Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“When I saw your carriage yesterday, I wondered whether you had been sent to me by the Lord himself,” Amelia whispered, leading Mr. Moore up the steps to the orphanage the following morning.
“A touching, if blasphemous, hypothesis,” Mr. Moore replied behind her, casting his eyes to the autumnal, heavily overcast sky above them. “Unfortunately, I merely parked there as it was closest to the club where I took my luncheon. Has Cornmarket always been so busy?”
Amelia glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling. She found herself smiling often around the curious man. “As long as I have lived here, yes.”
“And how long has that been, exactly?”
“In Oxford proper? Three years, thereabout.”
Amelia paused at the top of the steps, and the gentleman came to an abrupt halt behind her. She looked down at him, observing him, impressed by her ability to have remembered all the finer details about him from yesterday.
Am I truly surprised? I cannot recall having ever met a gentleman so handsome in my life. Those warm brown eyes, the richness of his hair… He haunted my dreams, which were far from unpleasant—far from ladylike too…
She cleared her throat, a flush creeping to her cheeks. “Did you manage to speak with His Grace yestereve, as you intended?”
Mr. Moore—damningly dashing Mr. Moore, with his soft hair and aquiline nose—returned her look defiantly.
“I am a man of my word, Miss Tate. I wrote to the duke soon after. He was positively tickled by the idea that I should play the part of him today. He might have come himself, if he had not been otherwise engaged elsewhere in the country...”
Amelia did not know whether to believe him. This man could have been lying through his teeth for all she knew.
She had asked her aunt and uncle over dinner the night prior whether they had heard of a Mr. Moore recently returned to town. Her aunt Beatrice kept abreast of all the social news in the county but had heard nothing of the sort.
What does it matter who he is, or how he makes me feel just being near him?
Amelia thought to herself, turning to open the door.
All I need is for him to convince Mr. Robinson that he is the Duke of Avon.
After that point, I may try to contact the real Duke personally, with or without Mr. Moore’s help.
Stepping aside to admit Mr. Moore indoors, Amelia watched his face darken slightly at the interior of the orphanage. So confident before, he took a few hesitant steps inside before stopping.
“Something the matter?” Amelia asked, closing the door behind her.
Mr. Moore looked around, pursing his lips. “How did you say this place was financed? When did you establish this house?” he asked.
“Two years ago,” Amelia explained. “My uncle previously sat on the board of the hospital here in Oxford, where he learned that they were struggling to house the sick children who came in for treatment.”
“That does not explain how you came to be here.”
“Well, he knew I desired a pastime of substance and suggested that together we could establish a home for them. He has since stepped back from the management of the orphanage—he is much too busy with other matters.” Amelia looked around the entrance hall proudly.
“I have taken up much of the housekeeping in his stead, but I would be utterly lost without the help of the other volunteers.”
On cue, Mr. Marsh and Mrs. Thatcher entered with a great gaggle of children. Mrs. Thatcher leaned down to wipe the mouth of the child closest to her. Evidently, they had just had their breakfast and were moving across the house toward the schoolroom.
“Speaking of the other volunteers,” Amelia said, gesturing toward the quickly approaching group. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Marsh and Mrs. Thatcher. Perhaps you have met Mr. Marsh? He formerly performed administrative duties at Oxford.”
Mr. Marsh reached across the group of small children to shake Mr. Moore’s hand. Meantime, Mrs. Thatcher smiled politely before excusing herself and the children.
The same blonde-haired child who always followed Mr. Marsh hid behind his legs as Amelia presented Mr. Moore to them, the room considerably quieter now that Mrs. Thatcher and the others had taken their leave.
“This is...” She couldn’t countenance lying directly to Mr. Marsh, but accepted it as a necessary evil. “Well, this is Mr. Moore. He has come today to help us negotiate with Mr. Robinson.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir! “Mr. Marsh guffawed. “If you are here to help Miss Tate, then you have my sincerest thanks.”
Mr. Moore was unusually tense beside Amelia. When she looked over at him, it seemed to wake him from his daze. He nodded at Mr. Marsh, and with nothing more to say between them, Mr. Marsh left, scooping up the child.
Once they were alone again, Amelia turned to Mr. Moore.
“Really, is something the matter?” she asked. “You have seemed out of sorts since you set foot indoors.”
After a moment, Mr. Moore dared to meet her gaze again. “I do not fare well with... children.”
Amelia arched a brow.
“By that, I mean... I should like to avoid them for the duration of my visit.”
It was a strange request, given the location, but Amelia agreed. He was not the first gentleman she had met who disliked the company of children. Perhaps he worried they would ruin his nice clothes.
The thought reminded her to take the man’s coat, and she stepped around him to begin divesting him of it.
Mr. Moore, seemingly accustomed to such doting treatment, began shrugging out of the fine, dark garment with practiced ease.
Despite herself, Amelia felt a chill run down her spine as her fingers grazed his shoulders accidentally, surprised by the warmth of his body now that they were within touching distance.
She had not been oblivious to his good looks and tall stature, but standing so close to him was another matter entirely. The air around him smelled pleasant, like soap and smoke, and she imagined pressing her body against his, nuzzling in close.
Taking his coat clumsily, she shook her head to rid it of her distracting thoughts. This man was here to help her, not be admired.
Once Mr. Moore’s coat had been stored somewhere safe, Amelia led him into the only withdrawing room that had escaped being repurposed for the children. She moved quickly to the fire to begin lighting the wall sconces, pausing a second when she heard Mr. Moore close the door behind them softly.
Locked away with him, Amelia’s heart fluttered. She extinguished the lighting taper with a gust of breath, throwing it behind the grate into the flames, conscious of Mr. Moore’s eyes on her.
“I would offer you tea,” Amelia murmured, stumbling over her words as she looked over at him and found him lingering by the door.
He had quickly directed his eyes elsewhere, taking the measure of the modest room.
“But I fear we should wait for Mr. Robinson, or else the pot will grow cold by the time he arrives.
He shrugged nonchalantly, moving toward the paintings on the far side of the room. The grey light from the windows fell lovingly on his form as he scrunched his face, examining the artist’s signature.
“They are not worth anything. I would have sold them otherwise to cover the rent,” Amelia said to fill the silence, moving a few steps closer. “Are you fond of art?”
“Tremendously,” he replied, quietly but sincerely. “And these pieces might not hold much pecuniary value, but that does not mean they are worth nothing.” He stepped away, held his hands behind his back, and smiled at her. “You said your surname was Tate? The artist was called Tate, also.”
“Felicia Tate, yes.” Amelia looked past him at the painting—a pastoral landscape, rolling fields of green and gold that matched the brown wallpaper of the room.
“A relative, then?”
“Yes, she was...” She scowled, suddenly failing to remember how the woman had been connected to her father. A great-aunt? A great-great-aunt? She swallowed, saying, “A decent painter indeed.”
Mr. Moore appeared satisfied with her answer—or at the very least, was not suspicious that something was amiss with Amelia’s mind.
“Do you know, Miss Tate... I had my suspicions about you yesterday. I wondered whether you were truly the daughter of Viscount Tate. But he is—forgive me, was—your progenitor, was he not? Your family owns Bright Corner in Abingdon-on-Thames.”
Amelia must have looked surprised, because Mr. Moore laughed, “Yes, I asked around about you. Does that offend you?”
To be on the receiving end of a handsome gentleman’s curiosity hardly constituted an offence, but Amelia knew better than to let him know that. She daydreamed only quickly about Mr. Moore asking his high-ranking friends about her.
Fear curled suddenly in her stomach as she wondered what else he had learned beyond the name of her family’s home. There were rumors abound about Amelia’s late mother and father...
If Mr. Moore had learned the truth about her family’s history, he gave no sign of it, turning instead back to the paintings.
“No. I would think you were strange if you did not ask questions about a woman you have never met. Myself... Yes, I have doubts about you, too,” she confessed.
“I wondered this morning, for fact, whether it would not be wise to perform a test of your manners—to see if you act as gentlemanly as will be required to dupe Mr. Robinson into thinking you are truly the Duke of Avon.”
“You could try… he purred, coming closer to her, where his voice dropped low in a way it had not before, making her tingle. “But I would surely fail, owing in no part to my deception. I am a gentleman in my breeding, absolutely. But my manners have always been… questionable.”
A more level-headed woman, one who possessed an unfragmented mind, might have been concerned by his teasing tone.
Amelia found herself smiling and blushing, confused but amused by his answer.
His grin certainly seemed rakish, his warm brown eyes glowing with mischief.
The door was closed. But she did not fear Mr. Moore’s banter, his daring manner.
Instead, she liked it more than she cared to admit.
“Who are you?” she asked, more curious than she should have been—and less concerned for propriety too. She was a single woman, and as far as she knew, so was Mr. Moore. “I know your name. But your profession, if you have one... Your origins... What are they?”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I am a gentleman born in Oxford, but have lived in London for many years. I own properties here and there... I am an art collector, a frequent theatergoer, a literary, when it pleases me.”
“But only when it pleases you?”
“Quite. What else…?” He tapped his finger against his mouth, toying with her.
“I have a soot-colored terrier named Bosun, a brother, have never married, and I’m born in March.
Is that sufficient, Miss Tate, or shall I bore you with a lengthier list of anecdotal information about me?
Believe me, I would do so gladly. There is nothing I love so much as speaking about myself. ”
“No wife?” she asked, not knowing what had prompted her to ask such a daring question. Her cheeks colored. “I only meant… You had not mentioned whether you are married in that long list…”
He took a step closer, then turned his hand to show her a bare ring finger. “No wife,” he repeated. “Does that make you wary, Miss Tate?”
Amelia was unconvinced on that point.
He liked to play the part of a self-absorbed rake—that much was evident in the way he swayed on his feet, teasing her, making her tingle—but a man who truly valued himself highest of all would never have agreed to help her.
“So long as you can charm Mr. Robinson…” she rasped once she found her voice. “I have no reason to be wary.”
He arched a brow. “Do you doubt it? Do you doubt I will charm him?”
“No... To my eyes, you seem charming to a fault.”
He threw his head back with a laugh, and Amelia understood at once that he thought she was joking.
“Not a good-mannered fellow, nor a convincing actor, it would seem. How it wounds me, Miss Tate, that you are one of the scarce few women immune to my charms. A pitiable state of affairs,” he said, clicking his tongue against his palate, landing in one of the empty chairs by the hearth.
“You should have recruited another man.”
“I think you will do just fine for my purposes, Mr. Moore.”
He grinned, and there was something dark in it he was trying to conceal. Something dark responded within her as he murmured, “And I think you will do just fine for mine.”
Amelia froze at his words, narrowing her eyes at him.
“By that, of course I mean,” he began, drawling every word, before leaning over to pat the armchair beside him, “entertaining me by telling me a little about yourself! before your miserly demon arrives, and like two ships in the night, we sail past one another toward different horizons...”