Chapter 10

Now what did I do to upset him? Marlowe wondered.

As though suddenly angry with her—or himself—Langdon had abruptly snatched her empty plate, grabbed his from the table, shoved

himself to his feet, and stormed from the room as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Or someone was after his

head. Had her tale of the praying mantis offended him? He hadn’t seemed bothered by it. He’d looked at her as though entranced

by every word.

At the symposium, she had been fascinated by the strange mating habit of the creature. She knew a few mistresses who would

no doubt not mind having the ability to bite off the heads of their lovers. The women often complained that their chaps were

either selfish or unskilled when it came to pleasuring them. Marlowe had the sense that Langdon would never have a mistress

who was a member of the Praying Mantis Club.

She glanced around. The chamber seemed cold and barren without him in it. She wondered if he was planning on returning.

Gingerly easing off the sofa—every muscle, bone, and joint was announcing it had been a casualty of the storm—she wandered

to one of the huge windows and gazed out. Its size made it perfect for storm watching. She’d been able to see little last

night. It appeared the dwelling was on the edge of a rise. Of course, it would be to allow for the best visibility when searching

for those who were coming this way with nefarious intentions. She wondered how many ships might have crashed here on moonless

nights or during storms. She suspected hers was the only balloon to have done so.

The clouds were still heavy and dark, the wind howling, and the rain a torrential downpour. How much life could the storm

have left in it?

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 woman and, 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 would like is 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.

But the day had come when he’d been determined to re-create his proposal. And he’d been unable to recall how numbers worked. It might have helped if he’d been able to identify the numerals or at least determine their value, how many items composed each one. He knew they were used for counting but he had lost the ability to count. Not knowing the value of each number made it impossible to merge any of them and come up with a total, much less merge a page full of them. Without that capability, how was he going to comprehend the estate ledgers? How was he going to ensure the solvency of the properties that would be entrusted to his care when he inherited the title?

And if he married, bloody hell, he wouldn’t even be able to count how many children his wife gave him.

With the aid of the primer, he’d been trying to relearn numbers using the word problems because he still maintained a grasp

on words. But when he got to a number, he could trace it onto paper but everything else about it remained a mystery. It was

the damnedest thing.

His physician had diagnosed him with railway spine. Said his brain and spine had gotten badly shaken up in the railway accident.

They didn’t yet have a cure for it because every case was different. All he could do was hope that his ability to decipher

numbers would return. But in his opinion hope was a poor plan.

Hence the primer. And all his failed attempts to rid himself of the problem.

And now he had another problem: Marlowe.

She could prick his temper without even trying. She unsettled him. She was too curious, too smart. Most women he knew would have been bored silly with talk of insects. Squeamish at least. While she’d been fascinated.

With her inquisitive mind, she might determine what was happening in this room. Hell, she might be able to figure out his

affliction by merely having a conversation with him. What if they waded into a topic that involved numbers?

His best recourse was to simply ignore her.