Moondrops (Love Letters) (2 page)

“As soon as I’m dressed I’ll come down to breakfast and we’ll open this mysterious missive together. How’s that for a deal?”

“I suppose it shall have to do since I know it is the best offer you are inclined to make.”

“That’s right,” Elise said. She opened the kitchen door, bumped her hip against Louise’s hip and herded her through the door.

Every once in a while she managed to get the last word in a conversation with Louise. It didn’t happen often, but when it did it certainly was satisfying.

****

A length of russet-colored grosgrain fluttered, then twirled, as an adept hand turned it from ordinary to beautiful. With a final twist the last graceful ribbon rosebud petal materialized at the corner of the neckline on the dress that lay across the wide table.

Genevieve swept her palms together, sending tiny strands of thread drifting to the floorboards. She looked up, caught the gazes of her daughters and asked, “What do you think? Are there enough flowers, or should I add another rosebud?”

The three women subjected the day dress to critical scrutiny. Then, as if of one mind, they shook their heads.

Louise was the first to pass judgment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think
what
, dear?” Genevieve asked.

She shot a knowing look toward her eldest daughter. They were both accustomed to Louise’s habits and were on a campaign to discourage the most unsuitable, including this one where she assumed they could read her mind. Whether they could or not was immaterial; she must be coaxed to fully elucidate when she spoke. It only made sense that eventually the beautiful young miss would find herself in a situation where the other person she conversed with had no inclination to read her mind. Then what?

“What don’t you think?” Impatience poured over Elise’s usually good nature like a frigid splash of water. Until the task at hand was settled, she knew her mother wouldn’t dream of addressing the more urgent matter plaguing Elise’s mind. “Do tell already! More roses? You know Mother will not put her needle aside until we all agree. What is your opinion?”

Louise’s first response was a sweet smile. Then, in a voice that oozed false warmth, she said, “Why, sister, I do believe you and mother both know my heart. Don’t you
always
know what I’m thinking? What I’m feeling? And much more importantly, of course, what is
best
for me?”

Elise knew she was about to pay the price for forcing Louise to soil her dainty fingertips in the kitchen earlier.

So much for having the last word.

It was far simpler to smooth ruffled feathers than ignore them, so Elise forced her lips to curve upward. “You know that’s not true, dear. Mother and I only want what is best for you, in all things, although it is no secret you have a mind of your own—and are perfectly capable of using it. Now, what do you say? Does Miss Penningdale’s new dress need more roses at the bodice or shall we consider this a fait accompli?”

“It’s done,” Louise declared, this time with a real smile.

“Mother?” Elise’s impatience propelled her head around so quickly a lock of hair fell from its pin and onto her cheek.

As she answered, Genevieve reached out and tucked her daughter’s hair back into place. “Done. I would say the dress is quite definitely done and you, Elise? What is your opinion on the matter?”

The word was out like a shot. “Done!”

Now, onto the real matter of the day!

She pulled the envelope from the pocket of her sewing apron, took out the sheet of paper and unfolded it. There was no need to look at her letter. She had already memorized the whole thing—what little there was of it. Regardless, she held the page up and read the words in a rush.

Then, she hitched a deep breath.

Elise waved the note in the air above the completed dress. The dressmaker’s shop had two rooms, a public showing room and this, the workroom. Thankfully, there were no clients present to see her show of agitation.

Or hear it in her voice. “Well? Whatever shall we do about this…this…this
ridiculous
letter?”

She did not miss the looks exchanged between Louise and their mother.

As she rose and picked the completed dress from the table, Genevieve shrugged. “Why, you must go, of course. There is no other way to get to the bottom of a mystery than to dive right in, is there? And this, my headstrong daughter, certainly seems to be a true mystery. Don’t you agree, Louise?”

“I do, Mother.” She turned to face Elise, who still clutched the single page. Raising one perfectly arched brow, she added, “I’m shocked you haven’t figured it out for yourself, to tell the truth. I would think one as wise as you would know what to do in this situation. Besides, the letter says that all will be revealed, doesn’t it? So, go to London and see what comes to light!”

Chapter 2

Polished black Hessian boots made his footsteps as loud as gunshots against the oak floorboards bordering the shiny brass fireplace bumper. The stride was a long one, and the distance short, so the cadence being trod sounded more staccato than a lively composition played in a drawing room musicale.

Even an average woman’s patience has a limit and she was no average woman.

Flinging the gold-and-white needlepoint pillow cover she labored over down onto her lap, she caught his gaze as he passed her chair. “For goodness sake, stop that already. You are giving me a headache right behind my eyes, one of those that linger for days once they have begun. I can hardly afford to take to my sickbed now, so desist. I insist upon it!”

No one else could have stopped him in his tracks as effectively as the middle-aged woman sharing the fireside could. He stood directly before her, the angle of his neck bringing his strong jaw to rest on his chest due to his height coupled with the lowness of her chair.

Her head craned back as she gazed up at him, the black ribbon laced beneath her fashionable upsweep tickling the soft spot between her shoulder blades. Another woman would have twitched to alleviate the itchy sensation but not her. She had weathered many more prickly sensations and would not show her discomfort now—not even to the only man left in the world who held a piece of her heart in the palm of his hand. No, not even for him.

He saw the scratchy dilemma, as well as the flash of annoyance as she waged her internal war but did not show his hand.

“I cannot believe you would blame the state of your head on my feet.”

He grinned good-naturedly, bringing the cleft on his chin more prominently into view. With dark brown eyes, thick black curls and what some might call a regal nose, he had thoroughbred good looks and a charming personality, both of which made him a very eligible bachelor.

Refusing to be manipulated by his twinkling eyes, she pursed her lips disapprovingly. Then she snorted, a most unladylike noise but they were in private so who would be the wiser?

“I am old, not cork-brained. Do not try to maneuver your way into my good graces when I am on the verge of a full-blown brain ache.” Her insistence was a farce they both recognized but she held her ground—and her seat.

He bent at the waist, brought his gaze level with hers and stared into her unblinking eyes for a long moment. Finally, he straightened, chuckling.

“You are neither old nor addled, and you are not coming down with an ache of any kind. You are just out of sorts because you aren’t in control of the current situation.” When she opened her mouth to object, he held up a hand. “Anyone who knows you as I do—and you must admit, my dear Emmaline, that I do know you far better than most—realizes you like to have the upper hand on everything you touch. No, let me rephrase that.” He paused, cleared his throat and flashed a small grin. “You don’t just like to be in charge; no, you
need
to be in control. Without that position, I fear you begin to imagine all sorts of ailments. Including, but not limited to, headaches.”

He knew her well better than most. Certainly his knowledge of her habits, heart and personality was far superior to any living soul, save her own.

With a resigned sigh, she gathered up the pillow cover, tapestry floss and scissor. A basket, so studded with frippery as to be almost a work of art in its own right, sat beside her chair. After making certain her tapestry needle was secure in a corner of the work, she dumped the lot into the basket and slammed its lid closed.

A pointed look toward the side table, where rows of decanters nestled on a large sterling silver tray beside rows of sparkling stemware, preceded her words.

“I could use a drop of sherry, if you don’t mind.” When he did not move, she made a quick decision. “On second thought, sherry won’t do. I much prefer a glass of whiskey.”

His boot steps did not warrant comment as he walked to the table, unstoppered a cut-crystal decanter and began to pour its contents into a squat tumbler. It had been hidden behind the row of fancy stemmed goblets, this rather plain cup he now used.

Mid-pour he stopped, turned and asked, “A small one? Or—”

“The full measure, if you please.” She watched him bring the amber liquid up to the halfway point in the glass, nodded her satisfaction and said, “That will do.”

She wasted no time taking a first, then a second sip from the glass as soon as he handed it to her. Then she settled back in her seat, nodded to the leather chair on the other side of the hearth and watched as he, with his own glass of whiskey, folded his long legs and sat.

“You’re right, you know,” she allowed, taking another sip. This time, the measure was smaller and the movement more controlled.

“I know. You are as nervous as I have ever seen you. I can’t fathom why this has you so discombobulated. It is a rather commonplace dilemma, especially by comparison to others that have graced this mansion. Oh, if these walls could talk…”

“Stop right there, Hugh. I won’t have you stirring up old scandals now, not when I’m already at sixes and sevens. Besides, I don’t believe the goings-on here can be regarded as any more, ah, less decorous than countless others in similar surroundings.”

His eyebrows rose of their own accord as he choked on his whiskey. “Oh, no? You don’t think the event with the two—no, three—barons, harpist and her ah, dance troupe would set tongues afire if ever the story circulated amongst the peerage?”

“That was an isolated incident,” she insisted stubbornly.

Not willing to be put off, particularly since their verbal jousting—or the very strong libation—seemed to calm her nerves, he pushed on. Another example, this one more shocking in memory than it had been in actuality, came instantly to mind.

“Well then, how about the time the solicitor found himself nose to nose—and cheek to cheek—with his client’s—”

“Enough! You have proven your point, although I cannot imagine what those, ah, escapades have to do with this particular set of circumstances. Tell me, honestly, do you think she will come?”

The once-flawless alabaster skin had its share of wrinkles but she was still undeniably a beautiful woman. Even in the black gown, so uncharacteristically modest with its ivory fichu and lack of pleats, ruffles or bows, couldn’t hide Emmaline Byrd’s svelte figure. Had she been willing to walk down any of the fashionable London sidewalks she would have turned heads, both male and female. She was that pretty, even at a point where most women had lost the bloom of their youth.

Trepidation was as out of character for the woman’s nature as the austere dress. Its presence made him want to scoop her up and soothe her as he would one of his young nieces. After all she had been through, he hated seeing her unduly distressed.

“You should not worry so, Emmaline.” Intentionally he kept his tone soothing, hoping to gentle her nerves the way he did with the edgy mares in his stable. “She will come. I’d wager every Sovereign in my possession that she won’t disappoint.”

A long, steadying breath sent a wave of whiskey fumes across the small space between them. Too many more of those and she wouldn’t give a fig what came of her letter!

“Are you sure?” Emmaline looked at the liquid in her glass before she took a sip. About a finger’s worth remained. “Absolutely certain she will come?”

He finished his drink, set the glass down on a side table with a thump and nodded. “I have no doubt whatsoever that she will come.”

“How do you know for certain?”

He shrugged. It seemed obvious but he explained anyhow. “She is a woman. You sent a message stating you have information for her. That is enough to get
any
woman interested. She will come. She will not be able to resist. I am sure of it. I promise you, she will show up here in short order or my name isn’t—”

A brisk wave of a hand whose fingers were heavy with rings. Firelight caught the cut of a large ruby and sent a spray of red lines arcing over the ceiling. “Yes, yes, I know your name. What I don’t understand is how you can be so certain. She could disregard the letter, you know. She might toss it on the grate and forget it ever came her way.”

Preposterous! Women didn’t have that kind of stamina. They could not withstand the possibility of finding something new or better than what they already had. He knew for a fact that there wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t trade her circumstances—and whomever was involved—for something she thought might bring her higher on the social scale. He’d enough proof of that in his lifetime to set his views in granite.

“You will never convince me that a woman won’t jump at the chance to find more secure footing for herself. Your letter opens that door, even if it does so in a maddeningly mysterious manner. No, she will come.” He shot her an openly curious look. Then he cocked one eyebrow and asked, “The question is: What shall you do with her once you have her here?”

Before she could reply, a butler appeared in the open doorway.

“Pardon, but you have a caller. A young lady says she has come about a letter. Shall I bring her in?”

Emmaline downed the contents of her glass as Hugh stood. He glanced at her, and then nodded to the waiting man.