Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

May, 1822

S hiny, large, black droppings littered the table around one of the hives, the bees buzzing angrily as Phee swiped the specs into the grass, away from the frames. Rats, both literally and figuratively.

This was the third time she had found droppings surrounding one of the hives, their appearance ominous, but no more so than the dead rat that lay a few yards away from the hives, perished from too many stings after its attempted honey theft. It served the scoundrel right, taking advantage of the bee’s hard work. With a sigh, Phee knew what she had to do, but was not sure she could do it. Rats had been adversaries of beekeepers for centuries, their thievery well known, and it was only right that she eliminate the problem altogether. But to hire an assassin to do the job? It seemed low, even to her. After all, rats were merely doing rat things, following the pattern that had been ingrained in them since their creation. They were innocent creatures who had no ill will or intentions, and here she was, contemplating a murder for hire situation.

But, first problem first, where to procure such an individual. One did not merely pick up a cat off the street and put the poor beast to work with no credentials or proof of ownership. No, certainly not.

Leaving the deceased rodent for someone with a stronger stomach, Phee searched for the gardener, intent to learn the proper steps in solving the issue. Mr. Drake, the head gardener for Lord Everly’s home, was elbows deep in a hyacinth plant, his sheers trimming away at the dead branches that sprouted from one side of the plant. When he saw her coming, he stood, slapping together his gloved hands before removing the gloves entirely and tucking them into the back pocket of his pants.

“My lady, is everything all right?” he asked, removing his gray cap to reveal his black head of hair. His age was indiscernible, somewhere between late twenties and early forties, which told her very little. His brown eyes were bracketed with lines, but from age or the sun, she did not know, and she found it slightly dismaying that without asking him, she would never know the answer to the question.

“There was more rat refuse around the hives again, and unfortunately, the bees seemed to have killed the poor creature.”

He frowned at her pronouncement. “I’ll have the creature taken care of. I’m sorry you were forced to see that, my lady.”

She waved him off. “I believe the best solution for this problem is going to be a cat, but I’m not sure where to begin in procuring one.”

He nodded. “The household several stops down has a barn cat who recently had a litter. I’ll see about getting one of the kittens for you.”

“May I come with you to pick it out?” she asked. “I want to be sure we choose the right one.”

“Of course, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I’ll inform you as soon as we are able to see them.” With a smile and a nod, Phee left him, pondering other methods to save the hives from the unfortunate invaders. Perhaps a strong smell would deter them in the meantime while they awaited their new garden guard.

Walking into the house through the conservatory doors, Phee paused as she heard cursing coming from one end of the room. Following the noise, Phee wandered toward the orangery as the cursing grew louder. Peering around a branch, she spotted an older gentleman sitting in a plush red chair, his elbows on his knees as he watched Lord Everly attempt to control a lump of clay that spun at an excessive speed on a plate before him. The large phallic shaped substance flopped between his cupped hands with unruly abandon, slapping every surface it came into contact with.

“You need to push the piece down with your fingertips, my lord,” the man said, his gnarled hand pointing to the spinning mushroom top.

“It’s hard,” Lord Everly said, sleeves rolled up to his forearms as he wrestled the brown mass.

“Wet your hands, then use your two fingers and gently press in the center as the piece spins.” The man stood from the chair and demonstrated the motion, taming the piece to his control. The phallic shape transformed into a short-rounded edge, almost like a cup, its sides smoothing as the man used his fingertips to soothe the rough edges.

“Why does it look so easy when you do it?” Lord Everly asked with a grumble.

The man laughed. “Because I’ve been doing it forever, my lord. It will get easier with time.”

Lord Everly shook his head. “Will it? My apron is covered in debris and these trousers are going to send my valet into fits.” He sighed. “Perhaps these will simply have to become my pottery outfit.” He glanced down and groaned. “Boots and all.”

“I told you it wasn’t easy work, my lord. If you find it too much it wouldn’t be unreasonable to stop. Nothing wrong with saying you gave it a try.”

Her husband shook his head, his brow stern, determined. “No. I’ll not be laid low by some insipid piece of clay. I will prevail.” He said it like a battle cry, certain of his success, and yet the disaster that was his outfit, and the sad state of the conservatory floor, said otherwise.

The man beside him nodded and retook his seat. “Then let’s start again. Once you’re able to manipulate the clay, this part will seem much easier.”

“If you say so,” Lord Everly said with a grunt, slapping the clay with a stern hand, the sound making her stomach do an odd little flip. With a frown, Phee stepped away, uncertain why his action sent her heart rate galloping, nor why the sight of her husband’s exposed forearms, covered in wiry brown hair and corded in veins, turned her breath shallow. It was an odd reaction, one she had never experienced in her twenty-one years of life with regards to the actions of another person, and it was disconcerting.

“Now, my lord,” the old man said. “Center the clay on the table. Right hand in, left hand out. Kick the wheel, and slowly lift your hands up as the clay turns.”

Phee peaked around once more to watch, determined to understand the feeling occupying her stomach. Lord Everly’s mouth was a narrow line, his brow furrowed as his long fingers caressed the clay, smoothing the mold upward, the veins in his hands protruding at the effort. Phee swallowed, the room becoming hotter as she watched him handle the clay with forceful ease, and she nearly groaned as his hands cupped the top, his two fingers pushing at the center, driving the rim back down.

“Dear god,” she said with a whisper.

And then, the piece he had been handling smoothly broke off in his hands, separated in half, its counterpart spinning whimsically on the wheel. Phee laughed, the look of sheer shock on Lord Everly’s face erasing whatever lingering tingles she might have felt, and when his eyes met hers, block of clay still in his hands, he smiled back, his laughter filling the conservatory with such a joyful noise that she could only join him.

The older gentleman, startled by her laughter, turned in his chair, then pushed to standing and bowed to her. “My lady, I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

Phee smiled at him. “Not at all, sir. You must be Mr. Williams. I’m Lady Everly.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

“And you as well, sir.” She looked at Lord Everly. “I’m glad I’m finally able to see this the new hobby you’ve mentioned.”

Lord Everly smiled at her, slapping the clay in his hands back down on the now still table. “Rather messy and chaotic, isn’t it? I’m finding joy in learning it though. What brings you through here?”

She grimaced. “I was in the gardens inspecting the hives and found more remnants of rat droppings. I’m now on the search for a cat to rid the poor bees of their intruder.”

He nodded. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your hands as well.” He looked at Mr. Williams with a smile. “I think we can call it a day, Seb. If you head to the kitchen, I’m sure Cook will happily fix you a cup of tea and some cake before you head home.”

“Of course, my lord.” Mr. Williams picked up a worn black jacket and rough cap from the chair he had sat in, bowed to them both, and left the room.

“He seems the patient sort,” Phee said, taking a tentative step toward Lord Everly.

Dipping his hands in a bowl of water, Lord Everly scrubbed at the clay stuck to his hands, his sandy brown locks shaking with his effort. “He has to be if he’s to teach me. I’m lucky to not only have found him, but for him to have agreed to teach me at all.”

Phee laughed, moving closer to Lord Everly and the wheel. “And I’m sure you’re paying him a premium for his services, given those circumstances.” Phee inspected the clay that still sat on the wheel, its color fading as it dried in the warm air of the conservatory. “What is to be done with this?”

Lord Everly sighed. “A casualty of war, I’m afraid. I’ve worked so much air into the bits that they’ll break the instant they feel the fire of the kiln.”

“Truly?” She tsked, poking the piece, disconcerted to see that the wet mixture stuck to her finger. “What a waste.”

Mouth flat, he nodded his head. “Do you need any help with the cat issue? I’m happy to look into it,” he said, dipping a small towel into the bowl of water before taking her hand. With soft swipes, Lord Everly rubbed away the clay that marred her skin, his smooth motions pulling her in closer until his citrus smell enveloped her.

“No, Mr. Drake is sorting it out for me,” she said, the words a whisper as she looked up to meet his brown gaze. Swallowing, she smiled and took a step back, burying the hand he had held in the folds of her dress. “But thank you for offering.”

Brow furrowed, he looked at her. “Of course. I’m happy to help with whatever you require, you need only ask. I hope you know that?” He looked away and brushed at his apron. “I should finish cleaning this up.”

“Oh,” Phee said, his dismissal a pin prick. The words were minute in themselves, but over time, his hot and cold moods had begun to rattle her, sending strings of uncertainties spiraling in her mind at what she could have done, or should have done to prevent it. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Nodding her head, she continued her journey out of the conservatory and to her room where she took her usual bath and read over her notes of hive examinations. Yet, Lord Everly’s jumbled mood swings bothered her the remainder of the afternoon. His ever friendly, helpful nature set her up like a trap, luring her in with his comforting words, his playful smiles, and jovial disposition, but it took only a small change within the setting for that demeanor to shift, like a ghost in the room. It was as if the Lord Everly she knew disappeared, rendering nothing but a scared and uncertain man, afraid of what came next.

Brow furrowed, Phee shook her head. What utter nonsense. More than likely, it was merely her anxiety plaguing her regarding his emotions.

A knock on the door sent her maid answering the call, returning with a folded piece of paper. “Mr. Drake has sent you a missive regarding your request, my lady,” Flora said.

Taking the note, Phee read, a bubble of excitement rising in her. “Fetch my gloves and hat, Flora. I’m off to run an errand.”

Fifteen minutes later, Phee stood in the garden of Lord Cowden’s Mayfair townhome, following the man’s housekeeper toward the mews. “You truly should have sent a footman to do this, my lady. It’s a rather dirty place we’re headed to.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Clancy. I must ensure the right mouser is picked for this job and the only way to do that is to inspect the lot myself.”

Out the gate, Phee followed to where the stables were housed, her heart pumping at the experience. Inside the stable, Phee met Lord Cowden’s stable master, Smick, then the pair followed him to a far back corner stall. “The lot are inside there. Mama’s keeping a close eye on ’em but they can’t get too far. Still rather small to make the jump out,” Smick said as he opened the large wooden door.

Inside, bales of hay were set against the wall and along the floor, decorating the space in soft yellow hair. A small black cat sat atop one stack of hay, her eyes guarded as she watched Phee and Smick enter the stall. Along the ground, five kittens rolled around in play, before pausing and hiding in the masses of straw. Phee motioned for Smick to close the door behind her, then examined the straw for cleanliness before sitting.

Back pressed against the wall, legs crossed, Phee set her hands in her lap and waited, watching the kittens for any interest. One black tuxedo kitten peeked its head out of the straw, watching her with amber eyes as it creeped slowly toward her. Phee held her breath, determined to stay still for the creature’s examination. The fearless feline sniffed the edge of her dress, then stepped closer and administered the same treatment to her hands. With confidence, the dear edged toward her half boots, sniffing at the soles before eyeing the string that tied the shoe together. Bending down, the kitten zeroed in on its target, its bottom wriggling, before springing into action and capturing the string as its prize. “Well done,” Phee said, the words quiet.

The kitten cared very little for her congratulations as it attempted to maim its prey, front and back claws holding the string for dear life as its small, pointy teeth chewed on the fibers.

Phee’s fingers itched to scratch at the small patch of white fur that adorned the dear’s head like an arrow, and instead, squeezed her fingers tightly as the beast grew bored of its prize and wandered off to find a playmate.

With a smile, Phee looked at Smick and smiled. “I believe that one will do quite well,” she said, pointing to the small mite with the arrow on its forehead.

“Very good, my lady,” Smick said with a nod. “I’ll have a footman send it over in the next few weeks once we’ve weened it from its mama.”

Clapping her hands, Phee stood and shook out her dress. At least that was one problem solved. If only her new husband could be handled as simply.