Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (11 page)

She chewed her thumbnail. Didn’t he say he’d see her at dinner? Plenty of time to poke around his room, learn a bit more about the infamous recluse…a little information hunt. Nothing harmful in that.

Lydia glanced again at the portrait over the mantel.

A
woman
ought
to
know
something
about
the
man
she’s agreed to marry.

She had every right…to look at his things. At least whatever he liked to read. How else would she get to know his preferences? Her stocking feet found their way to the adjoining door, and she pressed her ear against the cold wood.

Nothing.

Really, there are worse crimes than going through a man’s personal effects. It’s looking only.

In the middle of pondering that sticky point, the doorknob turned under her hand. Just like that, the door opened. Her heart thumped as if she’d raced uphill. What was it he said in the greenhouse?

My
room
and
my
laboratory
are
barred
to
visitors.

Surveying his hodgepodge room, this was poor form; she’d just give things a quick peek, enough to quell this maddening need to know. Lydia schooled her breathing. She wouldn’t get caught—the maids had already swept through the place. The bed was made, wood was stacked high by the hearth, and a few fresh candles replaced last night’s melted stubs.

Embers glowed in the fireplace. That’s when she noticed the open cabinet holding the amber-filled decanter and glass. As she walked closer to the open door, the smudged glass looked to be the same as what the earl drank from last night. The maids must’ve missed changing the glass, which gave her a naughty idea.

“Why not sneak a dram? None would be the wiser,” she said to herself.

Lydia reached for the decanter. The heavy cut-glass carafe alone felt like a year’s worth of spending money in her hands. She lifted the stopper and sniffed the single malt’s smoky aroma.

“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes and hummed her satisfaction.

Golden liquid poured smooth and viscous into glass. Her first sip tasted of pure heaven: flavors of smoke and peat slid over her tongue, down her throat, all the way through her chest, warming her.

“Must be from the north of Scotland. And very expensive, of course.” One sip followed by another brought renewed boldness.

Daylight, however gray outside, illuminated his lordship’s reading area through bare windows. She hadn’t noticed the faldstool chair last night. The Romanesque chair sat throne-like among the books and bookstands. Journals were flipped open. Messy sketches depicted flowers and plant diagrams. Lydia settled herself in the wide-styled chair and rested the glass on her lap.

“Something of a senatorial blue blood, eh, Lord Eddie?” She smiled and took an ample swallow. Scooting to the chair’s edge, Lydia craned her neck to read the title on a book stand. “
A
Discourse
on
the
Six
Planets
of
Our
Solar
System
by Lord George Sanford, Earl of Greenwich.”

Her fingers traced the imprinted words drawing her in with a sense of history. “Like father, like son,” she whispered, standing in awe to examine the tome, large like an atlas.

All of England revered the late earl for his work in astronomy and his generous nature to the less fortunate. The book engrossed her with its maps of the heavens and fanciful depictions of the solar system’s six planets. Lydia pored over one page after another, setting the book on the wide table littered with maps. What was this fascination with maps?

She planted her elbows on the rough plank table, so out of place in an earl’s room, and sipped more scotch. Numerous pamphlets from the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge, their edges curling and split, stacked this way and that in a corner. Lydia scooted the book across the table, bumping a forlorn-looking map holding court in the middle of the untidiness. Lines bisected crumpled paper over what must be an island, but the array struck a chord with her, teasing her mind. From where?

“A treasure map?”

Her fingers traced faintly familiar patterns on yellowed foolscap, leading to an
X
. On one corner, fingerprints left red-brown paint, smears more like it, unlike any pigment she’d ever seen. The table’s edge bit into her midsection as she hugged the drink to her chest in one hand and leaned over for a better look. With her other hand, she brushed the red-brown tincture. Tiny flecks clung to three fingers.

“What is this?” She brought her hand closer for examination, rubbing her thumb over the color. “Dried blood!” she cried, jerking back as if the map had turned into a hissing snake, almost spilling her drink.

Lydia scrubbed her fingers up and down her skirt, but like all things exotic, the slashed
X
and scribbled notes bewitched her. Numbers, longitude and latitude most likely, made neat rows on one corner. Where was this mysterious place? And the faintly familiar design bothered her, hanging on the periphery of recall. She sipped her drink and hugged the glass to her chest.

“’Herein lies the…the”—she squinted and leaned closer, angling the paper for the best advantage—“heavens, the poor soul who scrawled this needs to learn the King’s English. The clero…clerodendrum…clerodendrum thom—”

“
Clerodendrum
thomsoniae
. A bleeding heart vine.” Lord Greenwich’s voice shot into the room. “And that’s Latin you’re reading, the language of science and intellectuals.”

Lydia whipped around, facing the direction of the cultured voice. As she whirled, a golden arc of scotch sprayed from the glass, raining wetness. To stop the spray, she jerked abruptly, overcorrecting, and the glass tilted, sloshing liquid on her dress.

The earl filled the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded loosely, as if finding a woman snooping in his room was a common occurrence. A cringing chill scraped her skin, the same as when she was a child caught in the thick of wrongdoing. Fire sparked in his lordship’s eyes and the way his scarred jaw ticked.
What
would
he
do?
That molten stare of his raked her bodice.

“Your dress.”

“My dress?” She shook her head, befuddled, until she followed the cant of his glare. “Oh dear.”

A wet spot blossomed, the strong, smoky peat of scotch marking her with its stain like some kind of immoral woman. Grim-faced, his lordship moved across the room with long, quick strides. He reached for the glass she clutched to her chest in a death grip.

“I’ll take that.”

His chill tones sent goose bumps down her spine. Long masculine fingers slid over hers.

“I know this looks bad,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat, not letting go of the glass.

“Yes.” Hard brown eyes stared back, giving no quarter. “Very bad.”

“Awful…for many reasons,” she whispered, dry-mouthed.

He pulled on the near-empty glass. She held fast. Her fingers pinched fine crystal as if the glass were some kind of talisman. Lord Greenwich’s jaw muscles flexed.

“Give. Me. The. Glass.”

Some strands of dark blond hair had gone awry of his queue, flanking his jaw. Lydia stared wide-eyed at the masculine hand covering her own, then met his hard stare.

“You won’t hit me, will you?”

His eyes flared wide, as if the idea were ridiculous. “I don’t hit women. But you will give me the glass.”

“Yes, of course.” Numbly, she followed the exchange of her hand curving in his, and stinging embarrassment made her study the carpet. That’s when she saw the puddle at her feet.

“Lud! Look what I’ve done.” She dropped to the floor, using the hem of her underskirt to alternately rub and dab the spot.

“The rug is the least of my concerns,” he said, extending a hand. “Up with you.”

Lydia knelt at his feet. She followed the line of scuffed boots, past traces of dirt smeared on his breeches, to the calloused hand offered to her. This thoughtful gentleman’s gesture was in stark contrast to his anger. She swallowed hard as excruciating embarrassment at demonstrating the worst kind of invasive voyeurism crumbled under a weightier issue: her mother’s fate.

Why
hadn’t she thought of her mother before snooping in his room?

“Come, now.” The earl’s proffered hand flicked at her. “While I’m sure my legs make for an interesting view, I’d rather we converse face-to-face.”

Sarcasm aside, his words held a certain promise. Or could it be the beginning of her getting the boot? Another chill skittered down her neck. This loomed like the worst kind of trouble but with ominous consequences. Unable to meet his eyes, Lydia set her hand in his. She moved upright, swallowing hard.

“I can explain.”

Lord Greenwich placed the glass on the table and settled in the faldstool chair, sprawling his booted legs before him. He could be the very picture of Caesar giving audience to a humble citizen. The stern line of his mouth, however, promised dire judgment.

“Yes, I’d very much like to hear why you were in my room,
uninvited
, and rifling through my things,” he said, propping an elbow on the chair’s arm.

The earl leaned his unscarred cheek into his index finger and waited, acting as judge and jury on her person. Hadn’t he done the same last night? The floor seemed flimsy under the soles of her stocking feet. No corset. No shoes. A woman could never gain the advantage poorly dressed. Lies, a fleeting temptation, failed to appeal: nothing from that avenue would be plausible anyway. Truth gave the simplest and best path. She clasped her hands together, hating the sunken pit that was her stomach, and hoped for mercy, yet her shoulders drooped as one already condemned.

“I…I wanted to learn more about you. That’s all,” she said, licking her lips. “I apologize for the intrusion. This was…I was terribly wrong.”

His eyebrows shot up at her last pronouncement. The index finger pressing his unscarred cheek began a slow circle over his temple as silence ticked between them, but the light in his lordship’s eyes hinted at his mind working those simple statements of hers, measuring them.

“And drinking my single malt gives you intimate knowledge of me?” His lips twitched with something between a cold smile and doubt.

“No,” she groaned.

Her face and neck went warm; Lydia was sure all her exposed skin turned beet red. And the most pressing point wasn’t her defense, rather what bothered him more? The invasion? Or the drink? Her brain couldn’t form a coherent explanation for pilfering his scotch. Did one even exist?

“Are you given to heavy drinking, Miss Montgomery?” His question cut the awkward silence.

Her body jerked as if he’d hit her. “
Of
course
not
.”

“A drunkard, perhaps? It happens with some women.” He leaned forward and pinned her with his intensity. “No need to act the outraged miss with me. Young women do not usually go skulking around men’s rooms uninvited, going through their things. Nor do they drink strong liquor. Only those of the loosest morals would entertain such audacity.”

She gasped at the implication. He assumed the worst of her.
Again.
And she had her answer: snooping in his room was the greater of the two evils committed this day. Her damp palms pressed her chest in pledge.

“I assure you, my lord, going through someone’s personal effects is
highly
unusual for me.” Her heart pounded under her hands.

“Is that so?” His eyebrows shot up once more.

How could a man’s eyebrows be so irritating?

Lydia wanted to slap that imperious expression right off his face. A calming breath was needed. After all, his lordship did have the moral high ground here. She had some work ahead of her to put things right; best to dive headlong with the truth. Taking a deep, calming breath, she proceeded.

“On occasion, I enjoy a small dram with my aunt. A bottle we open a few times a year is all. It’s a gift from a longtime admirer of hers, who visits from the borderlands now and then. I know it’s unseemly for women, but…” Lydia let her words trail off and decided on a new approach. She held up thumb and forefinger, keeping a judicious inch of space. “I have only about this much every once in a while…very little, but, yes, I enjoy it. Is that a crime? And I came into your room with the intention of looking at your books. The drink was an afterthought. Nothing more.”

“My books.” He said that as both statement and question, part and parcel of whatever judgment swirled behind his brown eyes.

His lordship stared at her, weighing her words, while his other hand tapped his thigh. Agonizing silence stretched, mere seconds really, and Lydia placed a steadying hand on the table. She needed something to prop her up under that dark-eyed scrutiny, but damp spots touched her skin. She checked her palm, noticed a small spray of wetness, and her gaze flitted from hand to table.

“The map! Blast it!”

She hiked up her skirt and dabbed wetness off the crumpled, curling foolscap. Lord Greenwich sprung from the chair and snatched the map from her. He held the yellowing sheet high toward the window, examining every detail. Sunlight touched the planes of his smooth, tanned cheek. From this angle, he was every bit the handsome nobleman. He squinted at the map as his left hand skimmed the scrawled words.

“The map is intact…a few drops on the corner,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “No harm done. I can still read the directions.”

“You can read that scrawl?” She grimaced at the map.

“Hope so. It’s my writing.” His lips turned in a half smile as he set the map on the table.

His sleeve brushed her arm. She smelled the plain soap he must’ve used to shave with that morning. Clean scents of English mist and greenery clung to him. Lydia shifted away from the earl and swallowed hard.