“Since you came all this way out here, tell me about this boy, for I know you want to. I don’t believe he can be Owen’s child. Owen swore he would never have a child he could pass his affliction on to, and if he did with an Indian consort, I’m sure he is natural-born,” she said repressively.
By her tone and manner Cecilia could well believe that if any would disagree with her, they would find themselves on the losing side. Lady Soothcoor had an elegant, cordial certainty about her that brooked no disagreement.
“Madam,” Soothcoor said gently, placing his hand on hers, “I would believe as you, if I had not met the child and spent time with him. There can be no question that he is a Sedgewick, as he has our eyes. You know, we Sedgewicks were often teased as children for our sad, mournful hound eyes.
“Truly, he has your eyes?” she asked, a little worried frown marring her otherwise serene countenance.
He sat back. “Yes.”
Jamison entered the parlor with tea and, Cecilia was amused to note, a decanter of some stronger liquid. “Shall I pour, madam?” he asked.
Lady Soothcoor absently nodded, her thoughts elsewhere, Cecilia thought, considering Soothcoor’s assertion of Christopher’s family resemblance. Cecilia declined refreshments.
Lady Soothcoor looked down as she stirred her tea, then straightened. “Then, of course, we must do right by the child for Owen’s sake. We will see that he has an education and is set upon a career path suitable for a natural-born son.”
“Lydia,” Soothcoor said. “I have heard from several sources that he was married to the Indian woman who is the child’s mother.”
“And who told you this?” she said, scoffing, “Another Indian? Of course they would say such a thing. Your brothers Langdon and Layton have visited Owen and hisfamily, as you call them. Owen has never intimated he was married.”
“I am told it was kept a secret because the East India Company frowns on Anglo-Indian marriages, and for the sake of his career, Owen has kept it quiet. He would not tell anyone who works for the company. One person has told me they have seen the marriage lines.”
Lady Soothcoor shook her head dismissively. “I’ll not believe it. Who told you such taradiddles?”
“Damon Partridge, of Partridge and Sons Imports and Exports.”
“Ah, a person in trade,” she sneered.
“I do investments with Mr. Partridge. I have never found him to be behind the times in telling truths, even if the truths are hard to hear. But I shall, of course, send to India to see if Owen still lives, and if he has died, as he feared he would, what I can discover about your step-grandson, Christopher.”
Cecilia rose from her chair and began to walk about the room, stopping to study the botanic prints on the walls. She heard Lady Soothcoor say tightly. “Charles is your heir.”
“A role he does not want,” Soothcoor said evenly.
“Nonsense. No one turns aside an earldom.”
Cecilia drifted out through the half-open door to the conservatory. She doubted either Soothcoor or his stepmother noted her leaving. She looked back at James. He nodded slightly, as he knew she would look for the Kalihari plant.
The conservatory was beautiful. Sun through the glass all around warmed the space. She breathed in deeply, appreciating the smell of the damp earth and what fragrant flowers that were still in bloom this close to December.
The conservatory was not laid out in neat lines of plants, as might be found in a greenhouse. There was a meandering cobblestone path, crossing first one way, then the other, to give a maximum appreciation of all the plantings. One could forget they were connected to a house.
She walked to one end where a stone bench sat, then turned to walk in the other direction. She didn’t hurry. She stopped occasionally to study one plant, then another as she walked. She must be near the dining room, she decided, when she started to see the edible herbs she was familiar with. And she saw the peppers like Miss Rangaswamy had in the box she’d thought was the charcoal. The peppers were bright red. She wondered how hot these were and if Lady Soothcoor ever tasted these or if she just liked growing them. A few feet past the peppers, she finally saw Kalihari, the Flame Lily. There were three or four plants climbing a trellis, the curls at the ends of the leaves clinging to the supports. One flower bloomed, dark pink, almost purple, with ruffled edges of brilliant yellow. It was easy to see why it was called a Flame Lily, for the petals did resembled flames.
She opened her reticule to pull out the picture Miss Rangaswamy drew for her. She studied the drawing. There could be no mistake. It was identical.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
Cecilia whirled around.Lakewood! He was supposed to be in London. And how was it she hadn’t heard him enter the conservatory?
She took a step back. “You quite startled me! I thought everyone to be in the parlor,” she said. “Yes, it is quite beautiful. And so unusual.”
“It is commonly called a Flame Lily, though there is nothing common about this beautiful plant,” he said. He reached out to lightly trace the bright-yellow ruffled edge of a rich magenta petal.
Cecilia saw he wore gray leather gloves.
“The proper name isGloriosa Superba, a fitting name, I would say. But you must know something about this plant already, as I see you are holding a sketch. May I see?” He took the picture from Cecilia’s hand before she could draw back. His voice was soft, silky.
Cecilia felt he was playing with her, but she couldn’t fathom what he hoped to gain as they stood a mere shout away from the parlor. “It is a good sketch, isn’t it?” she said. “I couldn’t believe the petals would grow up and away from the plant stamen in quite that way.”
