Page 73

Bad Things Good Things

Sebastian considered himself to be a man of honor, but a gentleman would have to be without a single grain of curiosity or an iota of feeling to turn away from such a list. And he had both of those things in significantly greater measure.

A quick glance at the bed reassured him that Rosalind still slept. He moved to the mantel. Standing beside the candle, he began reading through the twenty entries Rosalind had placed beneath the title Good Things. No dates were mentioned, but as he read, pictures from the last few weeks flitted through his mind: their first and only dance together, the letters he’d posted beneath the adjoining door, their tour of Finley Park, the Chelsea buns they’d shared, the time they’d spent sitting together at his desk in the workshop, and that first earth-shattering kiss.

Until this moment, he’d had no notion that any of those things had held much significance to Rosalind—except, perhaps, the kiss. He took an unsteady breath, bracing himself for the second list. This, he was sure, would be more painful.

The images came again: their awkward meeting at Langton House, their disastrous first evening at Finley Park, and his stubborn refusal to allow Rosalind into his workshop and tree house . . . His thoughts trailed off. His tree house? She had mentioned it before, but he had not even shown it to her. Indeed, he had not visited the tree house himself in years. Why would she put this claim at the very top of her list as though it had happened first?

Slowly, fractured pictures from his youth pieced themselves together. A young Rosalind following him around Finley Park, full of girlish chatter and questions—all of which had been fully beyond his limited fourteen-year-old realm of experience. He had escaped to the tree house. Jonas had come with him. For Sebastian, it had been a blissful escape; for Rosalind, it had been a crushing rejection. And she had remembered it all these years later.

He’d been a foolish green youth who was far too used to being alone. But that was no excuse for unkindness. He winced at the self-censure, and then, through the stifling fog of difficult memories, a single thought shone brightly. There were five entries on the Bad Things list, and all but number one had been crossed off. Did that mean Rosalind was willing to look past them? Or had he done something to alter her mind? He read them again, focusing on what had changed. And then he saw it. 2. I do not love him. had been scored through.

Hope surged within him—and with it came resolve. Closing the book, he set it on the writing desk and blew out the candle burning there. Retracing his steps to the fireplace, he snuffed the candle on the mantel and walked back to the bed. Bending over, he dropped a soft kiss on Rosalind’s forehead before blowing out the final candle. Then, using the light from the dying fire to guide him, he slipped out of the room.

Chapter 29

Rosalind was not sure what had wakened her. Her bedchamber was dark. The fire that had burned so brightly earlier was nothing more than glowing embers. She lay still, and in the silence, she realized the rain had stopped and the wind no longer blew so hard as to cause the trees to rattle. The last thing she remembered was sitting up in bed, waiting for Sebastian. She gasped. Sebastian. Had he come to see her only to find her asleep? It would explain the doused candles.

Pulling back the bedcovers, she slid out of bed and crossed the room to the fireplace. She lifted the candle from the mantel. It was cold, a sure sign that it had been extinguished some time ago. Crouching over the glowing embers in the fireplace, she blew gently. The orange light in the center of the coals flared, and she touched it with the candlewick. Straightening, she raised the flickering candle closer to the clock. Fourteen minutes past two o’clock. Her heart sank. She had missed Sebastian’s visit by hours.

To go back to bed was by far the most sensible course of action, but her traitorous body had other ideas. She was now fully awake. Setting the candle back in its place, she pulled her shawl more securely around her shoulders and claimed her slippers from beside the bed.

Polly had drawn the curtains closed before she’d left. Rosalind walked to the window and pulled the fabric back a fraction. Although the gale’s intensity had lessened, clouds continued to scud quickly across the sky. Moonlight came and went, with a sprinkling of stars occasionally augmenting its light. All the world was shadowed and black—except for one bright light near the far corner of the house.

Puzzled, Rosalind watched as the light drew closer. She leaned forward, straining to better see its source. It was a lantern. It had to be. The person carrying it, whomever it was, was moving quickly, and it was not long before the light was close enough for Rosalind to make out the vague silhouette of a man in a tall hat and breeches within the yellow glow. He climbed the stone stairs onto the terrace and moved toward the dining room windows directly below Rosalind’s rooms. She watched from above as he lifted the lamp and shaded his eyes against the glass to peer inside. Rosalind was not sure if the curtains had been drawn in the dining room this evening since neither she nor Sebastian had eaten there. She suspected they had, because within moments, the man stepped back, then repeated the exercise at the next window.

Rosalind watched him systematically work his way along the terrace, staring into each of the windows he passed. With every stop he took, her unease grew. Who was this man, and what was he doing? No servant would feel the need to look through each ground-floor window in the east wing. Certainly not in the early hours of the morning. Someone should be told. But who? The staff was surely all abed, and she had yet to learn exactly where Mrs. Frost’s or Vickers’s chambers were located. She glanced at the connecting door leading to Sebastian’s rooms. Did she dare disturb him?

She looked back at the shadowy figure outside. Already, he had reached the windows of the billiards room. He raised his hand again, but this time, it held something long that glinted in the lantern light. He hesitated, peering through the glass one more time before lowering the object and moving to the next window.

Rosalind’s unease blossomed into genuine alarm. She hurried to the connecting door and knocked. There was no sound from the other side. She knocked again, this time more boldly. When she still received no response, she turned the knob and opened the door.

All was dark. A draught of cold air swirled around her ankles. Taking the candle she’d lit with her, she crossed the threshold into Sebastian’s bedchamber. Bulky pieces of furniture created large, distorted shadows. She raised the candle, quickly identifying a desk and chair, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a large four-poster bed.

“Sebastian,” she called. She kept her eyes on the bed, but there was no movement. “Sebastian.”

Urgency bolstered her courage, and she crossed to stand beside the bed. The covers were folded down in anticipation of its occupant, but the bed was empty. For a few short seconds, confusion fuddled her thoughts, but then cognizance came. The workshop. Sebastian had wanted to send Mr. Meikle’s project with the courier tomorrow—today—but he had been taken from his work, first by their unexpected visitors and then by Mrs. Tucker’s rescue. He must have returned to it this evening.

A second realization came hard and fast upon the heels of the first. The man outside was working his way down the east wing toward the workshop. And at the speed in which he was moving, he would be there in a matter of minutes.

Rosalind flew out of Sebastian’s chambers. With one hand cupped around her candle’s wavering flame, she ran the length of the passage and down the stairs. The ticking of the longcase clock followed her running feet across the entrance hall and into the east wing. Unfamiliar shadows filled the corners, and a sudden thud from somewhere outside sent her heart to her throat.

* * *

Sebastian pushed his chair away from the table and rubbed the back of his aching neck. Finally. The last calculation was complete, and he could put this project behind him. With a weary sigh, he set aside his quill and read through his short letter to Meikle one more time.

Finley Park

30 October 1782

Dear Mr. Meikle,

Enclosed you will find your original documents along with the adjustments I have made to the earlier computations. As you will see, an error was made in calculating the volume of the primary drum. I am hopeful that upon implementing these changes to the threshing machine’s design, you will discover the success you have been seeking for so long.

Yours sincerely,

Kelbrook