Chapter Seven

Seven

P rudence backed through the library door, trying to juggle a tart and flip the page of her book at the same time. Safely inside the library, she shoved the door shut with her foot. A light snore rattled the silence, and she froze. Her heart thudded a warning. As she turned, the tart slipped from her fingers and landed on the polished wood floor with a splat.

Sebastian sprawled in the wing-backed chair, his white-stockinged feet propped on the stool. His head was thrown back, his mouth slightly ajar. A book lay across his lap, rumpling the neat creases of his tan breeches.

She knew she ought to scrape up her tart and silently creep away. Sebastian Kerr would soon be master of this house. If he chose to deny her the haven of the library in the first peace of the day, that was his right. But the slanting rays of the morning sun poured over him, seeming to drag her forward. Just one look, she promised herself. Just to satisfy her perverse curiosity about the reading habits of a notorious highwayman.

Clutching her own book, she glided toward him, bedazzled by more than the sunshine. The fragile light spun a white-gold web around Sebastian. He looked like a medieval prince awaiting a kiss to break his enchantment. Before she realized it, Prudence was leaning forward, her lips parted. Sebastian's thigh shifted, and she gave herself a harsh mental shake.

She could hardly afford to indulge in such girlish fantasies about her aunt's fiancé. He was just a man like any other man. She forced herself to focus on his faults—the little hiccup at the crest of each snore, the pale scar under his chin. She bent over him. Why, his teeth weren't even perfect! One of his front teeth had a corner chipped out of it.

He stirred again, and she almost giggled at the thought of him awakening to find her peering into his mouth like a horse trader.

She eased the book from his lap, but she didn't have to turn it over to recognize it. It was Lavoisier's famed tome on gunpowder, the very book he had discovered her reading the day before. He had made it to the second page before falling asleep.

Her bewilderment shifted to unreasoning ire. The book slid from her rigid fingers, hitting the Persian carpet with a soft thud. How long had he been lying in wait for her? The man should be with his fiancée. What right did he have to ruin her morning? To insinuate himself into her library, her chair, her book? Was there nothing in her life he would leave alone, unchanged by the casual mockery of his touch? She glared down at him, unwillingly noticing how his dark lashes fanned across his cheeks. Sleeping people looked so terribly vulnerable.

She took three deliberate steps backward, off the carpet, held her arms straight out in front of her, and dropped her book. It slammed into the floor with the force of a gunshot.

Sebastian flew out of the chair, groping at his waist. Prudence didn't know whether to laugh or be ashamed when she realized he was searching for his pistols. His wild-eyed gaze lit on her.

She blinked, all innocence. "I'm dreadfully sorry. I didn't know you were in here."

He sank back into the chair and dragged a hand through his tousled hair. "Good Lord, girl. You took ten years off my life."

She noted that he wasn't too senile to nudge the treatise on gunpowder under his chair with his heel.

She knelt to retrieve her own book. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'll be going now."

"No!"

She stared at him, frozen in place on her knees.

He gave his frock coat a sheepish tug, as if realizing how much desperation had tempered his command. "Stay, please. There's ample room for both of us here."

Prudence didn't know if the Colosseum of Rome held ample room for both of them. Before she could protest, though, he was kneeling beside her. His knee brushed hers as he picked up her book.

He gave a mock stagger at its weight and read the title aloud, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar Latin. "Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica by Isaac Newton." He handed it to her. "I'm glad to see you've taken up some lighter reading, Prudence. I was beginning to wonder if you ever had any fun."

His teasing grin revealed the chip in his tooth. It only made him look dashing. Prudence knew she should have escaped before he recovered his smile.

She hugged the book to her breasts like a shield, babbling as she always did when nervous. "Newton is quite fascinating, you know. The Principia explores his hypothesis that the force of attraction between two bodies varies directly…"

Her voice trailed off as she became mesmerized by the clean scent of his hair, the lazy little flick of his tongue across his upper lip.

He lifted an eyebrow, challenging her to continue.

She stood abruptly. "You wouldn't be interested."

He straightened too. "You're wrong, Prudence. I would be very interested."

"No, you wouldn't." She took a step backward. "I—I'm boring. Everyone says so."

"Nonsense. I find Norton's theories quite intriguing."

"Newton," she corrected, taking another step away from him, acutely aware of the closed door at her back.

He reached for her book, as if by touching it he could somehow hold her there. Her fingers dug into the leather spine. Oddly enough, it wasn't the considerable charm of his physical presence that tempted her to stay. It was the tender earnestness in his eyes. It would be too easy to believe he actually wanted to sit with her among all these books, and laugh and talk about the things that interested them, as she and Papa used to do. When she looked up, though, Sebastian's gaze was lingering not on her book, but on her lips.

A strange heat flooded her cheeks. She fumbled behind her for the door handle. "Perhaps another time."

As if sensing he had pushed too hard, too fast, he stepped back. "Come tomorrow morning, won't you? We could talk…"

A peculiar expression stole over his face, and she followed his gaze downward. His foot was planted firmly in the middle of her tart. Raspberries bled into his immaculate white stocking.

Prudence clapped a hand over her mouth before a throaty giggle could escape. Tricia said her laugh was vulgar, as low and common as a London hussy's. Beneath his lowered lashes, Sebastian's eyes sparkled dangerously. Prudence opened the door, deciding it was wisest to pretend she hadn't noticed his foot was mired in her breakfast.

"Perhaps tomorrow." She bobbed a harried curtsy. "Good day, my lord."

His elegant bow could have graced any London drawing room. "Good day, Prudence."

She backed into the hall, turned and ran, skittering around the corner and out the door to the garden. She collapsed against the wall, smothering her merry peals of laughter with her skirt.

Sebastian trailed his hand through the rippling cool water of the fish pond. A goldfish nipped his thumb. He straightened with a sigh and leaned on the balustrade. The sun toasted his cambric shirt against his shoulders. He longed to tear away his queue and let the warm wind rush through his hair.

From the bowling green below the terrace, Squire Blake waved a turkey leg at him. Sebastian wondered if that would be him in twenty years. Corpulent and crude, satisfied to spend his days playing games with other overgrown children and his nights learning clever new ways to fold his cravat. He shuddered.

"Have you taken a chill, darling? Shall I have Fish fetch your coat?"

Sebastian suppressed another shudder as Tricia's trilling voice raked down his spine. What sort of inane question was that, he wondered. Probably just another excuse to stuff him into a frock coat. He swung around to face his fiancée. She sat a few feet away, going through her correspondence with Old Fish. Just recently risen from her bed, she wore only her elegant robe de chambre —and, of course, a wig and full complement of makeup. Her damp fichu clung to her bosom. A trickle of sweat eased down her flushed cheek, melting the powder in its wake. Beneath the flattering candlelight of London ballrooms and her bedchamber, he had never noticed the folds of skin loosening at her throat. He felt a pang of sympathy mixed with irritation. It must be stifling under that wig.

"No, thank you, dear," he said, dredging up a pleasant smile "I haven't taken a chill.

She tittered. "Perhaps a goose walked over your grave."

A Great Dane, more likely, he thought as Boris galloped across the lawn below, scattering the peacocks.

Tricia blew him a kiss and went back to dictating her correspondence. Catching the butler's eye, Sebastian decided he might need that coat after all. Old Fish's glare was as shivering as a glacier.

His hands clenched the balustrade. He wouldn't have to worry about a grave for quite some time. The only thing likely to kill him at Lindentree was boredom. Rising at five each morning to haunt the library wasn't improving his temper either, especially since Prudence had failed to appear after their last meeting. He was a slow reader, and had struggled to page fifty of the gunpowder book without gaining any insight into her character.

Squire Blake tromped up the grassy slope, sucking the last drops of grease from the turkey bone. The afternoon stretched interminably before Sebastian. Tea. A round of bowling on the lawn. Dinner. Sipping brandy while listening to Tricia pound on her new pianoforte. A late supper. No wonder Squire Blake was so obsessed with his digestion. In the past week their whole lives had consisted of an endless parade of meals broken only by an occasional hunt or ball. Sebastian smothered a yawn with the back of his hand.

A boom shattered the silence, rattling the glass in the casement windows.

Sebastian spun around. "What the hell …?"

Tricia slapped a sheaf of letters on the stone table. "Damn that girl! I warned her."

Her robe rippled around her feet as she stalked into the house and down the long corridor to the east wing. Old Fish trotted behind her. Sebastian followed at a safe distance, fascinated by the abrupt change in Tricia's demeanor.

Black smoke rolled out of the kitchens. Tricia slammed a handkerchief over her nose and charged into the smoky fray, batting at the air. Old Fish hung back, clutching the door frame. The smoke slowly cleared, revealing a scene of such charming chaos that Sebastian felt himself grinning like a fool.

White gobbets of dough spattered every visible surface. They clung to the cracked glass of the windows, dotted the brick hearth, and dangled from the herb rack like yeasty pearls. The iron door of the oven hung askew on its hinges. Inside, a tongue of flame licked at a charred ball. Wooden bowls, spoons, and platters littered the floor and table. Two maidservants huddled in the corner, coughing into their aprons. Sebastian-cat perched on the table, lapping cream from a shattered pitcher.

In the midst of it all stood Prudence, enveloped in a charcoal-smudged apron, her hair piled on her head in an untidy mass. Flour dusted her spectacles. Sebastian threw back his head to laugh, but as Prudence faced her aunt, something in her stance stopped him.

She laced her fingers together. Her slender throat convulsed as if she were swallowing a knot of dread. Still, she managed to summon a weak smile. "Good afternoon, Auntie."

She hadn't seen him. Sebastian slipped into the narrow alcove between pantry and cupboard, wanting to spare her the embarrassment of his presence.

"It weren't my fault, mistress." A stringy cook charged forward, brandishing a rolling pin. "The girl slipped in while I was takin' my afternoon nap."

Tricia's wig quivered with rage. Sebastian suddenly realized how much shorter than Prudence she'd be without it. "How many times have I forbidden you to use the kitchens for your horrid experiments?"

"I'm very sorry. I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't think. You didn't think about how many pounds it cost to have these windows shipped from London, did you? Or about who might be able to repair the range before my supper party tonight? This is the fifth oven you've destroyed, you careless girl."

As Prudence knotted her apron in her hands, Sebastian's hands clenched into fists. Old Fish retreated a discreet distance, but not too discreet to hear everything that was said.

Hands on her hips, Tricia surveyed the wrecked kitchen. The ribbons on her bodice heaved wildly. Sebastian-cat chose that unfortunate moment to lift his head from his feast. His whiskers dripped cream. He shook his head, spattering yellow droplets across the satin skirt of Tricia's robe.

She gave an unintelligible shriek. "How dare you let that furry monster into my kitchens!"

Her hand flew back. Prudence snatched up the cat and cradled him against her chest. Tricia's hand hung poised in the air, her crimson-tipped fingers curled like claws.

Sebastian held his breath, paralyzed, as the image fractured into jagged shards of memory. How often had he stood crippled with fear and frustration at such a scene? Then his vision cleared. His eyes narrowed. He wasn't a child anymore. It might cost him his engagement, his fortune, and his future, but if Tricia dared lay her hand against Prudence's smooth cheek, he would show her why his enemies called him Dreadful.

Prudence was paler than cream, but the hands locked around her cat were steady. She met her aunt's gaze without blinking, her chin tilted in calm defiance.

"It was an accident," she said.

Tricia slowly lowered her hand. "You and your father are prone to them, aren't you?"

Only Sebastian saw Prudence's barely perceptible flinch, for Tricia had already turned, her skirt swishing. Sebastian ducked deeper into the shadows.

"You can't expect me to clean up this ungodly mess," the cook protested.

"I certainly don't," Tricia tossed over her shoulder. "My niece made the mess. She can clean it up."

The cook tapped the rolling pin in her palm with waspish satisfaction. The maids giggled into their aprons. Tricia swept from the room, her entourage of supporters in tow. Old Fish reappeared to slam the door, jarring a glob of dough from the herb rack. It plopped into Prudence's hair. Sighing, she set the squirming kitten on a stool.

As she surveyed the kitchen, she swiped at her hair, leaving a smudge of flour where the dough had been. The small gesture betrayed her dejection more than tears or curses. Sebastian emerged from his corner, no longer able to ignore the ache in his own heart.

When she saw him, Prudence hid her shock behind a stern frown. "And where did you come from?"

He smiled. "You forget—lurking is one of my best talents."

"Remind me to remember that."

He began to open the windows. The lingering tendrils of smoke drifted away on the wind. "It seems my bride has a bit of a temper." He threw open the last window with more force than he intended. The warped pane shattered and crashed to the floor. "Damn. I'm so clumsy." His sulky grin was less than repentant.

Prudence gathered up pieces of the broken pitcher in her apron. "Tricia's not so bad. You can't really blame her, can you? It was the fifth oven."

"What were you working on?" He wracked his brain, hoping to impress her with something he'd learned from her book. Studying the floured table, the thick bowl of goo resting next to her elbow, he asked, "Was it corning powder? Some sort of detonator?"

A brilliant pink tinged her cheeks, and she sighed. "Tea cakes. I was working on tea cakes."

"Tea cakes?" If she hadn't looked so crestfallen, Sebastian would have laughed.

She scraped at the dough on the table with renewed vigor. "Cooking seems to be the only form of chemistry that eludes me. I've never been any good at it. But I was so encouraged. The icing turned out quite well."

She dipped her finger in the bowl, then tucked it between her lips with a soft moan of satisfaction. The innocent gesture wreaked havoc on Sebastian's heartbeat. A tiny bit of icing clung to the corner of her mouth. He wanted to lean over and lick it away, knowing full well the hunger he felt had little to do with tea cakes. If she only knew the dangers of tempting a starving man.

Unable to resist, he traced the inner curve of her lips with the tip of his little finger. As her eyes widened, he slid his finger into his mouth.

A smile of genuine pleasure curved his lips. "Delicious. Perhaps you're not such a bad cook after all."

The sweetness lingering on his tongue was ashes compared to her answering smile. "We should both remember that lying is also among your special gifts."

He reached down and drew off her spectacles. Her eyes revealed only a faint wariness. Would she be as compliant if he worked the pins from her hair, buried his fingers in the silky mass, traced the delicate curve of her jaw with his lips?

With a brisk motion, he polished her spectacles on his sleeve, leaving the cambric streaked with flour. He set them back gently on her nose, pretending not to see the shaky breath she drew.

Reaching around her, he plucked an apron from a wooden peg. "We'd best get to work if we plan to have this kitchen in order before Tricia's supper party."

"You don't have to help me."

"You didn't have to help me either. But if you hadn't, I'd probably be dead or crippled right now. Toss me that broom, won't you?"

She obeyed, not quite able to hide her grin. "You cut quite a dashing figure in an apron. It's a pity Tiny can't see you now."

"I shudder to think of it. Why don't you stick a spoon in that icing? It would be a shame to let something so sweet go to waste."

She gazed into the bowl, smiling a sad little smile. "Yes, I do believe it would."

Old Fish paused outside the kitchen door, his bony fingers splayed on the knob. Frowning, he leaned forward, pressing his ear to the fine oak. Voices murmured in soft accord. A soft clink was followed by masculine laughter. What was the insolent chit up to now?

He drew in a deep breath and threw open the door. A flash of white disappeared into the pantry. Prudence stood in the middle of the kitchen, broom in hand.

She blinked at him. "May I help you, Fish?"

Her voice was cool, almost subservient, but Fish knew she was mocking him.

His sharp gaze traveled the immaculate kitchen. A wooden bucket of wash water sat at her feet. The table, floor, and walls had been scrubbed clean. Even the oven door hung straight. The only sign of the earlier destruction was a gaping square where the window glass should have been. A breeze wafted in, sifting the pungent aroma of the mint drying on the herb rack.

He reached for the pantry door. Before he could touch the knob, the door slipped open a crack. Sebastian-cat strolled out as if he owned the kitchen.

Old Fish backed away, sniffing. "I believe your aunt requested that you remove this animal from the premises."

"Why, thank you for reminding me, Fish. Would you be so kind as to take him out to the herb garden for me?"

Before he could protest, Prudence draped the beast over his shoulder like an infant and blithely departed, humming under her breath. The kitten snagged his claws in Fish's coat and glared at him cross-eyed. Fish scowled at the cat, then gazed thoughtfully at the bucket of water. But, no. He might have a hard time explaining that one.

With a beleaguered sigh, he unhooked the cat and started for the garden, holding the squirming creature at arm's length. He vowed to himself that he would keep a stricter eye on prim Miss Prudence. Her weekly excursions to church did not fool him. No proper young lady would dabble in such unnatural sciences as chemistry. Unchecked, the little heathen might resort to dabbling in things more sordid. He would not have his mistress's reputation tarnished by Miss Prudence's folly.

With a furtive glance behind him, Fish opened the nearest window and gave the cat a toss.

Prudence snuggled into the velvet cushions of the window seat. Sebastian-cat rolled over on her lap, baring an irresistibly furry hump of a belly that demanded stroking. She absently obliged, her thoughts elsewhere.

A warm breeze wafted through the open window. June was waning, melting into the sultry heat of July. The humid air curled the tendrils of hair escaping from her braid and freed the intoxicating scent of the jasmine twining up the trellis. Light spilled from the wing that housed the servants' quarters, breaking the darkness into cozy squares.

A snatch of laughter drifted into the night, followed by a chorus of tipsy song. Prudence smiled ruefully as she recognized the most recent ditty immortalizing the amorous adventures of the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick. If they only knew the half of it! She wished she could go down to the servants' hall and somehow join their merriment undetected. All the windows between her chamber and their quarters were solid rectangles of darkness.

Sebastian and Tricia had set off that morning in a rattle of coach wheels and merry peals of Tricia's goodbyes for a ball in Durham County. They would not return before dawn, if then. For the mistress of Lindentree, the last three weeks had passed in a veritable cyclone of social activity, as Tricia presented her betrothed to every squire, duke, and earl in the county of Northumberland. That accomplished, she set out to conquer the neighboring counties. Much to her satisfaction, all the gossip was of Sebastian—his elegant but casual dress, his refusal to wear a wig or pomade his hair, his sun-bronzed visage.

At his first ball, he had scandalized half the county by listening earnestly as a foppish young marquess explained the intricate powdering of his hedgehog wig. Sebastian had then taken the fellow by the elbow and suggested that a live hedgehog would require less care and be considerably more attractive. When Tricia had repeated that story, Prudence had choked on her tea and been forced to excuse herself from the table.

By the end of the second week, baring pates was becoming outrageously fashionable. Even the doddering Duke of Poitmontou dared to arrive at an afternoon picnic with his bald scalp glistening like a baby's rump. His duchess had fainted, knocking her wig askew and revealing that her own head had been rubbed bare by the weight of the wigs she had worn for half a century.

Some of the younger men had taken to exposing their faces to the sun. On his last visit, Sir Arlo had shyly exhibited his own sallow tan for Prudence's approval.

She sighed at the memory. Sir Arlo hadn't had time for many visits to Lindentree lately. There had been a fresh rash of robberies along the Scottish border.

The Dread Kirkpatrick's boldness increased daily. Some whispered he would soon desert the highways to prey on the manors themselves. At the mere mention of his name at tea the day before, a serving girl had dropped a tray of china and burst into tears, earning herself a scolding from Fish and a slap from Tricia. No one, fortunately, associated the bandit's raids with Lord Kerr's frequent trips to Edinburgh to review his Highland holdings.

To Prudence, Sebastian was unfailingly polite. He went out of his way to draw her into a game of whist or coax her to attend a ball at a neighboring estate. She now carried two pastries to the library each morning, knowing she would find him poring over a book or sorting through her correspondence, sifting the pleas for money from those truly interested in her father's work.

He might seem an elegant ruffian to the gentry, but with her he practiced perfect decorum, even gentleness. She rewarded his kindness by sliding his fork nearer his place at supper, and clearing her throat in warning when he absently picked up the brandy decanter and brought it to his lips.

The previous night, she, Sebastian, and Tricia had gathered in the parlor like a proper family while Tricia pounded out a melody on the pianoforte and lifted her fuzzy soprano in song. Prudence had glanced up from her embroidery to find Sebastian watching her over the rim of his brandy glass. His eyes were narrowed as if he were searching for something he had misplaced. It reminded her of her father's lost expression when he could not remember where he had left his wig. His quizzical frown tugged at her heart, and her aching hunger to help him find what he had lost unnerved her. She had excused herself, her temples pounding with another of her interminable headaches.

Prudence was jerked back to the warm summer night by the ringing crash of an iron spoon against a kettle. Someone had decided the addition of a makeshift cymbal would greatly enhance the bawdy chorus. She leaned forward, straining to hear more clearly the quavering rasp that sounded suspiciously like Old Fish.

A hobgoblin face popped out of the darkness.

Prudence screamed. The hobgoblin gave a nasal shriek of terror. Sebastian-cat's fur stood on end as he dug his claws into Prudence's night rail, then fled, dragging long scratches down her thigh. Prudence scrambled backward out of the window seat and the hobgoblin vanished, as if an unseen hand had abruptly jerked off its wings.

A curious bumping and scraping was followed by a string of curses in a burr so thick, it was nearly unintelligible.

Prudence snatched a hairpin from her dressing table and crept back to the window. She peered down into the rustling ivy, wielding the hairpin like a tiny dagger.

Glossy leaves flew as the mysterious gremlin popped back up with a triumphant crow.

"I knew it was ye! By God, he told me to stay away from the house, but I seen ye from the stables, and I swore it was ye."

She recoiled anew from the malnourished, freckled visage.

"Jamie," she whispered in dread.