Chapter Twenty-One
It always came down to the butler, John Butler mused, hurrying back down to the library. He did know nearly everything going on in the household; everyone’s strengths, their weaknesses, their likes and dislikes, and how to keep everything running smoothly with what looked like no effort at all.
Given that, tonight could be judged both a disaster and a triumph—or rather, a potential triumph. They hadn’t accomplished anything yet. At the library door he stopped, tugged on the bottom of his coat, and knocked on the door, unlocking it with his free hand as he did so.
“Enter,” Lady Pauline’s voice came, her tone a soft purr that made John’s hair stand on end.
He opened the door a crack, but didn’t enter. Not for a hundred quid would he have stepped inside that room. “My lady, my apologies, but Lord Hentrose has requested you meet him in the morning room. I’m to tell you he finds the ambiance there more … romantic.”
“Then shut the door, Butler,” she snapped, amid the rustling of clothes. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Of course, my lady. I shall wait.”
He didn’t wait. Instead, he hurried down a side corridor to the morning room, knocked, and unlocked that door. “About damned time, woman,” Trent said.
“Your Grace?”
“The butler, damn it all. What is it, then?”
“Um, I’m not certain what’s afoot, but Mrs. Silbern just asked me to put out all the candles in the room. I don’t wish to inconvenience you, of course, but I thought you should—”
“Come in and do it, then, for the devil’s sake.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Butler kept his gaze fixed on the floor except for one brief glance to see the Duke of Trent seated on the blue couch, his jacket and trousers off.
Well, they were going to have to burn the furniture now.
Moving swiftly, he put out each candle in turn.
The fire still crackled in the fireplace, but he shifted one of the wooden panels the dowager marchioness always demanded shield her from the fire and managed to block most of the light.
“Mrs. Silbern informed me she would be but a moment, Your Grace,” he said, backing out of the room and shutting the door on himself.
That done, he ran back up the corridor in time to catch the library door as Lady Pauline shoved it open and nearly slammed it into the wall. Her dress looked as impeccable as always, save for the trio of misbuttoned pearl clasps up her back.
“This way, my lady,” he said, turning to lead the way.
“I know the blasted way,” she snapped, yanking up a sleeve and stalking past him.
Her anger eased his mind. Young Becks wasn’t the only one to feel Lady Pauline’s wrath outside of Lord Hentrose’s sight and hearing.
None of the staff had choked on an orange, but Masquerade wouldn’t have blinked if they had.
She needed to not be a part of the household.
If this plan didn’t work, of course, it was he who wouldn’t be at Raines House any longer.
Lord Hentrose was a fine employer and an exceptional father.
John liked being in his employ. However, Lady Pauline Grenedy was another matter altogether.
She didn’t deserve a place here among the Biscuits, or anywhere near the children.
Child. Hmm. It already felt like young Master Edmund was part of the household.
John hoped it stayed that way. That bit, though, was up to the Major and the Mongoose.
“Iris?”
Iris heard Beckett’s whisper from the front of his garden, and for a moment the pure …
relief flooding every inch of her being left her breathless.
Then came the regret and anger, mostly at herself, because he would be an engaged man by now.
“Back here,” she said quietly, emerging behind the Grove House gate where she’d gone to hide.
To think, rather. And to figure out whether she could make herself congratulate him on his engagement.
He strode up to her, tension in the line of his shoulders and his clenched jaw. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” she returned, curling her fingers to keep from reaching through the gate for him. “Not yet.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.”
She frowned. “What do you think has happened? And why do I have to tell you anything at all?”
“I’m not going to fence with you tonight, Iris. Rebecca said you’d come out here, and you looked upset.”
“Becks saw me? Oh, dear. I’m…” She trailed off. “I didn’t mean to look upset. I meant to look determined. Just … Get in here.” Opening the gate, she took his arm and yanked him into the Grove House garden. “I certainly don’t want Trent to see you when he comes out here.”
They were close enough now that she could see his eyes narrow. “You’re meeting the duke out here? This is our—” He took a visible breath. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What were you going to say?” Foolish or not, she wanted to hear it. Because now that the moment had arrived, determination only went so far. Particularly when every bit of her wanted to go tell Trent to warm his own bed, because she had better things to do—like be with Beckett Raines.
“I was going to say that this is where we meet. Our little rose garden of peace and other things.”
“I didn’t choose the setting,” she snapped back, mostly because the very same thought had occurred to her. That Trent wasn’t allowed to be in the garden, because the garden belonged to Beckett and her.
“How was I to know that?” Beckett countered. “I thought you were fleeing something. But if you are meeting him out here, why are you hiding behind the wall in the wrong garden?”
“Because I don’t want to meet him. For heaven’s sake, I’m not a lunatic. I detest the man. But … I don’t know what else to do, Beckett. I have no other options.”
He lifted a hand as if he wanted to touch her, then lowered it again. “You do have another option.”
“What, you? You’ve decided I should be your mistress? That’s not a very good example either of us would be setting for Becks or Edmund, is it?” Turning her back, she stomped through the garden toward her aunt and uncle’s house.
“Why the devil would I ask you to be my mistress when we both know that would only get me a well-deserved punch in the face?” he asked, moving around in front of her. “And why are you so mad at me? What have I done to you?”
Other than make me fall in love with you? Nothing. “Never mind any of that. Shouldn’t I be congratulating you on your betrothal? Why are you even out here? You have other things to see to. I am not one of them.”
He took a step closer. “I haven’t—”
Beckett vanished. No, not vanished, she amended, looking down to see the top two feet of him protruding from the ground. “Oh no! Edmund said he’d moved his—goodness, it’s deep! Are you injured?”
“Dammit,” he cursed, hopping up and down like a mad toddler and going nowhere. “It’s too narrow. I seem to be stuck.”
A very inappropriate grin curved her lips. “But you’re not hurt.”
“No, I’m not hurt. Well, my pride, and perhaps my arse, but otherwise I’m undamaged.”
Iris tried to hold in her laugh, tried to stifle it, shove it back down into her chest. It burst forth anyway. Loud, long, and accompanied by several snorts. “You’re quite short,” she chortled.
“I am not short,” Beckett protested, a grin tugging at his own mouth. “I am two-thirds buried. I demand that you assist me, wench.”
Kneeling in front of him, she leaned forward. “What seems to be the difficulty, sirrah?”
“I can’t bend my damned knees. This is very unsound digging practice. Try putting the shovel handle in front of me so I can push down on it.”
With a twist she caught hold of the shovel and dragged it around in front of herself. Still laughing, she positioned it as he asked. “How’s that?”
“Let’s see.” Gripping it with both hands, he pushed down, straightening his arms. Two feet or so of him lifted out of the hole—and he toppled forward. “Ouch!”
“Beckett!” As he started to slide back into the hole, she grabbed one of his arms and pulled backward. “Are you injured now?”
“My manly bits have been crushed,” he rasped.
Iris snorted again. “I’m certain Lady Pauline will be disappointed. I know I would be.”
Shifting, Beckett lifted his free arm and dug his fingers into the dirt. “She has no reason to be. I didn’t propose to her. Pull, dammit!”
His hand nearly slipped out of hers, and she grabbed it harder, taking hold with both of her hands. “You didn’t propose? I thought that was why you trotted off after her earlier.”
“It was. I couldn’t do it.”
Sudden strength surged through Iris, and she pulled until he came out of the hole, she tipped backward, and he collapsed atop her.
“You couldn’t?” she panted, trying to pull air into lungs squished by his weight and the sudden mad, wild pounding of her heart.
He hadn’t proposed. Did that only mean he hadn’t yet proposed?
But he’d said couldn’t. Had he changed his mind?
Or had something merely interrupted his moment? “What happened?”
“I walked up to the door, lifted my hand to knock, and I couldn’t make myself do it,” he muttered, his face buried in her chest. “It—I—She’s everything I said I needed.
But I couldn’t stop … The idea of me with her, and of Rebecca being so poised and perfect that it could only be a mask…
” Beckett lifted his head, eyeing her. “You said you were being determined. You’ve decided, then.
To marry Trent, I mean.” He dragged himself the rest of the way out of the hole, up along her body.
“I would marry a walrus if it meant protecting Edmund. But—we should never have gotten drunk in the garden, Beckett. And we should never, ever, have done that other thing. Because before that I could be the one thing I needed to be. A mother. But you reminded me—”