Page 5 of Four Promises to Love

The way Gigi nodded—like a general deciding war plans—made Owen wary. The last time she had gotten a bee in her bonnet, she’d convinced him to take her to London. There, she’d promptly wed a ruthless scoundrel without their parents’ permission. In the end, Grantley had proven to be a decent cove, but Owen had agonized over the possibility that he’d failed his loved ones yet again.

“Surely some means are beyond the pale,” he said dryly.

“Whatever is required,” Gigi said stoutly. “Why do you think we’re calling on Madame Seraphina? Our visions have gone silent, Owen. If we cannot reach Rose ourselves, we’ll find someone who can and ask her what Rose and Thomas need to finally be at peace.”

“What about my peace?” Owen muttered. “Does anyone care about that?”

But his sister, seeing the throng gathered at their destination, had hurried over to get a place in the queue, Xenia and Evie at her heels. Suppressing a sigh, he followed.

The medium’s residence, Pell House, was a two-story dwelling built of dreary grey stone. The property had sat empty for years, likely because its previous occupant, Henry Pell, had been an avid amateur animal-stuffer who’d filled the place with his work. Owen mused that Pell’s grotesque hobby of preserving the dead had something in common with the profession of the current tenant, who’d apparently chosen death as the decorating motif. The narrow sash windows were shrouded in black velvet. A funereal wreath hung upon the front door, studded with dried forget-me-nots. Even from a distance, he could read the gleaming brass plate by the entrance: “Madame Seraphina, Spiritual Medium.”

He caught up with his kin. The women were chatting with Lord and Lady Barrett, members of the local aristocracy, and their daughter. He exchanged niceties.

“Lord Owen, I hear you are making a splash with your landscape designs,” Lord Barrett said.

“You are too kind, my lord. I enjoy the work,” he replied.

It was an understatement. For him, designing gardens provided more than pleasure—it gave him purpose. When Ethan had purchased Bottoms House, the grounds had been in a state of neglect and disrepair, and Owen, who’d had nothing better to do, had helped the gardener to restore the property. He’d found solace working with his hands—in using them to create rather than to destroy. What had begun as a pastime evolved into a passion, and he went on to restore the grounds of the village spa and Gigi and Grantley’s estate, Honeystone Hall. To his surprise, his designs had garnered praise and paid commissions.

“How modest you are, my lord,” Lady Barrett gushed. “My good friend Lady Norring told me that your reinvention of the Temperly estate was met with great acclaim.”

“It was a pleasure to work on the project. However, the credit for its success must go to my mentor, Sir Joseph Paxton.”

Owen’s work had gained the attention of Joseph Paxton, the celebrated architect of the Crystal Palace. A gardener by training, Sir Joseph had taken Owen under his wing. Owen was thrilled to have the opportunity to learn from the great man, and he was soaking up as much knowledge as he could.

“You and your family are a credit to the village,” Lady Barrett declared. “Isn’t that so, Constance?”

She nudged her daughter forward. Dressed head to toe in shrimp-pink, the blonde was pretty, with rounded cheeks and bright blue eyes. Yet her air of blushing naïveté put Owen on edge.

“Oh, um, quite so.”

Her high-pitched giggle sounded habitual.

“Constance is a great admirer of the outdoors,” Lady Barrett said. “Isn’t that so?”

“Um, yes. Quite so.”

When Miss Barrett gave another tinkling laugh, Owen tried not to sigh.

“My daughter and I would dearly love a tour of the famed gardens at Bottoms House,” Lady Barrett hinted.

Seeing no polite way to refuse, Owen bowed. “It would be my pleasure.”

After the Barretts moved on, Gigi said, “You needn’t look like you are on your way to the gallows, brother dear. Don’t you find Miss Barrett attractive?”

“It is not about her.” He toed a pebble aside. “It is about me.”

“You are an eligible bachelor, Owen.”

“If by eligible you mean difficult and occasionally deranged, then yes,” he said sardonically. “I am every marriageable miss’s dream.”

“You judge yourself too harshly.” Evie’s gaze was solemn. “You are neither of those things, and many ladies would give their eyeteeth to be courted by you.”

He tried to make light of it. “As the only thing I reliably court is trouble, it is best to leave others out of it.”

“Perhaps you simply haven’t met the right lady,” Xenia said.

The room above the tavern flashed in Owen’s head. Sarah’s heady arousal infused his senses—the taste and scent of her, the way she’d quivered helplessly against his tongue. The next thing he remembered was being shaken awake by the angry innkeeper, who’d accused him of stealing the key to the room. He recalled his acute embarrassment when he couldn’t find his coin purse…or his boots. He’d had to give his vowels and leave the inn barefoot, a walk of humiliation that he wouldn’t soon forget.