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The door to the western attics was as idiosyncratic as those throughout Arcadia. Its knob required not so much turning as jiggling and jabbing, so much so Osborn put one of his broad shoulders to use and pushed it open to reveal an entire household of accoutrements.
“Who has done this?” Beatrice looked around in amazement. “As strong as you say Mr. Conlon and Morag are, this cannot have been within their powers.”
Heavy pieces of furniture rose to the ceiling like a fortress built of children’s blocks, improbably balanced and stacked. A dining table long enough to seat twenty was set on one of its short sides, and in the space between its legs, chairs were stacked in a rickety tower. Four very large wardrobes stood back-to-back and partially obscured a collection of china cabinets as well as several sofas upholstered in beautifully textured and toned fabric. There was a plethora of essentials that would if not fill the house at least fill it out. Every available gap was filled with a comprehensive assortment of footstools. Nearest the back of the chockablock room, a tower of trunks loomed, partially draped in the sort of red curtain found in theaters. A company of mannequins stood near the theatrical ephemera, dressed in the old-fashioned style one expected from productions of William Shakespeare.
In between two bookcases, an enormous mirror sat on a tiny games table. Beatrice edged into the space between as best she could. It was a stunning piece, the work of Thomas Hope if she was not mistaken, and it looked to be the same height as Arcadia’s enormous duke. The frame was carved to appear wrought from the branches of a tree, winding delicately around one another, crowned with acorns at the top. The glass required silvering and the frame touching up of its gilding, but otherwise, it was unique and deserved to be admired. She reached out and found it lighter than expected, and as she attempted to slide it out—
Her movements disturbed the delicate balance of the table, which proved unsteady on its spindly legs, and two of them buckled at the unexpected movement. As the mirror wobbled, it tipped face forward in her direction. Her slippers chose that moment to do what slippers did and slid in the dust unsurprisingly thick on the floor between the bookcases. Of a sudden, it was heavier than she’d first thought, and for a breathless moment, it sliced toward her like the blade of a guillotine—
Until it did not. A strong arm caught her around the waist, a large hand reached out and halted the chaos in its tracks, and in another breathless moment, she was out of danger, those two large hands that saved her from the Tread of Danger having now rescued her from the Mirror of Certain Death.
“Blessed Freya, Madam, will you not take care?” The hands moved over her arms, down her back, and she found herself squashed against a chest the approximate intensity of a bonfire. Osborn’s heart beat beneath her ear, and against her better judgment, she leaned. She leaned against the heat and heart and allowed herself to feel afraid; now that the reason why had passed, she appreciated how close a call it had been. It was comforting to feel supported, to lean upon something so obviously stronger than herself, solid as a rock. The hands squeezed her around the shoulders and the waist, and a caress slid over her hair. His lips? How strange to find a man’s lips so comforting; she calmed as they brushed against her head, and there was solace in the way his nose fit so oddly and yet so well behind her ear. So soothing and yet so petticoat-rustling.
Until the grousing began. “You’ve not got the sense the goddess gave you. Contrary as a donkey.”
“How flattering.” Her voice shook, and the arms pulled her closer.
“Are you not flattered? Intractable, yes, but donkeys can be sweet in their way. You have heard of Baron Cuddy, have you not, and his famous drove? He had at least twenty and kept them in the garden of his townhouse in Ainsley Square. Used to walk them daily down Rotten Row until Prince George, that would be Georgie to you, had him barred. There are also some stories not meant for ladies’ ears, I am ashamed to say.”
“Then do not say.” Beatrice took a breath and found that stepping away was not on her agenda. “You are a font of gossip. I suspect you spend your time at society events chattering with the ape leaders.”
“If one must endure a Venetian breakfast, one ought to get something savory out of it.”
“Or unsavory.” One of his hands trailed its way up and down her spine. The beat of the heart and the heat of the chest, the consoling touch and the smell of the freshly laundered shirt—Osborn had eschewed a waistcoat again—combined into a heady mix of comfort that made her heartbeat increase and blood rush to her face. It was nothing more than a casual embrace, and yet… She’d been held in a waltz and taken to the marriage bed but never with such a potent result.
They both jumped at the sound of knuckles rapping on the doorframe. Mr. Todd poked his head in the doorway, took in their stance, and stepped back in an instant.
“Yes, yes, what do you want?” Osborn’s voice delved into throaty depths.
“Your Graces.” Mr. Todd raised his voice to be heard without being seen. “I have discerned a pattern of disturbance to the grounds and would call it to your attention.”
“Her Grace will not be venturing out in this weather,” Osborn said.
“Will she not?” For no good reason, Beatrice found it a challenge to remove herself from his hold. She took a breath and made for the corridor.
“I have taken the liberty of redrawing the plan of the grounds and marking it out.” Mr. Todd fell back when the duke joined them. “If we were to repair to my—the study?”
Whose study?Beatrice thought, and they made their way below, Osborn’s put-upon huffs and puffs sounding like a bellows pumping up a fire.
When they reached their destination, Osborn looked around the room as if he’d never seen it before. On the desk lay a beautifully rendered plan, more detailed and in a tidier hand than its model.
“A glasshouse?” Beatrice indicated the labeled building. “Is that usual, even in a country home?” She thought only the very wealthy could boast of such a thing, and her impression was that the Humphries clan were not among their number.
“They have come into fashion in the human world in the last fifty years, ma’am,” Mr. Todd replied. “Versipellihave enjoyed their benefits for far longer. Glasshouses are challenging to keep, and it is best if one among the members of the household has a passion for the work and the ability to engage staff to sustain it.”
“Plants are not my strong suit,” Beatrice admitted. Neither were they Osborn’s, as he ignored the conversation and stood enraptured before a globe tucked into one of the bookcases.
“There are many exotic specimens, from as far afield as India and the Antipodes.” It appeared plants were Mr. Todd’s strong suit. “There are some the purpose of whose cultivation is curious and dangerous to the untutored.”
“What is the condition of the building?” Beatrice thought a glasshouse sounded like a lot of work.
“It is standing.” Mr. Todd’s eyes slid over to the duke, who was engaged in tracing a finger over the sub-Asian continent. “Which is almost too much to expect, given its derelict state.”
“That will not do.” Beatrice wished she had a little book to write in and a pocket in which to put it. She reached for a piece of foolscap instead, from a pile set in the exact place on the desk one would wish to find it. “Thus, the glasshouse goes on the schedule.”
“Schedule, Madam?” Osborn stopped spinning the globe.
“Of what needs doing and when.” She jotted down a few notes with the freshly cut quill.
