Page 9 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
“Ah, well, we have time then before I meet with the earl. How quickly can you pack our trunks? We’re moving to Mivart’s Hotel.”
* * *
Graeme sent Morley on his way and then turned back to the mirror to tie his own neckcloth.
Morley had kept to his promise to call and escort him to White’s. In truth, the gossip Morely had learned had been troubling and better imparted in the privacy of Chilcombe House.
Archie’s life and death had been the subject of speculation at Bow Street; Morley learned this because he was a good friend of one of the magistrates serving there and was wangling for a position himself while he carried out investigations for hire.
As for Blythe… there were those who suspected that Archie had shared her with his gentlemen friends. There were others who thought it had not been lung fever that Archie had succumbed to; that in fact Blythe had delivered a fatal dose of opium.
The land dispute matter… little had leaked out about that. But Diddenton was a crafty dog, rich beyond belief from the opium he sold in China… as well as in the Fens and the East End.
Morley had more to tell him, but Graeme sent his friend on his way to White’s, promising to meet him there later after he’d had a chance to review the pile of post he’d told Adwick to leave in the study.
He’d talk to Blythe as well, though what he would say… It was too soon to question her. He’d seen that defensiveness flare in her eyes.
He found Adwick waiting outside his door. The butler cleared his throat. “Her ladyship asked me to assemble the staff so that you can meet them. They’re in the hall.”
A handful of servants awaited him, and it struck him that, other than Clive, they were, all of them—even the two chambermaids and the kitchen maid—on the far side of forty years old or perhaps even older.
Adwick introduced them and apologized that the housekeeper wasn’t present. The earl’s arrival was unexpected, and she’d been given leave to visit her dying sister.
Blythe was also missing.
“I should like a tour of the house one day,” Graeme said, “but for now though, show me the way to the study, please.”
* * *
A short while later, Graeme stood at the study window looking out on a riot of color in the well-ordered garden and then returned to the massive desk.
Neat stacks of correspondence and logbooks sat as if the earl’s secretary had just put them in order. Did the earl have an absent secretary?
A note on the top of the new stack proved to be an invitation to a ball, addressed to him, as were the others underneath. None of the names of the senders were familiar.
From another corner, he picked up an opened letter seeking an investment in a rail line. Notes had been scribbled for a proposed reply: ask about right-of-way leases, lines connecting, support in Parliament, names of committed backers. All erudite questions.
In his letter, the solicitor had claimed the estate was in order. What Graeme had seen so far of Chilcombe House confirmed that. All seemed to be well-maintained, the staff well-ordered.
And Blythe had had Archie’s bed carried out and burned. After the gossip conveyed by Morley, he felt strangely relieved about that.
He stepped over to a table and picked up a well-thumbed journal. Fleming’s British Farmers’ Chronicle. Underneath that was Evans and Ruffy’s Farmers’ Journal.
He knew something about agricultural trade, but about day-to-day practices he was woefully ignorant for a man who’d just inherited acres and acres of good English soil.
A wisp of floral fragrance announced a silent arrival; not even the door hinges had creaked.
Blythe sailed in, only her skirts whispering, followed by Adwick carrying another laden tray. Morley had helped himself, but Graeme had barely touched the one delivered to his bedchamber, except for the dint he’d made in the decanter of good brandy. The butler settled the new tray on a nearby table, bowed, and departed.
Graeme’s gaze landed on Blythe and his breath caught again. He’d barely had a chance to thoroughly take in her appearance. Now he took a good look. Despite the dissipated life she’d allegedly shared with his cousin, she looked as fresh as the girl he’d once pined for, her skin fair under a faint spray of freckles, her brown hair free of gray. Her figure, under the lower waistlines and puffier sleeves of the new fashions wasn’t quite as lush as he remembered from that fateful night...
Tilting her head, as if reading his thoughts, her face a mask of placidity, she greeted him and stepped closer. Shallow worry lines had settled between her eyebrows, but otherwise, she’d aged little.
She was still beautiful, and despite himself, he felt drawn to her. Thirty-four to his thirty years of age was not an impossible age difference for a lover.
He shoved the tempting thought down, for now. In the years since he’d last seen her, he’d learned to look beyond the physical, and most importantly, to be discreet. Until he saw which way the political winds blew, dallying with Blythe wouldn’t help his ambitions.
She folded her hands at her waist and still said nothing.
