“Mr. Everett,” Lyons said, clearly surprised to see me. “We thought you’d removed to Brighton for the fortnight.”
I gave the butler an easy smile. Polite. Amiable. Business. “Indeed, I had. But circumstances required an urgent return. Is Mr. Lane at home?”
“In his study.” Lyons opened the door wide. “Do come in.”
ChapterTwo
Anna
“More butter,” I said to Mrs. Devon, licking my finger after sampling the French beans. “I need everything just a little bit ...moretonight.” I squinted at her, and she nodded in understanding. Her features were wrinkled with age and wisdom. Our cook loved a challenge, but more, she loved getting things just right. I suspected she loved helping me butter up Papa too, which I needed tonight, desperately.
I needed out of London.
“And the lamb?” she asked with patient eyes, hands hovering above the platter of perfectly sliced meat.
“Oh, the lamb is divine.” I reached to pinch off another piece, but she shooed my hand away, her humor evident in the way she held back her pleased smile.
“You’ll dirty that lovely gown before dinner,” she muttered, handing me a rag to wipe my fingers.
Mrs. Devon was so good to me. So good, I often found myself at her little table belowstairs. Coddled with a slice of late-night pie or a plate of buttered bread, listening to the quiet sounds of servants chattering happily together as they cleaned and prepared for the next day. I envied theircomradery. The family they’d created. Papa had become so busy of late.
Through childhood, I’d have said our lives were near perfect. Papa was all I had, but he was all I’d needed. In London, he saw to business and his many holdings. But every summer, he’d take me to Lyme. Just the two of us. He’d say, “Where shall we go, Annie?” and I’d beg for sand and shells and the chance to unearth treasures. He’d bring his book and a few blankets and pillows with us to the seaside, and I’d explore.
Looking back, I couldn’t help but wonder how he survived those trips. He endured my ceaseless questioning about fossils and bones and oddly shaped shells, my temper when I’d forgotten to eat or drink, and then my half-drenched form splayed across his lap for an hour’s nap halfway through the day. No matter if I was an utter devil to take home by nightfall. He’d smile. Again and again for a fortnight by the sea.
As I grew older, I’d hunted less for treasure, more satisfied to sit alongside him and read. Instead of questioning him about shells, I’d question him about Shakespeare and Aristotle. I’d wonder about life and what I might do, where it might take me. And Papa would challenge my thinking, encourage me to consider different points of view. I never felt too young or silly or inadequate. If I lacked knowledge, he’d simply point me in the right direction to find it. And most certainly, if I needed him, I only had to ask.
We’d last been to Lyme three years ago.
And unfortunately for me, finding Papa when I needed him—for anything more than a passing conversation or private dinner—was proving to be a difficult task.
Mrs. Devon brought over the butter dish and slicedseveral thin pieces to lay over the French beans. “Your father would put butter on his butter if it was all we had left to eat.”
Indeed. With this spread, I’d certainly have Papa’s attention tonight.
“Miss Lane.” Lyons approached, holding a massive bouquet of roses in his arms, a small card attached. “For you. Where shall I put these?”
“I should think that depends on who they are from.” Mrs. Devon frowned, her gaze flicking toward mine. She was the only one I’d told.
Lyons looked at the card. “Mr. Alexander Lennox.”
My jaw clenched, muscles seizing to run as though the man himself was about to turn the corner. The nerve of him, sending me flowers after what he’d done. He’d taken my hand, led me around a turn in the garden, and spoken such lovely words that I’d let him kissme before my maid, Mariah, caught up to us. I shook my head, remembering how thin and dry his lips had been. The whole experience had been as lackluster as a paste diamond. I should have known to abandon him then. But some of us did not have mamas to teach us the ways of men.
“Throw them out,” Cook ordered with a raised finger. “We’ve no use for dirty roses here.”
Lyons looked utterly confused. “But they’re from—”
“Do throw them out, please,” I insisted, then softened the directive with a smile.
“And the card?”
A card? What more could he possibly say? I inhaled deeply and huffed the air out with a wave of my hand. “I am certain it is filled with a thousand apologies, pleading for forgiveness—nothing he has not said already. But I do notwish to hear from nor see him again.” Which was why I had to leave London by week’s end before he returned from Bath.
Oh, I’d made a grand mistake trusting Alexander Lennox. The worst of all.
“Out with them!” Mrs. Devon swiped at the air between us. “Can you not see she is overset? That man is a rake and a scoundrel, Mr. Lyons, and we don’t need reminding!”
Lyons’s eyes grew wide, and his back straightened. “Immediately, Miss Lane.” And he was off.
