They walked the length of the wing down one side. Margaret asked questions Henry didn’t understand or care to. He preferred listening to her demonstrate expertise while flattering Jones. The man became quite vociferous when encouraged to show off his knowledge.
Margaret gave the firmly closed door no attention at all when they reached the end. Jones turned to the other side, speaking confidentially to Henry, leaving their guest briefly next to a small shrubby bush with bright-red single-petal blooms, one Jones hadn’t bothered to mention. Moments later, she swept up the other side and joined the conversation.
“May I say, my lady, you ask excellent questions. For a woman, you are quite knowledgeable. You must spend time with your father’s expert staff,” Jones conceded with obvious generosity—and no little pretension.
Lady Margaret’s face became a mask of humility. Henry suspected he might be the only one who caught the gleam in her eye. “My dear Mr. Jones. I bow to your superior status, but I must make a confession. I am my father’s expert staff. I am Edgecote’s head rose breeder.”
Color drained from Amos Jones’s face. “You? A woman is Edgecote’s breeder? Did you create Innocent Sprite?” he gasped, shaking with outrage.
She bit her lip and tipped her head down. “For my sins, yes.”
Henry intervened quickly before Jones could explode. “We best be on our way, my lady,” he said.
*
An hour laterHenry escorted Margaret to her traveling coach with her maid and a hamper of delicacies from Roseleigh’s kitchen and orangery. She had changed her mind, and he couldn’t convince her otherwise. He extended a hand to help her up.
“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?” he asked.
The pleading in his voice warmed her heart almost as much as the feel of his hand—holding hers much longer than needed—warmed the rest of her. She definitely needed to leave before they became more entangled.
“Jones will have told all and sundry that I bred the rose that took the crown from Roseleigh last year. It was a knife to his heart. I best leave, or you’ll have time for nothing else but rescuing me. Thank you for your hospitality, and for showing me Roseleigh’s magnificent glasshouse.”
Moments later she sank against the cushions, and the coach pulled away. It was just midday, and they could make good time before dark. Her mind swirled in circles, and plans began to form. Her father would, of course, be furious.
She opened her reticule and pulled out the rose hips wrapped in a scrap of lace, Blood Red’s offspring. She would germinate them, of course, but given Jones’s generosity, she felt certain they would not breed true. There’d be color anomalies or perhaps disease-prone seedlings. She rewrapped them, put them in a drawer of her traveling desk, and reached into her pocket, pulling out three little cuttings, two with rose hips attached.
A slow smile came over her. Jones had given her just enough time to grab her small pruning knife from her reticule and cut them from the shrubby little rosebush with the bright-red single-petal blooms, the one Jones didn’t bother to describe. The mother plant of Roseleigh. The variety behind their many successful crosses. She was sure of it. She wrapped them in a piece of tissue, labeled it MR, and put it in a different drawer. She would find a way to keep the rose hips moist when they stopped.
What she had in mind might take a season or two to manage, but she looked forward to it with relish. She wondered if Henry would reconsider her invitation. She wondered if he would welcome her back. After today, she wondered if he would forgive her.
Part Two
Henry’s Sixth Problem
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face a world of earthly blessings to my soul.
–Shakespeare,Henry VI Part2
Chapter One
York, June 1819
The Duke ofRoseleigh, duly confirmed in his title, strode through the York Rose Show with confidence and grace, his eyes scanning the crowd. He reached the council table, and the staff scrambled to their feet to bow and welcome him.
“Your grandfather is sorely missed, Your Grace,” the master of the Rose Council, Martin Grey, said, eyeing the black armband on Henry’s sleeve. “May we hope you will attend our spring meeting next March with Mr. Jones once your year of mourning is over?”
Spring meeting?Henry groaned inwardly. How much of his life would these roses take? He handed over the entry papers Jones had meticulously prepared.
“The Earl of Edgecote will attend, of course,” the master continued. “One wonders if his new head rosarian will be up to snuff.”
Rosarian? Of course—one who cultivates roses. Edgecote has a new one? What about Margaret?Henry panicked momentarily. It was the thought of seeing her again that gave him motivation to come. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand that the sycophant explain what he meant, but he held back. The man’s entire purpose in mentioning Edgecote was to pressure Henry into attending his blasted meeting. Henry wasn’t about to reveal his interest in Lady Margaret Ansel.
“Jones manages ably. I will, of course, discuss the council with him,” Henry said, accepting an owner’s badge and ribbon with an inclination of his head.
Grey spoke before Henry could walk away. “We hope half mourning won’t keep Lady Blanche from the Rose Ball this evening. We so look forward to seeing her every year. Do you know if she plans to attend?”
Napoleon’s army couldn’t keep her away.“I believe she plans to attend at least briefly. She assures me she will not dance but simply put in an appearance. I promised to escort her.”
