Moreover, a glance at Henrik proved he was watching closely.She sent him an innocent smile.She was, after all, blameless of any wrongdoing, as far as he knew.If her brother ever found out she’d been alone with Lord Bowen — Jonathan — on the terrace at Lord Spencer’s house, that would be another matter.
Withdrawing with the ladies, Lise was swept into the drawing room with the Countess of Castleton, Mrs.Bowen, Lady Hartwell, and four other females.The conversation turned to the latest fashions and some scandal involving a duke’s daughter, neither of which held Lise’s interest.Perching on the edge of a silk-upholstered chair, she tried to appear engaged while her mind wandered back to the dining room, to gray eyes and the ghost of a smile.
After what felt like an age, the gentlemen rejoined them.Henrik was at her elbow almost immediately.
“You look exhausted,” he observed in German, quietly enough that only she could hear.
“I am,” she admitted.“Three courses, Henrik.Three!I may never eat again.”She’d said the same after each of the other dinner parties, too.
His mouth twitched.“English hospitality.”
“English excess,” she murmured.
Lord Bowen materialized before them, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that struck Lise as oddly formal for a man who’d been crossing his eyes at her over the roast beef not an hour ago.
“Lieutenant von Ostenfeld, Miss von Ostenfeld,” he said with a slight bow.Then his gaze fixed on hers.“I wonder if you might spare a few moments before you depart.My father keeps a small European collection in his study.Some of it, I thought, might interest you.”Belatedly, he added, “Bothof you.A reminder of home, perhaps.”
Henrik’s expression remained pleasant, but Lise saw the slight narrowing of her brother’s eyes.Still, he inclined his head.“Very kind of you, my lord.”
“Shall I come as well?”Lady Hartwell asked, already rising from the sofa.
“You would be thoroughly bored, my lady,” Lord Bowen said, putting an end to the idea by turning his back to her.
Lise had learned the delightful English terminology: Jonathan had rumped her.
She was surprised, as much as the lady.At dinner, Lise had started to imagine there was something between them, but the look on Lady Hartwell’s face now indicated the opposite.
Jonathan led them from the drawing room, down a corridor that grew progressively quieter in terms of the laughter and chatter from the drawing room.He didn’t pause when he reached a paneled door, but pushed it open and stepped back so they could enter ahead of him.
It wasn’t black as pitch because a low fire burned in the grate, perhaps to keep the general dampness at bay.But it was too dim to make out where the furniture was.Her other senses kicked in.The study smelled different from the rest of the house.Where the drawing room was all perfume and beeswax candles, and the dining room had been a medley of delicious aromas all night, this room carried the scent of coal smoke, ink, and strong pipe tobacco.
“I mistakenly thought my father would have every room lit, but the Earl obviously didn’t expect me to bring guests in here.”
Apologizing quickly, Lord Bowen went about lighting two lamps and three candles, coaxing from the shadows paneled walls fitted so precisely the polished mahogany boards gleamed like the interior of a ship.Above the dado rail, dark green damask covered the walls, a subdued backdrop for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that dominated two sides of the room.A white marble fireplace anchored one wall, its mantel and side panels carved with neoclassical figures — acanthus leaves, sphinx heads, dancers frozen in eternal grace.
It reminded her of her father’s study at home but on a grander scale.She went toward the hearth first, Henrik following her.
“It’s the work of the Adam brothers, isn’t it?”she asked.“Or someone who has studied them closely.”
“You have an excellent eye, Miss von Ostenfeld,” Jonathan said.“Yes, all the fireplaces in the house are Robert Adam’s work.”
She also had an excellent ear.Without the noise of the guests’ chatter and laughter, the sounds of this wealthy section of London filtered through the windows of the townhouse that capped the end of St.James’ Square terrace.
Horses’ whinnying accompanied the clop-clop-clop of their hooves on the granite stone setts of the street that circled the large central green.And the rattle of iron-tired wheels was constant, unceasing.At this time of night, hackney coaches and private carriages alike were ferrying the wealthy people from the theaters and the private parties, like this one, to their homes.
The von Ostenfelds weren’t peasants, but her father’s estate was all-but silent at night apart from owls, the grunting of wild boar, or the occasional bark of a roe buck.She’d heard a wolf once, raising the hair on her neck and causing her to flee her bed for her nanny’s room.But no one heard those rare creatures any more.
In London, there was nothing natural about the noises that kept her awake each night, long after she’d gone to bed.The activity seemed to go well into the wee hours.
“Here,” Jonathan said, moving to one of the shelves.He pulled down a volume bound in dark leather.“Sir John Carr’sTravels in Northern Germany.Published just this year.My father acquired it recently, and I read it at once.”
Henrik took the book, turning it over in his hands with visible pleasure.“I’d heard of it, but haven’t had the opportunity to read it.Is it accurate?”
“Surprisingly so,” Jonathan replied.“Though of course, any Englishman’s account of Europe must be taken with a grain of salt.”
“And any account written in peacetime,” Henrik added, “must be read as a history of what was, rather than what is.”
A shadow crossed the viscount’s face.“Yes.That’s true enough.”
