To Wed a Wicked Earl (18 page)

“I daresay, my lord,” Hyacinth remarked while peeking into a shadowed room, “your sense of decoration is remarkable. Cozy and country without losing a noble air. I’m duly impressed.”

He turned to Charlotte, a brow raised.

She shrugged. Looking down, she turned her attention to a porcelain vase painted with a chain of daises around the rim.

He cleared his throat, his deep voice vibrating in the small but elegant foyer. “I cannot take the credit, madam. My gr—”

Charlotte shook her head hurriedly, hoping he’d get the signal to quit while he was ahead.

“Why?” he mouthed.

She widened her eyes.

His golden gaze narrowed for a moment, then relaxed. Thankfully, he didn’t press Charlotte for an explanation.

After that, he quickly explained to them that they should expect odd happenings, as the dowager was getting older—affectionately joking that she was a hundred if she was a day—and senility was fighting for possession of her mind.

He then said that he would catch up with them later, as he was off to visit a tenant who was having ongoing problems with some marauders stealing his prize sheep.

But before he left, he winked at Charlotte…again. She’d give her left boot to know what he meant by the gesture. But then she reminded herself not to get too excited about winks. He was simply flirting. Just teasing. They were friends. They were going to help each other.

Bright sunlight beckoned her to the window. Putting the brush down, Charlotte crossed the room, her feet swishing across the plush of the rug.

A light yellow chaise lounge crouched under the window and she trailed a fingertip along the arm before sinking her knees into it in order to peek outside. Leaning toward the glass, she rested her arms on the sill.

Directly below her window, the dark waters of a pond reflected the bruised clouds scuttling across the clearing sky. Next to it crouched a pair of willow trees, their melancholy branches hanging low as if daring to disturb its placid, glass-like beauty.

Beyond the pond sprawled an expansive garden maze with walls of towering yew bushes, expertly clipped. From her vantage point, the maze appeared quite simple to solve, though she suspected that once one was surrounded by the labyrinth of hedges, all sense of direction would contort.

Suddenly, thoughts of Rothbury flitted through her mind and she wondered if he ran inside that maze as a child. He probably knew every nook, every turn. She wondered if he’d thrown rocks in the pond or perhaps sailed a toy boat or two.

Aubry Park seemed a magical, secret place. A lovely place. A place its mistress’s beauty would complement in gentle accord. A mistress like Lady Rosalind, she thought gravely.

She shook her head and told herself to perk up.

After all, Witherby was nowhere to be found—unless he was hiding in the woods. And most especially, Rothbury was going to help her. And she was going to spend a whole marvelous day in his splendid manor. In fact, while her mother slept and Rothbury was away, she saw no reason why she couldn’t dash outside and slip inside that hedge maze. It looked like cracking fun!

It was pure hell.

For what had to be at least an hour now, Charlotte had traipsed amid the towering, intersecting hedge-lined paths of the maze. Every path, every corner, every blade of grass looked exactly the same as the ones before it, or after it, or next to it. She wouldn’t know. At this point she was so utterly, miserably turned about, the only direction she was sure of was up and down.

Bees darted at her (she suspected they had made nests in the bushes), a bird dove close to her head (she suspected it had a nest somewhere around here as well), and an angry squirrel had bounded toward her with no apparent provocation on her part whatsoever, causing her to tear the lace hem of her favorite walking dress as she sped away from it.

Her enthusiasm spent, her limbs tired and aching, her only hope was that the gardener might find her whenever it was he next trimmed the walls of the maze. A day, a week, a month?

She paused, willing her nerves to calm. She would not panic. There had to be a way out of this godforsaken place and she was determined to find it.

Suddenly thinking of a plan, she pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, silently admonishing herself for not thinking of it sooner.

Reaching out, she twisted a bit of greenery off the closest hedge and dropped it on the grass behind her. She did this, one after another, turn after turn, until there was no possible way she would accidentally retrace her steps—as soon as she saw the clumps of greenery, she would know that she had been that way before.

After several minutes, her confidence grew and she was soon clipping along. Shortly, she passed what she assumed was the center: a wide expanse of lawn, a white garden bench at each end, and a circular pond enlivened with water lilies and irises. Just like the rest of Aubry Park, at least what she had seen of it, the center of the labyrinth was a charming surprise. A place where she might be inclined to sit and read under other circumstances.

Quite pleased that there was only one other exit, diagonally across from where she stood, Charlotte trudged onward, dismally aware that she was most assuredly late in her meeting with Rothbury’s grandmother and would have no time to change her dress.

Skirting around what she hoped was the last corner, Charlotte nearly shouted with absurd glee upon seeing that she was indeed free.

A bit breathless, she stepped out of the maze, her gaze instantly focusing on the elaborate ironwork of the arbor commanding notice from across the lawn.

Rothbury was right. It did look like a giant domed wrought-iron birdcage. Commissioned from a local blacksmith, the garden sculpture was exquisitely detailed. They all were to meet there for tea, and by the looks of things, some individuals had already started to assemble.

Charlotte looked down, examining the state of her pale pink frock. A good six inches of a grass-stained lace hem dragged behind her, perspiration dampened her bodice and sleeves, and her loosely pinned coiffure had undoubtedly come undone. She could feel the looping curls bouncing against the back of her neck and sliding upon the tops of her bare shoulders as she walked.

She cringed. How embarrassing. With no time to spare, she had to resolve herself to the fact that she was to meet his grandmother looking like an escapee from Bedlam.

Coming up behind her from returning from the stables, Rothbury’s gaze raked Charlotte’s state of dishevelment: hair mussed, tumbling down the back of her head in a cascade of curls, her dress a touch rumpled, a ripped hem.

“I must say, you look as if you’ve just come from a tryst in the garden. Have you?”

At the sound of his voice she spun around, her shoulders visibly relaxing once her eyes settled on him.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she said.

“Disappointed? Relieved?” He looked at her through hooded eyes. 
“Delighted?”

“Thankful.”

“Thankful?” He raised a brow.

“Yes, 
thankful
,” she stressed. “Thankful that I’ve found another living soul. I’ve been lost in your hedge maze for the better part of an hour. I had started to believe I might not ever escape.”

He tried to bite back a smile, gave up, and grinned fully. “Charlotte, what possessed you to try traversing that monstrous thing alone?”

“I spied it from my window and thought I’d give it a go. It looked easy enough from up there.”

He smiled. “It does look rather simple from a higher vantage point.”

He offered his arm and she took it without hesitation. That action alone managed to warm his heart. She was the only woman of his acquaintance who didn’t stare down at his offered arm as if making some potentially life-altering decision.

She settled her hand upon his forearm and they strolled toward the birdcage arbor. “I reckon it’s too late to tell you of a little trick that might have aided you had you known.”

Suddenly, he felt nearly overcome with wanting to show her all his childhood haunts. The tree house his grandmother had ordered built to look like a scaled-down version of Aubry Park manor, his favorite fishing spot, the oak tree he had fallen out of not once but twice—and had not a broken bone to show for it—a tiny cave hidden in the dense woods that had a shallow creek running through it, the secret place where he had hidden from his father and uncles.

He wanted to tell her things about himself he’d never told anyone else.

“I reckon you’re right,” she said, giving a little laugh. “But tell me just the same. I’d like to know.”

“All you have to do is keep turning right. Or, just put your right hand on the hedge wall, never stop touching it. You’ll walk through every corner of the maze,” he added, “but you’ll escape eventually.”

“I shall remember that.”

“For the next time?” Why did he just say that? There will never be a next time.

She shook her head slowly back and forth. “Never. I’m not ever going anywhere near that place again, thank you very much. Unless of course, you are with me.”

He swallowed, surprised to find that it was suddenly hard to do. Closing his eyes on a slow blink, something that others might call a conscience reared its foreign head and called him a soulless cad for bringing her here, for misleading her.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the thought back to the dark, empty pit whence it came.

Chapter 12

A Gentleman admits defeat with dignity and grace.

“S
a poitrine est plate comme un flet.”

By some miracle, Charlotte’s polite smile never wavered. It was a proud moment for her. After all, it wasn’t every day that a little old lady told you right to your face that your bosom was as flat as a flounder.

Bringing her teacup to her lips for a small sip, she swiped at a pretend wrinkle on her gown with her other hand. Remaining impassive was a must, if only to keep Rothbury from knowing that she did, indeed, understand every single syllable his grandmother happened to utter.

Perhaps this was the reason he had asked if she or her mother spoke his grandmother’s native tongue. He had warned them more than once that senility was slowly taking over her mind. That despite her grasp of the English language, she refused to speak it any longer. Still, her criticism was a touch startling, considering the comment had come out of nowhere.

Up until this point, Charlotte had thought that her meeting with the dowager countess was going along smoothly.

She had entered the arbor on Rothbury’s arm, where she was met with much enthusiasm by a petite, gray-haired woman with kind eyes that showed absolutely no hint of her unstable mental state. She wore her tightly curled hair pinned up and tucked under a lace cap, with tiny ringlets peeking out. Her pink day dress was simple, no old-fashioned frills of unending lace, but the tiny pink bows sewn on the hem and frame of the bodice did give the impression that it was made from a design intended for a much younger woman. Her eyes were a clear, amber-flecked brown, much like her grandson’s, and she smelled heavily of lavender.

Clasping Charlotte’s hands within her wrinkled ones, she had kissed both sides of Charlotte’s face and declared, in French, that today was the best day of her life. She insisted the Greenes call her by her given name, Louisette, and appeared, at least at the moment, to be in complete control of her mind.

And then things started to take a turn. She began to talk very fast and enthusiastically, and she asked many questions, mostly about Charlotte’s family and upbringing. Rothbury patiently translated her queries, often with an apology in his eyes when the dowager asked another question before Charlotte had time to answer the first.

Hyacinth arrived a half hour later than Charlotte, still a bit groggy from her nap. Louisette seemed as pleased to make her acquaintance as well, and even spoke of the haunted forest near the pavilion, Rothbury translating, of course. Charlotte surmised that he must have told his grandmother about Hyacinth’s fixation with the metaphysical.

Then Louisette had proceeded to go into great, horrific detail of a murder that had taken place there during the Jacobean Rebellion. Her mother couldn’t understand a word Louisette was saying, but it didn’t matter. Once the introduction and pleasantries were over, Hyacinth settled down on the bench next to the woman who had been sitting quietly near the dowager.

The tall, graying woman was Miss Drake, longtime nurse and companion to the dowager. And more interestingly, fellow specter enthusiast. While Miss Drake worked on her needlework, she and Hyacinth fell into easy conversation, often sounding like schoolgirls as they shared their experiences with the spirit world.

Charlotte slid a glance at Rothbury. Diagonally across from their little cluster, he lounged on an ornate garden chair that looked as if it was designed specifically for the dainty bottom of an English miss—not the long-legged grown man who was currently occupying it. Indeed, it looked in danger of crumbling under his weight.

Charlotte pressed her lips together, suppressing the need to smile. There was nothing like delicate furniture to make a man seem even more incredibly masculine than he already was.

In a manner that befitted a recalcitrant youth down from Eton, Rothbury leaned back in the chair, strong arms folded across his chest, eyes closed, lean muscled legs stretched out before him as he balanced the chair precariously on the back legs alone.