Page 52 of A Figure of Love

As Oliver went on to describe his other cousins Gareth considered the boys august connections. Serena Lombard might work for her living, but she clearly did not have to. Venetia, for all her wisdom, had not assessed the situation correctly, in his opinion. A woman like Mrs. Lombard would never consent to marry an awkward, inarticulate bastard from a London orphanage. And that is what he was, a bastard. At least that’s what Herbert Jensen, the man who’d run the orphanage as well as half a dozen less savory operations, had told him.

“You might have a skill, boy, but you’re still a bastard and don’t you forget it.” How many times had Jensen said that same thing to him? All the way up to the night Dec and Gareth finally told him they would no longer do his bidding—bastards or not.

The sound of a growling stomach pulled him back from the abyss and he turned to find Oliver blushing furiously. “I guess I’m hungry.”

“Me too. Shall we head back?”

“But we haven’t caught any fish.”

“I’m sure Cook will feed us even so.”

They dressed, the sun-warmed clothes feeling good on his cold, clammy skin. Chalmers would no doubt wonder what the hell he’d been up to, he thought, looking down at his mud-caked boots and grass-stained buckskins.

“Do you want to go back a different way? I can show you the old mine.”

“If you wish.” Gareth slung his cravat around his neck but made no effort to tie it.

Oliver led him up the river and away from the proposed lake. Gareth had a general idea of his property boundaries and believed they could continue in this direction for some time before they’d be in danger of trespassing on his nearest neighbor, the squire who’d sold him the acreage.

After about ten minutes they passed through a tight clump of trees and into a clearing.

“See,” Oliver pointed to the rock ridge that was partially hidden by some tree—Gareth had not even the slightest knowledge of botany—to a dark hole. He followed Oliver, his steps heavier the closer they got. It was a small cave-like opening, no more than three and a half feet high and maybe a little wider.

Oliver dropped to his hands and knees and crawled toward it.

“Oliver!” The word was like an explosion in the quiet glade and both he and the boy jumped at the sound.

Oliver swung around, his eyes wide.

“Come away from there,” Gareth ordered, aware he was speaking too sharply, but unable to do otherwise with the boy so close to the pitch-black maw, which seemed to broadcast malevolence.

He was an obedient child and immediately came back. “I wasn’t going to go in, Mr. Lockheart.”

“Good. Such a thing is most likely unstable. I will have it seen to—blocked off. You have not gone in it?”

“No sir, my mother told me never to enter such a place, that it might come down on my head.”

“That is sound advice.” Gareth swallowed back the panic he felt just looking at the black cave, forcing himself to speak more calmly. He was frightening the boy.

“Come, I’m suddenly ferociously hungry.”

Oliver smiled, the tension of the moment before already a thing of the past.

As they walked away from the cave, Gareth couldn’t help feeling something was watching them; something that wasn’t happy to see them leave.

Chapter Thirteen

Gareth determined the ground would be dry enough to move the rock in three days if there wasn’t another torrential downpour. That meant he had only four more days.

They were eating dinner—a part of the day Gareth had come to enjoy, even though he felt guilty for being so pleased that without Dec around he was able to take more part in the conversation. Mrs. Lombard had just asked him about his pulley system and how long it would take him to set up the device.

“I’ll only need a day, and most of that just to move the logs into position.”

“Things have reached a fever pitch in the village. I believe you will have quite a number of spectators.”

He looked up from his soup, his eyebrows arching. “Is that so?”

She laughed. “Surely you’ve heard the talk whenever you are there?”