Page 9 of The Hidden Lord
Lord Trenwith’s smile appeared forced. “As well as can be expected,” he replied, accepting the delicate china cup with hands that were, Henri noticed, perfectly steady despite whatever was troubling him. “Though I confess the season holds little charm for me. Too much solitude, perhaps.”
Henri felt a pang of sympathy. She had always sensed a certain loneliness about Lord Trenwith, though he carried itwith such dignity that it was easy to overlook. Rather like a well-dressed ghost haunting the drawing rooms of their political circles.
“Surely you have invitations? A man of your standing must be much sought after for Christmas festivities.”
The viscount’s smile was brief and did not reach his eyes. “Invitations, yes. Inclination, rather less so.”
They spoke of inconsequential matters for perhaps twenty minutes— the weather, the thin Christmas social season in Town, mutual acquaintances who had departed for their country estates. But Henri remained aware of that underlying tension in Lord Trenwith’s manner, of him performing the role of charming visitor rather than simply being himself.
When the lord finally consulted his pocket watch and rose to take his leave, Henri found herself reluctant to let him go. There was something almost fragile about him this afternoon, despite his impressive height and commanding presence.
“I fear I must not impose further on your afternoon,” he said, though Henri detected a note of reluctance in his voice as well. “I have … obligations that require my attention. Cats that need settling, business to attend to before departing Town.”
“Cats?” Henri asked, surprised by this unexpected domestic detail.
His expression softened for the first time that afternoon. “A recent acquisition. Two rather elderly felines who have found themselves in need of a new home.” His voice held a tenderness that was at odds with his earlier reserve.
“How fortunate that they found their way to you,” Henri said gently. “I hope they shall be comfortable in their new circumstances.”
“As do I.” The viscount moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at her with an expression she could not quiteinterpret. “Miss Bigsby, if you should ever find yourself in need of assistance, you know you have only to send word.”
The offer was made casually, but Henri heard something deeper beneath the words. A genuine concern that pleased her even as it puzzled her.
“That is very kind of you, Lord Trenwith. The same stands in return, of course.”
He smiled then, a real smile that briefly banished the shadows from his handsome face. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
After he departed, Henri remained in the drawing room, staring thoughtfully at the dying fire while Miss Dulwich removed the tea things. The viscount had always been an enigma, but this afternoon’s visit had revealed new depths to that mystery. She found herself wondering what had driven him to Uncle Reggie’s door on this cold December afternoon, what burden he carried that cast such shadows in his usually confident demeanor.
She had heard the stories, of course. How he had unexpectedly inherited his title when both his grandfather and uncle had died within months of each other several years ago, and as a newly titled lord, he had left military service to work in diplomacy. It was said he had been raised by tutors rather than family, that he had served with distinction in some capacity during the war, though the details remained vague. But Lord Trenwith himself never spoke of his past, deflecting personal questions with such skill that one hardly noticed until he had already long departed the room.
Henri shook her head and returned to Uncle Reggie’s study to finish her correspondence. Lord Gabriel Strathmore was undeniably attractive, intelligent, and emanated a fundamental decency that appealed to her. But he was also a lord, while she was merely a commoner, Uncle Reggie’s political connectionsnotwithstanding. More importantly, marriage would mean the end of her independence, the career she had built as Uncle Reggie’s private secretary, the intellectual stimulation that made her life meaningful. She had seen too many women lose themselves in marriage, their own ambitions and capabilities subsumed into their husband’s world. Henri had no intention of following that path, no matter how compelling the gentleman might be or how much Maddy’s departure had left her out of sorts. Not that such a high-ranking peer would ever pay her serious attentions.
With determined effort, she turned her mind back to the letter she had been writing before Lord Trenwith’s arrival. But as she dipped her quill in ink, her thoughts drifted back to Signor di Bianchi’s mysterious sketch. Somewhere in that collection of letters and numbers lay the key to a centuries-old puzzle. Henri was certain of it.
She had sworn to keep his family’s secret, but there was nothing preventing her from continuing to work on the problem in private. Uncle Reggie’s library contained far more than just the Caxton edition. Perhaps tomorrow she would begin a more systematic investigation of Arthurian texts, looking for patterns or references that might illuminate the code.
Henri smiled to herself as she sealed the completed letter. She had found herself not one challenge but two—unraveling Matteo di Bianchi’s centuries-old mystery and understanding the enigmatic Lord Trenwith who had appeared at her door like a lost soul seeking sanctuary.
Both promised to be far more engaging than her usual correspondence with members of Parliament.
As Henri rose to extinguish the lamps, she caught sight of her reflection in the darkened window. Her amber eyes held a spark of excitement that had been missing for weeks. Whateverlay ahead, she had the distinct feeling that her quiet winter in London was about to become considerably more interesting.
CHAPTER 3
“For many be called, but few be chosen.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
JANUARY 22, 1822
The bitter January wind cut across the Calais harbor like a blade, carrying with it the salt-tinged promise of snow. Gabriel stood on the narrow balcony of his rented lodgings, his hands braced against the iron railing as he watched the sun sink toward the gray waters of the Channel. The dying light painted the harbor in shades of amber and rust, a beauty that felt almost mocking given his current circumstances.
Three weeks in this godforsaken port.
Gabriel would not be in this wretched backwater if the King had not asked it as a personal favor. But any member of the peerage knew that when the monarch requested a favor,it ceased to be a request and became a pleasantly worded command. He should be in London, learning the truth about what had happened to Horace Pelham, pursuing the bastards who had murdered the only constant presence of his childhood. Instead, he was trapped in this endless circus of diplomacy, watching French bureaucrats shuffle papers while English agents rotted in secret prisons.
Three weeks of this tedium, circling like vultures fearful of setting down.
