CHAPTER SEVEN

Hedley found treasure at Greyson Park.

Or perhaps it was more correct to say that the treasure had been among the meager belongings she’d brought with her from Sinclair House. Either way, it was a treasure in the sense that it would help her purchase food to replenish the pantry and seeds to begin a garden.

Standing in the village shop, Lynch & Twyck, she brushed her hand over the beautiful perfume cask that had once belonged to her grandmother. An inlay of gold and mother-of-pearl accented the intricate rosewood grain.

“Two shillings,” the portly Mr. Lynch said with a sniff.

Two shillings wouldn’t buy much. Hedley had to make sound decisions. She was on her own, after all. Foolishly, she’d hoped her mother would relent and offer her an allowance, but she’d refused to help in any way. Even Mr. Tims had confessed that he hadn’t received a salary since her grandfather died. Apparently, that had been the reason the caretaker had gone to Sinclair House on the day that he’d overheard the conversation about the treasure.

“A crown.” She pointed to the lovely detail work. “This is gold.”

To her, the cask was worth much more. It was a keepsake. Even though she’d never known her grandmother, Hedley had often found herself imagining that Grandmother never would have permitted Hedley’s imprisonment in the attic.

Mr. Lynch opened the lid of the cask and waved his hands over the six slender bottles within. “Tell me this: what use are these bottles with no stoppers?”

There once had been stoppers, made of silver and adorned with a swirling S on each top. Then Mother had discovered the cask in Hedley’s attic room and sold each one.

“You could offer the lot as an assortment of small vases,” Hedley suggested. It was the first idea that popped into her head, but the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. “A single bloom per vase for . . . six days of the week. You could adorn each vase with a different colored ribbon.”

“Did I hear a mention of vases?” This question came from a woman who’d been admiring a display of combs. Several locks of dark blonde hair escaped from beneath a blue bonnet as she moved toward the clerk’s counter. Stopping beside Hedley, she smiled in such an amiable manner that it almost felt as if they were friends. “I am forever in want of them. Right now, Fallow Hall has an inordinately high number of lilies of the valley.”

“Fallow Hall?” Hedley started. “I live at Greyson Park.”

Recognition shone in the woman’s lively brown eyes. “Ah, then you must be the infamous Miss Sinclair who inherited the property.”

“I am she.” Infamous. Hedley might be able to guess who would cast her in such a light. So then, was this woman someone close to Rafe? Without reason, Hedley’s stomach began to churn and twist into knots.

“My name is Calliope Croft—oops—I mean, Ludlow,” the woman said with a laugh. “You see, I’m newly married and still not used to the name.”

And suddenly, those knots loosened. She exhaled a breath. “Hedley Sinclair.”

“Miss Sinclair.” Mr. Lynch cleared his throat. “Since there appears to be some interest in your stopper-less bottles, I will increase my offer to two shillings and sixpence.”

“Only half a crown?” Calliope asked, pursing her lips. “Surely, that price is for the vases alone. Why, the cask is worth its own price. Just look at that detail. Did you say gold and mother-of-pearl, Miss Sinclair?”

“Um . . . yes.” Hedley was too stunned by her newly introduced neighbor’s support to speak. This had never happened before. In her of years living at Sinclair House, no one had ever stood up in her favor. “Quite.”

Mr. Lynch squinted at Calliope and then at Hedley, as if he suspected them of trying to cheat him. “A crown for the box, stopper-less bottles, and . . . the shawl.”

Hedley drew back, laying a protective hand over the pin that held the two ends of the shawl together. Rafe had given this to her. Even though it had meant nothing more than recompense for him, this shawl, and the other items, were the first new clothes she’d ever received. “The shawl is not for sale.”

The clerk’s mouth twisted with regret. “Half a crown for the box and bottles. That is all I can spare.”

It was better than leaving empty-handed.

Reluctantly, Hedley nodded. She cast one final look at the perfume cask and took the coin from the clerk. Beside her, Calliope was silent as they left the shop.

Together, they stood outside in the narrow alleyway that served as the village market. Shop fronts displayed their wares from boxed windows with freshly whitewashed trim. Men, women, and children alike crowded the serpentine cobblestone path. Spring had arrived, and everyone, it seemed, had decided to venture out of doors.

Calliope shook her head and frowned. “I don’t understand it. My sister-in-law has a knack for bargaining, where in most instances, the shopkeepers end up giving her things. Obviously, I have been a poor student. I was certain Mr. Lynch would give the crown you were after.”

Hedley offered a genuine smile to her neighbor. “I thought you did splendidly. And I cannot thank you enough for your efforts.”

Still, without many items to sell, Hedley wondered how she was going to live. She would have to find work. Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough education to be a governess or even a laundress. She could sew quite well. However, she’d been informed on a previous jaunt to the village that nearly every local girl could sew. The dress shop wanted only an experienced modiste. What was she to do?

If circumstances didn’t change in her favor soon, she would end up starving to death in Greyson Park. In the end, it might have been better if she’d stayed invisible.

At the depressing thought, Hedley automatically looked down at her shoes. Still red. Not invisible. Good.

“You’re very kind to say it,” Calliope said, her expression remaining piqued. Then suddenly, it transformed into one of pure radiance as her gaze shifted over Hedley’s shoulder.

“Here is my bride, at last,” a man said as he approached the two of them. He was an uncommonly handsome man with pale blond hair and blue-green eyes that never left Calliope’s face. With a broad grin, he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I can’t tell you how many times I returned to the bookstore in search of you. And then I remembered how you told me that you needed a comb, after I so carelessly broke one last evening—”

“Everhart,” Calliope interrupted, rosy color rising to her cheeks. “It is inappropriate to speak of such things or hold me so close while I am meeting our new neighbor.”

Though Calliope scolded her husband, she did nothing to dissuade him. In fact, she leaned into him. Hedley had witnessed this type of response from a few of the servants at Sinclair House. To her, it was indicative of a close personal relationship. She’d often wondered if it was a conscious reaction or something that a person was unaware of doing. Yet after kissing Rafe, she realized that the reaction was beyond a person’s control.

“Neighbor, hmm?” Calliope’s husband grinned at Hedley. “Are you the young woman living at Greyson Park?”

Calliope spoke for her. “My love, this is Miss Hedley Sinclair. And Miss Sinclair, this is my husband Gabriel Ludlow, Viscount Everhart.”

He inclined his head. “Miss Sinclair, a pleasure.”

A viscount? Hedley fell into a panicked curtsy. Was she supposed to kiss his hand or something? “It is an honor, sir—my lord—Your Grace.”

The viscount chuckled. “Everhart will do.”

She looked to Calliope, embarrassed that all this time she’d been talking to her without knowing. “And that makes you—”

“A friend,” Calliope answered, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Someone to talk to over tea, perhaps. There is a lovely shop on the corner. Mrs. Dudley bakes the most scrumptious scones and biscuits.”

“Why not invite Miss Sinclair to Fallow Hall instead?” Everhart asked, directing the question both to his wife and then to Hedley. “We could all travel together. I’m certain Danvers is nearly finished sifting through washing soda by now.”

When he nodded in the direction of the far corner of the market, Hedley’s gaze followed. There stood Rafe Danvers, wearing a burgundy coat and buff breeches and looking every bit the dashing rake.

Yet he wasn’t alone. A woman with inky black hair stood with him. Hedley recognized her as the laundress, the widow Richardson. The widow laughed and brushed her hand over his shoulder in a familiar gesture, as if the two were well acquainted. Very well acquainted, indeed.

Hedley’s stomach churned anew, twisting end over end. The surface of her skin pricked with heat. And for a moment, she envisioned herself marching down the alleyway and jerking the widow Richardson away from Rafe.

The thought stunned her. She’d never done anything remotely like that in her life. But this rise of . . . annoyance was foreign to her, and she couldn’t get the idea out of her head.

Then, as if he felt her gaze, Rafe glanced to where she stood. For an instant, she saw recognition flash in the depths of his dark irises. Something else flared to life as well. She would have sworn that his gaze had dipped to her shawl, but he looked away too quickly for her to be certain. So quickly, it was as if he hadn’t seen her at all.

Hedley pulled her gaze away and fought the urge to glance down to her shoes to ensure she wasn’t invisible. She even managed a smile for her new friend. “Thank you for the kind offer for tea, but I have business I must attend before returning home.”

Calliope cast a quick glance down the alleyway, her eyes bright. “Might I call on you for a visit?”

Hedley felt a rush of excitement at the idea of having her first guest at Greyson Park. Well . . . if she didn’t include Rafe’s two visits. And those hadn’t truly been visits; they’d been . . . more. She broke away from the memory with the sudden sting of heat to her cheeks. “I would be honored.” Inclining her head in the same way Everhart had, she added, “It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

Then, before she was tempted to let her gaze stray to the far corner of the market, she quickly headed off in the opposite direction.

Rafe tugged at his cravat. The early spring sun was brighter than he realized. A flood of heat coated his skin, as if he stood before a furnace instead of before the widow Richardson. Yet he was almost certain that it was not his companion who’d put him in this state, but more so the glimpse of a young woman wearing a pink paisley shawl.

Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d haunted his dreams for the past few days? Must she also tempt him in the light of day?

The very fact that he’d seen her the moment before he was prepared to make plans for a tryst with the widow irritated him. He needed a release from the state Hedley and her damnable kiss had put him in.

“I’ve missed you.” The widow trailed her fingertips along the outer edge of his sleeve.

Rafe refocused his attention on the woman before him. Her features were lovely—slanted dark brows, seductive eyes, and a mouth experienced in pleasure. Yet for the first time, he felt no automatic stirring within. “Business in London kept me away for too long.”

“Usually, when you return, I’ll see you the same evening,” she crooned, wetting her lips. “This time, I learned from one of the maids at Fallow Hall that you’ve been back for a few days.”

A prickle of irritation tightened his grin. Knowing that she spoke of him behind his back was too reminiscent of the way the ton had whispered about his family. “Gossip rarely leads to good.”

The widow knew enough about his family’s disgrace to know how much he despised the practice. Though, for a laundress, she had made an effort to curb her tongue. At least, around him.

She dismissed his comment with a flick of her wrist as she moved her hand to the buttons of his waistcoat. “I was worried that I’d have to find a new lover. Mr. Abbot has spoken of his interest.”

The village butcher? If this was her attempt at trying to make him jealous, she would have to try harder. By the size of the man’s belly, he would not be able to pleasure her in all the ways that Rafe had.

Not surprisingly, the comment didn’t bother Rafe in the least. He’d never been the jealous sort. Not even when Ursa had left him. Her betrayal had bothered him far more than her marrying another man.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be too hasty to discount him.” Rafe tipped his hat. “For now, I bid you good day.”

The widow took hold of his sleeve. “I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to make you realize that other men find me desirable as well. And you shouldn’t discount me.”

“You are right. I shouldn’t have.” But the truth was, he had. In fact, in the recent weeks, he’d barely given her a passing thought. There was someone else occupying his mind—though not in the same way. Not entirely. Hedley’s presence in his mind was like a fire that slowly consumed him. And the only way to save himself was to set his plans firmly in motion. She would marry Montwood. She would leave Greyson Park and take those tempting lips and beguiling eyes with her.

Removing the widow’s hand from his sleeve, he lifted it to his mouth for a kiss. “You deserve a man who isn’t distracted by business matters.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving their arrangement an open-ended conversation for another time. Down the way, he met up with Everhart, who was now standing alone outside the shop window to Gravett’s Emporium.

“One day, you’ll have to show me how you make these wonders, Danvers.” Everhart pointed with the tip of his walking stick to the crosscut carafe and matching goblets that Rafe had delivered a mere hour ago.

“You know I never let anyone watch me work,” Rafe said. For him, working with glass was a way to pour himself into each piece. It was almost a religious experience that filled an empty place inside of him.

Even so, he managed to separate his attachment to some of his art and sell them off. Yet there were a few pieces with which he couldn’t part. Somewhere inside his mind, he planned on leaving a legacy. The notion had become more prevalent in his mind after he’d held his new nephew in his arms.

Everhart turned. “Calliope loves the vase you gave us for a wedding gift, but now I must warn you that she has asked for several small vases as well.”

“I doubt I could create enough vases to sustain our strange abundance of lilies of the valley,” Rafe said with a laugh. “If she manages to purchase more of those biscuits from Mrs. Dudley, however, I might be persuaded to try.”

“That is precisely what she thought. Calliope is in the shop this very moment, collecting pastries in order to persuade you,” Everhart answered. “It’s a pity that you just missed our new neighbor. Apparently, Miss Hedley Sinclair of Greyson Park just sold a cask of small bottles at Lynch & Twyck, which is the very reason my wife is determined to have a collection of bud vases.”

Rafe abruptly became aware of a slow, radiating heat at the mention of their neighbor. At the same time, his sweet tooth—and tongue—felt an inexplicable pang of longing for a specific confection. “Why doesn’t your new bride simply purchase the ones that gave her the notion?”

Everhart grinned, his gaze veering across the way toward the teashop window. “She was rather embarrassed at a failed attempt to bargain with Mr. Lynch. Nevertheless, she is determined.”

“And now you are determined, as well.” Rafe didn’t bother hiding his amusement. Of the three of them who’d declared never to marry, Everhart had fallen within the first month after their wager. The poor fool.

Yet he was a poor fool who had a beautiful woman in his bed every night . . .

The wayward thought took him off guard. Rafe quickly shook it off. He could easily have any number of beautiful women in his bed. Settling on only one wasn’t necessarily appealing. Or at least, it shouldn’t be . . .

“I would consider it a favor,” Everhart said, drawing Rafe away from the disturbing direction of his thoughts.

“A favor?” Rafe almost laughed. The look in Everhart’s face stated clearly that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Rafe hesitated before responding. Since the wager was a constant presence in the forefront of his mind, the opportunity of using any possible advantage against Montwood was too appealing to pass up. “Then in repayment, perhaps you could assist me in a certain matter.”

Everhart lifted his brows. “I can only assume you’re speaking about the wager. I was wondering when you would approach me.”

Did that mean Montwood already had or had not? “The stipulations of our wager dictate that if you remain the sole loser, you will have to pay out ten thousand pounds. However, if you could convince Montwood to marry, then your debt would be reduced by half.”

“And if you both marry, then I will have no debt at all.”

Now, Rafe did laugh and clapped Everhart on the shoulder. “You’re deluding yourself, my friend. Is that what happens to married men? Their minds slowly turn to mush? Or quickly, in your case . . . ”

“Be careful, Danvers. For one day, you may very well dine on those words.” Everhart smirked. “My only hope for you is that they are sweet.”

Sweet. A slow shiver cascaded over Rafe’s tongue, sliding down his throat and through his torso and limbs. It lingered, and for a moment, he could almost taste Hedley’s kiss once more.

“I have no appetite for marriage, but perhaps with your assistance, Montwood will.”

Everhart offered an absent shrug as he began to walk across the way. “Valentine informed me that you met with our new neighbor the other day. He also mentioned how it wasn’t your first meeting with Miss Sinclair.”

“And how would Valentine know that?”

“He said that not only did you need no introduction to our guest but that you had a parcel for her, as if . . . ” Everhart glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows arched. “As if you’d been anticipating seeing her again.”

Rafe tried not to let his friend’s smugness needle him into offering a reaction. “I had merely been interested in discovering who was trespassing in Greyson Park.”

Hmm . . . And the parcel?”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “I recall, not so long ago, an instance where you accused me of fishing for information regarding your interest in Calliope. Of course, in that circumstance, I happened to be correct. You, however, have no bait on your hook and a hole in your net.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Irrefutably.”

“Then it is strange, indeed,” Everhart mused, his gaze bright with speculation. “I received a letter from our friend, Weatherstone. He referenced how he’d spent an afternoon with you, visiting no fewer than seven shops, where you were determined to find a shawl in a particular shade of pink.”

Rafe scoffed. It couldn’t have been seven shops. “Nonsense. Weatherstone was . . . was exaggerating.”

“Ah, yes. Our friend, who keeps a ledger with him at all times and values the precision of numbers, clearly embellished this one time.”

Everhart was right. Weatherstone had never been one to overstate. Seven shops?

As if he noticed precisely how disturbed Rafe was by the realization, Everhart grinned and sketched a bow. “Now, who is the fisherman, Danvers?”