Page 60 of A Figure of Love

Serena’s head jerked up and a vile word escaped her mouth. She shot a glance at the river and saw Gareth was too far away to have heard her. But he had heard Etienne, and his face wore the first scowl she’d ever seen. He looked. . . menacing as he strode up the bank, intent on reaching the stranger trespassing on his land.

“Mr. Lockheart!”

He stopped immediately and turned.

She gave him a rueful smile that probably looked more like the grimace it truly was. “That is my cousin, I’m afraid.”

“Your cousin?” He glanced from Etienne—who was wearing clothes more suitable for a bordello than a day in the country—and back to Serena.

She went toward him, her eyes on Etienne, who was grinning from ear to ear and waving his walking stick as he staggered down the hillside in Hessians.

“His name is Etienne Bardot. I may have told you my mother was French?”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” His gaze, once again, as distant as the moon. “And does he live in these parts?”

“No, he stopped by several days ago on his way to Dover.” She could see he thought it odd nobody had mentioned a visitor and hastened to add. “It was only a brief visit, he had business waiting for him but mentioned he might stop by on his return.” She looked into his veiled eyes—so different from a few minutes earlier—and wanted to weep. The little bit of ease that had developed between them had disappeared. “There is no reason to—”

“I was told you’d come this way, Serena, but I didn’t know you were not alone.” Etienne’s sly smile and glinting eyes made her want to slap him.

“Mr. Lockheart, this is Etienne Bardot, my cousin. Etienne, this is my employer, Mr. Lockheart.”

Etienne dropped a creditable bow. “A pleasure, sir. My cousin has told me much about you,” he lied.

Although Gareth’s expression did not flicker, Serena knew this was unwelcome news to the intensely private man.

“I’ve told my cousin about my commission here, Mr. Lockheart.” She shot Etienne a venomous look that he ignored.

“So, you must be down here surveying the river for beautification?”

Serena did not trust herself to respond to his insinuating smirk and innuendo.

“We were on our way back to the house when you arrived.” Gareth’s voice was as chilly as his hard gray stare, and even Etienne’s good humor dimmed under the other man’s cool tone.

“Of course, of course. I will join you, if you do not mind.”

They made their way up the hill, Etienne’s inappropriate footwear slipping and skittering.

“You’ve just returned from Dover, Mrs. Lombard tells me.”

“Ah, yes.” Etienne grimaced down at a glob of mud on the toe of his once shiny boot.

“You had business there?”

“Yes, I did.” He swatted at the mud with the cane and only succeeded in cracking his toe. “Damn!”

Gareth cleared this throat and Etienne looked up, his eyes swiveling to the other man’s raised brow and Serena’s scowl.

“Oh, I beg your pardon for my vulgar language, cousin.” He left the boot alone and smiled at his host. “I have several interests down that way.”

“So do I,” Gareth said, “perhaps we share more connections?”

Etienne’s guilty conscience made him look apprehensive. “More?”

“Yes, besides our mutual acquaintance with Mrs. Lombard.”

“Ah, I see.” He chuckled, clearly relieved. Serena had not before realized just how stupid he was. And what a poor actor. Gareth Lockheart would scent the lies on him like a hound scented a fox.

“Er, no, I doubt that is so. I am new to England, as Mrs. Lombard may have told you.”