Page 23 of A Tempest of Desire
Perhaps she could amuse herself with a little exploring. Before she moved to London, when she was much younger, she would spend hours investigating all the various nooks and crannies of an abandoned and dilapidated abbey near her home. Once she’d found a red stone, a garnet she thought. Perhaps a ruby. Surely in its history it had been embedded in a religious relic. She had attributed magical qualities to it and made wishes upon it. The problem with wishes, though, she soon discovered, was that if a person wasn’t terribly specific in describing the request, it might be granted, but in the end wasn’t exactly what one had in mind.
Case in point: Langdon had wished for a womanand, in the end, had gotten her. And seemed none too pleased by the wish granter’s choice.
With a sigh, she snatched up the blanket she’d left the night before and draped it around her shoulders before leaving the chamber.
She detected some noises echoing into the hallway leading to the kitchen. She crept up to the open doorway and peered in. Langdon was tidying up from their meal.
She considered offering to assist, but based on the abruptness of his leaving, she didn’t think he’d welcome her presence. So instead, she skirted past and made her way to a smaller chamber. It contained a large trestle table and one chair. Was this to serve as the dining room?
Although it more closely resembled a workroom. Scrunched-up paper was littering the floor. A mound of crushed papers filled a bin to overflowing. In the huge fireplace, the flames of a low fire waltzed.
Slowly, she approached the table as if it were a dangerous beast that could devour her in one bite. Whatever he was doing in here, whatever had been the cause of so much discarded paper, was absolutely none of her business. And yet she was craving an understanding of him. Why was he here away from everyone? Why wasn’t he attending country house parties? Why wasn’t he out hunting grouse or stag or whatever poor creature was presently in season? Why was he in this stark, dark, and frigid dwelling?
While she’d never been to Newgate, fortunately, she couldn’t help but believe the prison’s cells offered more comforts.
Eventually she was near enough to study everything that seemed to be haphazardly arranged. Pen with a gold nib, inkwell, stack of blank paper. And a maths primer.
Why in the hell would he need a primer on numbers? Perhaps he’d come here to study when he was a wee lad, still in school. But if that was the case, she was looking at nearly two decades since any of this would have been used. Wouldn’t it be covered in a thick layer of dust?
Instead, not a speck of grime was visible anywhere.
Reaching down, she picked up a wadded piece of paper and untwisted it. It had a few more squiggles than those pieces that remained on the table, but she still couldn’t make out what he was trying to accomplish.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
At the curt and clearly upset tone, she spun around, guiltily hiding the paper behind her back as if he hadn’t already seen her studying it. She was rather certain that her cheeks were burning bright red at her having been caught snooping about. Still, she wasn’t one to cower. She tilted her head haughtily. “I was merely exploring.” She waved a hand toward the floor. “What is all this?”
“None of your bloody concern. Now get the hell out.”
She watched in amazement as he charged into the room, scooped a handful of the scrunched papers from the floor, and tossed them onto the fire.
“So I’m restricted to two rooms?”
More papers tossed. “And the outdoors. You can go stand in the rain if you like.”
“What I wouldlikeis to know why you are so upset. It’s not as though I’d discovered that you’d buried a body.”
He swung around and glowered. “Everything within this room is private. Explore anywhere else, but not this chamber. Nothing here is meant for you.”
She gave a little curtsy. “My apologies for overstepping. My curiosity got the better of me, I’m afraid. I usually know a good deal more about a man before he visits my bed. Although I suppose in reality, it was your bed and I the visitor.”
She’d hoped to at least coax a smile out of him. Instead, he glowered more fiercely. “How many have been in your bed?”
Aware of her jaw dropping, she glared at him. The unmitigated audacity. How dare he ask such a personal question after chastising her for looking at a piece of paper. However, she refused to respond with fire, because she’d discovered that coolness could often cut deeper. Regaining control of her emotions, she lifted a shoulder so high she could have easily kissed it. “I don’t keep count of my conquests. Do you?”
He began scooping up more bits of paper. “Off with you. Do your exploring. Be wary of the dungeon, though. The door to it sometimes locks on its own. I’d hate for you to get trapped down there.”
She was confident he would free her if she was. However, his tone contained less ire, but more weariness. As if he was the one in the storm trying to make it safely to land, but not quite sure he was going to make it.
She very much doubted he was even aware of her leaving the room, so focused was he on his task of getting rid of what passed as evidence for something he was determined to keep secret.
With every bone, muscle, and sinew of his body, Langdon was aware of her leaving. The relief should have been monstrous. Instead, the victory felt very much like a defeat.
Where would have been the harm in telling her? But she might have told Hollingsworth, who might tell his closest friends, who would then tell theirs until all of London knew that Viscount Langdon no longer had a knack for numbers.
He’d first noticed his inability to work with numerals only a couple of weeks after the railway accident. The leather satchel in which he’d been carrying the proposal outlining his plans for improvements to increase the estate’s income had either been buried in the rubble or some enterprising soul had used the ensuing chaos to make off with it. Not that the contents would have been of any value to a thief, but the fine leather that had housed them might have brought a fair price from fences.
He’d taken some time to recover from the ordeal—cracked ribs had needed to heal, as had all the bruises, scrapes, and cuts. The headaches he’d suffered in the beginning had often laid him low.
