Chapter 20
Henry closed the door to his bedroom quietly behind him, the dark corridor engulfing him. He’d noticed maps in his first search of the study, and he needed to compare them to the maps he’d brought to the island. Was it possible that it was simply a mistake on the part of the cartographer?
Or had this beach been purposefully left off the official maps?
His hand grasped the banister, his foot hovered over the top step.
“Sir Henry?”
He spun. And there was Mrs. Seymour, still in her evening gown from dinner, illuminated by a candle in her hand.
“Mrs. Seymour,” he said, bowing a little. “We have to stop meeting this way.”
Her lips twitched. “It is unusual, to be sure. Are you lost again?”
“Oh no. I have grown quite accustomed to your home.”
A small smile curved her lips, but she lifted a brow, as if waiting for more. Blast, but Henry was growing tired of lying. “I thought to get a bit of tea. I find I cannot sleep.”
“Nor I. I will walk with you, if that meets with your approval?”
He swallowed. That was a very different reaction than the first night, over a fortnight ago, when he had asked much the same thing. Could he truly be changing her opinion of him? “Certainly,” he said, offering his arm.
Despite the fact that both were still fully dressed, the darkness of the house around them lent a level of intimacy to the moment.
And the way his arm buzzed with warmth and awareness was a clear indicator of the predicament he was finding himself in.
Not the fact that his evening search was being waylaid, but that he was very attracted to this woman.
More than attracted. There was something about her that drew him in.
Conversation between them was easy. Her constant worry about others’ comfort was endearing. Her hard work was admirable.
Given the chance, Henry could fall quite irrevocably for Mrs. Seymour. And a large part of him wanted to take that chance.
But there was still so much at risk in his life. If he could not regain his fortune, or even just repay Hastings’s debt, he could not in good conscience court a woman. If he could not find the Gentleman Pirate, could he ever entirely move past his father’s death?
They made it to the kitchen with only their own murmured conversation to accompany them. Simple things, like what her favorite food to prepare was and how Henry spent his leisure time, whenever he had any.
But simple with Mrs. Seymour was far more riveting than with anyone else.
She put a pot of water on, her actions deft and sure. Then she turned, eyes downcast for a moment, then flicking to meet his. “I should like to apologize, Sir Henry.”
His brows furrowed. “What for?”
“Judging you too harshly.”
He shook his head. “You cannot be faulted for any judgment. In truth, I probably deserved far harsher judgment for how I acted.”
“Even still. I hope you will forgive me.”
Guilt pricked at him. Guilt for the fact that he was keeping secrets from this woman who so openly requested his forgiveness.
But he could not tell her about the piracy.
And he could not bring himself to tell her about his lack of fortune.
So he simply dipped his head. “I maintain that there is nothing to forgive, but I forgive you nonetheless.”
Henry pulled the maps from the bottom-most shelf the following morning.
He’d known exactly where they were, but had been unable to return in the night after Mrs. Seymour had escorted him back to the guest wing.
He sat back on his heels, thumbing through the folded papers, pulling the edges apart so he could find which he needed.
Footsteps in the hallway halted him, but they passed by the door.
Of course they did. No one would have use for the study in a home without a master.
Even still, he propelled himself to a stand. He would just take the entire stack back to his room for perusal.
He was half a dozen steps from the door when the handle moved. He froze, watching as if in slow motion, as the handle turned down.
Thinking fast, he tucked the maps behind an armchair at his left. He’d barely straightened again when Mrs. Seymour entered the room.
Why did it have to be Mrs. Seymour of all people?
Her brows flew up, her hand still holding the door handle. “Sir Henry,” she said, confusion and surprise coloring her voice.
He bowed. “At your service.”
A furrow appeared on her forehead. “Yes . . . ” she trailed off, looking behind him. “Why are you in my study?”
Her study?
That explained the lack of furniture covers. And dust.
Blast, would she notice the missing maps? Would he be able to retrieve them?
And how, exactly, was he meant to extricate himself from his current position?
“I was looking for you,” he said quickly.
Her eyes shifted around again, her discomfort clear. “What did you need?”
“I enjoyed our conversation last night and wondered if you might join me for a walk?”
“A walk,” she repeated.
“Or a game of chess?”
“I . . . ” The hand not holding the door twisted at her skirt. Was he making her uncomfortable? He was such a cad. How had he fallen into this life of veritable crime? Being a spy suddenly seemed akin to being a thief.
The maps hidden just to his left perpetuated that fact.
“Very well. A walk sounds lovely. I simply need to gather something for my cook.” She let go of the door, passing him to her desk.
He tensed, seeing clearly the empty spot where the maps had resided just steps from where she stood as if it were lit by a dozen candelabras.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a paper filled with writing. “She requires the menu for next week.” She dipped pen in ink, wrote a couple quick notes, and then blew on the words. Her eyes lifted, catching his. “Where do you wish to walk?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “The garden? Do you have any views of the water from the property?”
She straightened, nodding easily. “Oh yes, if you go far enough past the rose garden, there is a fantastic vantage point.”
“Then it is decided.” He felt a stirring in his stomach, quite opposite to that of the anxiety he’d felt when she’d first entered the room.
It was unsurprising that he was excited to spend more time with Mrs. Seymour.
But it was dangerous to lean too far into those feelings, no matter what his sister wished.
Julia. Yes. He would tell his mind that it was for her sake that he was engaging Mrs. Seymour in such things as walks. He had to keep his promise to his sister somehow.
Henry followed Mrs. Seymour through the house, pausing as they delivered the menu to the housekeeper, whose sharp eyes flitted down the page in a shadow of disapproval before smiling at her mistress and agreeing to the errand.
The air in the garden was warm and fragrant, and he offered his arm to Mrs. Seymour as they traversed the steps onto the crushed rock path.
His mind flitted back to the maps, but there was nothing he could do about them now. All that was left to him in that moment was to enjoy his walk.
What a terrible chore. He might as well apply himself to the task.
“Where do you hail from, Mrs. Seymour?” Sir Henry asked, a muscle in his arm tensing as he turned slightly to watch her as she answered.
Alice’s mind was still whirling, trying to discover just how she’d ended up here.
In three-quarters of an hour she was meant to be hosting a play practice.
Just now she should be checking on dinner. Or else spending time with her guests.
Though, she supposed, she was doing just that. Only, it was a single guest. A guest she’d spent far too much time with the night before, in a dark and quiet kitchen where she’d learned how he detested cravats and loved mince pies.
“Coleford, in Gloucestershire.”
His brows rose. “Truly? That is near where my family resided. I wonder if we ever attended any of the same events. I think I would have remembered you, though.”
She focused on their feet as they walked on, watching the small sprays of rocks that were displaced with each step. “I was rather shy. I tended to decorate the walls more than the dance floors.”
“That is a shame.”
Just what did he mean by that? She could think of no answer, and soon, she’d spent so long considering any response, and considering how very dull she must appear to not have one at all, that he moved on in the conversation without her.
It was just as well, but her cheeks heated that he needed to.
“Tell me, Mrs. Seymour, if you had a day all to yourself to do whatever you pleased, without a care for what anyone might think or want you to do, what would you do?”
That was a deeper question than most, and it seemed to come from nowhere. But she found herself mulling it over. This time, she would have an answer. And quickly. But it was difficult to separate what she wanted to do from what others wanted her to do. The two had been entangled for so long.
“I think I would pack a small lunch and sit by the ocean.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds peaceful.” His words were quiet and very nearly introspective. What could he be thinking of?
“And you?” she asked. “What would you do?”
He made a sound of contemplation. “I do believe I would visit my parents’ graves.”
She froze, but then Sir Henry chuckled. It did not seem to contain much entertainment, though.
“I apologize, that came out maudlin. I only mean that I have spent so much time looking forward lately that I think I would appreciate the opportunity to reflect on the past. And if I somehow managed to be at a place in life where I did not worry about what they might think, I would feel safe to visit them.”
That brought up a maelstrom of questions within her, but mostly, she just felt sad. Sad for him and the expression that graced his face just then.
“I may not know you well, Sir Henry, but I do think that your parents would always be grateful to have you visit.”
Half his mouth lifted at that. “You have family, yes? A mother?”
She nodded.
“Is she still in Coleford?”
“Yes. She wished me to return there when George passed.”
“But you didn’t?”
She raised one shoulder. “As I’ve said, I love the ocean and my home. And the bit of freedom I have here.”
He dipped his head. “I cannot fault you for that.”
Their walking had brought them to the spot she’d told him of. They passed beneath a decorative arch and into a downward-tiered garden. The foliage was purposely thinner, creating a perfect vantage point of the waves crashing against the rocks below.
They could have continued on; steps took them down into the gardens below. But instead, they both stopped, looking out on the scene.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “If you could have any exotic animal, what would you choose?”
She sputtered. “What?”
His expression was a mask of innocence. “I think I would choose a monkey. Or perhaps a tiger.”
“You have dangerous tastes.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I am a strong, capable man, Mrs. Seymour. I could handle a tiger.”
“I imagine even a monkey would take you by surprise. He would probably hide all your favorite neckties.”
His hand lifted to his neck. “Blessed creature. You’ve convinced me. Can I buy a monkey on the island?”
“I do not believe so, no.”
“Tiger?” He lifted a brow.
“I would not tell you if you could.”
He sighed. “You are cruel.”
She patted his arm. “I do believe you will find it in your heart to forgive me.” She was nearly laughing at the absurdity. One thing was certain; she was never bored with Sir Henry around.
And it was not until they’d returned to the house, after a full half hour of entertaining conversation, that she realized how very relaxed she’d been in his company. And perhaps that was the most strange thing of all.