Chapter Four
Oliver stood in a well-lit room at Rosewood, intently focused on scratching a diamond-tipped stylus against a glass slide. His spectacles—the bane of his existence—threatened to slip off his nose as he leaned forward.
“Oliver!”
Oliver froze and began to wonder if he might escape from the window. The sound of the door scraping open caused him to flinch, relief quickly taking over when he realized it was only Hughes.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Rosewood’s elderly butler said, “but you are being summoned.”
“Is that what that racket was?” Oliver asked, forcing a wry grin onto his face.
Hughes sighed, his expression soft and sympathetic. “Your father has returned from Kent.” He paused before continuing. “Shall I make excuses for you?”
Good old Hughes, Oliver thought. He knew the butler—his constant companion these thirty-three years—was looking to make his life easier, but it was all rather pointless. Rosewood wasn’t big enough to hide in, which meant Oliver would have to brave his father sooner or later.
“That’s all right,” Oliver said, the words colored with false cheer. “I have somewhere to be, anyway. And besides, I’ve had more than enough practice dealing with him.”
“And, might I say, are very adept at it,” Hughes said as they left the room and walked down the stairs.
Together, they found the source of the noise that had ruined Oliver’s careful etching: William Booth, who stood by the front entrance to Rosewood, his cheeks ruddy from drink.
Hughes moved to stand next to him, waiting to receive his coat.
“Hello, Father,” Oliver said coolly. “I’m surprised to see you back so soon.”
He wasn’t, of course, but this was the song and dance he put on every time his father reappeared.
“That,” his father hiccupped, “is the last time I visit your infernal mother, Oliver. Do you hear me? The last time.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Oliver said, knowing full well it would not be the last time.
Rosemary Booth had fled to Kent some twenty-three years ago, claiming the country air better suited her poor constitution.
It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that she’d done it to escape the explosive fights she’d so often had with her husband.
Every few months, William would decide that he missed his wife, make his way to Kent, and wreak havoc there.
Upon his return to London, he would get drunk, declare his intention to never see Rosemary again, and sulk in the house bullying his son until some other activity or woman caught his fancy.
And so it went.
“Your mother,” William continued, finally shoving his coat at poor Hughes, “is a pathetic little mouse of a woman. Learn from my mistakes, boy. Never marry.”
“I won’t.”
It was only a half lie. Oliver had lived through seventeen years of violent arguments between his parents and wasn’t exactly keen on subjecting himself to the same misery.
Oh, people always waxed poetic about love and marriage, but Oliver had enough sense to know it could all go horribly, terribly wrong.
Still, though, a stupid part of him sometimes reared its ugly, hopeful head, wondering if it could be different for him. But didn’t everyone experience silly flights of fancy that had them convinced that mediocrity and woe would somehow skip them over?
Don’t be a fool.
His parents had been a love match. His mother, a diamond of the ton, had gone and run off with a lowly luthier.
She’d been lucky to have an uncle who had pitied her enough to give her both a generous allowance and Rosewood.
Another stroke of luck had come to the Booths when William’s business had picked up with a momentum that had yet to slow down.
Any violinist worth their salt played on his instruments, and any violinist who didn’t desperately longed to.
Much to his father’s eternal chagrin, Oliver had always struggled with music. William would force him to play for hours, the screeching of the violin leaving a ringing in the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to hear.
As for his parents, it would have made sense for them to live in perfect happiness, what with all the good that had rained down on them.
Except they hadn’t.
“I hope you weren’t up there tinkering with your slides.” William swayed a little as he marched to his study. “Why don’t you practice your violin? A much better use of your time.”
“Actually,” Oliver said, pleased that he had a genuine out, “I’ve somewhere to be.”
“Look at you!” his father crowed. “A busy man of the ton.”
“Hardly.” Oliver grabbed his coat and hat from Hughes and slipped out of the door with an appreciative pat to the butler’s shoulder. “I’ll see you at supper.”
He let out a long exhale on the steps that led to the house, dropping his hat onto his head and squinting against the bright sunlight.
Digging into his waistcoat pocket, he produced the letter of acceptance Mr. D.R.
had sent to the university. The participants of the lecture series had been asked to provide an address in case of emergency, which meant Oliver could get a head start on satisfying his curiosity about the elusive man who sent in those outlandish papers.
His trip, however, was prolonged by the number of people who stopped to speak to him.
“How do you do, old man?”
“Booth! I haven’t seen you in weeks. Will you be at the pub later?”
“I’m heading to Bath in a few days—you’re welcome to come along.”
It wasn’t unusual, in all frankness. Oliver was an exceptionally popular man, mostly because he could be counted on for an exceptionally entertaining time.
Men enjoyed his company, women vied for his attention, and life would be fine and dandy if he didn’t have to go home to Rosewood at the end of it all.
Well, he didn’t always go home. Indeed, plenty of his nighttime activities took place outside of the house. But he hadn’t found himself in the mood lately, which meant he always seemed to wind up in his own bed, frustrated and alone.
He’d have to remedy that soon.
Oliver arrived at a pretty townhouse and didn’t think twice about knocking at the door. People rarely protested his showing up without notice, and he was quite convinced Mr. D.R. would feel no different.
Taking off his hat, Oliver ruffled his sandy hair and pasted on his most charming smile.
The door opened to reveal a woman with a heap of dark curls pinned atop her head.
She stared at him, and so he stared right back.
Her skin was a warm olive, her face drawn and angular.
She had a full lower lip, and hazel eyes so huge that he was surprised he wasn’t able to see right into her soul.
His gaze settled on a small, barely visible dent on the left side of her rounded nose.
It was a near undetectable detail, but one the microscopist in him couldn’t help but notice.
As they stood there, he began to wonder at her piercing stare. Did she know him? Did he know her? God, he hoped he hadn’t—that they hadn’t—
No. Something about her told him he’d remember.
“I’m looking for a Mr. D.R.,” he said, interrupting her study of him.
She jolted back to life as if struck by lightning. Blinking several times, she spoke with brisk purpose. “May I ask who’s calling?”
He smiled at her. “Oliver Booth. I thought I’d stop by to introduce myself to Mr. D.R. before the lectures start. Might I come in?”
Then, without a second’s warning, the door slammed shut.
So much for that.
*
After her fitting, Kalila returned to the entryway of the townhouse, intending to carry her microscope up to her room.
An abrupt knock came at the front door, and she answered it without hesitation.
She had, after all, always been of the mind that if she could do something herself, she would.
There was no sense in waiting for a maid or butler to come along when she was right there.
The sight that greeted her left her rooted in place.
Tall, broad shouldered, and dressed in a suit of deep brown, he was the most exquisite specimen she’d ever seen.
A flurry of butterflies began to awaken in her stomach as her eyes traveled over him.
He was in possession of a jaw so sharp, it looked as if it had been carved from marble.
Unkempt, sandy hair offset the harsh planes of his face.
His one imperfection was his nose, which looked as if it had mended poorly after a break.
Even so, Kalila couldn’t bring herself to call it unattractive.
He didn’t seem particularly perturbed by her careful, silent examination. Indeed, he responded to it by subjecting her to an equally intense inspection of his own.
“I’m looking for a Mr. D.R.,” he said eventually, his voice rich and pleasant.
His words brought her back to reality with a painful thud. This man was looking for Dameer? She thought she knew all of her cousin’s acquaintances.
“May I ask who’s calling?” she questioned, blinking rapidly to clear the fog that had gathered in her head at the mere sight of him.
His sharp, unyielding features melted away as he offered her a boyish, crooked grin. “Oliver Booth. I thought I’d stop by to introduce myself to Mr. D.R. before the lectures start. Might I come in?”
Two things happened in quick succession: Kalila’s heart fell straight into her boots, and she stepped back and slammed the door. She stared at the closed door, blood cold in her veins.
This was decidedly not good. She had planned on exposing the men of the Society only to her version of Dameer so as to avoid any questions or awkward encounters.
It seemed, however, that an awkward encounter had found her anyway. She rushed back into the parlor, feeling sick to her stomach.
“Who was it?” Caroline asked, placing her teacup in its saucer.
“Are you all right, Kal?” Dameer tilted his head at her. “You’re a little pale. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Who was at the door?” Caroline repeated, concern marring her delicate features.
“A Mr. Oliver Booth,” Kalila managed. “At your service, Dameer.”