*
I can givemyself one morning, he thought rebelliously. The pleasure of a beautiful woman, her hand in his, soothed his weary soul. It wasn’t a stroll through a park or even a garden, but the Roseleigh glasshouse came close.
At least it would if they weren’t staring at lettuce and eggplant. He picked up the pace back toward the center. With sun pouring through the roof, and surrounded by trees, he could imagine they were at Hyde Park—or at least a country orchard. They came around the center with its stand of trees and found Jones posted in the entrance to the east wing with a pained expression. He bowed correctly when they approached.
“May I have a moment, Your Grace?” Jones asked.
Henry gestured Lady Margaret toward an ornate bench between the berry bushes. “This will be brief,” he said. The smile she returned warmed his heart.
Jones stepped back into the east wing of the glasshouse and pulled the ornate glass door shut, scowling at it as if it was Lady Margaret. “I had hoped to meet with you before this, Your Grace. Did Lady Blanche forget to convey my requests?”
“My aunt has been vociferous on your behalf, Mr. Jones, but as you can imagine, there are many seeking my attention. I simply haven’t gotten to it yet.”
The little man rocked up on his toes, huffed out his chest, and gazed up at Henry directly. “Cultivation efforts are of primary priority at Roseleigh, Your Grace, as I’m sure you will realize when you have been in place longer,” he said.
“I am inclined to put seeing to the well-being of my tenants ahead of my flowers, Mr. Jones.”
Jones gave a dismissive sniff. “You may not be aware, but that woman is not at all the thing. She should not be here.” The man gave Henry the impression that Lady Margaret’s presence in his domain shocked him to his toes.
Henry ignored his discourse on Lady Margaret. “What is so urgent that you must speak to me immediately? Is the grass breaking? Mold running amok? Weasels tunneling under the floor?”
Jones blanched, as if any one of those disasters would give him palpitations. “I should say not! We care for the glasshouse and its contents punctiliously. It is vital, however, that we have the support and attentive care of the Duke of Roseleigh.”
“I repeat, Jones, what is it you wish to show me so urgently?”
“You must be informed about our current cultivation effort, the rose we will announce in York in June. You must understand our processes and challenges in order to…”
“Give you the respect and attention you crave?” Henry asked. It was unnecessarily cruel.
Jones turned a shade of maroon that struck at Henry’s conscience. He had let irritation override his sense.You’re not everyman now, Henry. The words of a duke cut deeply.
“Very well. I will lay aside tomorrow afternoon. The entire time is at your disposal. Will that work for you?” Henry asked.
Only slightly mollified, Jones nodded. Henry would have work to do if he wanted to soothe this man’s feelings. He wasn’t entirely sure he cared. The pompous gardener grated on his nerves. Henry peered down the east wing, searching for something else to say. A wooden wall closed off the end. “Am I right in assuming that is your laboratory, Jones?” he asked with a gesture toward it.
“Of course, Your Grace! It is vital that it be kept private. I would beg you not to walk your guest around it,” Jones replied.
Obviously, the walls were glass. A walk around would be as good as a trip through the door. Already sick of all the secrecy, he was tempted to do exactly that. Henry’s irritation with Jones and with the entire competition over the benighted roses grew. He swallowed the reprimand on the tip of his tongue. There was no point in antagonizing the man until he knew more.
“The rest of this wing is devoted to flowers. Would it be possible to give our guest a tour? You could explain your various triumphs.” Henry regretted that last comment, one sure to bring out the head gardener’s worst.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Jones replied through tight lips.
Henry opened the door and beckoned his guest. “Lady Margaret Ansel, may I introduce Mr. Amos Jones, Roseleigh’s head gardener.”
Jones inclined his head in an obeisance that was almost proper and murmured, “Honored,” under his breath.
“I’m honored, Mr. Jones. Your fame precedes you. I read your article inCurtis’s Botanical Magazinelast summer. Well done, as always.” She gazed around in awe at the long gallery lined on both sides with roses of various sizes and shapes, most of them red, sometimes bordered by smaller plants.
Jones preened a bit. “We maintain a collection of our most successful cultivars in this gallery of the glasshouse. For our own use. Occasionally—rarely—we share the hips with discerning breeders who request seeds.”
Lady Margaret’s eyes widened, and Jones looked entirely too smug. Henry didn’t understand the byplay, but the lady smiled sweetly. “I won’t expect you to share with the Earl of Edgecote’s daughter,” she said.
Jones gave a slight bow, a smile teasing his lips. “Actually, my lady, I would be happy to share the seeds of Blood Red, the queen of our collection, with you.” He set action to words, clipping three orange rose hips from the plant.
“I’m most grateful, Mr. Jones,” she said. “I know you guard your generational charts closely, but I don’t suppose you would share the parental cross for Blood Red.”
“Why, Lady Margaret,” Jones said coyly, “that would be telling.” What was the man up to?
