Page 10 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

10

FLOORS, FLOWERS, AND FINGERPRINTS

* * *

M rs. Finch found Violet the next morning ironing table linens while she awaited the day’s assignments. It was a good way to keep her hands busy while she raked through her memories for any mention her father might have made concerning the woods at Durrafair, or a carving of a man.

“There ye are.” The housekeeper said. She assessed the job she was doing and seemed pleased. “When you finish with this, the vases in the drawing room require fresh flowers. And mind ye dinnae spill water on Lady Ashmoore's new carpets.”

Violet bobbed. “Yes, Mrs. Finch.”

“And after that, the flagstones in the east entrance need scrubbing. Guests have been tracking in mud from their morning rides, and ye need to see it done while they’re at breakfast. When ye’ve done all that, find me. Dinnae wait for me to find ye.”

“Of course, mum.”

Mrs. Finch examined Violet with narrowed eyes, then swept away, already calling for another maid who, by the tone of it, had apparently committed some household sin.

Violet handed off the last ironed piece and hurried to the next task. As it happened, she was forced to go outside and collect the flowers herself, which at least gave her a breath of fresh air.

She was able to sit and rest in the greenhouse while the gardener decided which blossoms he was willing to sacrifice. And by the time she returned to the house, she no longer smelled of starched cotton. Happily, the perfume of roses and heather blossoms clung to her, and she was no longer tempted to grumble lines from Shakespeare.

* * *

Garlands of heather and tartan ribbons transformed the grand hall, and Louis watched Ashmoore’s diligent servants preparing for the day’s events.

In no mood to socialize with the other guests over breakfast, he stood beside the massive fireplace and traced the stones with his fingertips, trying to imagine Violet searching the wall in Ashmoore’s bedchamber for the key. He’d been looking for inspiration all morning, but to no avail. He couldn’t imagine where they would find that blasted watcher…

Each time a new servant entered the hall, he noticed. So far, no Violet.

Connor Grey appeared at his elbow. “Admiring the architecture, Astley?”

“The craftsmanship is remarkable.” Louis gestured to the glorious wooden mantel. “Scottish, I presume?”

“Aye, the Jacobites took their carvin’ seriously.”

Louis missed much of whatever Connor said next, for his ear caught on two words. Jacobites and carving .

He stepped closer to the mantel and searched the intricate details more carefully, looking for a face amongst the leaves and flowers, but he found only what had to be dragons, paired unexpectedly with butterflies.

“Ye seem a wee bit distracted,” Connor observed. “Is it just the mantel that has ye enthralled? Or could it be somethin’—or someone—else?”

Louis stiffened. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Dinnae fash yerself.” Connor's gaze followed a maid who had just entered with an armful of heather. Not Violet, but it drew Louis's attention.

With most of the guests in the dining room or still abed, the staff was free to go where they needed at the moment, and someone, probably Mercy, had deemed that furnishings and decorations needed changing. For what reason, he couldn’t imagine. But since the festivities were to culminate in a ball, he assumed all the fuss was aimed to that end.

Violet finally appeared on the far side of an arched opening. She struggled with the weight of a large bucket of water. Her face was red from exertion. A strand of dark hair escaped from beneath her cap. She set down her burden near the east entrance and knelt on the hard stone, then began scrubbing the ever-muddy flagstones. That wayward strand of hair swayed with her movements.

Louis’ jaw tightened. She should not be on her knees, performing such menial labor. She was a gentlewoman, a Cottsweather of Durrafair, not a common servant. But he had promised not to give her true identity away, so he held his tongue.

“Why d'ye no' intervene?” Connor noted Louis's clenched fists and rigid posture. “If ye harbor feelings for the lass, surely ye could find some way to ease her burden.”

“Because she would hate me for it,” Louis whispered.

Connor studied him with new interest. “Ye know her better than I would have guessed.”

Louis realized his mistake and tried to cover his faux pas. “I am observant. Nothing more.”

“Indeed.” Connor smirked and slapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I wish ye luck in yer...observations.”

Mercy appeared and summoned her husband with an urgent wave. When Connor hurried away, Louis returned his attention to the mantelpiece, though his awareness remained fixed on Violet. He longed to go to her, to take the brush from her reddened hands, to spirit her away from this charade. But he had given his word, and he must play his part in this strange performance she deemed necessary.

* * *

The morning room at Brigadunn hummed with genteel activity. Ladies clustered near the windows, discussing the previous evening's entertainment. Gentlemen stood in loose formation around a table where Lord Ashmoore displayed maps of his estate, pointing out prime hunting grounds for the afternoon's sport.

Louis observed it all with detached interest, his thoughts elsewhere. The weight of Violet's confession—her true identity, her sister's desperate situation—pressed upon him like a physical burden. He found himself studying the gathering with new eyes, wondering how many other secrets lurked beneath the polished veneer of society.

His gaze settled on the Duke of Rochester, who stood slightly apart from the main group. The duke was examining a small jade chess piece from Ashmoore's board, turning it in his long fingers. Behind that carefully cultivated image of aristocratic indolence, Louis knew, lay one of the sharpest minds in England along with a generous and loyal heart.

Decision made, Louis crossed the room.

“Your Grace,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Might I trouble you for a moment of your time? In private.”

The duke glanced up, his expression brightening with interest. “Astley! Of course.” He set the jade figurine back in its place. “Don't tell me you've finally decided on one of Mercy's matrimonial candidates. The betting pool in London would be most disappointed to close so soon.”

“Nothing so financially advantageous,” Louis replied dryly.

Stanley’s brow rose. The perpetual amusement in his eyes gave way to a more calculating look—the look that reminded Louis why the duke, for all his apparent frivolity, was just as formidable a man as were his friends, Ashmoore, Northwick, and Harcourt.

“Well, now I'm genuinely intrigued,” he said. “And here I feared this morning might prove tedious.” He gestured toward the terrace doors with an elegant hand. “Shall we admire Ashmoore's topiary? I find sculpted shrubbery makes an excellent backdrop for clandestine conversations.”

Louis nodded, following as Rochester made his way outside. No one paid particular attention to their departure.

* * *

Violet moved from task to task, her body aching but her mind alert for any opportunity to examine the mantelpiece. While she’d been on her knees scrubbing the floor, Louis had wandered by and whispered that he suspected our watcher might be found in any of the dozens of Jacobean pieces of furniture around the house.

But as yet, she’d had no chance to study anything but floors, flowers, and fingerprints. Why did Ashmoore’s guests insist on touching everything?

If she were ever to attend a party again, she would keep her hands to herself!

The afternoon brought a sudden and unexpected reprieve in the form of Lady Mercy Grey.

“Mrs. Finch.” Lady Grey intercepted the housekeeper in the corridor. “I require assistance with the seating arrangements for the midnight supper for tomorrow's ball. Might I borrow one of your maids for an hour or so?”

Mrs. Finch curtseyed deeply. “Of course, my lady. I shall send someone immediately.”

“That one will do.” Mercy pointed directly at Violet. “She seems capable enough.”

“Violet?” Mrs. Finch sounded surprised. “She is temporary, my lady. Perhaps one of Lady Ashmoore’s regular staff?—”

“I would like this one. It is merely a matter of writing out place cards and arranging them on the tables. Nothing too taxing.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Mrs. Finch turned to Violet. “You heard Lady Grey. Attend her at once.”

Violet curtseyed. “Yes, Mrs. Finch. My lady.”

She followed Mercy to the morning room, where a writing desk waited with cards, pen, and ink. Mercy closed the door behind them, her expression turning unexpectedly kind.

“You look exhausted. Sit down before you collapse.”

Violet hesitated, then sank gratefully onto a chair. “Your ladyship is most kind.”

“Kind? Perhaps.” Mercy's smile was enigmatic. “Or merely curious. My cousin seems uncommonly interested in your movements.”

Heat rose to Violet's cheeks. “I am sure you are mistaken, my lady.”

“Am I?” Mercy arched an eyebrow. “Louis has never been particularly skilled at concealing his emotions. And his attention has been rather fixed of late.”

“I cannot imagine why a gentleman of his station would take notice of a mere servant.”

“Indeed.” Mercy studied her a moment. “Well, no matter. We have place cards to prepare, and afterward, I shall need you to deliver messages to several of our guests. Including Baron Astley.”

The morning room task took over an hour, after which Mercy dispatched Violet on a series of errands that repeatedly crossed paths with Louis Condiff. First, she delivered a note to him regarding dinner arrangements. Then, she summoned him on behalf of the Duke of Rochester for whatever game was afoot. Once, she was asked to inform him of a change in the evening's entertainment schedule.

Each encounter was brief but charged with unspoken understanding. He would whisper where he’d been searching for the watcher, always in vain. But the expectation of victory lingered. Even more exciting was the casual touch of his fingers when she handed him notes. The man received an unusual number of notes.

During one encounter, Louis remarked, “You seem to be running many errands for Lady Grey today.”

“Her ladyship has been most specific in her requests.”

“I believe she suspects something between us.” His eyes darted to ensure they were alone.

“That would be most improper.” Violet's pulse quickened at the implication.

“Most improper indeed.” A hint of a smile played at Louis's lips. “Have you found an opportunity to examine the mantelpiece?”

Violet shook her head. “Mrs. Finch has kept me occupied when your cousin does not require me. And when I am in the grand hall, there are always too many people about.”

“I have made some observations. We shall discuss them tonight. The same place, the same hour?”

“If I can get away. Though Mrs. Finch seems determined to work me until I drop from exhaustion.”

“No matter. The treasure has waited decades, it can wait a few more hours.”

As Violet turned to leave, Mercy appeared at the end of the corridor, her expression knowing. “Ah, Violet. I see you've delivered my message to Baron Astley.”

“Yes, my lady.” Violet curtseyed.

“Excellent. Now, I believe Mrs. Finch is looking for you in the kitchen. Cook needs more hands.”

“At once, my lady,” she said, though she knew from the other maids that if one got recruited to help Cook, they would be stuck in the kitchen until the party was over and the guests went home.

* * *

Night fell over Brigadunn, bringing blessed cessation of activity. The guests had retired, the staff had completed their duties, and the house settled comfortably like a hound that had circled it sufficiently and finally snuggled into its bed.

Louis paced his chamber, his eyes frequently darting to the mantel clock that teased him with its slow crawl toward midnight. He loosened his cravat with impatient fingers, tossing it carelessly across the back of a chair. A day spent studying every inch of the great hall's mantelpiece had yielded nothing—no sign of the watcher, no indication of anything beyond skilled craftsmanship.

He moved to the window, gazing out at the silver-washed gardens. Somewhere in the servants' quarters, Violet was preparing to meet him. Or would she fall asleep from sheer exhaustion?

“What a fine mess you've made of things,” he told his reflection.

When he had arrived at Brigadunn, his purpose had been clear—establish himself as worthy of his newly inherited title, and only then consider a suitable match among the eligible young ladies Mercy had assembled for his inspection.

Instead, he had fallen hopelessly for a woman disguised as a servant, a woman whose circumstances eerily mirrored his own. The irony wasn't lost on him—Violet Cottsweather, gentlewoman of good family but even fewer resources than himself, searching for a treasure to save her sister. Failing that, she would need to marry some gentleman with far deeper pockets than his.

At the moment, his pockets were only deep enough for a handful of pennies…

The clock chimed the quarter hour. Louis ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further.

The truth that had crystallized over the past days was both liberating and terrifying. If all were revealed, society would place no barriers between them. She was a gentleman's daughter, her family once respected if now diminished. No scandal would attach to his name for pursuing her.

But what then? His title came with no land, no income. Her family home stood proud but hollowed by necessity. Together they would make a magnificent pair of paupers, clinging to titles and traditions while the roof leaked and the larder emptied.

Louis’s gullet tightened at the thought. No, he would not subject her to that fate. The treasure they sought had always been meant for Iris, for Violet's family. Not a single coin would he claim, even if it would secure the future he increasingly dreamed of—one with Violet at his side.

He turned from the window, pacing again with restless energy. The sensible course was clear—help her find the treasure, ensure her sister's safety, then step away before his feelings became any more entangled. Return to London, find an heiress willing to exchange fortune for title, fulfill his obligations as Baron Astley.

The minute hand inched closer to midnight. Louis reached for his cravat. “You're a fool,” he told himself quietly. “A perfect, complete fool.”

For even as his mind traced the logical path forward, his heart refused to follow. The thought of walking away from Violet once their quest concluded was increasingly unbearable. Her fierce determination, her quick intelligence, her quiet dignity in the face of circumstances that would have broken a lesser spirit—they had worked their way into his heart and set up camp. Now that heart wanted Violet Cottsweather, treasure or no treasure, practical considerations be damned.

“Too late now,” he whispered, accepting the inevitable. He would help her find this treasure, would ensure her sister's safety—but he could no longer pretend his motivation was merely chivalry or altruism. He wanted her happiness because her happiness had somehow become essential to his own.

The clock struck midnight. Louis straightened his shoulders and moved toward the door. Whatever lay ahead—whether treasure or disappointment, prudence or passion—the time for solitary reflection had ended.

Violet was waiting.