Page 35 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“No, no. I understand you didn’t mean that.” Benjamin’s expression remained stiff.

Tom nodded. “Anyhow, Geoffrey’s merry as a grig now you’ve gotten him the pony. You should hear him tell Lily and the others all about Fergus. Seems that animal was on a whole raft of adventures before he came here.” Tom laughed. He had the secret of joy, Arthur thought. Somehow, despite his rough life, he’d discovered or retained it.

“That could be useful,” Benjamin said. “We might ration access to the pony to make sure Geoffrey does as he’s told.”

A look of horror crossed Miss Saunders’s face. There was no other word for it, Arthur thought. She jumped up. “You cannot threaten to take his pony!”

“I didn’t say ‘take,’” Benjamin began.

“That would cruel, inhuman. Do you want to make him bitter?”

“I did not say—” Benjamin tried again.

Miss Saunders wouldn’t let him speak. “He already loves Fergus. Anyone can see that. And he expects that the things he loves will be taken away from him. You can’t have missed seeing that.”

“If you will allow me to—”

“Punishment is never the answer! A child learns nothing being shut away and ignored. Nothing but fear. And despair.”

Benjamin rose, holding out a hand. “Miss Saunders, please. You’re twisting my words all out of recognition.”

She stood for a moment as if frozen, then burst into tears and ran from the room. The three males remained behind, variously bewildered, uncomfortable, and appalled.

Eight

The attic of Furness Hall was a huge peaked space, topping the entire length of the building. Sunlight streamed through round windows at the gable ends, but the illumination barely reached the middle. Jean carried an oil lamp to guard against her engrained hatred of dark spaces.

Her stated purpose was to search for old games and toys that Geoffrey might like. In fact, she was hiding. Since her humiliating outburst about Geoffrey’s pony, her lordly housemates looked at her sidelong, with wariness or sympathy. She didn’t try to figure out which. It was too annoying.

In the last five years, Jean had become herself—a sociable, reliable person whom hostesses were glad to see and companions were happy to include in any outing. She didnotcause discomfort or awkwardness, much less enact scenes from Cheltenham tragedies. As far as anyone knew, wouldeverknow, she had no reason to do so. That carefully nurtured persona would not break down now. She simply wouldn’t let it. A little time, some stern self-control, and all would be as before. And so, though she didn’t care for solitude in poorly lit spaces, she’d withdrawn to this large, silent attic to regroup.

Under the slanting rafters, dust motes drifted on dim brown air. Rough floorboards stretched away, littered with discarded bits of furniture, boxes, and trunks. Jean walked among them, holding up her lamp.

As she passed, she bent to open any container that looked interesting. She found tattered books, frayed linens, periodicals from the last century. Boring. Not enough to make her forget her lapse, until she raised the lid of a wooden case and confronted a garishly painted face screwed up into a wild grimace. Jean dropped the lid and jumped back, only just managing not to shriek.

The lamp wavered dangerously in her hand, making the shadows dance. Jean put it down on a small, battered table, making certain the top didn’t wobble before letting go. Then she waited for her heart to stop pounding. “Idiot,” she said. She opened the case again and looked more closely. The menacing face was a carved mask. Red, yellow, and black paint outlined a ferocious frown. A tuft of tattered feathers stood in for hair at the top. Lord Furness’s father had been interested in North American tribes, she remembered. No doubt this was an artifact he’d collected.

When she’d proved to herself that she wasn’t afraid of the thing, she retrieved the lamp and moved on.

Toward the far end of the attic, Jean came upon a row of leather trunks bound in brass. Resettling her lamp securely, she opened the first. The scent of camphor wafted out at her. Pushing aside a layer of tissue paper, she unearthed a swath of satin brocade in an exquisite shade of peach.

Jean pulled the cloth out. It proved to be a sumptuous gown with a square bodice, elbow-length sleeves trimmed with ribbons and rows of lace, and a skirt as broad as a tent. Exquisite embroidery adorned the neckline, glinting with tiny jewels. Although the fashion of another era, it was one of the loveliest gowns she’d ever seen.

Under more layers of tissue, she found other, similar garments. A second trunk contained still more. A third held gentlemen’s clothing from the same epoch—long full coats in bright hues and laced with gold—and a fourth had a variety of other clothes. Jean examined them all with admiration. Wealthy people had strutted about like peacocks fifty years ago.

She was drawn back to the first dress, running her fingers over the gorgeous brocade. It was so lovely. There was no one around, and she was so tired of the few outfits she had with her. She couldn’t resist. She slipped off her much plainer gown, placing it out of the dust on a sheet of tissue, and slithered her way into the peach creation.

The dress was a bit large on her. Fortunately, it laced up the side so she could reach to pull it tighter, but the shoulders still threatened to slip off. Her shift and stays showed above the low neckline, and without the elaborate underpinnings such a garment required, the skirt sagged around her in heavy folds. Even so, she felt very grand.

There was a broken cheval glass farther down the huge room. Jean held up the dragging skirts and went over to stand before it. Though her image was fragmented by two long cracks in the mirror, she wielded an imaginary fan as she thought a lady at the court of Louis XV might have done.

“Very elegant,” said an appreciative male voice.

Jean whirled and nearly lost the dress. She frowned at Lord Furness, who stood near the head of the attic stair, as she pushed the shoulders back into place. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my house.”

“Yes, but you went riding.”

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