Chapter One
Southern Cornwall
July 1856
Vivian stared at the handwritten note: His grace
desires ...
Smiling wryly, she decided she rather wished he did. But
then she'd only seen him froma distance and entertaining
such a thought was beyond scandalous.
She folded the note without further ridiculous
considerations and shoved it into the large pocket of her
work smock. The orchids -- her prize among the flowers she
maintained -- would be ready for him day after tomorrow,
as his butler requested. This would be work for hire, or
rather expertise for hire, nothing more than it was each
year at this time.
Again, she would fill the standard and formal order for
fresh flowers from the reclusive Duke of Trent, displayed
to beautify the rooms of his coastal estate that stretched
for miles on the western slope overlooking the Lizard
Peninsula. And again this year, she would do her best to
get a peek of the enigmatic man who'd managed to escape
the noose for the murder of his wife.
"Mrs. Rael-Lamont?"
Vivian started at the interruption and turned swiftly
toward the doorway between her house and garden, where her
housekeeper stood with a totally unreadable look on her
aging, sun-weathered face, seemingly not at all concerned
that her mistress had been daydreaming instead of potting.
"Yes, Harriet, what is it?" she replied forthrightly.
The older woman hesitated, wiping her hands on her
apron. "There's a ... person here to see you. A man.
The ... um ... stage actor from the Shakespearean Company
that's been playing at Cosgroves for the summer."
Vivian caught herself from gaping. "An actor is here?"
Harriet lowered her voice. "Gilbert Montague, he said his
name is. He didn't have a card, and of course I didn't
admit him, but he's choosing to wait just the same. Said
his business with you is urgent."
Mildly intrigued, Vivianmoved toward her housekeeper,
stepping into the shade created by vines that wove through
the trellis-covered porch, and reached for a hand towel on
the garden bench. "Did he say what he wanted?" She
couldn't begin to imagine what business an actor might
have with her, personally or professionally.
Harriet stepped out onto the cobblestone, her plump figure
erect and her expression firmly set in a line of
disapproval. "He didn't offer a reason for his visit, no,"
she replied succinctly. "He only said he wanted a few
minutes of your time, and would you oblige him. I told him
I'd see if you were at home."
Vivian smiled inwardly. She was obviously at home, but
adhering to social protocol, Harriet had to check. And of
course one would never allow someone so common into one's
private residence.
She smoothed her hair away from her face; the midday heat
never failed to add an annoying bounce to loose curls that
framed her cheeks and forehead, preventing her from
keeping it tidy. She no doubt looked a fright, spending
the last two hours working with soil in the sun and humid
air, but then it hardly mattered, she decided. Mr.
Montague, being a person of the stage, had certainly seen
far worse in his line of work or on the street.
"Very well, I'll receive him," she informed her
housekeeper, reaching behind her to untie her dirtstained
work smock. As Harriet's eyes opened a fraction in
surprise, she added, "But don't bring him through the
house; inform him that he'll find me 'round back and
through the gate."
Harriet nodded once, her disapproving expression giving
way to one of solid relief at such wisdom. "Yes, ma'am.
I'll send him on momentarily."
Once again standing alone in the afternoon shade in her
secluded patio, Vivian tossed her smock on the bench and
shook out her brown muslin skirt. As one of her three work
gowns, she'd chosen this one in particular this hot
morning because of its looseness through the bustline and
waist, but it didn't do a thing to flatter her figure. As
much as she adored the theater, she'd never in her life
greeted an actor -- or anyone of so lowly a station -- in
her home, so how she looked to this one probably didn't
matter in the slightest.
Stepping back into the sunlight, she poured herself half a
glass of lukewarm water from a pitcher on the nearby
potting table. As she drank thirstily, she heard the creak
of the thick wooden gate as it gave way to intrusion on
the westernmost side of the house.
Quickly, she patted her mouth with the bottom of her smock
and turned to face the approaching sound of heavy
footsteps on the cobblestone walkway. Standing with as
much formal bearing as the circumstances allowed, her
hands clasped behind her back, she faced the small, tufted
palm tree that jutted out from the corner of the property
until she saw his legs appear, then his body in full form.
Vivian backed up a step as the man approached her. She'd
expected him to be large, as she'd twice seen him perform
rather magnificently on stage. Still, she wasn't prepared
for the wide-shouldered, long-limbed person of
supercilious elegance now standing directly in front of
her, between two rare species of prized orchids, blocking
the sun with his head as he gazed down at her face.
His appearance, however surprisingly fashionable, couldn't
hide the coarseness of his stoic features as he focused on
her quite intently, perhaps expecting her to glance away
with uncertainty or discomfiture. She couldn't, however,
allow herself to cower. Instant uneasiness deep inside
quickly alerted her, sharpening her senses, warning her to
keep her mind focused and her stance one of indifference,
even arrogance. She refused to be intimidated by his sheer
size. Surprisingly, though, she wasn't afraid.
"Mrs. Rael-Lamont," he acknowledged with a slight nod, his
tone a deep drawl, his diction perfect. She tipped her
head toward him once in reply.
"Mr. Montague, I presume. What may I help you with today?"