8. “We Must Cultivate Our Garden.”
“WE MUST CULTIVATE OUR GARDEN.”
(VOLTAIRE)
“Wot’s the plan, Captain?” Lynch cradled his bub of ale.
“I’ll inadvertently bump into her, commence interrogation, get her on the back foot, get answers, forget about her and get some debutante like Miss Juliet Tait to marry me.”
A slurp. “If yer don’t mind me sayin’, that plan has more holes than marchin’ boots.”
“It was Alasdair’s plan.”
Lynch muttered into his tankard so Miles looked to his pocket watch – a half after the agreed hour of six – and signalled the barmaid for more tankards.
This establishment was a convenient stroll from his townhouse and owned by a Mr Suggs, who had fought with Wellington at Salamanca. Returning injured in 1812, Suggs had then purchased this pub with his cashiered coin and named it The Marquess of Wellington.
Hence, Mr Suggs was perhaps the lone soldier to bemoan the bestowment of a dukedom on Wellington as the pub’s signage would require ten shillings for a repaint.
So in this public house, at least, Wellington had been demoted.
“There’s yer cousin,” muttered Lynch. “Couldn’t he have worn…”
Miles twisted.
Resplendent in a bottle-green jacket and gold waistcoat, Dair stood in the doorway exchanging words with a raddled old fellow who’d a matted beard. His cousin then sauntered over as though it was a half before the hour of six. “Ho, Miles! And the esteemed Mr Lynch. How are we all?”
Lynch sniffed; Miles peered to his timepiece; Dair winked at the barmaid as she lowered brimming tankards to the table, froth absconding as she blushed.
“You’re late.” Miles seized one of the ales. “Where have you been?”
His cousin mopped the table with an embroidered handkerchief and sat. “Attending to matters. So, did you come up with another plan?”
Miles was irked to admit this but… “No.”
“Splendid! So, my good Lynch, I presume you have reconnoitred Miss Seymour and noted her habitual haunts. Where did she visit? And, more importantly, did she and the Scarlet Spinsters indulge in anything scandalous?”
Lynch rolled his eyes. “Walks in the park. Dull. Hatchards. Duller. They did have a visit from a Lady Rentree and–”
“Ah. Scandalous indeed.” Dair touched his nose. “She has three lovers. And a husband.”
“And a cat fer sketching.”
“Dull.”
Miles frowned. “Anywhere else, Lynch? No modiste or theatre?”
“Nah. Days duller than a wet Wednesday in Wales. The three ladies did venture out in that deathtrap of a phaeton, which she drives at full tilt, by the by, nearly lost ’em.”
“Where did they go?”
“Mr Rowney’s colour shop. Spent two hours there and purchased three brushes.”
“And that’s it?”
Lynch shrugged and swallowed his ale.
“Well, you’ll have to inadvertently bump into her at the park then,” mused Dair. “I know a pickpocket who could distract the other two ladies.”
Where did Dair meet these people? “No, the park is too prone to ambush…er, interruption from the promenading Ton contingent. Likewise, the weather could rout the plan or, on such open ground, the enemy…I mean Miss Seymour…could evade capture entirely.”
Dair leaned in. “From what you’ve both said that just leaves one venue. But don’t fret, I’ve a plan…”
With a groan, Miles signalled for more ale. Had a feeling he’d need it.
The following day…
Surrender to the Dark; A Debutante’s Tale.
Or
The Diabolical Count; A Romance.
Verity felt sure Aunt had not read either novel but which one would she prefer?
Neither title sounded particularly plausible.
With a sigh, she peered from the window, the wet Piccadilly street misting to white with her breath.
This first floor of Hatchards was a beloved haunt for her as it boasted a row of sizeable sash windows.
Downstairs was a different matter, the windows blocked by books, but at least the staircase was wide and well-lit.
Before shops closed, Aunt had popped next door to Fortnum and Mason for potted goose, though whether it was for themselves or the cats was anyone’s guess. Verity had been left with strict instructions to choose a novel that was romantic, intriguing, suspenseful and passionate.
So here she was, surrounded by shelves and shelves of fiction and utterly at a loss.
She set down Surrender to the Dark on a small table that Hatchards provided for clientele and instead opened The Diabolical Count, flicking to a page…
“Miss Lovelace!” a deep husky voice exclaimed, a rough hand curving around her arm. “Are you well?”
“No, Count,” she cried, heart beating like a death knell, “my very core is afire with wretchedness.”
“My dear! Allow me to quench it with…this glass of ratafia?”
Verity narrowed her eyes. Just ‘Ratafia’? The seducing mutton monger! If she was Cecily, she’d knee him in the tallywags.
Cecily stared to his handsome dark features, with a paroxysm of suffering.
“My Count, I have discovered your deepest darkest secret. I know…”
She quickly flicked the page.
“…what lies in the corner bedroom!”
Verity gasped.
His eyes flashed with unholy fire. “My dear–”
“Miss Seymour!” a deep husky voice exclaimed, a rough hand curving around her arm. “Are you well?”
“No,” she cried, then twisted, heart beating like that death knell, only to stare into green eyes that did indeed flash with unholy fire.
“M-my lord, what are you doing here?” Miles’ cravat was a touch crooked, gloves stuffed in his pocket, and his expression was that of a stone-chiselled bust.
“Searching for a book on flowering trees.”
Verity pursed her lips. “That’s next floor up.”
“Ah.” He perused the book titles on the shelf. “I never knew you enjoyed this genre of Gothic fiction.”
“I’m here for Aunt.”
“Well, forgive my hand on your arm but you were so engrossed.”
“Well, I may also indulge once in a while. Tastes change, my lord.” She swallowed, needed to end this. “You know how fickle I am.”
“Just so.” His jaw tightened. “But it is fortuitous to happen upon you here as I wished to talk with you.”
“Did you? Do you?” She shook her head.
“Hmm. For I plan to tour the south of England soon and thought to visit this large botanical garden of Mr Locksley’s. After all, you were mightily enamoured with the thought of it. So, where…exactly would I find it?”
Miles felt akin to a creeping tendril inching towards a succulent bloom. A bloom that had wilted upon hearing Locksley’s name.
“That is not possible,” she muttered, fiddling with the book in her hand. “When he died, his heirs dug it up and planted potatoes.”
Mendacious jade.
“What misfortune.”
“Not at all. For I was also made aware that his botanical garden was not as large as one had been led to believe.”
Miles’ lip quirked. “And what was the purpose of this botanical garden? Plants for scientific classification? Plants from a specific geographical origin? Plants for medicinal use?”
Her autumnal gaze met his and he cursed his curiosity. He ought to be sipping tea with some potential bride. Instead he was battling wits with–
“Poison,” she declared, tapping the book on her leg. “The purpose of the garden was the scientific study of plants that were highly poisonous. Or irritating. Another reason why his relatives dug it up.” She smiled – a little too smugly for his liking.
“Still, they would have preserved some specimens, so I’ll pay a call, nevertheless. If you could be so good as to draw me a map? An exact one. I have a pencil and–”
“Oh, but I can’t recall the…” Her hands fumbled and the book slipped from her fingers.
He dropped to his haunches to pick it up.
As did she, their fingers brushing, both of them clutching the leather-bound book.
This close, he could smell her perfume of orange blossom. The same as she’d worn when young and he felt desire twist and coil within himself.
Damn her to hell.
Why after all this time did the gilflirt still affect him? She was like a blight that crept through your veins and he was determined to discover the truth before cutting the infection out.
Potatoes indeed, the fibbing wench.
She endeavoured to tug the book from him but he refused to release it and her gaze clashed with his once more, the ring that surrounded her pupil the colour of oak leaves in October, those lips he’d once kissed parting in surprise.
Miles tugged the book also but she did not let go and toppled towards him.
Her chest rose, agitated.
He tugged again and those lips–
“Oy, you two!”
Eh?
“Oh no yer don’t!”
Verity shrieked, grabbed the book from his hands and stumbled to her feet. Miles did likewise, swivelling on his heel. “Who the hell are you?”
A lathy man in a tidy uniform of deep blue was glaring at them from the end of the tall bookcase. “Wot do yer think you two are doing, eh?”
“None of your damn business,” replied Miles.
The man’s eyes bulged. “Don’t use that tone with me, young whippersnapper. I’ll have yer know you’re addressing the on-duty Hatchards Upholder of Public Decency.”
Miss Seymour blinked. “Since when did Hatchards need one of those?”
“Since you lot of rum swells began taking liberties with this eminent and venerable institution for assignations of an amorous nature!” He crossed his arms. “Peeking through the cases at each other. Leaving notes on shelves. Dropping books on purpose. Seen it all, I have. We’re keepin’ records now and you’re the fifth pair of degenerate miscreants this month. ”
And there was Miles having thought Dair’s plan to be original. “We were merely discussing fine fiction.”
“Pah! Usual excuse. Where’s yer chaperone, missy? Eh? This is a place of learning not some canoodling boudoir of immorality!”
“In Fortnum’s with the potted goose,” declared Verity. “And I am no young missy.”
“Ooooh, a married one! The worse it gets!” The guard hoicked his substantial thumb over one shoulder. “Out! Now! Or I shall be taking names.”
Verity glared at Miles – how was it his fault? – before with a huff, she stomped past the Upholder of Public Decency and swished out of sight behind the bookcase.
“And you!” demanded the meddlesome watchman with stubby pointed finger. “No more preying upon innocent ladies of a married persuasion.”
“I should be so lucky,” he grumped, following in the direction of the innocent lady, but as he rounded the bookcase there was no sign of her.
Likely she’d headed downstairs, so deciding a strategic retreat would be the prudent course of action in this skirmish, Miles headed up the stairs, marched past Politics and Metaphysical Philosophy and towards Recreation.
There his cousin loitered, reading the collected edition of Mr. Hoyle’s Treatises of Whist, Quadrille, Piquet, Chess and Back-Gammon.
“Dair!” he hissed. “This place has a bloody Upholder of Public Decency! Why didn’t you say?”
“A what?”
“He’s thrown us out!”
“Really? That’s bad form! Where will everyone meet now? Almack’s just isn’t the same.”
“Never mind that. We were interrupted and I was getting somewhere.” Miles glared. “Now it will be up to you to butter-up the cousin Miss Nash at the Michaelmas Fair while I get Miss Seymour alone for further interrogation.”
“I don’t butter-up,” said Dair, face creasing in disgust. “Ever.”
“What do you do then?”
“Simply compliment.”
“Same thing.”
“Hardly. But as you’ve asked so cordially, I will indeed charm so you can disarm.”
“That’ll have to do.” And Miles folded his arms as if to settle the matter.
The fair was not for another sennight, but he supposed there was more than enough to occupy him. On the morrow, he was due at the Regiment Office which might cede some clues, whilst his old greenhouse was being reglazed the day after, let alone all the business of being a damn earl.
“Come on,” he muttered. “We’d best leave.” He’d lie low for the rest of the day, perchance consider his strategy for the fair and his vanquishing of the enemy… Er, Miss Seymour.
And this time, the plan would be his alone.