Buried Secrets (22 page)

“Yes,” said Gillian slowly. “I see what you mean.”

She lifted her gaze to his, astonished. This aspect should have occurred to her immediately, for she had known Henry all her life. Surely, she should have realized at once how he would feel. Instead, it was Cord, a relative stranger, who had put himself so neatly in Uncle Henry’s shoes. She had not suspected the earl of such depth of understanding, and she felt slightly shamed.

Watching her, Cord knew a pang. She was surprised at his consideration of an old man’s feelings. She must think him a self-absorbed idiot.

“So, what shall we do?”

Cord came to himself with a start. “I’ve been thinking about that, and it seems to me that we must arrange for your uncle to stumble across the tachygraphy book on his own—or, rather to
think
it is on his own.”

Gillian frowned dubiously. “But how are we to do that? Uncle knows every book in the house. If a strange title appears on his shelves, he will grasp at once that he did not put it there.”

“That’s true. Well, then, we must get him out of the cottage. He will be coming to Wildehaven tomorrow for that confounded dinner party. Yes,” Cord continued, warming to this theme, “I shall invite him into the library and tell him to treat it as his own. Knowing Sir Henry, he will take me at my word.”

“Actually,” interposed Gillian, “Uncle Henry visited the library at Wildehaven on many occasions—when your uncle was in residence.”

“I had not thought of that.”

“However, this is a small volume, and it might very well have been overlooked by even the most dedicated of book browsers. We need only to place it in a conspicuous location—”

“And your uncle’s insatiable literary curiosity will do the rest! Yes, I think that’s the solution.”

Cord rubbed his hands briskly. “Well, that’s that then.” He rose. “Now, I’d best go inform Sir Henry of my return.”

“John Smith is with him,” said Gillian, also getting to her feet. “I think they came up with a new avenue of investigation last night, so they will have much to tell you.”

“I’ve missed our little gatherings these last few days. I ... I’ve missed you.” They were very close together as they stood at the desk, and Cord’s breath caught in his throat. Would he ever
not
feel an urge to kiss Gillian Tate every time he came within two feet of her? He had vowed—to Gillian and himself—that his behavior toward her would be that of one friend to another. Bah! He could think of none of his other friends whose very scent he found intoxicating. Would the day ever come, he wondered again, when Gillian would accept a declaration of love from him? Would she ever confide in him the story of her short-lived betrothal? More to the point, would she explain her strange reluctance to tell him that she had broken it off before Kenneth’s death?

Ah, well. He’d given his word—and he was stuck with it—for the time being, at least. He drew away from her and turned to leave the room.

Gillian followed, feeling oddly deflated. She had been almost certain Cord was going to kiss her in that moment when they had stood within inches of each other. No—try to kiss her, for she certainly would have thwarted any such attempt. Wouldn’t she?

Declining to delve further into this murky area, she hurried after him.

Sir Henry and young John Smith were indeed pleased to welcome Cord back from his travels. In a few moments, the three were back at the old stand, deep in discussion of the diary and its secrets. Gillian watched for a few moments, smiling, before tiptoeing from the room.

Cord stayed for dinner, and the conversation around the little dining table in Rose Cottage was lively.

“But do tell us. Cord,” said Mrs. Ferris at length, “where did you hare off to so suddenly? Were you called to London?”

Gillian sent her aunt an admonishing glance, but Cord laughed.

“It was necessary to make a flying visit to my home in Bedfordshire—to Cordray Park. Some trifling business there required my attention.”

“Ah.” Aunt Louisa nodded wisely. She laughed. “I was afraid you might just go directly to London, and not return to us at all.” She blushed a little as though aware of what she no doubt thought of as presumption. “At any rate, we are so pleased you are returned to us.”

“But, my dear lady,” he declared in wounded innocence, “I told you I would return in plenty of time for our famous dinner party.”

Aunt Louisa brightened, and the rest of the dinner conversation was taken up in relating the returns brought in by the invitations Aunt Louisa had written so painstakingly.

“It’s as I told you. Cord,” she said, beaming, “all the world and his donkey will be there.”

As it turned out, this statement proved a slight exaggeration, but two nights later, as Cord gazed out over his drawing room, he realized that every neighbor of any consequence within twenty miles of Wildehaven had put in an appearance. Many of the faces were new to him, but he had already met enough of them so that he felt comfortable. There, by the hearth, stood Sir Septimus Babbacombe, his wife and two daughters at his side. Chatting amiably with them were Mrs. Mitford and her daughter, roughly the same age as the Babbacombe chits. Hmm he mused. Glancing about, he spied at least three other young women of marriageable age. He smiled to himself. He’d better be careful or he’d find himself committed to one of these misses before the night was out.

Indeed, Cord found himself surrounded by ladies of varying ages, as well as their hopeful mamas for the rest of the evening. He began to feel rather like the maypole at a spring festival, enmeshed in soft words and giggles, smothered in a swirl of muslins and flowery perfume.

When Sir Henry and his family arrived, Cord moved to greet them with some relief. His gaze first went to Gillian, who was garbed tonight in a cerulean blue silk that deepened her gray eyes to the color of smoke against a night sky. His breath caught in his throat, but he managed to greet her with only a casual courtesy before turning to Sir Henry.

“I am pleased to welcome you to my home. Sir Henry. It seems as though I have spent a great deal of time at Rose Cottage, but this is the first time you have visited me. I certainly hope it will not be the last.”

“Yes, well, I do not get out a great deal these days. When Frederick lived here, I used to pop over every now and then. Your uncle had an excellent library.”

Grateful for the opportunity presented to him, Cord spoke quickly. “The library is still extant, Sir Henry. In fact, I was hoping that while you are here tonight you would peruse the volumes there once more. Please,” he added with the most charming smile at his disposal, “I hope you will treat my collection as your own.”

He exchanged a significant glance with Gillian, giving her to understand that he had already put their plan in motion. Earlier this afternoon. Cord had placed the Shelton tachygraphy book in a prominent position in the library.

“Umph,” responded Sir Henry. “I’ve been over every volume in that library—more than once. However, I must say that I wouldn’t mind renewing my acquaintance with some of them. As I recall, Frederick possessed several fine volumes of commentary on verse by The Court Wits, as they were called. Rochester, Sir Charles Sedley, the Earl of Dorset and all that lot. After dinner, perhaps.”

Cord all but rubbed his hands in satisfaction. He had selected these volumes as the ones most likely to be searched out by Sir Henry, and he had placed the Shelton book in their midst. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. It looked as though all would transpire as he and Gillian had planned. He caught her eye and winked. He was rewarded with an answering smile of such engaging mischief that he ached with the need to sweep her into his arms.

The conversation turned to more general matters then, and Cord congratulated Mrs. Ferris on the arrangements she had made for tonight’s festivities. All the while, his glance strayed to Gillian. She seemed aware of his regard, for a delicate flush rose to her cheeks, and after a few minutes she turned away to converse with one of the young females who, with their mamas, continued to circle the earl like vixens closing in on a spring lamb.

It was not until dinner time that he was offered some surcease, for Sir Septimus was seated at his right hand, with his lady on Cord’s left. Their two offspring, however, a little farther down the table, spent the greater part of the meal leaning over their plates to converse with him, fanning their food with great sweeps of artfully curled eyelashes.

Mrs. Ferris sat at the foot of the table, and from her place nearby, Gillian observed the activity at the table’s head.

Cord, lifting his head as though she had reached out to touch him, intercepted her glance and returned it with one of amusement—tinged with some anguish. Gillian almost laughed aloud. She had earlier experienced an entirely unreasonable qualm at the sight of the earl almost submerged in a sea of feminine fluffery. She had soon realized that he was not enjoying the siege. Now, however, as she watched Cord turn his gaze to the Misses Babbacombe, her smile faded. The older sister, Horatia, was plump and more than somewhat plain. Eighteen-year-old Eleanor, on the other hand, was undeniably attractive. Small and vivacious with a cap of crisp auburn curls and sparkling blue eyes, she flirted outrageously, using her lush fringe of lashes, and giggled appreciatively at Cord’s every pleasantry.

Surely a man of Cord’s years and experience would not be caught in the toils of a girl barely out of the schoolroom. In any case, he was scheduled to marry the awful Corisande. But then, he did not really wish to wed his childhood playmate. He was, he said, reconciled to the idea that he must marry someday, and given his shiny new resolutions to uphold his family responsibilities, perhaps he was even now seeking another candidate. While Eleanor was notably lacking in the birth and breeding usually considered essential in a prospective countess, she was young and biddable and—pretty.

Gillian shook herself. For heaven’s sake, what difference did Eleanor’s impact on the earl make to her? After all, she had no interest in Cord’s matrimonial plans. A cold thread of honesty coiled unpleasantly within her. She was forced to admit that Cord’s plans mattered very much to her. Good Lord, not only did she cringe at the idea of Cord’s leaving, but the idea of his marrying some biddable little chit was enough to make her want to spit like a cat.

Instead, she turned determinedly to make conversation with Mr. Delacroix, seated next to her.

To Cord, dinner seemed to lurch in eternal increments. Why had Mrs. Ferris seated Gillian at the foot of the table? If ever he needed her at his right hand, that moment was now. If the little Babbacombe giggled one more time at the inanities he seemed to be spouting like some damned deity in a fountain, he would be sore put not to fling his wine in her face. The only person in the room with whom he wanted to talk was Gillian, and she may as well have been dining on the moon.

After another year or two, the last bite of Mrs. Moresby’s excellent trifle was spooned up, and at Mrs. Ferris’s signal, the ladies rose to depart for the drawing room. Cord found some relief in the masculine conversation that ensued, but rose with alacrity when the decanter had made the prescribed number of rounds about the table.

As they moved to join the ladies, Cord maneuvered to a position next to Sir Henry.

“If you would like to visit the library, sir,” he said smoothly, “this would be as good a time as any.” He accompanied his words with a slight pressure on Sir Henry’s elbow.

“Eh? What?” The old gentleman spoke somewhat groggily, having indulged rather heavily, not only in the buttered lobster and the pigeon pie featured at dinner, along with the trifle, but in the postprandial brandy as well. “Excellent suggestion, my boy. Can’t say as I look forward to an entire evening of mindless nattering with a parcel of clothheads who probably don’t know Charles II from a China orange.”

Cord, in some satisfaction, led Sir Henry to the library.

Chapter Seventeen

“Ah.” Sir Henry rubbed his hands in satisfaction. As Cord held his breath, the old man moved to an eye-level shelf near the center of the room. Cord breathed a relieved sigh. This was where the commentaries would be found, and the Shelton book of instruction on tachygraphy lay in plain view right next to them.

Lovingly, Sir Henry picked up the commentaries, inadvertently knocking the Shelton to the floor in the process. Cord retrieved it hastily and replaced it on the shelf, almost pressing it into Sir Henry’s hands. Absently, Sir Henry brushed the book aside and turned toward the light. Cord watched in frustrated silence as the elderly academic, apparently lost to his surroundings, turned the pages of the first volume of commentary slowly and intently. Of the little volume on tachygraphy, he took no notice. At last, he regretfully replaced the commentary on the shelf and moved toward the door, still ignoring the little volume lying so close to his hand.

“The ladies will be wondering what became of us, and Louisa will no doubt poke her head in the door any minute to bring me to a sense of duty she knows very well I do not possess.”

“But—” expostulated Cord. “The commentaries!”

Sir Henry sighed. “Some other time perhaps. Unless—” He stared hopefully up at Cord. “Do you suppose I could borrow them for a few days? It’s been donkey’s years since I’ve been through them.”

Cord fairly leaped on this suggestion. “Of course, you may. With my blessing. I’ll tell you what. I’ll put all four of these volumes on the table—right here. We can collect them later when you go home. Nothing simpler.”

Sir Henry expressed his gratification at this program, and the two made their way to the drawing room, where he was immediately surrounded by what he was beginning to think of as his personal harem. From across the room, he caught Gillian’s questioning gaze and sent her a rueful grimace.

Oh, dear, thought Gillian. Was his expression indicative of a failure in the tachygraphy scheme or his dismay at finding himself once more the target of a feminine assault? Her answer came a few moments later when, with some difficulty, he made his way to her. He explained Sir Henry’s failure to take their bait, and Gillian’s heart fell momentarily, until Cord went on to detail his plan to lend Uncle Henry a stack of volumes, on top of which, Cord assured her, would rest Shelton’s small book on tachygraphy.