6
Four days. It had been four days since Oliver had seen Mrs. Iris Rumford lurking about Lord Durand’s glasshouse.
It was a good thing that she had stayed away, he told himself as, fighting exhaustion after nearly twelve hours of guarding the place, he made his way down the side of the back garden for one last look around before heading home.
He didn’t need her skulking about, making his life difficult.
Yet he was frustratingly aware of his disappointment in not seeing a messily pinned mass of blond curls lurking in the bushes.
Over the past several days—or nights, as that was when the majority of his waking hours were spent—he’d had a good amount of time to think over his strange interaction with the widow.
Too much time, really. Walking for hours on end without another soul to talk to while searching for nonexistent encroachments on the property had given his brain little to do but think of Mrs. Rumford.
Why, he didn’t have a damn clue. She had been a peculiar female, seeming to speak whatever words flew into her head, a slight woman as nervous as a bird.
In truth, he should have forgotten her the moment she’d scurried out of his sight.
Yet he hadn’t. Instead, he found himself wondering where she had come from, what her story was, where she was at that very moment. But more than that, he wondered why the hell he cared so damn much.
Frustrated, he forced his attention to the job at hand, eyes scanning the meticulously designed sunken garden—only to spy a small yellow bird hopping about on a branch.
A bird that reminded him too much of Mrs. Rumford with her wide eyes and chaotic pile of bright golden curls.
Agitated at how completely she had saturated his thoughts, he let loose a low curse.
This was getting ridiculous. He would never see her again, and thank God for that.
He did not need any distractions in his life.
His main purpose now was to work hard, survive, and make certain his mother and sister had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
Something he had failed miserably at in the past year of hardship and that he would never, ever allow to happen again.
Having finished his inspection of the sunken garden, he ducked through the brick arch at the far side and rounded the garden wall heading for the row of glasshouses a short distance away.
They rose up before him, all delicate iron and panes of shining glass sparkling in the sunlight.
Reaching the closest one, he began his inspection of the perimeter of the building—
And paused as the sound of several people in conversation drifted to him.
Not that it should have surprised him. It was late morning, and daylight hours at the manor house were full of people busy working, whether they be a gardener or Lord Durand’s “resident botanists” or even the steward making his rounds.
And he must not forget Lord Durand himself, who spent nearly as much time with his beloved plants as he did in the manor house itself.
Yet these voices were lilting, feminine, with the cultured tones of the upper class.
Guests? Surely not; it was a bit early for a social call.
In the next moment, however, he received proof that it was indeed just that as Lord Durand himself emerged from the tree line, accompanied by a close group of several women, all chatting and laughing as if they were good friends.
“As you can see,” he was saying to the closest, an elegant woman of indeterminate years with a head of intricately coiffed gray hair, “I don’t have just one glasshouse, but several, spanning this entire side of the property.
I’m a passionate man when it comes to botany, you see, and just one could not contain my collection.
You shall be shocked, I am certain, by the array of magnificent specimens within.
Oh!” he exclaimed as, turning to open the door of the closest, he spied Oliver a short distance away.
“Mr. Beckett, you have not finished your shift then?” The man turned back to his companions, not waiting for Oliver to answer.
“I hired Mr. Beckett to guard my collection. It is far too valuable, you see, and too many wish to steal my work for themselves.”
The gray-haired woman laid a hand to her chest, her mouth opening in an oval of shock. “Steal? Oh, how utterly awful some people are.”
Her tone, however, gave Oliver pause. Was it just him, or was there the slightest hint of sarcasm to it?
“Yes,” Lord Durand lamented, “there is no end to man’s depravity.”
To which one of the other women, the one with the graying auburn hair and sharp cheekbones, snorted, quickly following it up with a cough. “I beg your pardon,” she said, smiling apologetically at Lord Durand. “Something caught in my throat.”
“Of course, of course,” Lord Durand said magnanimously. “But shall we continue?”
Oliver, uneasy but not knowing why, touched a finger to the brim of his hat and turned away, eager to finish with his work.
There was something unsettling about these women, similar to the feeling he’d had when he’d caught Mrs. Rumford trespassing.
He frowned. Those premonitions had never failed to steer him down the correct path, saving his life more than once when he’d been a soldier and later a Runner.
Now, however, they seemed to be malfunctioning, giving a false sense of alarm every time a strange face appeared.
The past year truly must have taken a toll on him, much more than he’d realized.
He’d just rounded the corner of the glasshouse when he heard the silver-haired woman say, in a voice that held a thread of tension in it despite the nonchalance of the words, “I have an acquaintance who is a botanist as well. How she would love to witness such beauty as you have here, Lord Durand.”
“A woman botanist, eh?” Even from this distance Oliver could hear the pompous amusement in the words, as if the idea of a woman botanist was highly entertaining.
“Yes, a Mrs. Iris Rumford. Do you know her by chance?”
Oliver, about to head for the line of trees on the far side of the glasshouses, slowly retraced his steps and tilted his head in their direction.
There was a pause, and Oliver held his breath, the better not to miss a word. Finally Lord Durand spoke.
“Mrs. Iris Rumford, eh? Hmm, I’m afraid not. The name does not sound familiar.” And then, smugness coating each word, “There are so many hobbyist botanists, especially those of the female caste. I cannot hope to know even a fraction of them.”
Anger ran beneath Oliver’s skin at the man’s dismissal, at his blatant display of superiority. He recalled the woman in question, the pride in her eyes when she’d informed him she was a botanist. As if she should be dismissed solely based on her sex.
He shook his head. What the hell was he doing, becoming outraged on her behalf? No matter how pompous Lord Durand was regarding Mrs. Rumford, there was no reason Oliver should take her side in any aspect of this.
Why, then, did he still wish to take Lord Durand by his expensive silk cravat and plant a fist in his smug face?
Lord Durand continued. “But I will be more than happy to show your friend my collection should she have the time to visit. Now, if you will follow me, I have the most incredible Erodium glandulosum ?.? .? .”
His voice faded away, the women’s low murmurs of appreciation along with it.
And still Oliver remained exactly where he was, his mind too full to do much else.
Now that his anger over Lord Durand’s comments was subsiding, he was beginning to understand the full implications of the conversation he had inadvertently heard.
These women had come to see Lord Durand’s glasshouses mere days after Oliver had caught Mrs. Rumford sneaking about them.
In even more of an unbelievable coincidence, they had secured an invitation for her.
Had she sent these women here to make certain she could gain access to the grounds in an honest manner?
And if so, why had she not come herself?
So many questions, and not a single answer.
What he did know, however, was Mrs. Rumford had much more courage than he had given her credit for.
And she was even more a mystery to him than before.
He’d believed his warnings would frighten her away.
As she had been sneaking about the property, there had to be a reason she could not approach Lord Durand himself to see his collection.
Yet with this new development, he had to reconsider his every impression of her.
While he had certainly not thought she was a wilting flower—no one lacking in spirit could have sent him on his arse as she had—she was most definitely not faint of heart.
The only question now was, how far would she go with whatever she had planned?
Again he wondered if he shouldn’t tell Lord Durand of his suspicions.
And, just like before, he hastily dismissed such an idea, though trepidation accompanied it this time.
Why trepidation, he didn’t have a clue. It certainly didn’t matter to him that he had begun to glimpse something dark beneath the earl’s jolly facade, that he had witnessed an uneasiness in the staff when they talked of him.
Bringing Mrs. Rumford to the attention of such a man, and the possible danger it might put her in, was no concern of his.
No, his main unease had to do with presenting unfounded suspicions to his employer.
His family was counting on him, after all, and if Lord Durand began to think that Oliver was incautious in his speculations, he would begin to lose faith in his abilities and replace him.
No, he had best be certain of any information he brought to the earl’s attention.