8 #2
She bit her lip, still cradling her hand, her eyes tripping about as if they could not find purchase. Suddenly she blurted, “You are surprisingly gentle for your size.”
He blinked at that wholly unexpected statement. “Oh, er?.? .? .? thank you?”
She shrugged, still holding tight to her hand, still not looking his way. “It is merely an observation, no need for thanks. Though it did surprise me. I had thought your previous profession as a Bow Street Runner wouldn’t have bred gentleness in you.”
Those quiet words, said in that matter-of-fact way, succeeded in obliterating the last foggy remnants of surprise in him.
His senses sharpened to a pinpoint as he looked at her, tension sizzling through his muscles.
For her part, she didn’t realize she’d said anything concerning or suspicious, continuing to look about aimlessly with a small divot between her brows.
“My profession as a Bow Street Runner?” he asked softly.
Mrs. Rumford, however, was completely oblivious to the danger threaded through the low tone. She nodded. “Yes. I had believed such a job would breed a rough and forceful nature.”
“Did you?”
“Certainly. Specific professions, after all, must coincide with specific personalities and preferences. For example, a painfully shy person would not do well as a barrister, just as someone who is frightened of the sight of blood could not possibly be a good surgeon.” She laughed lightly. “Can you imagine?”
“And what personality would do well as a Bow Street Runner?”
Finally she sensed something was wrong. Her gaze darted to his, that divot between her eyebrows deepening. Then, as if a light had gone on inside her head, her eyes widened, her mouth forming a small oval.
He leaned forward, until his eyes were nearly level with hers.
She leaned back but did not retreat. “You are surprisingly well-informed, Mrs. Rumford, for someone so newly arrived in the neighborhood. Though I do find it odd that your companions led Lord Durand to believe you were not in the area during their last visit when we both know that you were.”
She blanched. “Is that so?” she asked weakly.
“Yes, it is.” He narrowed his eyes, watching as she swallowed hard. “Strange, is it not? And now here you come, with information I certainly did not share at our last meeting.”
She blinked rapidly, eyes darting about without seeming to see anything, as if searching desperately for how to reply to that. Finally she said on a gasp, “Gossip.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “Gossip?”
“Yes, gossip,” she replied, as if the word were a lifeline. “My friends are talented at uncovering gossip.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. In fact—” Her eyes darted to someplace just behind him, a look of relief saturating her features. “In fact,” she continued, louder than before, “here is one of them now. She can tell you better than I how talented she is at uncovering gossip.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a cultured voice interjected close by, “What is this about gossip then? I do love some good hearsay.”
He turned and spied one of the women who had accompanied Mrs. Rumford, the one with the silver hair and ageless features whom they called Lady Vastkern.
At her side was her companion, a Mrs. Finch, with graying auburn hair and a nose that was bent ever so slightly.
And both women, though they smiled pleasantly at him, looked as if daggers might shoot from their eyeballs.
Mrs. Rumford took advantage of his moment of inattentiveness to scurry around him and join her friends. They closed in around her, like soldiers closing ranks.
“I was explaining to Mr. Beckett how I knew he was a former Bow Street Runner,” she said. She tried for a light tone, but there was no hiding the apology fairly screaming from her eyes.
“Oh goodness,” Lady Vastkern said with a light laugh and a wave of her hand, “who doesn’t know about that?
Mr. Beckett, you may be from London, where most people keep to themselves.
But here in the country, everyone is in everyone else’s business.
” She gave him an indulgent smile, as if he were a recalcitrant child.
“There are no secrets here, as much as we may wish it.”
Which made perfect sense. Damn it. Even so, the feeling that Mrs. Rumford was up to something persisted. Only now it was not just Mrs. Rumford he suspected, but the whole group of these women, who had come without a by-your-leave to inspect Lord Durand’s glasshouses.
Though something more unsettled him about the other women, a cunning that Mrs. Rumford did not have.
He still did not trust her. No, indeed. But Mrs. Rumford possessed a blunt, unregulated honesty that at once baffled him and put him at ease.
For some strange reason, he felt he could trust what came out of her mouth.
Was she hiding something? Most definitely.
But she lacked the slyness that the others possessed as they studied him.
Mrs. Rumford, on the other hand, peered at him from behind the others, her emotions on full display in those wide eyes.
There was guilt, yes, and worry. But also a peculiar interest as she took him in, her gaze traveling from the top of his head to the tips of his boots.
It caused something hot to snake under his skin in the most disconcerting manner, and he said with perhaps more heat than warranted, “Gossip can be deceiving. I’ve learned it’s best not to listen too closely to what others would say, lest you be led astray.
But I have taken up too much of your time.
You will want to take advantage of this chance to tour Lord Durand’s gardens before you leave.
And I’ve work to do.” He touched a finger to his cap. “My Lady. Mrs. Finch. Mrs. Rumford.”
He turned, his mind already on finding out where these women resided and how he might keep an eye on them for the duration of their stay in the area. Or, rather, half his mind, for the other half remained firmly back with Mrs. Rumford and her wide, beautiful eyes.