Page 3 of Of Lies and Earls (Inglorious Scoundrels #2)
Dear Lydia,
It is good to read about your adventures in London. A part of me wishes I could join you, but another part knows I am safer in the country.
The children are healing, though it has not been easy. Little Rosie still has nightmares and is frightened by sudden loud noises. Because of her hearing issue, she startles easily if someone approaches from behind, and once she begins to cry, it can take quite some time to calm her down. So far, she won’t allow anyone besides her sister or me to comfort her. I’m afraid finding a nanny won’t be easy. But aside from that, she is the sweetest little girl—she loves to be held and cuddled.
She’s also wonderfully loud when expressing her happiness and excitement, and it warms my days.
Elise is a strong young lady who has taken on the role of mother to her younger siblings, even as she grieves. She looks after them and even tries to help me with household matters—a perfect little lady. She’s already acting like the mistress of the house.
But I hear her crying at night, and my heart breaks for her. I don’t know whether it’s right to intrude on such a private moment, or how else I might help her through her grief. I don’t suppose you have any wisdom to share? I can only hope that, with the new governess’s help, and once she gets used to her studies and the rhythm of routine, she might regain some part of her childhood.
Robbie, the middle child, is more reserved and keeps to himself most of the time. He’d rather lock himself in his room with books and journals than spend time outdoors. He’s quite like his guardian in that regard.
Speaking of the earl, he is still as reclusive as ever. Aside from supper time, he barely acknowledges the children’s presence in the house, spending most of his time locked away in his study or the glasshouse. Though he does occasionally inquire about their general welfare.
I have to admit, there’s something comforting about his quiet demeanor… Perhaps because the gentlemen I came across in the past were quite the opposite and brought nothing but destruction into my life.
As for myself, I am settling in very well. The work here is not as grueling as I expected. Sharing responsibilities with Mrs. Clarke makes it easy, and I get plenty of rest as a result.
How goes your mission of finding and “appraising” rare objects in the wealthiest houses?
Have you run across Thorn yet? I know you’re still vexed with him for how he treated you—and you have every right to be—but I hope you won’t confront him if you do see him. It is of utmost importance that you maintain your disguise.
Love, Honor
P.S. I think I’ve finally perfected the method of applying the dye with a pair of tongs and without anyone’s assistance. I can finally see the natural color of my skin on my fingers—they are brown no more.
Caldwell Manor, A month later…
T hunder rumbled across the sky as Honoria carefully dragged the small pot of walnut dye closer to the candlelight. She yawned, picked up the sponge with a pair of tongs, and dipped it into the acrid liquid before carefully pressing it to her roots.
She had to do this every two to three weeks to cover her blond roots.
Her arms ached from holding them above her head, her eyelids drooped, and all she wanted was to collapse into bed. It was late—too late. Well past midnight. She had only a few hours before she’d need to rise again.
She removed the sponge and brushed her hair out slowly, peering at her reflection in the small mirror.
Just a few more sections and she could rinse it out, then finally rest.
She dipped the sponge again. Pressed. Brushed.
Another dip.
A yawn overtook her, making her hand tremble. A drop of dye fell onto her other hand.
Damn . The whole point of using the tongs was to avoid this. If only she’d learned to be more careful. She dropped the sponge and scrubbed at the mark, only to smear the black dye further.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Pouring a bit of water from the pitcher onto a cloth, she tried scrubbing it off. No luck.
She paused and let out a long breath. One more mishap, and she might just cry. As it was, her eyes stung—either from exhaustion or the smoke curling from the guttering candle, she didn’t know which.
“Just hold on a few more minutes,” she whispered to the candle, as she picked up the hairbrush. “You can go out once I am done.”
Boom!
A sudden crack of thunder split the air. Honoria jolted, then turned her head, concentrating on the thin, frightened wail that followed.
Honoria froze for a moment, straining her hearing. What was that? Another wail—a continuous one getting louder and louder—
“Rosie!” She cursed, the brush slipping from her fingers and clattering into the dye pot.
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
She reached for the brush before snatching her hand back. No time now. She’d have to leave the brush behind and attempt to clean it later. She leapt up, taking a step toward the door before realizing her hair was still wet with dye. She couldn’t risk staining Rosie, not to mention her bedding and the clothing.
She grabbed for a towel, fumbling as she wrapped it around her hair. In her haste, her foot caught on the edge of her discarded wrapper, and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself on the washstand. Water sloshed over the sides of the basin as she righted herself.
Blast!
Hopefully, she hadn’t sloshed the dye all over her floor. She’d have to worry about it later.
Snatching up her wrapper, she threw it over her shoulders and rushed from the room. Still tying the sash at her waist, she burst into the adjoining nursery, breathless and disheveled—only to stop dead in her tracks.
Lord Caldwell stood in the middle of the room, Rosie already in his arms.
How did he get here so fast? Last she knew, he was in his study, working. She doubted he would have heard Rosie from that far. Perhaps he had been walking to his room when she started crying?
Either way, he was in the room now, humming, swaying from side to side in a stiff, uncertain rhythm. He turned, looked up at Honoria, and frowned.
“I’m sorry,” Honoria said quickly. “I was… um… bathing. It took me a moment to get dres—” She winced. Bathing? Getting dressed? No servant spoke about such things with the master of the house. What was she thinking? “To get to Rosie,” she corrected herself hastily. She stepped toward them, arms extended. “Shall I take her?”
She was expecting a reprimand, anger, or at least contempt. It was her job to look after Rosie, not his. She’d let her cry long enough for him to notice and get to the nursery. She was at fault. She deserved his scorn.
Instead, relief flickered across his face. But when he tried to hand Rosie over, her tiny fists clutched his shirt, and she let out a desperate cry.
His expression shifted from relief to uncertainty. “I don’t think she wants…”
“Don’t worry,” Honoria reassured him, although she felt as certain as the earl looked. “I will calm her down.”
He cleared his throat, composing himself. “That’s not a problem. I can attend to her.”
Honoria hesitated, her hands still outstretched. His gaze flickered to them briefly. Honoria immediately curled her fingers into fists, hiding the dark stains. Had he noticed?
“Are you certain? I can—”
“Please,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “She’s calm now. Let’s not upset her again.”
She nodded and stepped back. “As you wish, sir. I’ll be in the adjoining room should you need me.”
“No,” he blurted out forcefully, then cleared his throat again, composing himself. “Would you mind staying here for a moment? Just in case.”
Oh . There was fear in his eyes. It was obvious now, once Honoria stopped concentrating on her own failures, that the man was utterly and completely lost. She saw it clearly in the way he held the child, his arms tense, his movements tentative. She doubted he had ever held a child in his arms before. And yet, he’d come running for her. For Rosie. He’d picked her up and attempted to soothe her.
Honoria found it quite endearing. She nodded. “Of course.”
He resumed his pacing, his large hand patting Rosie’s back tenderly. Another rumble of thunder echoed through the house, and Rosie burrowed deeper into his neck.
“It’s only thunder, Rosie,” he murmured. “Nothing to be afraid of.”
“Thunder?” Rosie whispered, peeking her head out and looking around.
“I don’t think she hears the rain,” Honoria offered. “Perhaps that’s what makes the thunder so much more frightening. She doesn’t know where it’s coming from.”
“Oh?” Caldwell glanced down at the child in his arms. “Well, that’s understandable.” He walked toward the window and pointed. “It’s raining, do you see? Sometimes when it rains, there’s lightning, and thunder always follows the lightning. It can be quite loud, but it’s just a sound. It can’t hurt you.”
“No?” Rosie’s little fingers scratched at her head. As if summoned by his words, lightning lit up the window. Rosie flinched and pointed. “Lightning!”
“Yes, exactly,” he said. Then came the thunder, and he nodded. “And there’s the thunder.”
“It follows lightning,” Rosie exclaimed.
“Correct.” The earl nodded.
Honoria watched, a smile tugging at her lips. This gruff, forbidding earl didn’t seem so gruff and forbidding anymore.
Oh, fiddle. As if her physical infatuation toward him wasn’t enough, the last thing she needed was to fall for his kindness and generosity of spirit.
No, Honoria. He is your employer. A man who barely notices you. And that’s how it must stay.
After a long pause at the window, Caldwell carried Rosie back to bed. He tucked her in and asked, “Are you ready to sleep now?”
“I want a story,” she whispered, her voice small but determined.
“A story?” Lord Caldwell repeated, his eyes widening slightly. ‘Um… well… what do you want a story about?”
Honoria felt an unexpected surge of sympathy. For all his power and prestige, at this moment, he was simply a man out of his depth, trying his best to comfort a child. She doubted he’d ever had to spin a tale for a child before.
She crossed the room to the table and gathered a few chapbooks. “Here,” she said. “Would you like Lord Caldwell to read one?”
“Yes!” Rosie’s face lit up.
“Very well,” he said, taking the chapbooks and sitting at the edge of the bed. “Let’s see what these books are about.”
Honoria lit a few candles and settled across from the bed.
As the earl read, his voice—steady, low, and rich—filled the room, rising and falling with the rhythm of the story. Honoria found herself entranced by his voice.
Honoria felt something shift within her in the soft candlelight with the storm raging outside and the child nestled at his side. An old dream—long forgotten—stirred, fighting to rise to the surface.
A dream of a family. Honoria tamped it down.
When Rosie finally fell asleep, her little hand still clinging to his sleeve, Lord Caldwell carefully tucked her in and turned to find Honoria watching.
Their eyes met and held. Dark. Intense. There was a whole world hidden in the depth of the earl’s eyes.
Heat crept up Honoria’s neck.
“Well done,” she whispered, needing to say something—needing to break this spell between them.
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Thank you,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.