”
“No.” The boy crossed his arms, not a simple feat given he was lying on his belly. “Not until she leaves.”
“C’mon, Rowan,” Jewel cooed, getting down on her knees herself. “Come out and play. I’ve always wanted to play with a boy.”
Knowing Jewel had two brothers at home, Ford choked back laughter. And she wasn’t pronouncing boy at all the same way she had yesterday in the garden.
His niece was clearly in love.
And Rowan was having none of it.
“We’ve brought biscuits,” Ford declared, announcing his presence. Lady Violet gave a little embarrassed squeal and jumped to her feet. Her pinkened cheeks matched his faded upholstery.
“Biscuits?” Rowan asked. “What kind?”
Ford grinned. Little boys were so much easier than girls. ”Cinnamon,” he said.
“I’m still not coming out,” Rowan said.
“Would you like a drink of chocolate?” Hilda coaxed, taking the warm pitcher from Ford’s hands.
“Chocolate?” The boy inched forward. “Real chocolate?”
“He cannot have it,” his sister said firmly. “Chocolate gives him hives.”
Rowan crawled closer and bumped his head on the apron of the table. “Ah, Violet…”
She reached to grab him by the wrist. “Got you, you little monster.” She dragged him out. “Now, I cannot blame you for being intimidated, but you must mind your manners. Guests don’t hide under tables.”
“I want to go home.”
“Guests don’t say things like that, either. It’s very rude.”
Jewel rose, brushing off the mint green skirts that Ford had spent half an hour struggling her into. “Here.” She offered Rowan a biscuit, and he reluctantly climbed to his feet. “Eat this, and then I’ll show you Uncle Ford’s laboratory.”
“No you won’t,” Ford said. Not again. He’d taken her to his laboratory yesterday afternoon, hoping she’d sit quietly while he worked. Ten minutes later he’d hauled her out—just before she’d managed to destroy the place.
“Please, Uncle Ford?”
“No.”
“Puleeeeeze?” The look in Jewel’s green eyes bordered on pathetic. Chase eyes, like Kendra’s. Just what he needed…another Chase lady who could wrap him around her little finger.
She must have realized her feminine wiles were working, because she turned her lavish charm on Rowan. “You must stay,” she told him. “Uncle Ford has magnets, and bottles of smelly stuff, and a pen-pen—”
“Pendulum,” Ford supplied, remembering too late that she didn’t like to be helped.
But she was so intent on convincing Rowan, she failed to take notice. “Yes, a pen-du-lum. And lots of clocks and a telescope. That’s a thing to see the stars.”
“Is it?” Lady Violet asked, interest lighting her eyes. “I’ve never really seen the stars.”
Scant moments ago, she’d looked like she was ready to haul Rowan home. Not that Ford could blame her, but his own sanity depended on Jewel successfully befriending the boy. He had to keep the Ashcrofts here. Whatever it took.
He wouldn’t go crawling back to his brother for help.
“I think Rowan might find my laboratory interesting,” he said with an inward grimace. “And although the telescope cannot help you see stars in the daytime, if you stay until dark—”
“I cannot stay until dark!” Violet exclaimed with a horrified gasp.
Criminy, these sheltered country girls. Ford had never met a lady so stuck on propriety—since, of course, such a lady would have been laughed out of King Charles’s court.
He kept those thoughts to himself. “Shall we invite your maid in to chaperone?”
She shook her head. ”I wasn’t planning to stay at all. I had thought to introduce Rowan and then leave—”
“Leave me?” Rowan interrupted, looking even more horrified than she had. “I told Mum I didn’t want to come here!” He turned to his sister, burying his face in her dark blue skirts. “Would you really leave me, Violet?”
She patted him on the head. “Of course not. You must have misunderstood me.” She glared at Ford as though to say, This is all your fault. And he knew, then and there, that his happy visions of working while she and her brother entertained his niece were just that—visions.
Lady Trentingham’s fairy dust wasn’t going to work. Violet's mother wasn't his savior, and her suggestion that the children play together wasn't the answer to his prayers. As a man of science, he should have known better than to imagine such flights of fancy, even for a moment.
Lady Violet wouldn’t prove useful to him, after all.