7
An hour later, after a tour of the study that had not only provided them its location in the house but also any points of ingress and egress and possible places her mother’s papers could be, they finally stood before the door of the first glasshouse.
But though Iris should have been focusing on all they had seen and what still needed to be done, she found herself preoccupied with the fact that she would soon view the earl’s impressive collection herself.
Though preoccupied was a mild word for her bone-vibrating fixation.
She barely registered the lock on the door as Lord Durand put a key to it, which was telling in and of itself.
After botany, there was nothing that captured her attention more than locks.
Her mother had introduced her to the hobby of lock-picking when she had still been a child, to distract her from her frustrations with the world around her.
It had been a welcome diversion, order in chaos, everything fitting together just so.
She had spent hour upon hour practicing, first with the simple kit her mother had given her, then with specially made tools she acquired over the years—and that Heloise, with her blacksmithing talents, had learned to replicate with impressive precision for all the Widows to use in their plans.
Yet so focused was she on gaining admittance, she could see little else but the myriad greens on the other side of the glass panes.
The fever in her blood to access this place made no sense, of course.
As Sylvia had reiterated before their arrival, the plants her mother had nurtured would not be there.
With an average lifespan of four years, none of the hybrids her mother had propagated herself would be alive now.
The best she could hope for was the offspring of those plants, through either division of the mother plants or reproduction through seeds if they were fertile.
Even so, she could not seem to lessen her agitation to find something, anything, that would connect her, even distantly, to her mother’s work.
She hopped from foot to foot, her impatience growing as Lord Durand turned in the middle of unlocking the door to speak to Sylvia. Finally—finally!—the door was unlocked, and he swung it wide. It took everything in her to follow him at a sedate pace and not bolt forward.
“I do not let just anyone within, you know,” he said, turning once they were all inside the building, throwing his hands out to indicate the contents of the glasshouse.
“But what is the point of having possession of such riches if I do not allow the occasional admirer access?” He chuckled, looking to Iris.
She stared back at him, too unsettled to know what he wanted.
Until Laney’s surreptitious nudge told her she was expected to react.
If she had been in her right mind—and if the man were not suspected of stealing her mother’s life’s work—she would have no doubt been fawning over every branch and leaf and flower.
Tamping down on her impatience, she took a glance about?. .? .
And was immediately struck mute. It was a rare thing for her to be bereft of words when surrounded by something she was so very passionate about.
But the man had not been lying when he had said his collection was second only to Kew Gardens.
Even her mother’s glasshouse, once a thing of beauty and full of stunning specimens, had been nothing compared to this.
From the grass-like Anigozanthos rufus , to the brilliant purple star-shaped flowers of Crowea saligna , to the delicate fronds of Histiopteris incisa , the place was a veritable treasure trove of plant life not seen elsewhere in England.
And this was just one of three glasshouses?
She did not—could not—say a word, just stared about, transfixed, overwhelmed by the scope of the place. Lord Durand chortled, the sound bouncing off the leaves and hanging in the humid air.
“I must say,” he said, “this response has to be my favorite by far. I never imagined one would be made speechless by my collection. But this is just the beginning, my dear Mrs. Rumford.”
He started off down the stone path, his fingers caressing the glossy leaves of the closest plant—a beautiful example of Alzatea verticillata .
Iris, more than a little dazed, fingers itching to take out the notebook and pencil from her skirt pocket, followed.
She needed to gain control of herself. This was no pleasure visit, where she could take her time getting immersed in the surrounding flora.
This was the collection of a man who had stolen her mother’s life’s work, and soon she might see the results of that theft, a devastating prospect indeed.
“And here you can see a copper iris,” Lord Durand said some time later, pointing to the straight stem of an Iris fulva . “It is a stunning specimen, if I may be so bold, and the like cannot be found elsewhere in England. How fortuitous that you are in time to see the end of its bloom.”
Iris, however, hardly saw the brilliant green, blade-like leaves or the copper-hued flower, for all her gaze was scouring the surrounding foliage with increasing frustration.
She had not seen leaf nor stem of the hybrids.
No matter that she had dreaded finding them, she had grown increasingly agitated at their elusiveness.
They are not your mother’s plants, but merely created using her work , she tried telling herself. Finding them can accomplish nothing.
Those reminders did nothing to stop the burn of tears behind her eyes.
And was it any wonder? Producing the hybrids had been an arduous process for her mother, all with the hope that she would finally be respected despite her gender once she published her findings.
This was Iris’s last chance to honor her mother, to prove to the world that Lord Durand’s slandering of her was false, that she had been as brilliant as, if not more brilliant than, most men in the field.
They rounded a particularly full Boronia alata then—and there they were.
Long wooden tables covered in pots, each one containing a single, pristine specimen.
Specimens she was more than familiar with, having worked at her mother’s side helping her to accomplish that impressive thing she had set out to do so many years ago.
At first glance they were obviously ragwort, with dark, glossy leaves and stems that showed red at the base but gradually transformed to a bright green just beneath their yellow flowers.
But upon closer inspection, the differences were there.
An amalgamation of the two species, they did not have the deeply ragged leaves of a typical ragwort.
No, they were rounder, softer, with the spoon shape of the common daisy.
And that was not the only difference, the flowers slightly larger, the petals fuller.
She felt both sick to her stomach and triumphant, as if she would crow with delight and sob in grief all at once.
“And here is what I am assuming you were waiting to see, Mrs. Rumford,” Lord Durand said, his voice distant and tinny for all her ears were ringing like church bells.
“Indeed, I was,” Iris managed.
“Please,” he continued in that damnably smug voice, “feel free to come closer. It is the only way to fully appreciate the scope of these specimens.”
She did as he suggested, not because he allowed her to but because she could not stay away even if she tried.
She ran her fingers over the glossy leaves, along their undersides, feeling the faint hairs there.
Tears blurred her vision, making the sight of those long rows of the offspring of her mother’s plants waver, pulling her back to the past and what should have been had her mother not died young, had that fire not taken everything else from her.
A sudden warmth at her side gently guided her back to the present. And then Sylvia’s voice, low in her ear.
“These are what you had hoped for, are they not, my dear?”
Iris heard the muted grief in the words, a twin to her own. The other woman must be feeling so many of the same things she herself was. Something she had forgotten in her own overwhelming emotions.
“Yes,” she replied, hoping her affirmation would give the viscountess some comfort, “they are what I’d hoped to see.”
She felt Sylvia sag ever so slightly beside her, and wished she had the ability to provide proper solace. As it was, she could only stand still at her side, allowing her mother’s dearest friend to lean ever so slightly into her, hoping the warmth of her presence was enough.
Lord Durand, of course, was oblivious to all of this.
“They are coming into bloom just in time. I’m to host an exhibit ahead of the publication of the paper to celebrate my findings, you see, and the plants themselves will be the center of the celebrations.
Noted botanists from across the country will be arriving in less than a fortnight for what I am certain will be the botanical event of the year. ”
Before Iris, or indeed any of them, could think of how to reply to that, the opening and closing of the glasshouse door, followed by hurried footsteps on the stone path, could be heard.
In the next moment, a small, bird-like man appeared around the Boronia alata ; Iris recognized him as the butler they had briefly seen upon entering the house.
“My lord, the letter you were expecting has arrived. I was informed it needs your immediate attention.”
“Thank you, Barnes.” Lord Durand gave them an apologetic dip of his head. “I am sorry to cut your visit short, ladies, but it seems I am needed elsewhere.”
He began ushering them from the glasshouse, like a dog herding sheep. Iris gave the hybrids one last long look before heading out with the others, fighting against a growing—and nonsensical—agitation that she was leaving something of her mother behind.
“That truly is a disappointment,” Sylvia mourned as they exited. “My dear friend has come so far to see your collection, after all.”
“I do feel terrible about it,” Lord Durand commiserated.
“I fund many an expedition for specimens, however, and have been waiting to hear word of this particular ship’s return from the Americas.
I must leave for London immediately.” He looked to Iris, even as he continued to steer them toward the exit.
“You cannot fail to understand, Mrs. Rumford, seeing as you possess the same passions as I do. I cannot leave the newest additions to my collection waiting a moment longer than necessary.”
They stepped into the afternoon sunlight, and Lord Durand turned to lock the place up tight.
But Iris was not distracted any longer, not like she had been when they’d arrived.
No, her senses were sharp now. Her gaze snagged on the large iron lock as he inserted the heavy key, and she tilted her head, the better to hear the faint clicking and shifting of the mechanisms within.
It was not a complicated piece. Should they require it, she would be able to gain access to it in no time at all.
If she could get past Lord Durand’s guard, that was.
As if she had summoned him by mere thought, a figure shifted in the shadows near the farthest glasshouse, and she turned to find the man himself staring at them in the most nerve-racking manner.
Her cheeks burned hot, her heart pounding a rapid rhythm in her chest. Flustered, and equally confused as to why she should be flustered, she forced her attention back to Lord Durand, who was apparently replying to something Sylvia had said in her moment of inattentiveness.
“Oh, certainly. Please feel free to explore the gardens until you are ready to leave. Should you need anything, let Barnes know.”
With that, he spun about and hurried for the house. Leaving Iris and the rest of the women staring after him?.? .? .? and Mr. Beckett staring at them.
Heloise had noticed the guard as well. “I suppose,” she said in a whisper, sidling close to Iris, “that man there is the Mr. Beckett you were telling us about?”
“It is.”
Laney joined them and said in the same low voice. “He has not taken his eyes from us since we exited the glasshouse. Either he is infatuated with our Iris here, or he is much too suspicious for his own good.”
Why did that flippant comment about him being infatuated with her have her heart racing again, and even faster than before?
“Rather, he is much too suspicious for our own good,” Sylvia added. “It will not be easy to get anything past the man if he continues to be so adept at his job. But I would expect nothing less from a former Bow Street Runner, damn and blast.”
She straightened her shoulders and turned her back to Mr. Beckett’s watchful gaze.
“But we cannot let this opportunity go to waste, no matter how closely we are watched. Heloise, why don’t you walk the perimeter of the house and note any place that might provide easy access to the interior, especially around the man’s study.
Laney, you and I shall take a stroll while studying the lay of the land and any blind spots we might use to our benefit.
And Iris, dear,” she continued, her gaze gentling as she looked at her, “keep to this portion of the property. Mr. Beckett has been tasked with guarding the glasshouses first and foremost, after all, and will no doubt remain here, the better to watch you. That will provide the rest of us with the freedom to do what we need to.”
After another minute of murmured conversation, the other women went their ways, leaving Iris alone.
Though, she was not exactly alone, was she?
Her skin prickled with awareness as she traversed the small path between two of the glasshouses and felt, more than saw, Mr. Beckett follow her.
How was it that a person’s gaze could be so much more potent than a touch?
And why was it making her so hot? Pinching the edge of her bodice, she tried to get some of the cooler afternoon air to her heated skin, but it didn’t help.
Desperate for relief, she pulled her notebook from her pocket to fan her flushed face.
Before she could so much as wave it even once, however, Mr. Beckett was there, plucking the pad from her grip.
Leaning close to her, his nose mere inches from hers, he said in a voice that should not have affected her as much as it did, “I know you’re up to something, Mrs. Rumford.
And come hell or high water, I shall find out what it is. ”