10
You’re leaving again?”
Oliver paused with his hand on the front door latch, releasing an exhausted sigh.
The past days had been spent in a constant state of vigilance from the time he woke just before dusk until he fell into an exhausted heap in his bed well past noon, keeping an eye out for whoever might have trespassed at Durand Manor three nights ago.
And the moments he was not scouring the land for further signs of encroachment and instructing the other employees on the necessity of increased vigilance—thank God Lord Durand was still in London, or he would have had to deal with him as well—were spent searching for information on Mrs. Rumford and her suspicious group of friends.
Every avenue, however, came up empty of anything that might have pointed to the women being the culprits of the late-night intrusion, the intelligence he had unearthed making them out to be simply an ordinary, if eccentric, group of widows.
Which just increased his frustration, for if not them, then who? There were no other leads, no evidence left behind. Whoever had been there that night had disappeared without a trace, like something in a dream.
But perhaps that wasn’t the best analogy.
The dreams he’d been having of late did not disappear the moment he opened his eyes, but rather took hold of him and would not let him go.
Most especially the dreams he had of Mrs. Rumford, and those large green eyes and kissable lips of hers, which had him more often than not waking in a hot sweat.
Which, of course, stole what little sleep he did manage to get. Leading perhaps to him using a less-than-patient tone when he turned to answer his sister’s frustrated question.
“You know I’ve a job to do here, Verity—”
“I understand that, Oliver,” she interrupted, hands on her hips, eyebrows low over dark, stormy eyes. “I am seventeen, not a child.”
“I am aware of that.”
“And are you also aware that when we arrived here nearly a month ago, you promised you would have time to explore the surrounding area with me? And yet all that time has passed without a single moment I have been able to spend with you.”
It was the same argument they had been having for weeks. Only now it had grown beyond his ability to easily contain it. The proof of that was in the stubborn jut of Verity’s chin, in the tightly closed fists propped on her hips. His sister was a sweet, biddable girl most of the time.
But when she fixated on something, it was with her whole heart and soul, and there was little that could talk her out of it. And from the looks of it, this was one of those times.
“Verity,” he said, trying with all his might to keep his impatience from his voice, “my time is not my own. There are pressing matters that need my immediate attention.”
“Your family is a pressing matter that needs your immediate attention,” Verity shot back.
“Verity,” he tried again, steel entering his tone.
“Oliver,” she shot back, acid coating his name. She looked about to say more when a soft voice interjected.
“That’s enough, both of you,” their mother said as she emerged from the hallway leading to the kitchen. “Verity, you know very well that your brother would remain with you if he could. But this job was hard-won, and necessary. He cannot take off time whenever he wills it.”
Which only served to deepen Verity’s scowl. “You always take his side.”
Their mother sighed. “There are no sides—”
“There are. But as I am no one in this family, I shall have to accept it and be happy for it.”
Before either of them could react, Verity reached for her shawl and bag on the peg by the door and, without so much as a glance, pushed past Oliver, threw open the door, and hurried out.
“Verity—” Oliver called, taking a step after her as she stormed through the garden gate and down the path.
His mother’s hand on his arm halted him. “Leave her to cool her temper,” she advised softly. She gave him a weak smile. “This move may have been harder on her than I thought it would be. She spent all her life in London. Her friends—what few she had—are all there. We must give her some grace.”
Oliver ran a hand over his face, glancing out the still-open door after her. But she was nowhere to be seen. “I had no choice.”
“Oh, Oliver,” his mother hurried to say, “I’m not blaming you.”
“I know you’re not.” He blew out a sharp breath.
“I had hoped to find time for her. But with the grand exhibition in less than a fortnight, it is more imperative than ever that I make certain Lord Durand’s collection is protected.
” Especially with the recent threat to the property—and the prime suspects, a maddening widow and her friends, still in the neighborhood.
His mother’s brows drew together as she gazed up at him. “Don’t worry about Verity. She will be fine once she cools off. You know her temper burns bright and then sputters out.”
Yes, but that did not mean she would let this go.
Fast on the heels of her temper was inevitably a morose mood that put a damper on the entire household.
In the last year she had done her best to control her emotions, when things had been difficult and their lives walking a tightrope between barely getting by and utter ruin.
Now that they could breathe easier, now that they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, those tightly leashed emotions were coming to the surface in unexpected ways—and increasing his guilt a hundredfold.
But he had been away from his post long enough. He had only returned home this morning to change his boots after his trek through the small stream just north of the house soaked the first pair through. “I have to go,” he said gruffly. “I shall not be home in time for lunch.”
“I had a feeling you would say as much,” his mother said with a wry smile. “Which is why I have made this up for you.” She held up a small bundle.
His chest constricted at the sight of her gnarled hands clutching the package. “I really wish you would rest,” he said gently, even as he took it from her. “You don’t have to do such things for me. You know I can manage on my own.”
“I know you can,” she replied, the faintest hint of steel infusing her typically gentle voice. “But I am perfectly capable of feeding my son.”
Pride flashed in her weary eyes. She had always been independent, strong; the fact that she had to rely on others, that she could not care for her children as she used to, grieved her deeply.
“Thank you,” he said, the only thing he could say in that situation. Then, kissing her cheek, he took his hat from the peg and hurried out, trying and failing to leave his guilt behind.
Iris hooked the heel of her boot into the low fence and, gripping tight to the listing post, hauled herself over.
The field of wildflowers spread out before her, all greens and blues and violets and whites, a veritable feast of beauty.
But though she had hoped the bounty of botanicals would calm her agitated mind, she could not begin to force the necessary excitement.
The past several days had been spent trying to find another opportunity to access Lord Durand’s house.
Though they didn’t know where else her mother’s papers might be, they were fully aware that their best chance to search the rest of the house was while the earl was in London.
Yet every chance to infiltrate the property had been thwarted by the presence of Mr. Beckett and a plethora of other servants, who had been on high alert since their unsuccessful first attempt.
But more than anyone, Mr. Beckett seemed to be everywhere all at once.
Truly, had the man propagated himself like cuttings from a plant?
So great was their collective frustration, they had regrouped that afternoon in Rose House’s small drawing room to decide their next step.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Heloise had lamented, stifling a yawn. They’d spent every night stumbling over dark landscapes, creeping about the perimeter of Durand Manor, with hardly a proper night’s rest.
“I have never known such a determined guard in my life,” Laney had added with a dark frown. “It’s no wonder Lord Durand hired the man. He’s disgustingly good at his job.”
“The date of the publication of Lord Durand’s paper is coming closer,” Iris had said, worrying at her wrist. “It will be even more difficult to repair my mother’s reputation when that occurs, and I cannot bear the thought of seeing him put into print what my mother worked so hard for.”
“I agree that it must be done before then,” Sylvia had murmured thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her lips as she read over the detailed notes they had accumulated over the past week of surveillance.
“And with Euphemia unable to secure a position inside their household, we do not have the advantage we normally would. Not that it is your fault, darling,” Sylvia had continued hurriedly.
“I’m not done trying,” Euphemia had replied, her frustration palpable in the tight, pinched look to her face.
Her emotions were understandable. With her incredible talent for camouflage, her abilities to transform into an entirely different person in the mere blink of an eye, she had been their best chance of gaining access to the house.
She had never failed at something of this sort before, and so it must have weighed heavily on her.
But she was not one to give up easily. “There are still a few avenues that might yield results,” she’d continued firmly.
Sylvia had given her a comforting smile before, sighing, she tossed the papers aside.
“For the time being, I think we should abandon our current plans. As things stand, I believe our best bet is to infiltrate the house during the exhibition and ball. Once Durand has returned, I shall endeavor to secure invitations. We can begin drafting a plan this evening for the night of the event. For now, everyone get some much-needed rest.”