‘I wonder if Mr Hart has readThe Monk,’ I said dryly. ‘It sounds like the sort of thing that would appeal to him.’
‘I did ask. But he said he has not read it because the themes of the novel are morally corrupt, and he reads only books and poetry that uplift the soul.’
I raised both brows at this. ‘Was Lucinda there at the time?’
Jane nodded. ‘I believe so.’
My lips tightened. ‘How appropriate.’
‘He does seem a verygoodsort of person,’ Jane mused. ‘I don’t think I have even heard him cuss, which is strange for a man. Even Edward cusses,especially when his toe is hurting. Does Max?’
‘Oh, definitely. He has quite the temper, though it is usually directed at George rather than me. It is almost as if that horse knows exactly how to rile him up.’
Jane chuckled, and I myself felt cheered by thinking of Max and George. Perhaps I only needed to write a short upbeat letter, one that stated that Lucinda was in good hands and that Seraphina shouldn’t worry. I would explain that Dorian Hart was a friend of the family (well, he wasnow), that there were several more suitable contenders, and that he would likely be old news by the time Lucinda next wrote to her.Indeed, if I had my way, he would be.I dipped my pen in the ink and began ...
Several hours later, I was sitting in exactly the same spot, looking at my sealed letter addressed to Max, and wondering if I should open it and add a postscript:Ignore everything I wrote above. Things are NOT in good hands. Please help!
Suffice to say, things did not go quite as I wanted them to in the afternoon. I was determined to find a crack, a flaw—something that would without a doubt reveal Mr Hart’s true colours. It was supposed to be an extremely satisfying moment, one in which I would announce to everyone, ‘Aha! Now you see him for the rogue he is!’
But events occurred that were completely out of my control, and the outcome was most upsetting. I hardly knew what to think or what to do next!
Mr Hart arrived promptly at three o’clock, and we were served afternoon tea in the drawing room. Having managed to finish my letter to Max beforehand, I was relieved to have it off my plate. Now I could concentrate on the business at hand—namely exposing Mr Hart.
Of course, when he entered the room and paid me the usual courtesies (enquiring after my health, saying I looked well, etc.), I was momentarily flustered. But that was par for the course with him. He sought to charm and flatter, and he did it with everyone, not just me. He was a handsome gentleman with faultless manners, to be sure, but I was certain his attentiveness was a ploy and he meant none of it.
Upon hearing that we had been to the baths that morning, he was most interested in what we thought of the experience. Settling himself on the sofa, he took the cup of tea Elizabeth handed him while Lucinda, seated alongside, told him all about it in great detail.
At one point, he leaned towards her and sniffed. ‘Ah, I can still detect the aroma of the Romans.’
Lucinda looked put out. ‘I spritzed with rose water ...’
‘A rose by any other name,’ he quipped. ‘I am sure you did, my dear. But with such a concentrationof sulphur, calcium, and magnesium in the water, it would be difficult to erase it completely. It does not matter to me. I like it, and you look so well after bathing.’
Lucinda smiled and looked pleased.Point one to Mr Hart,I thought.
‘Did you yourself take the waters at the pump room this morning, Mr Hart?’ I asked.
His gaze shifted to me on the opposite sofa, and I squirmed as his deep brown eyes roved over my face in a most impertinent manner. ‘Why, thank you for enquiring, Mrs Fitzroy. I did indeed, just after nine o’clock,’ he said at last.
‘I hope you did not find Milsom Street too busy with street sweepers at that time?’ I said.Hah, now I had him.If he alluded to Milsom Street being busy, then I could ask how come I had seen him on Monmouth Street, which was nowhere near there. I was looking forward to watchinghimsquirm.
But he smiled and said without missing a beat, ‘I did not notice any street sweepers, I’m afraid, Mrs Fitzroy. I was in my own little world, busy composing my latest poem for Miss Fitzroy.’
Blast,I thought,he is as slippery as an eel.
He nodded to me, and the talk turned to his poem, which was titled‘The Whispering Boughs of Solitude’ and wasabout a lonesome tree. The poem was written with the utmost propriety, of course. Only I, knowing that Mr Hart had baser instincts, saw the double meaning in phrases such as ‘rooted need’.
I smirked to myself but said nothing.
‘What about you, Mrs Fitzroy, do you like my poem?’ he asked suddenly, and I dropped the smirk.
‘It is good, but not very realistic,’ I said, helping myself to another slice of almond cake. ‘Trees are not sentient beings. They do not have feelings, so I doubt they can feel lonely. But I liked the general tone of it and the descriptions of nature.’
‘Have you written any poems yourself, Mrs Fitzroy?’ asked Mr Hart frostily. ‘Perhaps we can hear one.’
I swallowed my mouthful of cake abruptly. ‘Ah, no, I have not.’
‘Well then’, he said curtly, ‘you may not be the best judge of my poem’s merit.’ He looked away, but not before I glimpsed a flash of pain in his eyes, which were most expressive, admittedly.
