Page 27 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“’Spose I’ve got the time,” he replied with a weary-sounding sigh.

Trying to hide her smile, she collected her journal and busied herself with finding a blank page, as the gardener began to explain how plants from South America and the Far East had come to be under his care. Afterward, she gave Viviane a brief lesson, as bland as she could make it, in the parts of a flower and their various functions, then set her to work sketching the pinnate leaf of a fern suitable for a beginner’s talents.

Once Viviane was occupied, Erica turned her attention to a wild vine that wound its way up and around a trellis surrounding the doorway: a Passiflora caerulea that had survived the journey from Brazil. Certainly nothing she had expected to find on a journey to the Lakes.

“A gift to the late duchess, I’m told.” Sturgess spoke behind her.

“The present duke’s mother?” He nodded. “I understand she loved plants.”

The gardener lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Mebee. Before my time, miss.”

Erica glanced toward Viviane, who was still bent over the fern leaf. Though she suspected the girl had overheard more of the conversation in the library than was wise, she seemed perfectly indifferent or perhaps oblivious to the current one. The noise of the rain against the glass was terrific, and their voices were low. Still, Erica dropped hers almost to a whisper when she asked, “Does the duke make frequent visits to the conservatory?”

“Never, in my experience,” Sturgess said with a shake of his bald head. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw him walk through the door.”

“I wonder why he stays away.” She let her gaze drift over the beauty that surrounded them.

“Couldn’t say, miss.” He fished a small pair of clippers from a pocket on his apron and fingered them absently as he spoke. “But folks do say he likes things orderly—always has, even when he was lad. Bit too dirty and wild in here for his taste, p’rhaps.” He snapped the clippers shut, as if pruning a useless branch. “Well, I’d best get back to my work and not keep you from yours.”

With a nod, the gardener returned to the kitchen end of the conservatory. She watched him until he began watering a row of seedlings, then opened her journal and prepared to begin a thorough study of one of the Passiflora’s palm-sized blooms, a corona of pale petals starred with purple filaments. Any attempt to capture the complex flower would require complete concentration.

Instead, her mind still flitted to and fro like a butterfly at midsummer.

Did the butterflies and bees relish the exotic delicacies of the Hawesdale conservatory? Or did they politely decline and declare to one another that the fare was simply too rich or too strange? Like gaudily dressed rustics at a town ball, suspiciously eyeing the epicurean delights of the supper table…

She caught herself tapping the end of her pencil against her journal, mimicking the erratic rhythm of the raindrops. With a shake of her head, she set herself once more to her task.

On the sixth such starting over, she thumped her journal down on the nearest table, not thinking how such a display of temper might look. Frowning over her leaf, Viviane did not appear to notice. Mr. Sturgess, however, cast her an assessing look, then left the conservatory through the door nearest the kitchen. Briefly, she wondered if he had gone to ask for assistance in removing her for making a disturbance.

After a few moments, however, he returned, something clutched in either hand. When he was within a yard from her, he held out a plain holland apron in the pinafore style, intended to protect her dress—or rather, the dress that the Duchess of Raynham had loaned to her. With a smile of gratitude, she slipped the apron on. Then he opened the fingers of his other hand. On his palm lay two bits of creamy white fluff.

“Cotton wool,” he explained in a louder than usual voice. “For your ears. Hard to concentrate with all that racket.” With his free hand, he pointed up to the rain-battered roof, and as he turned his head, she could see he had stuffed his own ears with the batting.

With an uncertain smile, she accepted the gift. When he walked away again, she furtively tucked a tuft in each ear. The sound of the rain still came to her, but was muffled now by the thrum of blood in her veins.

How odd she must look. If Tristan could see her now, would his dark eyes dance with suppressed laughter? Or would they turn cold instead?

He likes things orderly, Mr. Sturgess had said. No one would ever apply that word to Erica. But perhaps it explained his willingness to marry his late brother’s fiancée. Their wedding would certainly tie up any loose ends.

Did perfect ladies, like Miss Caroline Pilkington, ever think odd thoughts or say odd things?

Erica squeezed her eyelids shut, drew three deep breaths. Her mind might be distractible, but her heart was steady.

Steady.

Steady.

* * * *

Guin raised the fan of playing cards, but not high enough to hide the sudden lift of two delicate eyebrows. To Tristan’s left, Miss Pilkington gave a small cough. Her partner, Sir Thomas, was less circumspect.

“Oh, ho, Raynham,” the baronet chortled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you of trying to lose.”

Tristan looked down at the small pile of cards lying face up in the center of the table, his own uppermost. Trumps, when he ought to have thrown off and let his partner take the trick. Guin’s blue eyes sparkled above her cards, darting quickly to Caroline and back to Tristan.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he said, dipping his head to Guin as he snapped his remaining cards face-up onto the table, conceding the hand. “I will confess to being distracted just now.”

If Caroline suspected herself the cause of his distraction, she gave no sign of it as she gathered the cards to herself and prepared to shuffle. Her hands were pale and smooth, her movements deliberate. Though both her hair and eyes were ordinary shades of brown, no one would hesitate to describe her as pretty. He could complain of nothing in her behavior: She was neither shrinking nor forward, but assured and confident in her manner. She talked knowledgeably but not pedantically about every subject he had introduced at dinner, from the paintings in the Long Gallery where they’d strolled earlier, to the negative repercussions of the Poor Laws. If she did not precisely grieve for his brother, she made clear her regret at his untimely death, and not simply for its effect on her own prospects. She was pragmatic, polished—in short, the perfect bride for a man his position, just as Guin had said.