Page 73 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“You speak Italian?” Iris asked in awe.

Stella nodded. “I do. I just told them I’d see them in the morning.” She rolled her eyes then. “I must say, it’s been a rather entertaining day listening to those two yell at one another in la bella lingua.”

At that moment, a hackney pulled up to the curb and Stella began to gather her things. “Oh, I must take my leave. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

Iris nodded. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Although she was curious about the third floor, a series of customers kept Iris from locking the front door until well after seven, when Angus finally arrived.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Dinner with the Woodhursts

Later that evening, Woodhurst House, Mayfair

As the Agremon town coach slowed to a stop in front of Woodhurst House, Stella peered out the window and studied the façade with curiosity. Located amid a row of Georgian townhouses on North Audley Street, it appeared much like the others.

With one exception.

Lady Woodhurst obviously appreciated flowers, for the window boxes beneath the first and second floor windows still displayed a colorful array of late summer blooms. Topiary trees framed the front door, which had at one time been modified to accommodate a sedan chair. In front of both were pots of pansies.

Their hostess’s gift, a redwood sapling Darius had planted in a decorative ceramic pot, now seemed a better choice than the first-edition book about intellectualism she held in her gloved hands.

“I think I chose my gown wisely,” Stella murmured, referring to the emerald-green dinner dress she wore. A row of rather large, floral furbelows trimmed in white lace ringed the wide skirt about a foot above the hem, the petals recreated in lace at the top of the sleeves. A double V-shaped pattern trimmed in the same lace that outlined the petals enhanced the bodice. Her white satin gloves ended just below her elbows.

Mrs. Jenkins had helped style her light-auburn hair into a riot of curls atop her head, leaving no tendrils at her temples to hide the ornate chandelier earrings made with emeralds set in gold. On the whole, Stella thought, she rather resembled an arrangement of greenery, something her hostess would no doubt enjoy.

“Of course you did. And of course, I’m going to be forced to spend all night imagining how I’m going to get you out of it when we get home,” Darius responded, his brows waggling.

She tittered. “I might say the same of you. Why, you look positively aristocratic in dinner clothes. Royal, even.”

He had opted to wear a top hat, and a shawl-collared wine waistcoat embroidered with birds in gold threads beneath his black suit. As was the current fashion, his tailcoat emphasized his broad shoulders and was tailored to fit his more narrow waist. His crisp white linen shirt was topped with a white cravat tied in a flat bow. Pantaloons hugged every curve of his muscular legs above white silk stockings. He looked quite handsome.

“I like these current fashions. And I think I can see my reflection in your shoes.”

“I feel like a popinjay,” he complained at the same moment the coachman opened the door.

Even before Darius had lifted Stella down from the coach, a butler had the front door open. “Is your finger healed from when you pounded the hammer on it earlier?” she asked.

“Good as new,” he replied, turning to retrieve the potted tree sapling from the coach.

He had begun carving the polished granite headstone for Jacob O’Connor’s grave earlier that day. As he’d expected, the granite was far harder than marble. The steel chisels he had used to carve the softer marble required frequent sharpening, and he’d had to wield a heavier hammer to create the V-sunk lettering for the marker.

Meanwhile, Angus, who arrived earlier than usual, seemed to have suffered from poor sleep. He had the forge hot and ready by the time Darius had joined him in the workshop, and he’d done his best to create some hardened steel chisels. Darius would try using them on the morrow.

As they stepped over the area to the front door, Darius held out his calling card. The butler nodded. “Welcome to Woodhurst House. His Lordship asked that I escort you to the parlor.” He saw to their wraps and Darius’s top hat before leading them to a set of stairs set against one side of the hall.

Stella noted that the floor was made of black and white marble tiles, and only an ebony hall table and small but rather fashionable yellow velvet settee occupied the space. The florals in the vase on the round table were fresh and arranged in a manner very similar to the bouquet Mrs. Jenkins had purchased from Iris the day before. Stella wondered if indeed Iris had created it and told herself to ask, if she remembered.

“Are you nervous?” Stella asked, her hand gripping Darius’s arm as they ascended the marble stairs. She clutched the first edition book in her other hand.

“Anxious,” he replied quietly. “I’ll feel like a mōros if I don’t immediately recognize him. Or sense him, at the very least.”

The butler paused at the open door to the parlor. “Mr. and Mrs. Darius Agremon,” he announced, before stepping aside.

Darius bowed and Stella curtsied, while their hosts quickly rose from their chairs and did the same. The soft buzzing Stella had sensed when the viscount was in the bookshop was once again apparent. After a quick glance up at Darius, she knew he felt it, too. She couldn’t tell if Lord Woodhurst sensed their immortality, though.

“Oh, have I been looking forward to meeting you, my dear,” Lady Woodhurst gushed as she hurried to Stella with her hands outstretched to take her own.