Page 121 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Twenty-nine

Barnard inspected the parlor’s half-painted wall, his gray queue feathering a mauve velvet coat. “Not sure what your muralist is trying to accomplish here, Bowles.” He waved vaguely at layers of purples and vibrant blues. “Is this a sky?”

Genevieve set down a tray of coffee and biscuits. “It’s the sky beyond the eastern meadow, milord.” She straightened. “I started this morning. It’ll take a few days to finish.”

“Most unusual, a lady painting a mural in her own home.” He squinted at black shapes higher up the wall. “What are those?”

“The silhouette of birds.” She nodded at a stretch of gray. “That’s the beginning of the stone wall there. I’m re-creating the east meadow at twilight…a gift for my husband to remind him of bird-watching with his late grandfather.”

Marcus rested his elbow on the mantel. Genevieve’s simple offering shook him to the soles of his boots. His grandfather’s old Florentine thermometer—unearthed from somewhere in the cottage—sat by the window. The pendulum clock ticked on the mantel. The purple settee was brushed clean, and the floor was polished.

All her touches to restore Pallinsburn.

“A unique, honorary gift.” Barnard studied Genevieve from under brows as white as dandelion tufts. “But you’re not a typical lady, are you?”

“My wife has made Pallinsburn a better place.” Marcus accepted the cup she’d poured for him. “And, one could argue, she’s made me a better man.”

“Sounds like true love indeed.” Barnard declined a cup for himself. “Must be for a second son of the Northampton marquisate to marry a laborer from the Golden Goose.”

Coffee scalded Marcus’s throat.

The pewter pitcher banged on the tray. Slowly Genevieve righted herself. “You’ve found me out, sir.”

“The farce is over, Miss Turner.”

Marcus set his cup on the mantel with care. “She is my wife. You’d be wise to address her accordingly.” A dull throb knocked inside his head, but he eyed his guest, finding him…brittle.

“Of course, my apologies…LadyBowles.” Barnard’s lips stretched. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“Recognize you? No. Did you frequent the Golden Goose?”

Barnard chuckled. “Never set foot in the place, but I was a late-night visitor at Herr Wolf’s house in Soho. Twice in fact.”

“I don’t remember you.”

Barnard rocked back on polished black heels. “Perhaps you’ll remember the crates stored in Herr Wolf’s study.”

“The crates…”

“Yes, the crates full of pistols.”

“The matchlocks… I repaired some of them.”

“You were most helpful.”

“Forgive me, Barnard,” Marcus cut in. “What crates?”

“Your wife hasn’t told you of her work for Herr Wolf?”

“I was Herr Wolf’s housekeeper,” she insisted. “I fixed a few old matchlock pistols for him.”

“We both know you were never his housekeeper,” Barnard said officiously, rocking on the balls of his feet. “But you did a great service, my dear, fixing some of the weapons.”

“What kind of service?” Marcus grated.

With his penchant for pasted-on smiles and the latest fashion, one might think Barnard a buffoonish, ageing statesman. Yet keen eyes narrowed on Marcus.

“You’re telling me you knownothingabout Herr Wolf? He’s been very sloppy of late.”