“Sometimes he has sweets in his pocket, and he lets me have them,” the child confided. “And once he had some lovely tin soldiers, and Mama said that little girls don’t play with soldiers, and Uncle Sigh said then it was a good thing I’m a pocket and not a girl.” She took a breath and glanced at her mother again. “But he was teasing because he knows I’m really a little girl.”
“I see.” Lucy smiled. “It’s probably things like that that make the ladies sigh over him.”
“Yes.” Pocket squirmed again. Her mother laid a hand on her thigh and she stilled. “Did you sigh over Uncle Sigh?”
“Theodora!”
“What, Mama?”
“Here we are,” Lucy interjected.
The carriage had stopped in the middle of a bustling lane, unable to reach the side of the street because of the crush of carriages, dray carts, hawkers, men on horses, and pedestrians. The first time Lucy had witnessed a scene such as this, her breath had been quite taken away. So many people! All of them shouting, running, living. The cart drayers shouting abuses at pedestrians in their path, the hawkers crying their wares, liveried footmen clearing the way for fine carriages, urchins scampering nearly under the hoofs of the horses. She’d not known how to take it all in; her senses were overwhelmed. Now, nearly a week later, she’d become a trifle more used to the city, but even so, she found the constant bustle invigorating to her ears and eyes every time. Perhaps she always would. Could a person ever find London boring?
One of the footmen opened the door and folded down the step before assisting the ladies to alight. Lucy held her skirts well off the ground as they made their way to the shop. A strong young footman walked ahead, both protection and future parcel-bearer. The carriage pulled away behind them. The coachman would have to find a place to stop farther on or circle back.
“This is quite a nice millinery shop,” Rosalind said as they entered the establishment. “I think you’ll like the trimmings they have here.”
Lucy blinked and looked at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of multicolored lace, braid, hats, and trim. She tried not to appear as overwhelmed as she felt. This was a far cry from the single shop in Maiden Hill that had but one shelf of trimmings. After she’d lived for years with a few gray gowns, the variety of color almost made her eyes hurt.
“Can I have this, Mama?” Pocket held up a length of gilt braid and started to wrap it around herself.
“No, dear, although perhaps it would be right for Aunt Lucy?”
Lucy bit her lip. She couldn’t really see herself in gilt. “Maybe that lace.” She pointed.
Rosalind’s eyes narrowed at the pretty Belgian lace. “Yes, I think so. It will go nicely on that rose print sack gown we ordered this morning.”
Thirty minutes later, Lucy walked out of the shop, glad that she had Rosalind as a guide. The other woman might look delicate, but she knew her fashions and she bargained like a seasoned housekeeper. They found the carriage waiting in the road, an angry cart driver shouting at the coachman because he couldn’t get past. The ladies hurried into the carriage.
“My.” Rosalind patted her face with a lace handkerchief. She looked at her daughter, lying on the seat in childish exhaustion. “Perhaps we should go back to the house for some tea and refreshments.”
“Yes,” Pocket said in heartfelt agreement. She curled up on the seat and was soon asleep, despite the jolting of the carriage and the noise from without. Lucy smiled. The little girl must be used to the city and its ways.
“You aren’t what I expected when Simon said he was to be married,” Rosalind said softly.
Lucy raised her brows in question.
Rosalind bit her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to insult you.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s just that Simon has always kept company with a certain type of lady.” Rosalind wrinkled her nose. “Not always respectable but usually very sophisticated.”
“And I’m from the country,” Lucy said ruefully.
“Yes.” Rosalind smiled. “I was surprised, but nicely, at his choice.”
“Thank you.”
The carriage stopped. There appeared to be some sort of jam in the road. Angry male shouts rose outside.
“Sometimes I think it would be easier to walk,” Rosalind murmured.
“Certainly faster.” Lucy smiled at her.
They sat, listening to the commotion. Pocket snored softly, unperturbed.
“Actually . . .” The other woman hesitated. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but when I first met them—Ethan and Simon—it was Simon I was attracted to at first.”
“Really?” Lucy kept her features neutral. What was Rosalind trying to tell her?
“Yes. He had that darkness about him, even before Ethan’s death, that I think most women find rather fascinating. And the way he talks, his wit. It can be quite captivating at times. I was enthralled, although Ethan was the more handsome brother.”
“What happened?” Had Simon been equally enthralled by this delicate woman? Lucy felt a stab of jealousy.
Rosalind gazed out the window. “He scared me.”
Lucy caught her breath. “How?”
“One night, at a ball, I came upon him in a back room. It was a study or a sitting room, rather small and simply decorated except for an ornate mirror on one wall. He was all alone and was standing there, just staring.”
“At what?”
“At himself.” Rosalind turned to her. “In the mirror. Just . . . watching his reflection. But he wasn’t looking at his wig or his clothes like another man might. He was staring into his own eyes.”
Lucy frowned. “That’s strange.”
The other woman nodded. “And I knew then. He wasn’t happy. His darkness isn’t an act; it’s real. There is something that drives Simon, and I’m not sure it will ever let him go. I certainly couldn’t help him.”
Uneasiness washed over Lucy. “So you married Ethan.”
“Yes. And I’ve never regretted it. He was a wonderful husband, gentle and kind.” She looked at her sleeping daughter. “And he gave me Theodora.”
“Why did you tell me this?” Lucy asked softly. Despite her calm words, she felt a surge of anger. Rosalind had no right to make her doubt her decision.
“Not to frighten you,” Rosalind assured her. “I just felt that it would take a strong woman to marry Simon, and I admire that.”
It was Lucy’s turn to gaze out the window. The carriage had finally started again. They’d soon be back at the town house where there’d be an array of exotic foods for luncheon. She was famished, but Lucy’s mind wandered back to Rosalind’s last words: a strong woman. She had lived all her life in the same, provincial place where she’d never been challenged. Rosalind had seen what Simon was and prudently turned aside. Was there hubris in her own urge to marry Simon? Was she any stronger than Rosalind?
“SHALL I KNOCK, MA’AM?” the maid inquired.
Lucy stood with the maid on the front steps of Simon’s town house. It rose five stories tall, the white stone gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. The town house was in the most fashionable part of London, and she was conscious that she must look a fool standing here dithering. But she hadn’t seen Simon alone for ages now, and she felt a desperate need to be with him. To talk and to find out . . . She laughed nervously under her breath. Well, she guessed she needed to find out if he was the same man he’d been back in Maiden Hill. And so she’d borrowed Rosalind’s carriage and come here after their luncheon.
She smoothed a hand down her new gown and nodded at the maid. “Yes, please. Go ahead and knock.”
The maid lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. Lucy watched the door expectantly. It wasn’t as if she didn’t see Simon—he made sure to dine at least once a day at Rosalind’s town house—but they never had a moment alone. If only—
The door was pulled open, and a very tall butler looked down a beak of a nose at them. “Yes?”
Lucy cleared her throat. “Is Lord Iddesleigh in?”
He lifted one shaggy eyebrow in an incredibly haughty way; he must practice nights in front of a mirror. “The viscount is not receiving visitors. If you will leave a card—”
Lucy smiled and walked forward so that the man was forced to step back or let her run into his belly. “I am Miss Lucinda Craddock-Hayes, and I am here to see my fiancé.”
The butler blinked. He was obviously in a quandary. Here was his soon-to-be mistress demanding entry, but he probably had orders not to disturb Simon. He chose to bow to the devil in front of him. “Of course, miss.”
Lucy gave him a small, approving smile. “Thank you.”
They entered a grand hall. Lucy took a moment to look around curiously. She’d never been inside Simon’s town house. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror finish. The walls were also marble, alternating black and white in panels bordered in gilt curlicues and vines, and the ceiling . . . Lucy blew out a breath. The ceiling was all gold and white with painted clouds and cherubs that appeared to hold the crystal chandelier that dangled from the center. Tables and statues were set here and there, all of them in exotic marbles and woods, all decorated lavishly in gilt. A black marble Mercury stood nearby to Lucy’s right. The wings on his heels, his helmet, and his eyes were all gold. Actually, grand didn’t quite describe the hall. Ostentatious was the better word.
“The viscount is in his greenhouse, miss,” the butler said.
“Then I will see him there,” Lucy said. “Is there a place my maid might wait?”
“I will have a footman show her to the kitchens.” He snapped his fingers at one of the footmen standing at attention in the hallway. The man bowed and led the maid away. The butler turned back to Lucy. “If you will come this way?”
Lucy nodded. He led her down the hallway toward the back of the house. The passage narrowed and they went down a short set of stairs; then they came to a large door. The butler started to open it, but Lucy stopped him.
“I’ll go in alone, if you don’t mind.”
The butler bowed. “As you wish, miss.”
Lucy tilted her head. “I don’t know your name.”
“Newton, miss.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Newton.”
He held the door open for her. “If you need anything more, miss, simply call me.” And then he left.
Lucy peered into the enormous greenhouse. “Simon?”
If she wasn’t looking at it right now with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed such a structure could exist, hidden in the middle of the city. Rows of benches disappeared into the darkened end of the greenhouse. Every available surface was crowded with green plants or pots of soil. Underneath her feet was a brick walkway that somehow felt warm. Condensation dewed the glass at her shoulders. The glass began at waist height and vaulted overhead. Above her, the London sky had already begun to darken.
Lucy took a few steps into the humid air. She didn’t see anyone in here. “Simon?”
She listened but heard nothing. Then again, the greenhouse was awfully big. Perhaps he couldn’t hear her. Surely he’d want to keep the hot, moist air in. She pulled the heavy wood door closed behind her and went exploring. The aisle was narrow, and some of the foliage hung over it, forcing her to push through a verdant curtain. She could hear dripping as water condensed and ran off hundreds of leaves. The atmosphere was heavy and still, musty with the smell of moss and earth.
“Simon?”
“Here.”
Finally. His voice came from up ahead, but she couldn’t see him for the obscuring jungle. She pushed aside a leaf larger than her head and suddenly came out into an open space, lit by dozens of candles.
