Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (6 page)

“I bid you good night, then.”

“Good night, Claire.”

Edward didn’t follow her exit from the room; the astonishing missive drew his attention to his desk. He stared at the invitation as if he could conjure motive and meaning, but freedom to think was cut short again. A pale blond specter at the doorway faced him, speaking quietly across the room.

“She really is quite lovely.”

“What?” He glanced up, half listening.

“Miss Montgomery. She’s very pretty.”

Claire’s fragile smile spoke volumes. Edward leaned back, unwilling to divulge more about the evening or Miss Montgomery. A polite dismissal was about to be given. No need. Like a wisp of smoke, Claire slipped from the room.

Four

All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.

—Leonardo da Vinci

The lush vermillion path brought to mind a road paved with hidden promises. What or who lurked behind each closed door she passed?

Lydia rolled her eyes at her overzealous mind, but soaked up every visual detail.

Setting aside fanciful notions, she trod the plush pathway, really a fine Oriental carpet of rich red that streamed a long, regal hallway. A chambermaid, or team of them, must spend hours buffing and polishing the walnut paneling to its present perfect sheen. Exotic hothouse flowers flared explosions of color from porcelain vases atop delicate-legged tables; definite symmetry balanced table placement and flower arrangements.

Greenwich Park looked nothing like a madman’s dark lair.

The maid motioned to a door on the right. “Here we are.”

The brass doorknob shined. Impeccable. Miss Lumley swung wide the door and bustled about, lighting matched candelabra. She banked the fire, and light flooded a coliseum of femininity. Lydia stood in the doorway aghast: the entire room vomited shades of pink.

Disquiet at being in a strange man’s palatial home turned to blatant assessment.

Before her wasn’t a matter of low-class design. White furniture, French and expensive, conveyed delicacy. Each item reflected the past decade of continental decor, which made her smirk. The pieces likely found their way from France during the Seven Years War, something only well-connected nobility could manage, while the rest of the populace made do with sturdy English goods.

Lydia stood aware of another boundary, a line between stately elegance and a space that screamed excess. The room, awash in blaring shades of pink and yellow silk, cried insipid womanhood.

She winced. Wealth and nobility never guaranteed good taste.

A writing table sat near a window, but the room’s owner wasn’t much of a writer, for ink would surely splatter and stain somewhere on all that white.

Miss Lumley beckoned her into the room. “Come, come. Oh, here, miss, I’ve gone and forgotten all about taking your cloak. Poor dear. Tired and damp. We’ll get you into something dry. You’ll need nightclothes, won’t you?”

The older woman opened an armoire with doors featuring blank-faced, poorly painted cupids, their pink posteriors comically oversized, on chubby, cloud-floating bodies. Such gaudy, immature art was an offense to muralists everywhere. The maid pulled a frothy white nightgown and white velvet robe from the cabinet and shut the door with a snap. Miss Lumley laid the effusive garments on the bed and helped Lydia with her buttons.

“Those should do ’til we get your things.” She chuckled, nodding at the robe and sleepwear. “Men and their haste.”

Lydia’s dress slackened as each button came undone. Comfort and drowse made Lydia stretch her neck, and her gaze collided with an attractive blond swathed in gold silk. The regal woman stared at her with an imperious air from a painting above the mantel. Two small white dogs flanked her skirts, prepared to yip at the interloper.

“Whose room is this?” Lydia stared back warily, though the painting was excellent.

“Why it’s yours, of course.” Edith tugged off Lydia’s sleeves. “Step out of the dress, if you please.”

“But who’s that?” With an eye to the portrait, Lydia held the bedpost as Edith peeled away her dress and patched underskirt.

“Lady E., er, Lady Elizabeth, his lordship’s mum.” Miss Lumley tossed the garments over her shoulder. “This is, or was, her room, which now, of course, will be yours. Let’s get this on, shall we?”

The maid bunched up the frothy nightgown. Copious pink and yellow ribbons, shiny strips of silk, dangled in the air. The garment must belong to the woman in the portrait. Lydia shook her head and raised her hands in protest.

“Oh, no, no thank you. I’m fine with what I have.” She glanced from the painting to the maid, not willing to wear countess garb, even for sleep. “I’ll stick with my chemise.”

Edith frowned at her thin, short-sleeved chemise, eyeing a threadbare spot.

“At least take the robe. You’ll catch your death of cold without proper garments.”

Lydia grimaced. No corset and only one underskirt. She stood in her chemise and drawers with nothing else but a pair of stockings. Even when her dress and underskirt dried, she couldn’t very well walk around the earl’s home corsetless. Wearing the cloak indoors would be silly, all in the name of modesty.

“I suppose his lordship shouldn’t see bobbing breasts about his house, should he?” Lydia announced.

“Oh, my.” She chortled. “You’re a cheeky one, miss. Just what his lordship needs, I think. Now, be a good girl and put this on. I see the gooseflesh on your arms. Best be sensible, I always say.”

Lydia hesitated but slipped into the luxuriant robe, belting the pliant velvet. The lush fabric caressed her arms, tempting her with shimmering softness.

Her brain couldn’t help but latch onto the question: What exactly did his lordship expect of her? Other than an heir and a second, which seemed like overly functional thinking. The earl spoke of children, babies, after all. She contemplated probing the older woman for information, but the energetic maid had lost herself in what must have been a mental “to do” list.

The maid poked the fire, and above her head, Lady E. stared, full of hauteur and sophistication. Lydia, never one for fashion, leaned on the bedpost.

“Does the countess live here?”

Miss Lumley replaced the poker and moved to the bed. She slipped her hand under a pink bed ruffle. Out came the rim of a chamber pot.

“Just so you know, miss.” She tapped the porcelain rim and stood upright. “The countess? Live here? Oh no, her ladyship has apartments in Bath and her own estate, Ashton Manor, nearer to Lady Jane, the earl’s sister she is, and her little ones.” Edith winked and lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. Lady E.’s at least a good two or three days’ journey from here. She’s not big on visits to Greenwich Park anymore.”

Lydia absorbed this news and slipped her hands into the robe’s deep pockets, while Edith retrieved her candle from the dressing table.

“All’s well prepared, I think.” The maid cupped the flame and smiled. “At least I hope so, since we got word of your coming. Of course, tomorrow will be much better when your things arrive.”

“You had word of my coming?” Lydia fisted her hands encased in velvet.

Lord Greenwich was confident of his plan.

“Why, of course. We were informed of your arrival two days ago. Such a bustle to get the room ready. But if you’re quite comfortable, I’ll be off to get a mite of sleep.” Miss Lumley pointed at the long pink cord near the dressing table. “Give that a tug if you need anything.”

Lydia’s only decent clothing departed the room on the woman’s shoulder. She grinned: a melodramatic escape from the phantom’s lair would not be an option tonight.

Once the door closed, her toes wiggled on the fine pastel carpet. She leaned a hip against the bed and slipped off her stockings, all the better to feel the expensive pile under her feet. The old stockings floated to the floor. That’s when the porcelain winked at her. She leaned over and pulled out the chamber pot all the way.

“Pink. Of course.”

Her heel nudged the ceramic bowl back, and Lydia flopped onto the voluminous comforter. Her splayed fingers rubbed and swirled over the pink silk bedcover, and that’s when she remembered: her fingers had touched Lord Greenwich’s abdomen, firm male skin, pleasant to the touch.

The earl sported well-exercised, hard flatness…an interesting state for a recluse. This was not her first exposure to a man; nor was she one for fits of hysteria at the sight—or feel—of male flesh. But then Lord Greenwich wouldn’t know that. Her gaze wandered to the elegant portraiture.

“How do you feel about your son marrying a woman like me?” She crossed her arms. “But therein lies my trouble. To save my own mother, I must do this. Wouldn’t you want your son to do everything he could to save you?”

Lydia slid off the bed and picked up the brass snuffer to extinguish the candles. She paused, hand in midair, glancing at the dominating portrait.

“I don’t relish marriage to any man. No more than you probably relish me marrying your son.”

And there was that slight misunderstanding that needed to be rectified. She rubbed her tired eyes and set the snuffer down. A shaft of light beamed from under an adjoining door. Of course, the door to the earl’s room. Lydia tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear.

“At the very least, clear the air,” she decided aloud.

The soles of her feet sped over the luxuriant pile, and her fist poised to knock on the adjoining door. She stopped short and cocked her head. Voices, a man’s and a woman’s, carried faintly. Lydia stared at the narrow beam under the door. Was that Miss Mayhew’s voice? What game did his lordship play? A valet perhaps would attend at this hour, but not a woman. Her apology and confession fell by the wayside. Lydia grabbed the doorknob, ready to give Lord Greenwich a few choice words.

Five

Clear conscience never feared midnight knocking.

—Chinese Proverb

She scanned the room, heart pounding, and braced herself for…silence. Not a soul was present. There had been voices, in particular his lordship’s voice, somewhere in all this…mess.

The whole room cried disaster. Mismatched furniture competed with an abundance of books. Three bookstands acted as stems for massive tomes. Near those bookstands, a large, poorly crafted table held sizable sheaves of paper. Maps from the look. Everywhere, volumes stacked in such a scrabbled mess.

Not at all what one expected of nobility, then again, neither was the adjoining pink monstrosity. Large pillar candles blazed brilliantly, leaving excess wax pooled on tabletops. A man’s clothes piled in haphazard array across a rough sea chest. A pile of breeches taunted her, reminding her of where her hand had been less than an hour past, and the humbling fact that she owed Lord Greenwich an explanation…no, scratch that,
explanations
in the plural. Moments ago, she’d made base assumptions about him and his housekeeper.

Worse yet, she’d marched uninvited into a man’s bedchamber well past midnight. Her record of decision making this eve left much to be desired.

And then she spied him.

A dark blond head showed above the back of a large leather chair. Lord Greenwich, oblivious to her presence, faced a roaring fire, his stocking feet propped on a leather stool. Lydia slowly, carefully let the air from her lungs. She could turn back. Wait for morning. Her hands clenched into fists. When she opened them, Lydia willed control.

“My lord. A moment of your time, if you please.”

Her words shot like a musket blast through the quiet room. Masculine feet jerked off the stool, and a male hand set a crystal glass on a side table with care. Firelight played inside the jostled amber liquid.

“Miss Montgomery. I thought you were asleep.”

He didn’t stand up to face her, but his tanned fingers gripped the crystal glass.

Emboldened, Lydia strode a few paces forward. “I’m surprisingly awake.” She rubbed her chilled hands. “When I saw the light under your door, I thought I heard voices…”

“That was Miss Lumley taking the laundry.”

“I see.” She fidgeted, feeling a little silly about her suspicions. “I’m glad you’re up, because I want to speak with you. With the evening’s excitement and all—”

“Go to bed.” The terse command came from the chair’s expanse, cutting her short.

“What?”

“Do as you’re told and go to bed.” His voice carried across the space, sharp on each syllable.

“Wha…” Lydia choked down an indignant snort.

Lord Greenwich’s earlier considerate, gentleman’s veneer had worn off and been replaced by the type of nobleman she’d run into far too much: young, privileged, and full of themselves to excess. She was in his home, after all. Something snapped within her adaptable nature, and she closed the distance, her bare feet making quick swipes on the rug.

“So that’s how it is. Get what you want, and those polished manners of yours disappear. You may be the high and mighty Earl of Green—” Lydia stopped in her tracks when he stood up.

Her spine chilled. The back of him looked menacing. His linen shirt hung loose, and firelight limned broad shoulders through wrinkled fabric. Lord Greenwich stood tall and imposing, his mane of blond-brown hair hung free just past his shoulders, more highwayman stirred from repose than aristocrat at ease.

“Don’t come any farther,” he commanded and gripped the mantel with both hands. “Return to your chamber,
if
you
please
.”

“I do not
please
, sir,” Lydia said, but she finished the space to his chair with caution. “I will not be ordered about like a child.”

He inhaled sharply when she moved closer, and his back expanded like some kind of cornered beast about to spring. The part of her brain crying for restraint could not douse her ire.

“What’s wrong with you? You orchestrate my removal from my home in the dead of night. Then, you threaten my mother if I don’t go along with your ridiculous plan.” Her volume increased with each condemning phrase. “And, talk about the height of bad manners…you, you
rudely
show me your back—”

“I’m trying to spare us both any discomfort,” he snapped. “Stay where you are.”