Chapter 4
“Hart…oh my goodness, that’s right!” Louise exclaimed, then looked surprised, as if she hadn’t meant to give voice to her thoughts. “I mean, I remember hearing a story about your name some years ago, when I visited London with my parents.”
“Did you indeed?” Hart watched her, waiting, smiling slightly.
“Yes. You were at a garden party I attended. A friend pointed you out and said…” She fell silent and bit her lip.
Emeline St. Briac nudged her with an elbow and prompted, “Yes?”
“My friend said Lord Jasper Hartcliffe was ironically known as Hart because he is a libertine who lacks a heart!” Louise tilted her chin, adding, “Perhaps it is rude of me to say so.”
“Rude?” Hart gave a caustic laugh. “Not a bit. I am well aware that I’ve been called Hart the Heartless, with good reason.”
Justin St. Briac, who had been watching the scene unfold from a distance, stepped forward now. “Yet, look at you today, my lord. Clearly, you have grown wiser with age. You have spent most of the past few years on the Continent and have gained respect as a man of letters.”
The Frenchman’s intent look warned Hart to remember the role he had agreed to play. Suddenly, Hart wished he hadn’t tried to pretend to be anyone other than his true self.
He forced himself to turn to Louise St. Briac. “One can change with time.”
Just then, a swinging door opened on the far wall, and a petite, freckled girl with fiery red hair appeared. She pushed a teacart, the odor of burnt toast following her into the room.
“Beg pardon, m’ladies, but I had a bit of a problem with the toast,” the girl confessed, cheeks aflame.
“Oh, dear. We are so sorry, Dora,” soothed Louise.
As Dora began to set dishes on an empty stretch of the table, Emeline St. Briac turned to her father. “Papa, you must not stay. I know you are very busy, and we are quite capable of talking to Lord Hartcliffe about his assignment for us. No doubt you would find it all terribly dull.”
Hart admired her brisk manner and noted the slight tension between daughter and father. He fully expected the Frenchman to refuse to go, but before he could speak, a small furry object sprang out from one of the dining chairs and flung itself at St. Briac.
“What the devil?” St. Briac shouted, even as the feline attacker hooked its claws to the front of his tailored coat and emitted an earsplitting yowl. “Sangdieu, there is a wild animal in this house!”
“Oh, Papa, must you be so dramatic?” laughed Emeline. With one slim hand, she caught the kitten around its middle and dislodged it from her father’s coat. “This is Bartholomew. I’m quite certain you two have already met.”
“I no doubt tried to put the little beast from my mind.”
Cuddling the gray kitten until it began to purr loudly, Emeline shook her head. “Little Mew probably can sense that you don’t like him, and he feels threatened by your presence. He is highly intelligent.”
St. Briac glanced heavenward. “I fear that you females have been living alone too long. You treat the cat as if he were your babe.”
As the two cousins lovingly stroked the kitten’s small head, Emeline said, “Why should we not? Mew is doubtless as close as either of us will come to a child. As you know, we plan to make our own way in the world, unburdened by husbands.”
Hart choked on a laugh. In spite of his growing opinion that the St. Briac family was eccentric, he was rather beguiled by this outspoken—and quite ravishing—daughter.
“I trust you don’t really mean that,” St. Briac said, reaching out to pat her cheek.
“But I do! And well you know it, Papa.”
“Eh bien, Emmie. I surrender.” He smiled and threw up his hands. “I will be on my way, for your beautiful maman is expecting me to share a delicious luncheon with her in St. James’s Park.” Turning, he sent Hart a pointed look. “I hope your discussions go well, my lord.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Emeline parried and led him to the door.
Louise, the older cousin, poured coffee into three cups and set out the plate of buttered, scorched toast with a tiny bowl of orange marmalade. When Emeline returned, she glanced toward Hart, and he felt another magnetic jolt as their eyes met for an instant.
This is not good, he thought with an inner groan. It was one thing to seduce experienced women and even to engage in harmless flirtations with females who hung after him at balls and routs, but this was different. If Hart crossed the line with Emeline St. Briac, it would ruin everything.
“I do hope you aren’t put off by our sadly unconventional ways,” Emeline was saying to him as she grouped three chairs on one side of the table. “But you are looking for someone to carry out an assignment, are you not? One hopes propriety is not a central qualification.”
Before Hart could reply, Louise gestured toward a chair for him and seated herself in the middle, as if she sensed the invisible sparks flying between Hart and Emeline.
“My cousin is quite right, my lord. We may not aspire to entertain well, but that is because our interests lie in science. It would be a sad waste of this room if we used it for dining instead of study.”
Hart nodded, bemused. “I understand completely.” Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed that Emeline was scanning her reflection in a small oval mirror that hung nearby.
Perhaps she was wishing she had dressed more carefully for this meeting?
The predatory rake in him bit back a smile.
He wanted to tell her that she looked enchanting in her worn blue gown that was tantalizingly snug.
Her expressive face was radiant, without artifice, her lips utterly kissable, her violet eyes edged with thick black lashes.
Hart couldn’t help himself. He imagined having Emeline alone, removing the scarf that haphazardly concealed her raven curls, unfastening the gown that she seemed to have outgrown, revealing…
“My lord?”
He blinked, returning to the present. Both women were looking at him. In the next instant, Hart realized that his momentary fantasy had physical consequences. Good God. Deftly, he adjusted the edge of his coat to conceal his arousal.
This has to stop. Immediately.
“Will you describe the duties you expect us to carry out?” Louise inquired. “We are told it is research of some sort.”
“Yes, Papa has been quite mysterious!” Emeline swallowed the last bite of toast and waved her free hand to indicate the room they had filled with books, geological artifacts, and framed nature sketches.
“As you see, my lord, we have been laboring to create a study where we can work,” Louise interjected.
“I fear we cannot wait another moment,” Emeline said firmly. “Pray enlighten us.”
Returning his cup to its saucer, Hart angled his chair toward the two women. Emeline perched on the edge of her seat, back straight, unaware of how charming she looked.
He didn’t plan to reveal much about his small archaeological project at Woodcroft Priory.
Hart preferred to keep the details to himself, to continue spending hours at the Reading Room at the British Museum, searching through the books for bits of information that might enlighten him about the sword and its origins.
It wasn’t so much a secret as something meaningful that belonged to him alone.
“A few artifacts have been discovered, buried on the grounds of my estate in Suffolk.” He paused, keeping his tone even despite the familiar rush of energy he felt whenever he thought of the sword. “Mainly a sword. Very old. Viking, perhaps.”
Emeline’s eyes were sparkling. “How thrilling! Have you brought it to be analyzed?”
“No. It is in a fragile state, and I don’t want to move it. I came back to London to do some research and discover what might be known about a relic of this sort.”
Justin St. Briac had cautioned against offering too many details about the sword. Draw out this endeavor as long as possible. All that matters is that the girls trust their employment is legitimate.
“What else can you tell us?” coaxed Emeline.
Hart hesitated, then took a deep breath and drew a folded paper from his inside pocket.
“I did bring a rough sketch.” Opening the paper on the flat surface of the table, he pointed.
“Of course, the iron blade is corroded, and some pieces are broken or missing, but the sword itself is nearly three feet long. The hilt is very impressive, silver and gilt, and the pommel is inlaid with a row of garnet cloisonné.”
Louise looked awestruck. “How did you discover this sword, and where is it now?”
“I confess it was my gardener who recently unearthed it while digging a new garden near the old priory ruins, while I was still in Florence. The gamekeeper helped to bring out the pieces, and then they realized they should not disturb the rest of the area.”
“We find this utterly compelling, having spent years with Mary Anning, painstakingly uncovering and cataloguing fossils,” Louise said thoughtfully.
“However, our experience lies in the science of paleontology. You will doubtless want to consult with an archaeologist. Perhaps we can help you locate one.”
Hart nodded, thinking that task would keep them occupied for a while. “That is an excellent plan.”
“But surely we can be of more use than that!” protested Emeline.
She leaned forward to study the drawing.
“Are there not similarities between the two sciences? Even many of our tools and methods are the same. And geologists, like William Buckland, have accidentally made archaeological discoveries while searching for fossils!” She turned to look at Hart, glowing.
“I surmise that you wish us to discover the provenance of your ancient sword. I mean to read every bit of documentation the British Museum’s Reading Room has to offer about Viking-era swords and other similar archaeological finds! ”
Louise looked doubtful. “That would require a ticket to use the Reading Room, and as you well know, women aren’t supposed to apply.” She paused. “I mean, it’s almost unheard of.”