Chapter Eight

“I think it’s time you made your way to London, Notley,” Rory said a few days later.

Munro Notley looked up from his soup, brows raised and expression hopeful. “I say! It’s about time you saw reason. Another few days in the country, and I’ll go stark-raving mad. Cocks crowing at all hours, children running about and squealing before noon, dinner in the middle of the day…”

“Clearly, country life does not suit you. You’ll be much happier in Town.” Even more importantly, Miss Brooking would be happier if Notley was in Town, and if Rory’s governess was happy, there would be no further midnight meetings. No more temptations.

Notley squinted at him. “Hold on now. Are you not joining me?”

“I’m not, no. I must stay here and deal with the squealing child.”

Notley had a point about Frances making enough noise to wake the dead practically before sunrise, but Rory found he didn’t mind. He rather liked hearing her laughter and squeals of delight, followed by the quiet murmurs of Miss Brooking.

“You have a governess, and from what I’ve seen, the woman is more than capable. Surely Miss Lumlee will be well cared for in your absence.”

Rory lifted his wine glass and sipped. “I don’t doubt it, but I am staying here.”

Notley gave him a hard look. Rory didn’t feel the need to explain himself, and Notley knew him well enough to read the signs when his mind was made up. “I’ll have my valet pack my things and set off in the morning.”

“Let me know when you’ve settled. The Clarendon Hotel is my preferred establishment.”

“Mine as well. I doubt I’ll stay more than a fortnight. If you tire of domesticity by then, you’re welcome to join me. I was thinking of traveling somewhere warm. Perhaps Portugal or Spain.”

Rory quirked a brow. “There is a war, you know.”

“Exactly why I didn’t mention France.”

The footmen removed the soup and brought the next course. Rory waved away more wine. He wanted a clear head tonight, one that didn’t pound in the morning. When all but Gables had departed, he took a deep breath. “I almost hate to ask, but would you do me a favor whilst in London?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“You remember my friend Kingston?”

“The one cursed by a witch who lost his title?” Strange how blithely the words rolled off Notley’s tongue.

“That one.”

“I’m not likely to forget. Don’t tell me you want me to find him.”

“I don’t know where to reach him. I sent a letter to his town house, but it was returned unopened. I have no idea where he might be or if he’s still in London. I would go myself, but…” Rory made a vague gesture, not wanting to explain again, especially to a confirmed bachelor like Munro Notley, that he felt obligated to stay here with his child at present.

“Shall I make inquiries for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” Notley pointed his fork at Rory. “But all bets are off if I see any signs of witches.”

Rory glanced at Gables, and the butler left the dining room. He took another sip of wine. “You really do believe in curses and witchcraft.”

“I’m hardly alone. A couple hundred years ago, innocent women were being burned at the stake.”

“So you admit those women weren’t witches.”

“Seems doubtful, but that doesn’t mean witches don’t exist. Do I think a curse caused the Duke of Avebury to commit treason? Not really, but I believe your friend Kingston believes it.”

“And what if I told you the Duke of Carlisle has also written to me? He’s lost his country estate and his town house, the latter on his thirtieth birthday. King turned thirty the night the Lords found his father guilty of treason.”

“The curse mentions the age of thirty?”

Rory nodded.

“Could be coincidence.”

“What if I told you the day my wife and…” He cleared his throat. “The day Lady Emory died was my thirtieth birthday.”

Notley set down his fork and finished his wine. “I would say whatever you did to anger this witch, the punishment does not fit the crime.”

The two men were staring at each other when a tap sounded on the door. Rory jumped and almost knocked his wine over. “Devil take it,” he muttered. “Come.”

The door opened, and Miss Brooking peeked inside. He knew it was her before he even saw her face, as her bright hair preceded her. “My lord and Mr. Notley, Miss Lumlee wishes to say goodnight.”

Rory raised his brows and glanced at Notley. The other man shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t know what to do any more than Rory. “Er, come in?”

Miss Brooking opened the door wider, and his daughter entered, dressed in a frilly white robe and slippers. Her hair was still damp but pulled into a neat tail secured with a ribbon. She looked exactly as he’d always pictured his daughter. She even smiled at him. “Goodnight, Mr. Notley. Goodnight, Papa.” She gave a quick curtsey and turned to go.

Miss Brooking shook her head and twirled her finger, and the girl turned back to Rory. Head down, she trudged over to him. Rory watched with some amusement and fascination, having no idea what to expect now. Another curtsey? “Goodnight, Papa,” Frances said.

“Goodnight.”

Frances glanced at her governess again. “I am supposed to kiss your cheek,” she said quietly.

“Oh.” Rory was taken aback. “Do you, er, want to kiss my cheek?”

“No.”

“Frances—” Miss Brooking began, but Rory held up a hand.

“How about a handshake?” He held out his hand. Frances looked at it for a moment then put her little hand in his. He pumped it lightly and looked into her eyes. “Goodnight, Frances. Sleep well.”

She pulled her hand away and ran back to Miss Brooking, who put an arm about her shoulders and ushered the girl out. “Goodnight, my lord. Mr. Notley,” she said, and closed the door. Rory couldn’t help but feel as though she were warning him that there had better not be a repeat of a few nights ago.

“I don’t envy your staying here,” Notley said.

“Why? You see the change in my daughter in only a couple of days. Miss Brooking is working miracles.”

“She’ll have you under her thumb in no time. I know her kind.”

Rory had never been under any woman’s thumb, not even Harriet’s when he was the most besotted with her. But the comment did make him remember his interaction with Genevieve in her mother’s garden and her requests. He still didn’t like the idea of his daughter wearing spectacles, but he didn’t see the harm in giving her a bottle of Harriet’s perfume. His former wife’s things had been packed away and put into the north attic when she died. After dinner, he took a lamp, opened the door to the musty stairs, and made his way up.

His family had not lived in this house for generations, so there were no centuries-old portraits or wardrobes filled with clothing from another era. This attic was the smaller of the two, the south attic being the larger and used as sleeping quarters for the footmen.

Rory hung his lamp on a hook and surveyed the space. A few paintings he had brought from London but decided not to hang leaned against one wall. A clock and a table Harriet hadn’t liked were on the other side. And pushed against the far wall was a large trunk—all that remained of Harriet in the house. Most of her things had been at the house in London. Rory couldn’t even be certain he’d find more than a few hats and aprons in the trunk, but he made himself move forward and open it anyway.

As he’d expected, large-brimmed hats, good for keeping the sun off the face, were on top. Under those were aprons one might wear when gardening. He lifted them out and set them carefully aside. Below those were what looked like gowns. He recognized one of them, a blue garment that had always made her eyes look beautiful. He reached down and lifted it as well, and the scent of her wafted up to meet him. For a long moment, he was immobile, awash in memories, good and bad. He could remember burying his face in her hair and the scent of her surrounding him. He could also remember the way she sneered at him and slammed a door, leaving her scent trailing behind as she sauntered away.

He did not find any bottles of perfume, but he did find a stack of four handkerchiefs. He lifted those to his nose and sniffed. Many women perfumed their handkerchiefs so they might block out unpleasant odors if necessary. These still retained the scent of Harriet and her perfume. He set them aside and began piling the other items back in the trunk. When he lifted the blue gown again, something thudded onto the floorboards, and he moved aside to better see what had fallen.

It was a simple gold chain with a cut sapphire dangling at the end. He’d bought it for her as a wedding present because he thought the gem matched her eyes. She’d seemed almost offended by the gift, intimating that what he had seen as a delicate, lovely piece was small and a poor show of his affection for her. Looking back now, Rory realized that was the first time he had a glimpse of the real woman he’d married. The next would come in bed on the wedding night, when his very touch seemed to repulse her.

He pocketed the necklace and shoved the rest of Harriet’s things back in the trunk. Then he closed the lid, lifted the handkerchiefs, and made his way back down the stairs. The necklace he put on a table in his bedchamber. He would save it for Frances when she was a few years older. But he would not have the scent of Harriet in his room. He gave the handkerchiefs to Gables and asked him to wrap them in tissue and place them in a wooden box to be delivered to the nursery with Frances’s morning meal.

If Gables thought the instructions strange, he did not show it. A consummate professional, he only nodded and said, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“Send my valet. I’m ready for bed.”

“Yes, my lord.” Gables turned and began to move away.

Damn it, Rory thought. Damn. Damn. Damn. He clenched his teeth. “Gables,” he gritted out.

The butler turned again. “Yes, my lord?”

“One more thing.” He clenched his fists but made himself say it. “Send for a doctor to come at his earliest convenience.”

“Are you feeling unwell, my lord?”

“No. It’s for Miss Lumlee. She’ll need to be fitted for spectacles.”

*

Genevieve was almost as excited as Frances at the mysterious box delivered with the breakfast tray. There was no doubt it was for the little girl. Her name had been written on a white card and placed on top of the box.

“What do you think it is?” Frances asked, eyes wide.

“Open it and see.”

She reached for the box and then pulled her hand back. “Shall I wait until after I eat?”

Genevieve was impressed with her patience. At Frances’s age, she would have opened the box and gone through its contents within seconds. “If you like. Sometimes the anticipation of a gift is almost as wonderful as the gift itself.”

Frances set the box beside her on the nursery table and began to eat her porridge. Genevieve straightened the bedclothes, even though Mary would be in to clean and tidy the nursery later. The breakfast tray included tea and toast for Genevieve, but she didn’t feel very hungry. She’d had nightmares about witches the past couple of nights, and she blamed Lord Emory for it. In fact, she blamed Lord Emory for how poorly she’d slept lately. After their interlude—that seemed the appropriate word—in his library, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how vulnerable he had been when he talked about the loss of his wife and child. Particularly tragic was the loss of his infant son before he’d even had a chance to meet the baby.

Genevieve gathered that Lord Emory had not been on the best terms with his wife at the time of her death, or throughout their marriage, but surely they must have reconciled at some point if they had a newborn son. Perhaps he’d hoped to reconcile again, and he mourned what would never be.

But why would he assume responsibility for what was so clearly an accident? And why blame it on a witch and a curse? Had he simply had too much to drink and begun spouting nonsense, or was there more to it?

“Mama must have sent me this box,” Frances said, snapping Genevieve out of her reverie. She frowned and took the seat opposite the little girl, who was still eating and occasionally caressing the top of the box.

“What do you mean, Frances? How could your mother send the box?”

“She’s coming back for me,” Frances said, looking at Genevieve with her large brown eyes. “She’s gone to her secret kingdom, but she will come back for me.”

Genevieve felt her belly tighten and was glad she hadn’t tried to eat anything. She had heard Frances call her father the evil prince and chatter to her doll about a faraway kingdom and a queen, but she thought the girl had been making up fanciful stories, as children her age were wont to do. She hadn’t thought the child truly believed her mother was still alive.

Genevieve put a hand on Frances’s where the child touched the box. “Sweetheart, that box cannot be from your mother. You know that, don’t you?”

Frances pulled her hand away and shrugged.

“I know you miss your mama, and that is to be expected. I told you it’s good to remember her, but she passed away in the carriage accident. Remember that we talked about that phrase?”

Frances nodded. “May I open the box now?”

“Of course.” Genevieve removed the remains of her breakfast then watched as Frances lifted the lid of the box and peered inside.

She pulled out one silk square cloth and frowned. “What is it?”

“It looks like a handkerchief. Look at the embroidery. Those must be your mother’s initials.”

“These are my mother’s handkerchiefs?” Carefully, the girl pulled out three more silk handkerchiefs. Three of the four were white, and one a blush pink. All had the same embroidered initials.

“Those are quite lovely,” Genevieve said, and meant it. She had never had a handkerchief so fine.

Quite suddenly, Frances’s eyes went wide, and she brought the handkerchiefs to her nose. “Mama!” she cried. She closed her eyes and inhaled again. “They smell like Mama.”

Genevieve felt a lump rise in her throat. Clearly, the gift was from Lord Emory. She had asked him for perfume. Perhaps he hadn’t found perfume, but he had been able to unearth something with Lady Emory’s fragrance. Ladies often perfumed their handkerchiefs, so of course these smelled like Lady Emory.

“What a thoughtful gift,” Genevieve said when her throat was working again. “I think your papa must have sent these. You shall have to thank him.”

Frances nodded and continued pressing the handkerchiefs to her nose.

“Does the scent bring any particular memory to mind?” Genevieve asked.

“I hurt my finger,” Frances said.

Genevieve’s gaze went to Frances’s hand, but it was unharmed. “Do you mean you remember when you hurt your finger?”

“Yes. I hurt my finger playing with the cabinet doors. Mama told me not to play with them, but I liked to open them and close them again. My finger got stuck, and I cried. Mama picked me up and kissed me and held me until my finger felt better.”

“And since you were snuggled close, you could smell her perfume.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“She sounds as though she was a very good mama.”

Frances nodded.

“She must have loved you so, so much and been very sad when you hurt your finger.”

“The baby was sad too. I felt him kick.”

“Was your little brother there too?”

“He was in Mama’s belly. When she held me, he kicked me. It made me laugh.”

Genevieve smiled. “That’s a wonderful memory, Frances. I think we should put it in your book.”

“Oh, yes! Where is it?”

“I’ll fetch it.” Genevieve rose. “You fold the handkerchiefs neatly and put them back. You can keep the box on this shelf and take it down whenever you want to touch or smell the handkerchiefs and remember your mama.”

While Frances worked at folding the handkerchiefs, Genevieve found the little notebook where the girl had written the one memory of her mother she had remembered previously. Genevieve put it on the desk and readied a quill and ink. She wondered if she should say anything about Frances’s earlier comment that her mama would come for her, and decided she should discuss it with Lord Emory. After all, as the child’s father, it was more appropriate for him to discuss the death of Frances’s mother with her. Clearly, her grandparents had not done so.

Frances spent the next two hours writing her memory. Genevieve helped with spelling and penmanship and even crafting the sentences. Finally, it was late enough that she assumed Lord Emory and Mr. Notley would be at breakfast.

“You have worked so diligently this morning,” she said. “Shall we go down to the dining room and thank your father for his gift?”

Frances looked at the box on the low shelf where Genevieve had placed it. “Yes. Then can we go outside and play with Admiral?”

Admiral was the name of the dog owned by the groundskeeper, Mr. Bloom.

“I don’t see why not.”

They went down the stairs together, and Genevieve knocked on the dining room door. Gables opened it and turned to the room. “Miss Lumlee and Miss Brooking,” he said. The door swung wider, and Lord Emory looked up from the paper he held. Genevieve immediately noted that he was eating alone. She also noted that her belly was rebelling at not having been fed earlier. The smell of tea and baked goods made her mouth water.

Lord Emory stood.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said.

“Good morning, Miss Brooking. Frances.”

“Good morning, Papa.” Frances looked down, still shy around her father. He was an imposing man, and Genevieve herself felt quite shy if she looked at him directly for too long. He looked particularly handsome this morning in his dove-gray coat and charcoal waistcoat. He wore riding breeches and boots, and she couldn’t help but notice how well the breeches molded to his thighs.

But this was not an excursion to ogle the master of the house. “Frances, did you want to tell your papa something?”

“Yes,” the girl said quietly.

Lord Emory sat again, seeming to sense that standing made him more intimidating. “What is it, Frances? Come here and tell me.”

The little girl looked at Genevieve and then padded over to her father. “I want to say thank you for the handkerchiefs.”

He smiled, and Frances smiled back. Genevieve felt her own mouth curve up as well. He had a very charming smile. “I’m so glad you like them. Someone”—he looked at Genevieve, who felt her cheeks grow warm—“mentioned you might like something with your mother’s scent to remember her by.”

“I did remember her,” Frances said. “I remembered the time I hurt my finger, and she gave me a very long hug until my tears dried up.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and the baby in her belly kicked me. That made us both laugh. Mama and me.”

Genevieve saw the pain that flashed in Lord Emory’s eyes, but he continued to smile. “I’m so glad you were able to remember that.”

“I have to remember her, so I know what she looks like and recognize her.”

Lord Emory said, “Of course.”

Genevieve’s smile faltered, though. Her father might not understand what Frances meant when she said she needed to recognize her mama, but Genevieve did. It meant she was still imagining that her mother would come back.

“Frances,” Lord Emory said, “how would you and Miss Brooking like to dine with me tonight?”

Frances looked at Genevieve, who looked at Lord Emory. As a governess, it was not uncommon for her to eat with the family, especially if the children were old enough to join their parents on occasion. But Frances was on the younger side, and Lord Emory and his friend Mr. Notley were unlikely to be suitable dinner companions for a governess and a young child.

“My lord—” Genevieve began.

“Mr. Notley has gone,” he said. “He left early this morning for London. I’ll be eating all alone at this big table if you don’t join me.” He raised his brows at Frances, who turned to Genevieve.

“Miss Genevieve, we can’t leave him alone at the big table.”

“I agree, Miss Lumlee. We must join your papa for dinner.” She gave a curtsey in thanks not only for the invitation to dinner but for sending Mr. Notley away. She truly hadn’t expected Lord Emory to listen to anything she had to say this early in her employment. She was used to some resistance from a new family when she first made recommendations. Usually, after six months they deferred to her in everything. Lord Emory had seemed more resistant than most, and yet he’d done everything—almost everything—she asked of him. Perhaps now might be a good time to make another request. She might be taking it a step too far, but what was the old saying, strike while the iron is hot ?

“Frances, why don’t you go outside and see if you can find Admiral? I will join you in a moment.”

“Yes!” The girl turned to go then remembered herself, gave her father a quick curtsey, and ran out of the room.

Lord Emory bowed to Genevieve, an amused smile on his lips. “I must admit, you have done wonders with the child. Several days ago, she was kicking me and refusing to bathe. Now she is clean and exhibiting what look to be decent manners.”

“She’s a very sweet child,” she said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

Lord Emory raised a brow. “Why do I have a feeling there is a but coming?”

“There is no but . There is a who .”

“I don’t follow.”

“She is a sweet child who needs her father.”

“I’m right here.”

She couldn’t argue with his statement. He was providing food, shelter, care, and an education for his child. Nothing more was expected of a gentleman in his position. Nothing more was expected of any man.

But Frances needed more.

“You have been extremely thoughtful, my lord. The handkerchiefs were a wonderful gift that I know Frances will cherish. There is one thing I did want to address with you.”

“Just one thing?” He took a seat and leaned back.

“One thing more. This morning when Frances received the box, she said something I think you should know. She told me she thought the box was from her mother.”

“It is, in a way.”

“No, my lord. The gift is from you, but the fact that Frances believes her mother could send her gifts worries me. Several times she has either said to me, or to her doll in play, that she believes her mother is coming back for her. I have explained that her mother has died, but I’m not sure if she believes me or simply doesn’t want to accept the truth.”

Lord Emory’s gaze went to the windows, where Frances could be seen petting Admiral while Mr. Bloom looked on.

“What do you think I should do about it?” His brandy-colored eyes shifted to Genevieve. “Sit her down and tell her that her mother is buried on the west side of the property and never coming back for her?”

“No, though a visit to her mother’s grave is not a bad idea. I think what Frances needs is reassurance that she is safe here, safe with you.”

“Do you think I will harm her?”

“Of course not.”

“And I already told you I won’t send her away to a school.”

“But you haven’t told her . Nor have you promised her you will not leave her again or send her away.”

He opened his mouth then closed it. “I’m not quite sure I can promise that. I returned to England for a reason. Once that objective is accomplished, I cannot promise to stay here.”

“I see.” If he couldn’t promise to stay with Frances and offer her a stable home and caretaker, then perhaps it was better if he said nothing. Actions could reassure as well, though. “Perhaps it is better if you don’t say anything to her then. But I do think there’s value in getting to know her better and allowing her to know you.”

“She’s seven. What else do I need to know?”

“Her favorite color? Her favorite games? What she fears? What she loves? Spend some time with her, my lord.”

“That is what I pay you for, Miss Brooking.”

“And I am doing my job, my lord.”

“I advise you to stick to your job and stop telling me mine.”

Genevieve opened her mouth again then closed it. She’d already overstepped. “Yes, my lord. May I be excused?”

He waved a hand, and she felt her back burning as he watched her depart.