Chapter 2 #2
Her quill stilled above the page. Lord Gabriel Strathmore. She felt that familiar flutter of awareness that always accompanied his visits.
“Of course. Show him to the drawing room. I shall be along directly.”
Henri set aside her correspondence and checked her appearance in the small mirror above Uncle Reggie’s desk.
Her morning dress was still fresh, her honey-brown hair neatly arranged despite the afternoon’s work.
She pinched her cheeks to bring color to them and smoothed her skirts before making her way to the drawing room.
The viscount stood before the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece as he stared into the flames.
He had removed his greatcoat and gloves, and his sandy brown hair was slightly mussed from his now-absent hat.
There was something in his posture. A tension she rarely observed in his usually friendly demeanor.
He had the appearance of a man carrying the weight of the world on those admittedly impressive shoulders.
“Lord Trenwith,” she said, stepping into the room. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He turned at her voice, and Henri was struck by the darkness in his hazel eyes. There was none of his usual easy charm, none of the subtle flirtation that typically colored their interactions. Instead, he seemed almost … haunted.
What shadows are chasing you today, my mysterious lord?
“Miss Bigsby.” His voice was warmer than his expression. “I trust I am not intruding? I was passing by and thought I might call to offer season’s greetings to your household.”
Henri tilted her head, studying him with growing concern.
“That is very kind of you,” she said. “Though I fear Uncle Reggie is still in the country for the holidays. He is not expected to return until after Twelfth Night.”
Something flickered across the viscount’s features. Disappointment? Relief? Henri could not be certain, but she had the distinct impression that his reaction was not entirely genuine.
“Ah. Of course. I should have realized he would be away from Town during the holidays.” Lord Trenwith moved away from the fireplace, some unnamed tension filling the room in a way that was uncharacteristic.
“Perhaps I might impose upon your hospitality for a cup of tea? The afternoon is rather cold, and I find myself reluctant to return immediately to business.”
Henri gestured toward the comfortable chairs arranged near the fire. “Certainly. Miss Dulwich, would you be so good as to ring for tea?”
As they settled themselves, Henri covertly studied Lord Trenwith’s profile.
He seemed different this afternoon. Less controlled, more vulnerable somehow.
There was a tightness to his jaw that spoke of strain, and she noticed the way his hands rested with studied casualness on the chair arms, as though he were consciously preventing them from betraying some inner agitation.
“I trust your Christmas preparations are proceeding well?” she ventured, pouring tea when a servant entered with the tea service.
Lord Trenwith’s smile appeared forced. “As well as can be expected,” he replied, accepting the delicate china cup with hands that were, Henri noticed, perfectly steady despite whatever was troubling him. “Though I confess the season holds little charm for me. Too much solitude, perhaps.”
Henri felt a pang of sympathy. She had always sensed a certain loneliness about Lord Trenwith, though he carried it with such dignity that it was easy to overlook. Rather like a well-dressed ghost haunting the drawing rooms of their political circles.
“Surely you have invitations? A man of your standing must be much sought after for Christmas festivities.”
The viscount’s smile was brief and did not reach his eyes. “Invitations, yes. Inclination, rather less so.”
They spoke of inconsequential matters for perhaps twenty minutes— the weather, the thin Christmas social season in Town, mutual acquaintances who had departed for their country estates.
But Henri remained aware of that underlying tension in Lord Trenwith’s manner, of him performing the role of charming visitor rather than simply being himself.
When the lord finally consulted his pocket watch and rose to take his leave, Henri found herself reluctant to let him go. There was something almost fragile about him this afternoon, despite his impressive height and commanding presence.
“I fear I must not impose further on your afternoon,” he said, though Henri detected a note of reluctance in his voice as well. “I have … obligations that require my attention. Cats that need settling, business to attend to before departing Town.”
“Cats?” Henri asked, surprised by this unexpected domestic detail.
His expression softened for the first time that afternoon. “A recent acquisition. Two rather elderly felines who have found themselves in need of a new home.” His voice held a tenderness that was at odds with his earlier reserve.
“How fortunate that they found their way to you,” Henri said gently. “I hope they shall be comfortable in their new circumstances.”
“As do I.” The viscount moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at her with an expression she could not quite interpret. “Miss Bigsby, if you should ever find yourself in need of assistance, you know you have only to send word.”
The offer was made casually, but Henri heard something deeper beneath the words. A genuine concern that pleased her even as it puzzled her.
“That is very kind of you, Lord Trenwith. The same stands in return, of course.”
He smiled then, a real smile that briefly banished the shadows from his handsome face. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
After he departed, Henri remained in the drawing room, staring thoughtfully at the dying fire while Miss Dulwich removed the tea things.
The viscount had always been an enigma, but this afternoon’s visit had revealed new depths to that mystery.
She found herself wondering what had driven him to Uncle Reggie’s door on this cold December afternoon, what burden he carried that cast such shadows in his usually confident demeanor.
She had heard the stories, of course. How he had unexpectedly inherited his title when both his grandfather and uncle had died within months of each other several years ago, and as a newly titled lord, he had left military service to work in diplomacy.
It was said he had been raised by tutors rather than family, that he had served with distinction in some capacity during the war, though the details remained vague.
But Lord Trenwith himself never spoke of his past, deflecting personal questions with such skill that one hardly noticed until he had already long departed the room.
Henri shook her head and returned to Uncle Reggie’s study to finish her correspondence.
Lord Gabriel Strathmore was undeniably attractive, intelligent, and emanated a fundamental decency that appealed to her.
But he was also a lord, while she was merely a commoner, Uncle Reggie’s political connections notwithstanding.
More importantly, marriage would mean the end of her independence, the career she had built as Uncle Reggie’s private secretary, the intellectual stimulation that made her life meaningful.
She had seen too many women lose themselves in marriage, their own ambitions and capabilities subsumed into their husband’s world.
Henri had no intention of following that path, no matter how compelling the gentleman might be or how much Maddy’s departure had left her out of sorts.
Not that such a high-ranking peer would ever pay her serious attentions.
With determined effort, she turned her mind back to the letter she had been writing before Lord Trenwith’s arrival.
But as she dipped her quill in ink, her thoughts drifted back to Signor di Bianchi’s mysterious sketch.
Somewhere in that collection of letters and numbers lay the key to a centuries-old puzzle. Henri was certain of it.
She had sworn to keep his family’s secret, but there was nothing preventing her from continuing to work on the problem in private.
Uncle Reggie’s library contained far more than just the Caxton edition.
Perhaps tomorrow she would begin a more systematic investigation of Arthurian texts, looking for patterns or references that might illuminate the code.
Henri smiled to herself as she sealed the completed letter. She had found herself not one challenge but two—unraveling Matteo di Bianchi’s centuries-old mystery and understanding the enigmatic Lord Trenwith who had appeared at her door like a lost soul seeking sanctuary.
Both promised to be far more engaging than her usual correspondence with members of Parliament.
As Henri rose to extinguish the lamps, she caught sight of her reflection in the darkened window.
Her amber eyes held a spark of excitement that had been missing for weeks.
Whatever lay ahead, she had the distinct feeling that her quiet winter in London was about to become considerably more interesting.