Chapter 11 #2
It was a look he recognized from his own reflection that day, a look that said she was thinking about something she did not want but did not know if she had the freedom to choose.
They looked at one another in strange but not uncomfortable silence.
It was not dramatic. Not even particularly wise.
It was only a pause in the night, a stillness between two people who were indulging in an intimacy that was peculiar for their differences in station, yet neither of them seemed to mind.
Leopold became aware of the way she held herself as if ready to move closer and the way he had not moved away.
Then Barnaby called his name from inside.
“Leopold?”
The spell broke at once.
Phoebe looked back toward the library doors. Leopold drew in breath, realizing he had not been breathing.
Barnaby called again, this time with more impatience. “If you have vanished into the dark, I should like to know before I begin searching the house.”
Leopold shut his eyes briefly and then opened them again.
“You should answer him,” she said, clearly recovering more quickly than he had.
Leopold turned toward the doors. “I am apparently needed.”
“So I hear.”
He looked back at her once more, but the moment had already moved on. Whatever hung between them on the terrace had gone thin and uncertain, out of reach. Leopold was surprised by how disappointed he was over it as he walked away.
Leopold stepped inside and found Barnaby in the corridor with two glasses and a look of mild suspicion.
“You were gone long enough to be rude,” Barnaby said.
Leopold took one of the glasses. “I was on the terrace.”
“With Miss Redmond.”
Leopold drank a little and said nothing.
Barnaby’s expression sharpened. “Ah.”
Leopold looked at him, motioning for his friend to follow him. “Do not start.”
“I had no intention of starting anything, only observing.”
“That was still too much.”
When they reached the study, Barnaby handed him the second glass. “Your mother has been making observations too, in case you were wondering.”
Leopold frowned. “She spoke to me this morning.”
“About London?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Leopold looked at the fire and then back at him. “She wants me to think about Lady Isolde Carrington.”
Barnaby’s brows rose. “Lady Isolde?”
“Daughter of the Earl of Penmere.”
Barnaby let out a low breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “That sounds like a solution your mother would come up with.”
“It does not sound like a solution at all.”
“No,” Barnaby said. “It sounds like a threat dressed as a suggestion.”
Leopold sat in the chair near the hearth while Barnaby fetched the scotch and returned to Leopold to pour them both a drink. “She said I need to be seen in London.”
Barnaby leaned one shoulder against the mantel. “And she is right.”
Leopold gave him a flat look. “You too?”
Barnaby shrugged. “A duke hiding in the country with a baby and a nursemaid who reads better than half the gentlemen in town is not a creature who avoids notice forever.”
Leopold took another drink. “I am not hiding.”
Barnaby’s look made the lie unnecessary to discuss. “If you say so.”
Leopold set the glass down. “I do not intend to marry Lady Isolde.”
Barnaby’s expression stayed calm. “That is perhaps the least surprising statement you have made all week.”
Leopold glanced at him. “My mother would disagree.”
“She is entitled to.”
“Am I?”
Barnaby’s mouth quirked. “Not usually.”
Leopold gave him a narrow look. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I am enjoying your discomfort.”
“That is a distinction without mercy.”
“The county is already talking,” Barnaby said. “The Season will make it louder. A duke in London has options. A duke who stays away does not.”
Leopold looked at the fire. “And if I do not care for the options?”
“Then you will need to care for the consequences.”
Leopold said nothing to that.
Barnaby watched him for a moment, sipping from his glass and gesturing for Leopold to do the same. “Your silence is very telling.”
“That I wish for you to drop the matter, yes.” Leopold took a deep breath, realizing he was becoming irate with his friend because of his mother’s wild notions. He finally took a sip of his drink and pointed to a table with a chessboard on it. “Come. Play some chess with me.”
Barnaby scoffed.
“You wish to add a defeat at chess to your problems for today?”
Leopold gave a short laugh and moved to the board. “You overestimate your power.”
Barnaby’s smile was brief. “Probably.”
They began. Leopold expected to win, though not easily.
Barnaby was usually strong and gave Leopold good matches.
That evening, however, he seemed distracted from the start, and it showed.
He lost a bishop early, then a knight, then another piece he should have protected.
By the twelfth move, he was already in trouble.
Leopold glanced up. “You are distracted.”
Barnaby moved his rook. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That is unfortunate.”
Leopold looked at him again. He realized that with all the changes at the manor and his mother’s constant nagging, he had forgotten that his friend surely had troubles of his own. “What is on your mind?”
Barnaby’s gaze stayed on the pieces. “Nothing of consequence.”
Leopold moved his queen. “That is a lie. You do not lose in twelve moves when there is nothing important on your mind.”
Barnaby smiled, very faintly. “You are becoming too familiar with my habits.”
“I would prefer not to be.”
“Too late.”
Leopold studied him.
Barnaby looked away first, which told Leopold more than the lost chess match did. There was something in his expression, just for a moment, which suggested he was choosing not to say something. Leopold waited.
Barnaby only smiled, small and unreadable, and reached forward to reset the board.
Leopold frowned. “You are not answering.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we were talking about you.”
Leopold scowled.
“That is evasive and cryptic.”
Barnaby finished resetting the board and looked at him. “It is meant to.”
Leopold stared at him a moment longer and then sat back again, the pieces arranged anew between them.
Whatever was troubling Barnaby must be heavy.
He was not one to keep things to himself, even when it involved major events.
What could his friend be dealing with that he felt he could not discuss with Leopold?
***
That night, he passed the nursery corridor on his way to bed. The lamp there had been turned low, the door to the nursery standing slightly open, light moving in a soft line across the hall floor.
Leopold slowed without quite meaning to.
Phoebe was not inside, and Leopold guessed she must have retired as soon as Cecily was asleep.
The disappointment from earlier returned, but he did not have much time to dwell on it.
At the far end of the corridor, his mother stood with her hands folded in front of her.
She was looking directly at the nursery door, as if debating whether to enter.
Or trying to do so secretly, he thought, wondering at the out of place thought.
Leopold stopped. For a moment, she did not seem to realize he was there. Then, she lifted her head. “Leopold.”
“Mother. Do you need something?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be convincing.
Leopold did not move. “You were standing outside the nursery.”
His mother’s gaze flicked briefly toward the door and back again. “I was just walking.”
He waited. For someone with so much to say earlier, she certainly does not seem to want to talk now, he thought.
She held his eyes for a moment longer and then turned with deliberate calm and went back toward her rooms without another word. Leopold remained in the corridor and watched her go.
The house was silent around him, the nursery door still half-open. His mother’s actions and words grew increasingly odd since Cecily’s and Phoebe’s arrival. What was prompting such changes?