Devil in Spring

“What about Lord St. Vincent? Do you know where he is?”

“I believe he’s taking care of business correspondence in the study.” Kathleen bent to kiss Pandora’s forehead, the movement diffusing a whiff of roses and mint. “Darling, let me leave you with a thought: There’s very little in life that doesn’t require a compromise of one kind or another. No matter what you choose, it won’t be perfect.”

“So much for happy-ever-after,” Pandora said sourly.

Kathleen smiled. “But wouldn’t it be dull if ever-after was always happy, with no difficulties or problems to solve? Ever-after is far more interesting than that.”

Later in the morning, Pandora ventured downstairs in a lavender dress of delicately ribbed grosgrain silk, with layered white underskirts that had been pulled back into a cascade of flounces. Ida, despite her earlier cantankerous attitude, had brought up tea and toast for Pandora, and had taken special pains to arrange her hair. After curling the long dark locks with hot tongs, Ida had carefully pinned it up at the crown of her head into a mass of ringlets and clusters. Whenever a lock of Pandora’s obstinately straight hair had refused to hold a curl, Ida had misted it with quince seed tonic, resulting in a coil as sturdy as a steel spring. As a finishing touch, the lady’s maid had accented the style with a few randomly placed pearls affixed to silver pins.

“Thank you, Ida,” Pandora had said, viewing the results in the looking glass with the aid of a hand mirror. “You’re the only person my hair has ever obeyed.” After a pause, she had added humbly, “I’m sorry I lose things. I’m sure it would drive anyone mad to have to look after me.”

“Keeps me in a job,” Ida had said philosophically. “But don’t apologize, milady—you should never tell a servant you’re sorry. It upsets the order of things.”

“But what if I feel so sorry that I must say it or burst?”

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can. I’ll look at you and tap my forehead with three fingertips—like this. There—that’s our signal for ‘I’m sorry.’” Enthused by the idea, Pandora had continued, “I could come up with other signals—we’ll have our own language!”

“Milady,” Ida had begged, “please don’t be so odd.”

The house was bright with slants of sunlight, now that the storm had cleared. Although no one was in sight, Pandora heard the bustling of servants in various rooms as she walked along the hallway. There was the rattle of a coal scuttle, the swishing of carpet brooms, the scrape of scouring paper on fire irons. All the industry taking place around her made Pandora long to return home and resume work on her board game business. It was time to visit potential locations for a small factory space, and meet with her printer, and begin to interview prospective employees.

The door of the study had been left open. As Pandora approached the threshold, her pulse escalated until she could feel it beating at her throat, wrists, and knees. She hardly knew how to face Gabriel, after the things they’d done last night. Stopping at the side of the doorway, she peeked around the edge of the jamb.

Gabriel was sitting at a heavy walnut desk, his profile edged in sunlight. He was reading a document with a slight frown of concentration, pausing to write on a scrap of notepaper. Dressed in a morning suit, with his hair neatly brushed and his face clean-shaven, he looked as fresh as a new-minted sovereign.

Although Pandora made no movement or sound, Gabriel’s gaze flickered to her. His slow smile made her lightheaded. “Come in,” he said, pushing back from the desk.

Feeling acutely self-conscious, Pandora approached him with flaming cheeks. “I was on my way to—well, I’m just wandering, but—I wanted to ask you about my slipper. Did you find it? Do you have it?”

He stood and looked down at her, his eyes like hot starlight, and for a moment all she could think of was the lick of firelight on shadowed skin. “I have the slipper,” he said.

“Oh, thank goodness. Because my lady’s maid is on the brink of reporting it to Scotland Yard.”

“That’s too bad. I’ve already decided to keep it.”

“No, you can only do that if it’s a dainty glass slipper. If it’s a big floppy slipper made out of fuzzy wool, you have to give it back.”

“I’ll consider it.” After glancing at the doorway to make certain they were unobserved, Gabriel bent to steal a swift kiss. “Will you talk with me for a few minutes? Or let me wander with you. There’s something important I want to discuss.”

Pandora’s stomach did a somersault. “You’re not going to propose, are you?”

His lips twitched. “Not right now.”

“Then yes, you can walk with me.”

“Outside? Through the gardens?”

She nodded.

As they exited from the side of the house and set out on a finely graveled walk, Gabriel seemed relaxed, his expression carefully neutral, but there was no hiding the faint pull of tension between his brows.

“What do you want to discuss?” Pandora asked.

“A letter I received this morning. It’s from Mr. Chester Litchfield, a solicitor in Brighton. He represented Phoebe in a dispute with her in-laws over some provisions in her late husband’s will. Litchfield is well versed in the property law, so I wrote to him immediately after I learned about your board game business. I asked him to find a way for you to legally maintain control over your company as a married woman.”