6 #2
And so he would continue to keep his suspicions to himself—and keep a close eye on the young widow.
A peculiar electric excitement worked under his skin at the idea, setting his heart to pounding in his chest. As he firmly strode away, he did not wonder at the anticipation building within him.
He knew, deep in his bones, that Mrs. Rumford would be coming here soon.
And he was looking forward to it, much more than he ought.
While Iris had been frustrated at being forced to stay home during the initial trip to Durand Manor, and while she had been anxious to return to the man’s property now that they knew for certain Lord Durand did not know of her, she was finding it was quite another experience to view the house for herself as they made their way up the long drive.
Heloise, seated beside her in the carriage, sensed her disquiet and pressed her arm against hers.
“Don’t worry,” her friend murmured. “Lord Durand did not recognize your name at all. And he is so self-obsessed, I’m certain he will not recognize your face either should he have seen you at some point.”
Though Heloise was completely off the mark regarding the reason for her unsettled emotions, Iris nevertheless spared a quick smile for her before returning her gaze to the window.
How could she tell her the true reason when she could hardly grasp it herself?
She was to come face-to-face with the man who may have stolen her mother’s work and destroyed her home to cover it up.
No, in her mind there was no may have . To her, it was fact, a certainty.
But she had been so focused on getting here, she had not considered what it might do to her when she was finally faced with having to meet him.
How could she hope to control her emotions?
If she showed their hand when they had all worked so hard to get this far, she could not hope for their forgiveness.
Nor would she be able to forgive herself.
Especially after her blunder at being caught by Mr. Beckett.
Mr. Beckett?.? .? .? Just as in the past days, the memory of him completely distracted her from the job at hand.
Without meaning to, she glanced in the direction of the glasshouses on the west side of the property, eyes roving over the steep crowns peeking over the tree line.
What was it about him that drew her attention, that made her lose all focus on anything else?
She shook her head sharply. Now is not the time, Iris.
Not that any time would be the time to think of Mr. Beckett, except to come up with a way to get past his guard.
She turned toward the interior of the carriage. “Let us go over our plans once more before we reach the house,” she said, needing not only the distraction, but a recital of all that needed to be accomplished during their visit so she might put her focus where it needed to be.
“Of course,” Sylvia said. Clearing her throat, she began ticking items off on her fingers one by one.
“First comes the introduction. This shall be the most stressful step, for while he showed no recognition of your name, once he meets you we shall know for certain whether he has ever seen you. Next, we will be offered tea. Here is where we may talk the man up, shower him with effusions, get him to let down his guard. Once that is done and we set off for the tour of the glasshouses, we can request to see his study in order to get an idea of the layout of the house so we can return under cover of night to attempt to locate your mother’s papers.
As for the glasshouses themselves, you have stated that there is no chance your mother’s plants could still be living, and so we will not focus on them, though we can observe the earl’s specimens in regard to how they compare to your mother’s.
And lastly, we shall request a walking tour of the grounds to study the perimeter of the house and determine how we might access the study. ”
Suddenly a small smile softened her features, and she leaned across the carriage to lay a comforting hand over Iris’s. “Have no fear, my dear. I know you shall do your mother proud. And we shall be there every step of the way.”
Iris had no sooner returned her smile with a tremulous one of her own than the carriage slowed and then stopped.
Soon a footman opened the door and handed them down to the gravel drive, and Iris was looking up at a set of heavy oak doors.
She had not even a moment to compose herself before those doors swung wide, revealing not a butler but Lord Durand himself.
She may have been lacking when it came to most social niceties, but after that one season in London in her youth, she was more than familiar with his particular expression of perceived self-importance.
Only a man of high social status ever wore such a look.
A fact that was confirmed a moment later as, spying Sylvia, he strode down the front steps, hands outstretched in a magnanimous gesture of welcome.
“Lady Vastkern,” he murmured, taking Sylvia’s hands in his as if they were the closest bosom friends. “What an honor to be in your presence again, and so soon after your first visit.”
“The honor is all mine, my lord,” Sylvia said in a sweet tone she rarely used. “Especially as you have deigned to meet my friend here. I do hope we are not taking advantage of your hospitality.”
“Not at all,” Lord Durand said, looking benignly on Iris as if he were some great benefactor.
As for Iris, she could only stare mutely at the man, frozen, while anger pumped through her veins.
She saw her mother bent industriously over an open notebook, pen flying across the page, eyes sparkling with excitement when she glanced up at Iris.
And then the image vanished, as if suffocated in the choking smoke from the fire that had destroyed everything.
She remembered her grief as she’d stood in the front drive of her mother’s house and looked at the ruined husk of that place she had called home.
It had not been only her mother’s work that had been lost. Nothing had remained, not a piece of furniture, a vase, a book.
The grand staircase she had sprinted down had been burned to a cinder, the plush rug she had lain on to read turned to ash, the oversized chair she had cuddled up to her mother in gone.
Every memory of her childhood, her young adulthood, those years after her failed marriage, had been incinerated.
And here was the man responsible.
Sylvia guided the earl to where Iris stood. “Please allow me to make the introductions. My lord, this is Mrs. Iris Rumford, a dear friend of mine. Iris, this is Lord Durand.”
Lord Durand’s smile widened even further as he held out a hand, as if bestowing some great honor on her. “Welcome to Durand Manor, Mrs. Rumford.”
Iris could only stare down at that hand, every inch of her body rebelling against the idea of taking it in hers. A long moment passed, the air heavy with waiting, his hand hanging suspended like a marionette—or a large spider.
Sylvia, at her side, laughed lightly. “My friend must be overwhelmed. It is not often she meets someone as renowned in the botanical world as you, my lord.” She placed a warning hand on Iris’s arm, giving it a light squeeze.
Which blessedly had the needed effect on Iris, shocking her back to her senses. With utmost will, Iris took the man’s hand in hers though she felt she would crawl out of her skin.
“Thank you for having me, my lord,” she said through numb lips.
The man laughed delightedly, the sound washing over Iris like dirty bath water. “It is my pleasure. But please, won’t you all come in? We can have some refreshments before we adjourn to the glasshouses, and you can tell me how you were introduced to my work.”
He motioned they should follow him, and led the way into the house.
A half hour and two scalding cups of tea later, and Iris was no closer to reining in her volatile emotions.
If anything, seeing Lord Durand in his opulent house, listening to him wax poetic about his supposed victories in the botanical world, brought her even closer to doing something she would most certainly regret.
Thank God for Sylvia, who kept the man’s attention on her by showering him with compliment after compliment, as well as for Laney and Heloise, who were ready with surreptitiously mouthed words or a nudge when she was expected to speak.
Like now, as Lord Durand turned his smugly smiling face her way.
“But you are not saying much, Mrs. Rumford,” he murmured. “Surely you cannot be that enraptured by my mere presence.”
His little knowing chuckle—as well as Heloise’s sharp elbow in her side—finally jolted Iris into the here and now and exactly what she was supposed to be doing.
She straightened, raising her chin?.? .? .
and trying to raise her self-confidence with it.
She may be a horrible actress, but surely she could manage this .
After all, she was not pretending to be someone else; she was just to be herself.
With significantly less fury, yes, and with the necessity of keeping most of her thoughts to herself.
But she would be pathetic, indeed, and of absolutely no use to the Widows if she could not manage something of this scale.
“My apologies, my lord,” she finally managed. “I have heard so much of you, I cannot quite believe I am here.” Which was the truth, though couched in a plethora of pleasantries.
He nodded affably. “I understand, my dear. It is quite an overwhelming thing to meet one’s heroes.”
Heroes. Bitterness filled her mouth, but she managed to swallow it down.
Lord Durand, blessedly, was much too engrossed in himself to pay her slip in expression any mind. He leaned forward, gaze intent on her though she had the strange feeling he didn’t see her at all. “And what have you heard of me, if I may be so bold to ask?”