The earl reached out and touched the canvas. “This needs a frame. Yes, Mr. Willingham. Now and again, when Mrs. St. Maur or the Duke or Duchess of Repington require my advice.”
Willingham snorted. “Sorry to hear about your uncle. He was one of my dearest friends and clients.”
The well-fitted gray sleeve of the earl’s tailcoat crinkled. The muscles underneath seemed to flex. Though his expression remained blank, his pupils shrank and became fully jet. There was no mourning in Ashbrook, nothing but tension.
Pushing away from both of them, I set down my pomegranate and straightened the lilies, sniffing the sweet fragrant ransoms. The white flowers looked like lace. They needed color, maybe some blue or purple.
My nostrils filled with the scent, my chest with their peace. To keep this ease, I had to take charge.
“Mr. Willingham, the earl is my former, well, actually, current barrister. There’s business we need to discuss. It was nice of you to come this morning, but you must leave.”
Willingham stepped closer to the earl. “Tell me, Ashbrook, do you always bring flowers to clients?”
“Only the pretty ones with freckles.”
Willingham turned beet red, and his hands fisted.
I set my flowers on the table near the few remaining biscuits. Locking arms with Willingham, I started him toward the door. “Time for you to run along, sir.”
“Mrs. St. Maur,” he said in low grumbly voice, “a drive, the two of us.”
“That would be a no.” Ashbrook’s low tone wasn’t a whisper. It was loud enough for servants in the hall to hear. Then the peacock barrister sat on the arm of the couch as if he owned it.
He mustn’t know how much pleasure I’d have seeing him wobble and fall but kicking Mr. Willingham out of Sandlin Court was a higher priority. “Good day.”
The man stepped into the hall. “But, a drive? Another moment?”
“Good day, sir. Thank you for coming.”
With all my might, I closed the door on him, then sighed and leaned against it, placing my whole weight on the handle and trim, but I pinched my finger. “Ouch.”
“Bravo, Mrs. St. Maur. He’s gone, but you needn’t hurt yourself evicting the shipper.”
Ashbrook chuckled, but his face sobered as I shook my stinging hand. “You did hurt yourself?”
“My palm. My thumb is all red.”
“I knew Willingham was only capable of bringing you pain. Has he been here every day making a nuisance of himself?”
“He wasn’t the only bird waving feathers here. You know it’s male birds that do that the most.”
Shaking out my reddened palm, I took a few steps toward the earl’s side of the couch. “Did you have to antagonize him? I thought you saved those special feelings for me.”
“I must distribute my disdain with an even hand.” Ashbrook now wore a full smile, not his half-committed one I’d seen so often. No gap showing yet. “Let me look at your fingers. This male bird, orcockor cack, has other special talents. Me no cack mowt kill cock.”
So Ashbrook wasn’t going to say something to convict himself. The rooster’s mouth wasn’t going to kill him. His small entwining of patois and humor tugged at my frown. Thumb stinging, I balled my fist. “No special assistance is required. I’m fine.”
The man tugged on the chain of his watch fob. He was stylish sitting in dark buff breeches. His starched cravat was snow white.
The more I looked at him, the more I saw his eyes weren’t unfeeling or lumps of coal, but crystalline and shiny like cleaved obsidian stones. There were even bits of gold and maybe blue-green at the edges.
“You’re staring, Mrs. St. Maur? What is it that you are trying to determine?”
I folded my arms and pretended that I was affronted by the accusation, but I was guilty of peering at him, of wanting his rarest smile.
He was handsome.
His deeply tanned skin, glowed of warm sunshine. The high-sculpted cropping of his hair—smooth on the sides, curly on top—held tiny waves. His thin mustache and well-trimmed beard framed his wide face, making those strident eyes something a girl could get used to having them upon her.
