Diamond in the Rough Page 15

  The two argued for a bit, and Clara watched with amusement, knowing that nothing would change: Clara would still go to London and Harriet would stay here in St. Ives. Lucky girl.

  Chapter 10

  Nathaniel watched the Anderson carriage leave with mixed emotions, relief being topmost. He was deeply ashamed of his behavior, for allowing his baser needs to overrule what had always been a pragmatic mind. Worse was that he suspected Clara had begun to dream of a marriage between them, of a time when she would be able to convince her parents that a marriage to their gardener was acceptable. Hell, he’d even allowed his mind to drift there, to imagine the two of them, married and settled with children running about. The nights alone in his tiny room were long and lonely, so who could blame a man for dreaming things that could never be? The painful truth was, if she found out he was a baron, that he’d been lying to her for months, she would never forgive him. Nor would he blame her. He could not even forgive himself.

  By all accounts, he would have more than a month to do as he pleased in the garden, to search without anyone about. Surely he could complete the task now that Clara was not hovering about. It had been exceedingly difficult to continue on with his search when she was following her plan, which included working on areas of the garden where he’d already searched. With his hoe in hand, Nathaniel began, plunging the tool again and again into the earth, digging only when he thought he’d struck something. He’d grown rather good at determining what it was he’d found simply by the sound the hoe made when he struck an object. Still, he looked no matter what the sound, for fear of overlooking the diamond. What if the box had disintegrated? What if that sound of the hoe hitting stone was really the hoe hitting the diamond? It was tedious and back-breaking work, but Nathaniel felt more positive about his chances than ever before.

  Work was progressing remarkably quickly, and Nathaniel realized a week after the Andersons had departed that his search would be completed long before the family returned. If his gut ached at the thought of leaving St. Ives without seeing Clara again, without touching or kissing or hearing her sighs, then so be it. It was far less disturbing than what would happen if she returned, smiling and happy and glad to see him, only to watch him walk away without a word. If she cared for him, she would get over it. They had done nothing irrevocable. He had not taken her innocence or declared his love for her. Nothing had happened that time would not erase. But it would be damned hard to leave her, to sneak away in the middle of the night, if she were home. That thought made him redouble his efforts, until sweat soaked through his clothing, until his arms ached and his hands burned despite the sturdy work gloves.

  “Mr. Emory, a word if you please.” Mr. Barkley, the under butler, stood at the edge of the garden.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Barkley?” The under butler had taken over butler duties as Mr. Standard had gone with the Andersons to London.

  “You’ve received a letter from London, sir, and Mr. Standard directed me to tell you immediately should you receive correspondence.” Mr. Barkley held out his hand containing the letter, and Nathaniel dropped his hoe to retrieve it. Though he could tell the under butler was curious about the letter, he said not a word, simply handed it over, then returned to the house. No doubt the letter would be fodder for gossip around the table that night until he arrived for supper. With most of the staff gone, it would be a far smaller group to chat about their mysterious gardener.

  Dear sir,

  I believe it is imperative that you return to London immediately. Certain events have occurred that are best not discussed via the post. I await your arrival.

  Samuel Gordon esq.

  Well, hell. If he returned to London, he would have to return as Baron Alford, not ordinary Nathaniel Emory, gardener to a St. Ives country home. Clara was there with her family, and though he had little concern he would run into them, it was a worry. The thought of running into Clara while he was dressed as a gentleman, with people “my lording” him, was abhorrent. He could imagine such a meeting going very badly for all.

  Still, his solicitor would not have written such an urgent and cryptic letter if it had not been absolutely necessary, so Nathaniel resigned himself to returning to London. He’d simply have to keep an eye out for an overly decorated carriage. He tried to recall the details of Clara’s trip to London, but he confessed he could not recall much other than the family was renting a townhouse for a full month, much to Mr. Anderson’s objections. For the life of him, he could not remember where the blasted townhouse was, and he only prayed it was not nearby the Brown’s Hotel where he always stayed, mainly because of its private dining room. He was fairly certain the Andersons would have picked the most fashionable address possible and as luck would have it, the Brown’s Hotel was located in Mayfair, an area that had been more popular fifty years before. Surely, the Andersons would not be there.

  Samuel Gordon’s offices were located on Bond Street, not far from Nathaniel’s hotel. It was a dreary day, with low-hanging clouds that threatened to let loose rain at any moment, but he managed to make the short trip without a drop falling on him. When he entered, Gordon’s assistant shot to his feet, but couldn’t hide the look of dismay on his face when he realized who he was. His ill-fitting clothes, tanned face, and shaggy hair combined to give him the look of a laborer.

  “Lord Alford, Mr. Gordon is expecting you. Please, go right in.”

  Nathaniel nodded, ignoring the long, questioning look the man gave him, and entered Gordon’s office after a quick knock. His solicitor stood, and if he noticed Nathaniel’s less-than-polished appearance, he gave no indication.

  “I am glad you were able to make the trip, my lord,” Gordon said, indicating a leather chair set up in front of his desk. “May I offer you refreshment? Brandy, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Gordon. I’d rather just get this business over with, if you please.”

  “Of course. I do apologize for pulling you away from…” His voice faded before he gave Nathaniel a grim smile. “…your endeavors. Just last week, I had not one but two visitors inquiring about your whereabouts. Of course, I claimed not to know where you were. This Mr. Belmont was quite adamant, seemed inordinately angry, to the point that I came close to calling the constable.”

  Gordon was a diminutive fellow with a voice that matched—reedy thin and not all that pleasant to listen to. He was, however, a damned good solicitor and one of the most discreet men Nathaniel had ever met. “Did he become violent?” Nathaniel asked, concerned. It was unconscionable that anyone threaten someone who was merely protecting him.

  “Only to my desk,” Gordon said with a self-effacing smile. “But it was not only the visits that concerned me; it was the story he told, a story in complete opposition to your grandfather’s. I got the distinct feeling that Mr. Belmont is not only interested in the diamond and the funds it would bring, but also in retribution for what he believes were ills done to his father. He is, shall I say, quite impassioned.”

  Mr. Gordon related the tale he’d been told by Mr. Belmont, leaving Nathaniel stunned by how much it varied from his grandfather’s tale. He had no doubt at all that his grandfather’s story held more truth than Mr. Belmont’s.

  “Did he seem unreasonable?” Nathaniel asked.

  Mr. Gordon gave him a look of concern. “He seemed quite angry, sir. That is why I felt it urgent to speak with you in person. His obsession seems to have turned to you.”

  Knowing how close the investigator had been to him provoked more than a little disquiet in Nathaniel. Mr. Belmont’s father had nearly killed his grandfather and he couldn’t help but wonder if the man searching for him would resort to similar violence. His grandfather had made the most of what life had dealt him, but he’d suffered terribly, physically and emotionally. “You believe I’m in danger.”

  “I do, my lord. Very grave danger.”

  After leaving his solicitor, Nathaniel felt the ne
ed for a brandy, but given the early hour, opted for a bracing cup of tea instead. Down a side street in an area not usually frequented by the aristocracy, or anyone else who wanted to be seen, was a small, nondescript tea shop where he thought he might have some privacy while he mulled over what Mr. Gordon had told him. London was a large city, teeming with people, but he had no wish to frequent any spot where he might be seen by the Andersons. No doubt, the Andersons would be at Gunter’s Tea Shop, if they were out at all on this dreary November day.

  He was just about to take his first sip of tea when he heard, “Alford? Is that you?”

  He looked about until he saw a well-fed man with thinning blond hair and a big smile. “Bennington.” John Bennington, second son of Viscount Kingsley and a former classmate at Oxford, strode toward him, tugging a pleasant-looking young woman along with him. The woman, with a headful of artfully arranged curls beneath a dashing feathered hat, reminded Nathaniel of the expensive dolls the rich bought for their pampered daughters. She was the epitome of a young English lady, dressed impeccably and fashionably, and with an air of privilege that was nearly impossible to ignore. Nathaniel immediately stood and greeted his old friend.

  “I haven’t seen you in years. You’re looking well,” Bennington said, his voice trailing off as he truly looked at his old friend. Nathaniel was not looking well, at least not as a young baron should look.

  “I’ve been traveling,” Nathaniel said as a way of explaining his tanned skin. He could not explain, however, why he was wearing such an ill-fitting suit nor why his hair was unfashionably long. “The valet at Brown’s nearly fainted when he saw me, but I’ll soon be put to rights, I assure you.”

  The two laughed, accepting Nathaniel’s explanation. When Nathaniel had tried to don the suit of clothes that had fit him perfectly not two months earlier, he’d nearly laughed. Two months of hard labor had drastically changed his body. His waist was smaller, his arms and chest larger. He’d looked in the mirror and at first laughed at the sharp tan line around his neck and on his arms where his gloves had ended and his often rolled up sleeves had started. It looked a bit like he was wearing bracelets. It had been months since he’d gotten a good look at himself as he had only a small handheld mirror that was barely adequate for shaving. What he found when he stared into the full-length mirror in his room was a fine specimen of manhood, if he did say so himself. But for those ridiculous and sharply delineated lines between proper pale skin and a laborer’s tan, he was happy with the changes. Unfortunately, his new body did not fit well into his old clothes. He looked very much like a man whose clothing had shrunk, but for his pants waist, which hung about him as if he were wearing his father’s trousers.

  At the horrified urging of the hotel’s valet, Nathaniel’s first bit of business had been a visit to his tailor, who expressed as much dismay as the valet over Nathaniel’s present suit of clothes. Though his funds were limited, Nathaniel knew it was imperative to keep up appearances should he be required to resume his own identity. News that an obsessed madman was looking for him made it far less appealing to go back to being Baron Alford, and he would likely return to St. Ives even more quickly than he’d originally planned. As Nathaniel had been out of society for some good time, he hadn’t thought he would run into anyone he knew, but here, standing in front of him, was the biggest gossip in London. Nathaniel wondered if he were cursed.

  “Looks like you’ve been traveling someplace with a bit more sun than we get in London,” Bennington said cheerfully, looking out at the mist-covered street. “Allow me to introduce my bride, Alicia Bennington. My dear, this is Lord Alford. We attended Oxford together and he was the finest cricket player we had.”

  Mrs. Bennington dipped a curtsy and extended her hand. “A pleasure, my lord.”

  “Congratulations on your nuptials. Are you still newlyweds?” Nathaniel asked, indicating that the couple should join him at his table.

  “Indeed we are,” Bennington said, smiling over at his wife and patting her hand, which remained in the crook of his arm even as they sat. “Just five months now. Happiest five months of my life.”

  Mrs. Bennington blushed prettily. “Where have you been traveling, sir?”

  “Oh, around and about. I’m only in London a short time to take care of some pressing business.”

  “Ah, yes, I heard about your grandfather. My condolences.” Bennington turned to his wife. “Baron Alford passed away just this year.”

  “Condolences,” she said softly, but then a small glint appeared in her eyes. “Are you here with your wife?”

  “I have not had that pleasure,” Nathaniel said blandly.

  “A pity you will not be in London long. There are a great many things to do in town at the moment.”

  Bennington laughed, but Nathaniel hadn’t a clue why. The couple exchanged a look he could not interpret. “Now that my wife has found such matrimonial bliss, she is making it her mission to find husbands for each of her friends. And younger sister.”

  Nathaniel’s feelings on that must have been apparent, for Bennington laughed and clapped him on the back, almost painfully. “No need to panic, my friend.”

  “Surely you will be in town long enough for some entertainments. One ball, perhaps?”

  “Yes, one ball. We shall insist you accompany us.” Bennington was seemingly aware of Nathaniel’s reticence and was apparently delighted by it. Nothing was worse, in Nathaniel’s opinion, than a happily married man. It seemed they wanted all of mankind to share in their matrimonial bliss.

  “I regretfully must decline.”

  Mrs. Bennington blinked; clearly she was unused to being thwarted. “The Grosvenor Gallery exhibit then. Mr. Bennington and I were planning to go tomorrow. I hear it is quite impressive.”

  “A grand idea, Mrs. Bennington,” her husband said, lifting his wife’s hand up for him to kiss. “Such a clever idea.”

  Nathaniel could hardly say no to an exhibit, though he dearly wanted to. It would be disastrous if he ran into the Andersons while he was here in London, worse if Mr. Belmont caught wind of his visit. Then again, what were the chances that the Andersons would not only attend the same exhibit, but at the same day and hour? The Andersons were far more likely, if they were going to a gallery at all, to tour the Royal Academy rather than the Grosvenor, which was considered rather avant garde and daring.

  “Of course, and I thank you for the invitation.” He saw the couple exchange another look, this one of triumph. “Oh, no, do not tell me you are planning to invite your sister and all of your friends. I must warn you now that my family name has been quite muddied. They would hardly thank you for an introduction.”

  Bennington waved his concerns away. “Your reputation, sir, is impeccable. Whatever sins your father committed are not visited on his son, I can assure you.” When Nathaniel raised a brow, Bennington harrumphed in discomfort. “Then they should not be. It’s not as if your father was a murderer.”

  Mrs. Bennington looked on with interest, and Nathaniel thought he sensed a bit of dismay in her features. Likely the lady was wishing she had not issued the invitation after all.

  “You may withdraw your invitation, Mrs. Bennington. I can assure you, my feelings will not be hurt.”

  “I’ll not hear of it, Alford,” Bennington blustered, then turned to his wife. “It’s water under the bridge and ancient news. No one under the age of fifty would be able to recount a single unfortunate episode.”

  “May I ask…oh, no, it is presumptuous of me. But…”

  “My father had a habit of going into public places and acting in, let us say, an inappropriate manner. He became a bit of a laughingstock and there are those who have not and will not forgive such actions. The family has been banned from Whites. Among other clubs and organizations.”

  Mrs. Bennington raised her gloved hands to her throat as if that were the most terrible sentence to bestow upon any man.
“Have you ever gone into a public place and acted inappropriately?” she asked, her clear eyes steady on him.

  “I make it a habit not to go into public at all, which may explain why Mr. Bennington hasn’t seen me since university. I am excruciatingly boring and dull.”

  “Perfect,” Mrs. Bennington said, and Nathaniel laughed. “Besides, you would be surprised by what is forgiven and forgotten when a gentleman has ‘lord’ in front of his name.”

  Nathaniel grinned, reassessing his first impression of the lady. She might look like a vacant doll, but Mrs. Bennington was a canny lady. His friend had done well.

  The next day, wearing his newly tailored suit and feeling rather spiffy, Nathaniel headed to New Bond Street and the Grosvenor Gallery. To his thinking, even should he run into Mr. or Mrs. Anderson, they would hardly recognize him without his loose-fitting trousers and shirt and his ever-present cap. Freshly shaven and sporting a neat haircut, he was every inch the London gentleman. His high collar and cravat hid the sharp tan line, and his new suit of clothes was tailored to perfection, showing off his athletic form. In all, Nathaniel was pleased. It was, frankly, startling how a good shave, a haircut, and a fine suit of clothes could make such a difference in not only how he felt, but how others perceived him. Doormen snapped to attention, fine ladies and gentlemen nodded politely, and if he were honest, it felt damned good. He was, after all, a baron. His grandfather had schooled him well in deportment and responsibility, and Nathaniel often wondered how he had failed so miserably with his own son.

  Grosvenor Gallery had been open just one year and had already garnered much interest among the ton—and the patrons of the arts. One either loathed the art within or loved it, and it seemed the common view was that this gallery founded by Sir Lindsay and Lady Fitzroy was a rousing success. It welcomed artists rejected by the Royal Academy, those who liked to focus their talents on subjects other than the accepted themes of religion and battle.