Chapter 20

CHAPTER20

“You will answer me!” Edwin seethed, glowering at the weeping maid who kneeled before him on the bedchamber floor, holding her face in her hands.

Joanna stood at his side, her expression confused. “No one is blaming you, Harriet, but was it not you who took receipt of the box when it arrived?”

“I did, Your Grace, but… but I left it on the bed. I didn’t touch it, I swear to you!” Harriet begged, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Distraught. And guilty, as far as Edwin was concerned. “I know you… you told me to air it, Your Grace, but I needed to draw a bath for… for the Dowager. I meant to come back after… after dinner, Your Grace!”

Joanna sighed wearily. “Did anyone else touch it before you? Did you see anyone else come into these chambers?”

“N-No, Your Grace!” Harriet insisted. “Mrs. Hislop l-locked it after me, because the gown was in here. She wanted t-to keep it safe!”

A jangle of keys announced the arrival of Mrs. Hislop, who had already been informed of the situation by Golding. “She’s right,” Mrs. Hislop said, having caught the tail-end of the maid’s words. “I locked these chambers at half-past three. I intended to open them when Her Grace asked to dress for dinner, as I have been her lady’s maid since her arrival. I cannot fathom why the door was unlocked, nor why the gown is in tatters.”

“Are you certain it was locked?” Edwin demanded to know. “Does it even lock?”

He had often wondered if it was locked when he ventured to the hallway outside of an evening, as he did every evening after she had retired to listen to the sounds of his wife slumbering, ensuring that she was well and safe in her bed. He had never attempted to turn the handle or test the lock, though, fearing it might wake her.

Mrs. Hislop made an apologetic face. “As with all the locks in this manor, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.” She paused, dropping her chin to her chest. “I didn’t think to check it.”

“So, this may all be a terrible coincidence?” Joanna suggested, with a strained expression of hope that made her voice waver. “The door may have been unlocked, and the gown may have arrived in this… ruined fashion. You did not open the box, did you?” She looked down at Harriet, who shook her head effusively.

“I didn’t dare to until later, Your Grace,” she insisted.

Edwin glanced at Mrs. Hislop. “Can you vouch for the whereabouts of all your staff?”

“I can, Your Grace, and for myself,” Mrs. Hislop replied, her tone curt as if she did not like the nature of the accusation. “It does sound ridiculous, but Her Grace might be correct in her assumption. Shall I send Golding to the modiste?”

Edwin’s lip curled. “Yes, send him. And I will speak to everyone in this household.” He drew in a breath. “Have them gathered in the dining room.”

“Right away, Your Grace.” Dipping her head in respect, Mrs. Hislop left the bedchamber, her keys rattling all the way down the hall.

Meanwhile, Edwin stared at the ruined gown, his heart a heavy rock sinking into deep water. He should have known that the growing joy of the past week could not last. He should have known that strange things would begin to happen, as they had always done, for though his father had been put to rest, his father’s hold upon the manor would never loosen.

And my wife is being punished, he knew, though he could not admit it out loud, in case Joanna thought him quite mad. But she was new to Bruxton Hall; she had not seen and heard the things that he had seen, and though he had hoped she would be spared the unsettling goings-on, it seemed he had been mistaken.

* * *

An hour later, Edwin dismissed the staff from the dining room, convinced of their collective innocence. Each had an alibi, and though he was no investigator, he doubted they had all conspired to obliterate the dress of a woman they all seemed to cherish.

“What an unpleasant business,” his aunt remarked, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. She had treated the mild interrogations as a sort of dinner entertainment, eating as she watched the staff tremble and plead their case. “I once had a gown arrive with the entire bodice missing. Another with one panel absent from the skirts. I would wager good money that it was a mistake by the modiste, or a vengeful attack from one of their assistants. I have encountered many modistes in my years, and the girls who work there are always bitter shrews.”

Edwin shot a glare at his aunt. “Where were you?”

“Edwin!” Joanna gasped, but his aunt merely chuckled.

“I was bathing, and Jane was scrubbing my back. After that, we took tea in the western parlor and watched dear Joanna tending to her flowerbeds,” she said evenly. “The staff can attest to it, if you will not believe your own aunt.”

Jane cringed, setting down her knife and fork though she had not yet finished her Dover sole. Clearly, the memory of scrubbing the Dowager’s back had made her lose her appetite.

“I think it likely that it was destroyed during delivery,” Joanna chimed in, her face pale and drawn. “The express rider could have dropped it, seen the damage, and hoped no one would notice until he was long gone.”

Edwin perked up, for he had not considered that. “Was there any injury to the box?”

“No,” Joanna replied, “but the ribbon was very loose and hastily tied. I did not consider it strange until just now. A woman with any knowledge of ribbons would not have tied it like that. I truly think there was a mishap, and the messenger sought to protect himself.”

Edwin bristled. “I will find the wretch’s name, to be certain of it.”

“Leave it be,” Joanna urged. “It cannot be undone, and I have a multitude of fine gowns that will serve well enough as a replacement.”

“That is not the problem, Joanna. This is a far greater matter than merely choosing a different gown,” Edwin insisted, somewhat in awe of her calm demeanor.

She shrugged. “If it was the messenger, the guilt and worry are likely punishment enough. If it was someone at the modiste, recompense can be arranged easily enough. There is little purpose in seeking vengeance for a gown when I have so many. I should have refused my father’s offer in the first place, truth be told, so as not to be frivolous.” She mustered a brave smile. “Why, even now I am thinking of all the seeds and cuttings the cost of that gown could have purchased!”

“You cannot wear flowers to a ball, Joanna,” Edwin replied thickly, his mind conjuring the image so quickly that it made his head spin. His wife, in that sheltered spot beneath trellised tunnels that did not yet exist, wearing nothing but a few seductive petals that, only in daydreams, stayed affixed as if by magic.

Just then, a thought came to him, and not the kind that usually made him excuse himself early. “Please, finish dinner at your leisure. There is something I must do.”

He got up and headed out of the dining room without explanation, seeking Mrs. Hislop.

He found her in the scullery, comforting a still-distraught Harriet. Both women looked startled by his entrance, for the master of the house rarely dared to tread below stairs. Yet, this could not wait.

“I am sorry about the gown, Your Grace,” Harriet jumped in first, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve told Mrs. Hislop that she can dock it from my pay ‘til it’s paid for.”

Edwin softened, trying to imagine what Joanna would do. “You will receive your income as is. There is no need for martyrdom.” He made a mental note to add a shilling to the tax he owed. “Mrs. Hislop, has Mrs. Phelps returned to the cottages for the night yet?”

“I believe she is still in the laundry,” Mrs. Hislop replied, frowning. “Shall I fetch her? More to the point, why am I fetching her?”

Edwin tapped the side of his nose. “That is none of your concern, at present, though I will also need your assistance in the southern wing.”

“A strange and unusual punishment, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hislop teased, though he could tell he had garnered her curiosity. “Are you going to make me stand beneath a rickety beam until I confess to a crime I didn’t commit?”

Edwin rolled his eyes. “Do not be dramatic. Meet me at the entrance to the southern wing in… say, ten minutes.”

With that, he made his way to the laundry, resisting the urge to hurry. He could not let anyone know that he was excited by his plan, nor could he let anyone know of his plan until he had found what he was looking for. Even so, there was a part of him that worried Joanna might not like what he had in mind.

* * *

“Joanna?” Edwin knocked lightly on her bedchamber door, his nose stinging with the lingering scent of dust and rot. He suspected he looked a fright, but with the hour growing so late, and his endeavors taking longer than he had expected, there had been no time to change his attire or even pause to splash his face with water.

A sleepy voice replied, “Hmm? Is someone there?”

“It is Edwin,” he said, suddenly nervous. He had not entered her bedchamber at night since her arrival. Indeed, that day was the first time he had set foot inside that sacred place.

He heard the rustling of bedclothes and the soft pad of feet coming toward the door. A moment later, she appeared, attired in a nightdress that left him speechless. It was almost identical to the one he had dreamed of, though not made transparent by the addition of water. Still, it was sheer enough to be scandalous, the moonlight at her back silhouetting her breathtaking figure: a narrow waist, sultry hips, the long, lean limbs he had imagined wrapping around him, and the swell of the most perfect, rounded breasts. The high collar, crafted for dignity, had been unbuttoned to her bosom, revealing the first inkling of a deep valley between those immaculate breasts.

For a moment, he almost forgot what he had gone there for.

“Did Golding return?” Joanna prompted, leaning against the edge of the door. “Was it someone at the modiste?”

Edwin shook his head, more to dislodge his desire than anything else. “It was not the modiste. They insisted that the gown was in one piece when it was sent with the messenger, but they could give no name for the messenger. He was new to them, so I do not imagine we shall ever know who he was.” He paused, clearing his throat. “However, I have… something for you.”

“Did you dig it out of the ash pile?” Joanna chuckled, reaching out to brush his cheek with her thumb.

Edwin froze, blinking slowly.

“You are filthy,” she said, opening the door wide. “Come in. I have a cloth to tend to your face.”

He did as she asked, holding the promised gift behind his back. As he stepped into the room, the scent hit him like a slap to the face, dizzying him. A rich perfume, sweet and spiced and heavenly.

“What is that aroma?” he gasped, drinking it in.

Joanna returned with a wet cloth. “An experiment.”

“Pardon?”

“I have decided to be a perfumier as well as a gardener,” she replied, grinning. “Cathy brought me a vast array of fine oils—though we are not to ask, not even once, where they have come from—and we are conjuring a perfume together, to enchant the guests at tomorrow’s ball. What do you think?”

She stepped so close to him that he could not breathe, the proximity of her too tempting, too inviting, too dangerous to endure. There, she stood up on tiptoe, tilting her head to one side to expose her neck, brushing aside her long, ebony hair. When he remained frozen, unable to fathom what it was she wanted him to do, her hand slipped up the side of his neck, her fingertips sliding into his hair. With a gentle pull, she urged his head down toward her neck.

Do not tempt me like this, his mind gasped, his lips so close to her throat that they were a breath away from kissing her skin.

As she brought his head even closer, he pressed his lips together so they would not graze that forbidden fruit. That was when the force of her rich perfume bombarded him, launching its exquisite attack from a small dip behind her ear. He closed his eyes, inhaling. And as he did, his mouth relaxed, his lips brushing her neck. Whether or not it was an accident, he did not know, but the burst of desire that pierced him from chest to loin almost killed him. Indeed, he thought he might die if he did not pull her into his arms and kiss her, as he had dreamed of kissing her.

“Do you like it?” she panted, her bosom rising and falling frantically, the sound of her breathlessness nudging him toward the brink of delirium.

He wanted her. Desperately.

“It is… unique,” he growled, calling upon every shred of willpower he possessed to tear himself away from her. “Too strong, perhaps.”

As he stepped back and her hand fell away from his hair, dropping limply to her side, she looked disappointed. Was she trying to seduce me? Is that truly what she wants? He swallowed thickly, knowing he could not grant that to her, though he would have given her the world at that moment. But lying with her—it could not happen. He could not risk continuing his father’s bloodline, no matter how his own blood sang and burned for her.

“Too strong?” she nodded, putting on a smile. “I would not want to make anyone unwell, I suppose, though that might make the ball more exciting. No one would know that it was me unless they were closer than they ought to be. I would be the phantom perfume purveyor, inciting headaches and pinched noses wherever I went.”

He gripped the paper-wrapped gift tighter, wishing he could dig his fingernails into his palms to let pain quell his desire to feel pleasure with her. “I did not say it was unpleasant.”

“I will dilute it, at your request,” she said, smiling as she closed the gap between them again, lifting the damp cloth to his face to wipe away the dirt. “What did you want to give me?”

His stomach tightened at her question. “Cease that,” he urged, ducking out of the way of the cloth. “I shall wash my own face later.”

And I cannot have you so close, not at this very moment, for I do not trust myself, he scolded himself, infuriated by his weakness.

“This is for you,” he offered her the large, hastily wrapped parcel, understanding what she had meant earlier about the troubles of tying a ribbon. In the pale moonlight that illuminated her bedchamber, the gift looked rather sad and unbefitting of a duchess.

Joanna set the cloth down, dried her hands upon the skirts of her nightdress, and took the proffered parcel. She took it to the bed and laid it out, carefully teasing the ribbon open before unwrapping the present. Her breath caught in her throat as she gingerly picked up the garment inside.

“What is this?” she gasped. “Did a queen leave this behind when visiting Bruxton Hall? This is… too much, Edwin.”

He shifted awkwardly on the floorboards. “Does it not please you?”

She turned, holding the gown to her body, her eyes glittering with tears. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld, Edwin,” she urged, her breath hitching. “It is a work of art, but, who does it belong to? Is this truly for me?”

“I know it is not the fashion,” he said hurriedly, “but I have spoken with Mrs. Phelps, who has a sister in town—a famous seamstress, at least in this corner of the world. She will work on the gown through the night, so it is prepared for tomorrow. The arrangements have all been made, as long as you wish to wear it?”

Joanna blinked upward, shaking her head to hold back those gleaming tears. “It would be my honor, Edwin. I only wish this werestill the fashion, but you must tell me to whom it belongs. I could not touch a stitch upon it until I do.”

“It was my mother’s, and it wasworn when the King visited Bruxton Hall during the first year of her marriage to my father,” he explained, hoping she could not hear the tremble in his voice. “I thought it might serve as a suitable replacement, but you must make haste. It must be delivered to Mrs. Phelps’ sister immediately.”

Joanna smiled. “I will wear it with pride, Edwin. Indeed, I will go to the seamstress myself, for I have a notion in mind. One that will not alter the gown too much.”

“As you wish,” Edwin bowed his head.

Joanna chuckled, bringing his attention back up. “To do so, I must dress appropriately. I cannot very well ride into town in my nightdress, now, can I?” she paused. “But if you wish to wait, you are welcome to stay right there. I might need assistance, after all.”

“I… will send for Mrs. Hislop.” He turned, his heart ablaze, and strode out of the bedchamber, breaking into a slow run before he could change his mind, sprint back, and strip her bare, kissing her, all of her, until he knew her figure, her body more intimately than any measurements a seamstress could take.