“There is a certain smell of fresh wildflowers that seems to cling to your person. Since there are no flowers in the room, I concluded it must be you. No one else has that precise smell.” He crossed his arms and studied her. “It is a mix ofglebionis segetumandmalva moschata.”
Lucy stared at him. What on earth was he talking about?
“Marigold and musk mallow,” he clarified.
“I just wanted to see Bartimaeus.” She tilted her chin up. She had every right to see Bart.
“Undoubtedly. And also test her basket? Does its softness meet your approval?”
“She has a nice little place here. At least she isn’t lonely.”
The duke put the puppy back in the basket. “You had best leave before Brown returns.”
“Yes.” She straightened her spine and walked to the door with stiff, measured steps. Then she turned. “Why?” she blurted out.
“Why what?”
“Why did you not tell me who you were?”
The duke glanced at the door. “Now is not the time to discuss this. Brown will return momentarily.”
“Did you enjoy yourself? Did you make fun of me, laugh at me, when you listened to all my stories that were meant for Henry the gardener?” Her eyes burned with unshed tears.
He frowned, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“I would have trusted Henry with my life. But you?” She hated that her voice wobbled.
“Lucy—” His jaw tightened. He got up and towered above her.
Lucy shook her head and backed off. “I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are.” She rushed to the door, tore it open, and darted out. She bumped into an astonished Mr Brown, who nearly dropped a pile of documents. “Drat the man.”
“I—I most sincerely apologise,” poor Mr Brown stammered.
“I don’t mean you.” Lucy scrambled past him.
Where was the garden? She needed air. Only when the fresh wind brushed her heated cheeks, her heart returned to its normal pace. A sweet, enticing smell engulfed her. She stood in the middle of a picturesque flower garden, which Henry the gardener must have planted. Like an artist, she’d rhapsodised that day, so long ago.
What had he said about her smelling like wildflowers?
“Bah,” Lucy uttered, startling the sparrows in the stone birdbath.
Marigolds, indeed.
Chapter 11
Later, it occurred to Lucy that she’d missed the perfect opportunity to ask for her letter. She’d been so rattled when he discovered her under his desk, she’d completely forgotten all about it. She’d ask him at the next possible opportunity. However, the duke didn’t make an appearance the entire afternoon and was absent even during supper. Lucy started to get edgy. How was she to accomplish her mission when he was so elusive?
After breakfast the next morning, Lucy slipped out of the dining room. She didn’t feel like socialising with the house guests. She spent the remaining morning in the servant hall, where she talked to several footmen and housemaids, keeping them from their work. Their stories fascinated her. They scattered apart when Mrs Blake entered.
“I don’t approve of servants conversing with guests, Miss.” She pressed her lips in a disapproving line. Lucy suspected Mrs Blake had never really forgiven her for not telling her she was Lady Arabella’s friend.
She smiled apologetically. “I know. It’s your job not to approve.”
“I believe the company is assembling in the blue salon to discuss the plans for the day.” That was her way of saying it was time for Lucy to leave.
Lucy returned to the blue salon and listened to the women debate whether they should embroider, play another round of spillikins, or dare venture outside when it might rain again, soon. She suppressed a yawn.
“Miss Bell.” An unassuming gentleman with spectacles stood in front of her. “Eugene Brown is my name.” He bowed. “I’m the duke’s secretary.”
