She kissed his lips quickly. “Promise me you’ll do it again.”
He took one of the saffron roses and slid it in her hair. “Anytime. But not here. I’m sure the count won’t appreciate seeing us here kissing.”
“Soon.” She sounded as desperate as he was.
“Soon.”
She caressed his cheek with a tenderness new to him. “Now we have only to find a way out of this maze.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Keith had leftthe maze with Violante reluctantly, and even more reluctantly, he’d entered the manor with her and gone upstairs to the count’s study. Apologising was the right thing to do, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t prefer sitting next to the fountain and kissing Violante. He paused about to knock on the count’s door.
Violante nudged him with her elbow. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”
“I’m not shy. I’m pondering what to say. Perhaps I should return later, after I prepare a proper speech.”
“Just do it.” She knocked quickly and hurried away from the door, leaving him alone. She paused to wink at him and wave.
He feigned outrage. “I can’t believe?—”
The door was flung open, and the count came into view. “Ashford.” He regarded Keith with solemn eyes. “I trust you’re calmer now.”
“I am, my lord. May I have a word, please?”
The count held the door open. “Be my guest.” He shut the door behind them.
“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour.” Keith paced to the window overlooking the maze that held one of the best memories of his life. “Being rude was inexcusable.”
The count bowed his head. “I’d say unnecessary.”
That was another word. “Sir Nigel and I have disagreed in the past. This wasn’t the first time he’d expressed his opinion on my humble origins. I lost my temper. I’m sorry to have upset you and the countess.”
“I confess I don’t know much about you. I know your queen awarded you a title and that you were involved in foiling a terrorist attack, but I don’t know much else.” There was no reproach in the count’s voice, only curiosity.
“My mother was a laundress at the late Sir Howard’s service. She died during a bombing by the Fenians in London.” Keith had never told his story to the count because he hated using his mother’s death to draw compassion to himself. But he needed to make himself clear.
The count’s stance slackened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“My lord.” He hesitated. A movement in the garden caught his attention. Mrs. Collins and Murray were talking with Nigel. Whatever they discussed, the conversation was brief. Mrs. Collins and Murray walked towards the manor, while Nigelstrode towards the maze, glancing around as if checking if someone followed him. He disappeared after a turn.
Keith returned his attention to the count. “I believe my centre for the street children will improve lives. The Fenians often recruit desperate ones, taking advantage of their need for money. I have my first centre to prove the next one will be successful. Your building in St. Giles is strategically placed to attract the youth of the rookery in Seven Dials, one of the most problematic areas of London. Helping them is my only goal.”
The count dropped himself onto the chair. “It’s not that I don’t approve of your idea. I think we should leave these sorts of social experiments to experts because when men like you, who have nothing but good intentions, meddle with complicated social problems, the result is oftentimes unexpected. Even dangerous.”
“I work with people who have more experience than I do. I don’t take the matter lightly.”
The count straightened a few pencils on his desk. “The person who died in Rome was my brother.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He, too, believed his project was effective and had only good intentions. Despite my trying to persuade him to be careful, he kept going. When he realised the boys he’d rescued were rebelling against him, it was too late.” The count sighed. “I’m not sure I share your enthusiasm for such an enterprise. I think only physicians and law enforcers should do that job.”
“Do you think Sir Nigel’s project is better? A luxurious hotel? He plans to force out the modest residents of that area tocleanit, as he said. How is that better?” He couldn’t completely remove the frustration from his voice.
The count pressed two fingers to his temples. “I need to think, Ashford.”
“My lord?—”
“I admire your passion, but I don’t want to be the cause of another death. If I support you, and then someone dies, it’ll be on my conscience. You must understand my position.”
No, he didn’t. The choice should be obvious. He was about to protest when the butler entered.
“Apologies, my lord,” Fletcher said, “but there’s an urgent message for Lord Ashford.” He handed an envelope to Keith.
He forgot about the conversation with the count. The message was from Mrs. Beresford. She’d found a promising lead—nothing more specific—and wanted his permission to spend a good chunk of the money he’d given her for the research expenses. Of course he’d let her.
He bowed to the count. “Thank you for your time, my lord.” He turned to the butler. “May I have a horse ready? I need to go to the village.”
