16. Chapter Sixteen

H ugh was glad that the next day was Saturday. He sent his excuses round to Lord Eversly and spent the evening with his uncle’s family. Then, since Sunday was Sunday and he tried not to work on that day if he could help it, he had a reason to stay away again.

Come Monday, though, Hugh was back at Lord Eversly’s home. He gave serious consideration to entering through the kitchens again. It was possible he could get to his little drawing room work area without being noticed. Then he couldn’t be pulled into a game of cards or billiards or convinced to join anyone for dinner.

Additionally, if he didn’t see Miss Woodbury, she couldn’t closely inspect his mannerisms, as if he held the key to matrimonial success. His lack of a wife should have been enough to prove this, but apparently it didn’t. Hugh didn’t particularly think watching him would help, but on the chance that it would, he wanted to avoid it, if at all possible.

Hugh didn’t like thinking about the stubborn, vibrant woman obtaining a calculated, loveless marriage. His parents had done so and while they were living a perfectly adequate and seemingly happy life, he couldn’t recall either of them ever being very vibrant. Granted, he didn’t know if they’d been vibrant before their marriage either, but he did know that everything from when to change the price on a candle (down ten percent every Monday after it had been on the shelf for a month) to when they chose to have him come visit (every other year in the summer when the upper crust of London fled to the countryside) was decided with the same level of practicality.

It worked for his parents. He was pretty sure that one day it would work for him. But he couldn’t see it working for Miss Woodbury. As eminently practical as she seemed to be, she also cared far too much to leave everything to cerebral motivations.

Then again, he’d met the woman less than two weeks ago. What did he truly know about her?

Because Ambrose had threatened to pull his funding if Hugh snuck in through the kitchens again, he climbed the steps and lifted the ornate silver knocker.

The butler let him in and took his hat and coat. “Thank you, Hodges.”

“Lord Eversly has asked that you be taken straight to the billiard room as Cook has forbidden me from having the tray sent up until you arrive.”

It was impossible to detect either censure or approval in Hodges’s voice, but Hugh dropped his gaze all the same. Since he’d been coming to the house on the regular, he’d been setting and winding all the clocks, free of charge. It was a simple enough way to thank the household for supporting his work.

From a comment he’d heard after that strange dinner Friday night, it was possible the housekeeper was redirecting the funds normally set aside for such duties to the food budget for the staff. One of the maids had mentioned getting lemon cake just because it was Thursday.

Hugh went up the stairs and turned toward the billiard room.

Marmaduke all but leapt from his chair when Hugh appeared in the doorway. “At last! A man of sense has arrived.”

“He is not a man of sense, he is a man of trade,” Lord Northwick said. “I am a man of leisure.”

“And good taste.” Ambrose toasted his friend with the short, cut glass tumbler in his hand.

“But not enough breeding,” Marmaduke muttered.

Hugh winced. It was true that when Lord Northwick was in attendance, these games were far more . . . uncomfortable.

“Select your weapon.” Duke waved toward the rack of cues.

As Hugh selected a cue, Ambrose set the balls in place on the table, and Lord Northwick tipped his head thoughtfully in Hugh’s direction. “Have you another recommendation? Ambrose and I went to that chocolate shop, and it was scrumptious.” He laughed. “The proprietor was a bit taken aback by the presence of two lords, but they’ll soon get accustomed to that. We told everyone at the club about it.”

If aristocrats started frequenting the shop he stopped at for the occasional treat, he hoped they were dropping his name as well. That way he would get a discount when the prices rose to match the pocketbooks of the customers.

The balls had barely clacked together when another voice cut through the general discussion, bringing the commentary on Duke’s skills at the billiard table to a complete halt.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Three male heads swung toward the door, but Hugh hung his with a slight groan. He should have known she would carry through on her threat. This nightly stint in the billiard room was the only time she could observe him interacting with these men, but somehow Hugh hadn’t thought she would actually dare to intrude.

“Ah, Miss Woodbury. How honored we are that you’ve graced us with your presence.” Lord Northwick all but tossed his cue toward the window alcove as he crossed the room to bow over her hand.

He came to a halt as Ambrose growled a threat to impale him on a cue stick if Lord Northwick so much as touched her.

The other aristocrat turned back toward the table with a grin. “Have you found your protective instincts?”

“Yes.” Ambrose leaned over the table and sent the cue ball rolling. “I’m protecting you from her sharp tongue. You are most definitely not the sort of man she views with benevolence.”

“As she is not the sort of woman I—”

“I do believe it is your turn, Marmaduke,” Hugh said stiffly. In truth, he didn’t know whose turn it was, but anything to keep Lord Northwick from finishing that sentence.

“What are you doing here, Clara?” Ambrose pushed Lord Northwick back toward the table and stood between his cousin and the rest of the room.

“I . . . um . . . That is, I wish to learn billiards.”

Hugh almost snorted out a laugh. Obviously, the presence of Lord Northwick had altered the course of her plans. Spending time with her brother and cousin were one thing, but adding an unmarried aristocrat to the mix was another.

Hugh’s marital status didn’t signify. While the staff had been told to treat him like a guest, they were well aware that he was closer to their status than that of their employer. It was why Hugh wasn’t completely afraid for someone to find Miss Woodbury visiting his workroom.

No, the unwilling debutante scared him far more than the gossiping parlor maid.

Not that he was hoping to marry her.

Not that he would mind doing so.

It was just that she wouldn’t be a wife that could stand by his side and help him make a solid business for himself.

And he wouldn’t be the settled country husband she required.

It was his turn to hit the balls and the force of his shot nearly sent his cue ball launching from the table.

“I shall be happy to teach you, but perhaps now is not the right time.” Ambrose looked over his shoulder at the three men taking random shots at the cue ball. Any sense of an actual game had been lost.

“Perhaps I can watch. There's a lot to be learned from observation.”

Ambrose sighed. “It isn’t proper, Clara.”

Her eyebrows arched in accusation, and Hugh almost winced as he guessed what she was going to say next. “Since when did you care about what was proper?” She narrowed her gaze and looked to Marmaduke. “I have a question, brother.”

Both of her male relations groaned.

“I don’t know what your question is,” Marmaduke said with a sigh, “but I know it’s going to be one I don’t wish to answer.” He gave his sister a narrow glare. “Which is not how this is meant to work.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Ambrose snorted out a laugh of disbelief. “You can hardly be desperate to learn billiards.”

“And yet, I think I should gain command of the game.” Miss Lockhart grinned in triumph.

“They’re serving lamb stew at the club tonight,” Lord Northwick announced as he slid his cue into the rack and scooped up the jacket draped over the back of a chair. “I believe I shall see what entertainments await there.”

With a flurry of nods and murmured goodbyes, the man left. At the door, he sent another speculative glance at Miss Woodbury. Once his footsteps had faded, a tightness eased from around Hugh’s chest.

When he allowed his own gaze to land on the woman settling herself into a curved, upholstered chair, the discomfort returned. She was looking right at him with a triumphant grin.

Hugh leaned over and sent the cue ball rolling once more.

Clara should have felt a thrill of triumph over both having the nerve to walk into the billiard room and convincing Ambrose to let her stay. Instead, all she felt was frustration.

The men had played two games of billiards. More than half of their conversation had been about whose turn it was or what the balls had done. It was just like the talk in a ballroom where people could speak of nothing but when they would get to dance and who had already been on the floor with whom.

The only observation she’d been able to make so far was that Mr. Lockhart was a decent shot and both Duke and Ambrose respected him for it.

When the conversation did turn elsewhere, it was normally Marmaduke and Ambrose falling into the same teasing banter they’d enjoyed as children. Mr. Lockhart simply let that flow around him, seemingly content to remain oblivious to any references to shared experiences or mutual acquaintances.

Clara tried to join in the teasing once or twice, and while they seemed to welcome her contributions, the rhythm of the conversation was lost. Had they changed so much? Or had she? Surely it hadn’t been that many years ago that they could have spent entire afternoons together and never run out of things to say or games to play.

When it was time for her to leave to get ready for that evening’s outing—she didn’t even remember where they were supposed to be going—she wasn’t feeling any more prepared for her next attempt at fitting in with London society.

Her hair had already been tended, so all that was needed was a change of dress and Clara would be ready. Mother came in while the maid was fastening Clara’s buttons.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, but your aunt has a headache.”

Did that mean they were staying in tonight? She could join the men at dinner. Surely the atmosphere would be more social there than it had been in the billiard room. It wouldn’t do to look excited about the canceling of plans, though, so Clara tried to focus on the sympathy she felt for her aunt. “I’m sorry she isn’t feeling well. Is it very bad?”

“Not so bad that she’s taken to bed but enough that she is not leaving her room.” Mother glanced around. “I thought I would join her there, and we would have a quiet dinner brought up. Would you like to come as well?”

“If she is seeking a quiet interlude, I fear the two of us might talk too much for her comfort.” Clara was all but jumping at the chance to see if the men had already adjourned to the dining room.

“Very well.” Mother stepped back to look at the dress. “You look positively divine in that gown, though. Be sure to set it aside to wear another evening.”

As if Clara would let such an expenditure go to waste. “I will, Mother.”

As soon as the older woman was gone, Clara dismissed her maid and counted to ten. Then she left the room and made her way downstairs.

The men were just sitting at the table when Clara made her entrance. It was a simple matter to request the footman bring another place setting, and she moved to sit beside Marmaduke.

Unfortunately, dinner was just as fruitless as billiards had been. Yes, the conversation lit on a far larger variety of topics and yes, both Duke and Ambrose seemed to find Hugh an amiable and engaging companion, but Clara could not determine what Hugh was doing that made him so.

He asked questions about the other men’s activities.

She had asked after her party companions’ activities.

He laughed at their terrible jokes.

She had forced amusement when it seemed the rest of the group found something humorous.

He even made a controversial observation or two.

She had striven to never speak with contention at a gathering.

It would seem she should be doing better than Mr. Lockhart, but clearly that wasn’t the case. It could be that Ambrose and Duke had far different temperaments than those who were moving in fine society this Season, but it couldn’t all be dependent on other people.

Mr. Lockhart had to be doing something.

The only problem was he didn’t seem to know what. Occasionally he would catch her eye and give her a sad smile as if he knew he wasn’t helping her at all.

As soon as dinner finished, Mr. Lockhart excused himself. After giving Clara and the two gentlemen a brief nod, he left the room.

Clara stared at the remains of the fruit tart that had graced her plate and frowned. Finally, she looked up at her brother and simply asked. “What was it about Mr. Lockhart that made you want to start spending time with him?”

Ambrose choked on the tea he’d just taken a sip of, and Marmaduke laughed.

“Seriously. It isn’t as if the two of you regularly seek out tradesmen to fill your social calendars.”

“At first, I spent time with him because Duke asked me to.” Ambrose shrugged as he dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. “After that, I don’t know. He’s an enjoyable fellow to be around, despite the lack of common interests. I was surprised, really.”

Duke grinned. “I asked because he was the first non-titled man I’d seen in Ambrose’s company that didn’t fawn over his existence. I needed someone to balance out the aristocracy in the room.”

While it was clear both men thought highly of Mr. Lockhart, neither of those answers gave her something to work with. No, she wasn’t titled, but she wasn’t disconnected enough to be a novelty.

She thanked them and left the room. Instead of walking upstairs, though, she traced the path to Mr. Lockhart’s workroom. After a brief knock, she pushed open the unlatched door.

“I rather thought I’d see you.” Mr. Lockhart gave her a smile before leaning over the small box on the table that would someday hold his masterpiece.

“But you don’t have a way to help me.”

“The best I can say is what I’ve already told you. Be yourself. I don’t know how that works or what it looks like, particularly for ladies.”

She sighed and dropped into the chair by the door. “I am doomed to failure then.”

Instead of leaving, she let the conversation continue. She enjoyed his company. Surely if they weren’t talking about anything serious, they could avoid a debate.

It didn’t take five minutes for them to disagree, though. This time it was over the best flavor of cake. Mr. Lockhart declared it to be a ginger and cinnamon cake his aunt made around Christmas while Clara was solidly on the side of citrus flavors such as lemon and orange.

Still, when she finally left, having felt she had stayed longer than could be considered polite, there was a smile on her face.