18 #2
Setting her shoulders, she turned to face the other women.
They looked at her with concern, as if they were afraid she would crumble to dust at the merest wrong breath.
Which she would not—could not—do. No matter how desperately she wished to.
Dust certainly did not have to contend with villainous men and trampled legacies and betrayed friends and broken hearts.
But what to say? What to suggest? Her mind tended to veer toward facts and figures, a far cry from the imagination necessary to concoct brilliant, unusual schemes.
Just as she was about to return, defeated, to her seat, however, she caught sight of one of the maids scurrying down the hall just outside the sitting room door.
A maid who had been hired on especially for their leasing of Rose House.
Hired help that was there for a short while, to help the skeleton crew of long-term staff with the added responsibility of additional people to see to.
“The staff,” she whispered. “Of course, that’s it.”
Euphemia frowned. “But Iris, I have already attempted to be hired on to their staff. They were quite emphatic that they did not need additional help.”
Iris shook her head. “No, not the regular household staff. But won’t there be a good amount of temporary hired help, brought in specifically for the exhibition and ball?”
Sylvia’s face, which had been pinched in outrage, fell slack. “Of course. Unfamiliar faces, all with access to the hidden parts of Durand Manor.”
“Faces,” Laney joined in, a smile spreading over her features, “that those arrogant, conceited aristocrats have trained themselves to overlook. People who are expected to blend into the wainscotting as if they do not even exist.”
Euphemia grinned and clapped her hands. “Well then. Let’s get planning, shall we?”
“Oliver, a messenger came for you from the manor house.”
Oliver, who had been in the process of admiring the last of the apple blossoms near the front door of his home, recalling how beautiful Iris had looked when the petals had rained down on her two nights ago, cast his sister a perplexed frown at where she stood in the open doorway. “A messenger?”
“Yes. It seems Lord Durand has returned from London and he has asked to see you right away.”
Whatever news he’d expected to hear, it had certainly not been that. Not that it should have surprised him. The man’s ball and exhibition were in a mere sennight, after all.
Yet during these past days, as he had begun to fall head over arse for Iris, he had conveniently forgotten his employer.
Just as he had forgotten that uncomfortable itch beneath his skin that the man caused, that damnable instinct of his trying to send a warning that he would not—could not—heed.
Suddenly tense, he thanked his sister and hurried off for Durand Manor.
The place was a hive of anxious activity when he arrived.
As it ever was when the earl was in residence.
But there was something more to the energy of the place today, the servants appearing more troubled than usual as he made his way through the house, their speech more hushed, their looks more furtive.
By the time he reached the study door, a peculiar anxiety had taken root at the base of his skull and squeezed tight.
Tugging at his cravat in a futile attempt to bring himself some relief, he rapped sharply at the study door.
“Enter,” a sharp voice called from the other side. Taking a steadying breath, Oliver forced a neutral expression and opened the door.
Lord Durand was behind his desk, poring through a small journal with a moss-green cover and embossed gold leaves, seeming to be cross-checking it against something laid out before him.
The earl looked up and snapped the book closed, dropping it in a drawer in his desk as he leaned back, a wide smile stretching his lips.
“Beckett. Have a seat, won’t you?”
Oliver did as he was bid, sinking into one of the surprisingly short, hard wooden chairs set before the massive desk, ones at odds with the rest of the lush, rich furniture filling the room.
He did not have to wonder at the peculiar pieces for long, however.
The moment he sat he could see what the advantage was to Lord Durand, setting him at a higher level than his guests, able to look down his nose at them all while the other party squirmed in discomfort on the ungiving seat.
If he weren’t the recipient of such unnerving attention, he might have been impressed.
“I trust your trip to London went well, my lord,” he said.
“Indeed it did,” the man replied. His lips stretched wider, a confident importance in his demeanor that only the nobility could hope to wear. “But I was anxious to return home. I trust everything went well around the property, and especially with my glasshouses? Nothing suspicious?”
The anxious squeezing at the back of Oliver’s skull transformed into something else entirely. He recalled the night of Durand’s departure, the chaos when someone had trespassed on the property. His thoughts went to Iris, then just as quickly veered away. No, it had not been her.
But that did not take away the fact that Lord Durand had to be told of the events of that night. Not that he didn’t already know of it, Oliver realized as he took in the man’s slightly narrowed, cold eyes.
“As a matter of fact,” he replied evenly, “there was something suspicious, a possible breach of the perimeter of the property, nearly a week ago.”
The man’s eyes narrowed further. “And why did you not send word to me of this breach, Beckett?”
“As it did not concern the glasshouses, and I and the rest of the employees ascertained the house was secure as well, I did not feel it warranted worrying you.”
“I see.” Lord Durand pursed his lips and studied his nails, seemingly deep in thought.
Nails that were incredibly impeccable, Oliver realized distractedly, on hands that were lily white and soft.
Strange, considering the man’s main occupation apart from?.
.? .? well, lording, he supposed. He recalled the state of Iris’s hands, the ragged nails, the stains that never seemed to disappear no matter how clean they were, the pale scars.
It was all too obvious she worked hard at her profession, that she put her whole body and soul into what she did.
A proof of passion that was obviously missing in the man before him.
The earl spoke again, putting a stop to Oliver’s musings on Iris’s hands—and what those hands had been doing to him not long ago. “Very well. I appreciate your consideration of me.” He speared Oliver with a sharp look. “But do not delay telling me of such things in the future. Is that understood?”
Oliver’s back teeth ground together with the effort to keep his expression from betraying his true feelings, which had much more to do with landing his fist in the man’s face than any sense of obedience. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way then.” He shifted forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. “You of course know, Beckett, that I have put much trust in your abilities.”
“I do, my lord.”
“And that trust comes with certain?.? .? .? expectations.”
Oliver stilled, the hair at his nape standing on end. “Expectations?”
“Indeed.” The man studied him a long moment before he suddenly stood. “Walk with me, Beckett.”
Oliver followed him, out the set of doors that led to the garden, through the arbor, and down the path, toward the west side of the property.
All the while the man did not speak a word.
With each step, Oliver’s trepidation grew.
What was the earl on about? His mind scoured over the events of the last weeks, trying to uncover anything that might have led to this peculiar—and alarming—shift in his demeanor, and immediately lit upon Iris’s uninvited visit that first morning.
Somehow, Oliver had forgotten about it in the past few days as he’d gotten to know her?. .? .? and to care for her.
He stopped himself there. He did not want to think of his quickly growing feelings for Iris, how she made his heart feel complete as it hadn’t been before, how she touched something deep within him, made him want to be part of something, to share of himself.
At least, not here, not now. Not in front of this man who was far more dangerous than he looked.
Lord Durand let them into the closest glasshouse, closing the door behind them, then stood quiet with his back to Oliver. Oliver watched, unnerved, as the earl caressed the glossy leaves of one of the plants before him. Was it just him, or did the foliage shiver in disgust?
Finally the man spoke. “There are many, you know, who would seek to take from me what I have worked so hard to build. Some of those may even claim to be the rightful owners.”
He turned to look at Oliver over his shoulder. The expression in his eyes, hard and almost serpentine, made his skin crawl. And then he said the thing that turned Oliver’s world on its head.
“I have every reason to believe that Mrs. Iris Rumford may be one of those people.”
Oliver’s vision went dark around the edges, his body going ice-cold. “Mrs. Rumford,” he repeated, the words sounding tinny to his ears.
“Yes.” Durand frowned, making his way down the path, deeper into the glasshouse, no doubt expecting Oliver to follow. Lightheaded, Oliver did.