Midsummer Moon (3 page)

"Certainly.” He straightened, with a brief flash of that smile that had pleased her in the hallway below. It softened Merlin's annoyance and made her feel suddenly shy again.

She ducked her head and reached for a large box on the table, taking hold of the crank and sending it whirling. After a moment, she leaned over as she was cranking and carefully closed a small metal flap between two wires. A blue arc of light crackled inside a glass jar. Merlin stopped turning the crank and put her mouth close to the cone-shaped depression in the box. “Thaddeus!” she called. “Thaddeus, do you hear me?"

From the box came a faint, steady hiss as she waited. She tapped nervously on the table, aware of her guest's eyes upon her back. The duke would be wanting his tea, she thought, and hoped that Thaddeus would answer.

The silence stretched, filled only with the hum of the box. Merlin doubled up her fist and rubbed it on the tabletop. A duke. She had an idea he would be accustomed to better service than this. For the first time in her memory, she looked around her laboratory and thought that it seemed a hopeless, shabby mess. The hedgehog squirmed in her pocket, and she absently reached for a sunflower seed and dropped it inside.

The sound of the alarm bell made her jump. Thank goodness, Thaddeus had heard her signal. His voice came out of the box, faint and hissing and none too pleased. “Aye, Miss Merlin? What's it now?"

"Tea, Thaddeus,” she said, trying to sound very certain of herself. “I have a guest."

There was a fuzzy pause and a crackle and then Thaddeus's voice again. “—tea, you say? And do—” The voice was lost in noise and then returned. “—middle of—back garden and up to me knees in mud, Miss Merlin?"

Merlin pressed her lips together. The duke was staring a hole in her back, she was sure. “Thaddeus,” she said forcefully, “bring us tea immediately."

"Poo—Mi—lin—now. Ye ain't—self!'

"Thaddeus. Stand still. You know I can't understand you if you carry the box about like that. Stand still, Thaddeus. Do you hear me? Stand still!"

The voice answered, suddenly much louder. “Aye, I hear ye, Miss Merlin. You be making your own tea. I'm goin’ out to the dairy barn now. I'll be takin’ your pesty speaking box wi’ me, but don't you go ringin’ me little bell for no silly tea. Ye know I got the works o’ two to be doin', what with Theo down."

"Thaddeus—” She said his name twice, but he was gone. She had only the hiss of electricity through the ether for response.

With a sigh of defeat, she opened the metal switch. The blue arc sparked and died, along with the hum. Merlin turned, biting her lip in apology “About your tea—can you wait a minute while I go to the kitchen?"

The duke was staring at the little box and its single wire. “God in Heaven,” he said in a strangled voice. “Great God—"

He raised his eyes. To Merlin's astonishment he let out a whoop that rang jubilation off the old stone walls. She found herself grabbed and squashed and pounded in a braising embrace. As she flung her chin up and gasped for breath, she had only an instant to register the softness of fine cloth on her cheek before he kissed her, full on the mouth—a rough, undignified, and consuming kiss that was all mixed up with the thumping on her back and the ache in her lungs and the really painful way he was standing on the toe of her left shoe—not that she cared, but the hedgehog might be squeezed, and, oh ... oh, my, well.

It was over before Merlin had time to realize it had started—or at least before she had time to realize that she was enjoying being mauled. He let her go and stood back with a grin that made her throat feel peculiar and trembly. “Merlin Lam—” He was as breathless, if not as bruised, as she. “Merlin Lambourne,” he declared, between pants. “By God, you are a
genius!
"

It had been thirty-odd years ago, at the age of five, that Ransom could last recall having such difficulty with his table manners. Trying gamely to swallow the overcooked mutton without choking, he postponed sawing at another bite and put his full concentration on chewing. The toughness of the meat would have made scintillating dinner repartee difficult, but any hopes of mere polite conversation had been quickly put to rest by his hostess.

Miss Lambourne sat across the ancient, scarred table from him. Reading. In the fading light from the low windows, her full lips moved softly, and that little worried furrow came and went in the smooth skin of her brow. She had finished her mutton in a quarter of the time he was taking—for which he could only admire the strength of her teeth—and now between pages she tore off chunks of glutinous bread, alternating bites between herself and the hedgehog. The creature had been deposited in a convenient bowl and placed in the center of the table—in the absence of a suitably imposing silver epergne, Ransom supposed.

"Does it make a nice pet?” he asked, tired of battling with the mutton.

She turned a page.

"Yes,” he continued after a moment. “I daresay it has all kind of uses. And quite decorative, too."

The pucker formed between her brows, and she marked her place with a finger. “Pardon me?"

"Does it make a nice pet, I was wondering."

"Pet?” Her thick lashes swept down and up. Ransom had the sudden and painful urge to kiss her within an inch of her life again, on the theory that she would surely have to take notice of him then. “What pet?"

"The epergne,” he said, with a little flick of his finger toward the spiny centerpiece.

She looked at him blankly for a moment, and then, in a tone he imagined she reserved for agreeing with raving lunatics, said, “Why yes, I'm sure you must be right."

Ransom smiled and wished she wouldn't stare at his mouth while her tongue teased at her upper lip in that damned provocative way.

"Would you pass the salt, if you please?” he asked, to break the moment.

She looked from his mouth to his plate. He could see the slow change, the dawning of common awareness. It was a fascinating process, this transition from deep dreaming to daylight—rather like the passing of a morning's mist into full sun. But no, he thought as he watched her, not so harsh a change as that. More like the lazy rise of a full moon to light the summer midnight.

"Oh,” she said, frowning at his laden plate. “Do you dislike mutton?"

"With a strong jaw and the addition of a little salt, I expect I'll manage to hack my way through."

She pursed her lips and looked about the table. After a moment her gaze alighted on the hedgehog. “Oh, dear."

Ransom lifted his eyebrows.

"The salt cellar,” she said. “I'm afraid..."

He looked at the hedgehog. It stared back at him with beady innocence.
Yes,
it seemed to say between twitches of its sharp little nose,
I'm in the salt cellar, and I'm bloody pleased about it.

The creature's air of simpleminded spite reminded Ransom of a few Whigs he knew.

"I'll find some.” Miss Lambourne rose quickly, getting tangled for a moment in her skirts as she scanned the laden shelves and counters that lined the dining room walls. Ransom watched her begin to push jars and crockery about, opening lids and peering inside and adding to the general disorder in the room as she set each container hastily aside.

When Ransom had invited himself to high tea, he'd imagined that the service would be rustic. He'd not been completely prepared for an inedible meal served by a grouchy old man with a head as bald as a baby's, who seemed to think it the height of effrontery that he should be asked to clear off the dining table so that his mistress and her guest could eat in such unwonted elegance.

On the other hand, Thaddeus Flowerdew seemed to have no qualms about the propriety of the situation. He left Miss Lambourne in the room with Ransom as if it were an everyday occurrence for an unchaperoned lady of the finest breeding to dine alone with a strange man. A few probing questions and Miss Lambourne's usual vague answers had assured Ransom that her situation was shamefully irregular. The fact that it made his own mission much easier to have no proper guardian present did not obscure the fact that Miss Lambourne deserved far better than this.

From the moment when she had mentioned her Uncle Dorian, Ransom had placed her in the social hierarchy. His original assumption that Merlin Lambourne was some obscure country squire had been instantly dismissed when Ransom had realized that he was dealing with
the
Lambournes, allied to crazy old Sir Dorian Latimer by marriage to a niece. The intricate web of connections formed in Ransom's mind in utter clarity. As easily as if he'd had a map before him on the table, he could trace the lines of descent and alliance and place each player in proper perspective.

Miss Lambourne's father would have been the Colonel Winward Lambourne killed under Cornwallis at Yorktown, and her paternal uncle the late Lord Edward of Cotterstock, which meant the present Lord Edward—handsome, stupid poet that he was—was her first cousin and legal guardian.

And her mother—her mother must have been the tragically famous Lady Claresta, the beauty of her age. Ransom had seen her once, when she'd visited his grandfather at Mount Falcon. Ransom had been no more than thirteen at the time, but he remembered. Ethereal and lovely, the bluest of blood and the richest of dowries—and deaf. Stone deaf and completely mute. To this day Ransom recalled her smile. He could see it in her daughter: wistful, kind and dreamy, a smile that had made a thirteen-year-old boy groomed to power and position forget his pride and spend an entire week at her service. On his knees. He had loved her—that sad, silent lady—as only an adolescent could.

He looked at Miss Lamhourne, on a stool now, reaching toward the highest shelf with her pretty ankles plainly visible beneath her skirt. He felt a rush of disgust for the relatives who had buried her here. She'd already been born when her mother had visited Mount Falcon, Ransom calculated. And no one had mentioned a daughter. He would have remembered. He never forgot that sort of thing.

"Miss Lambourne,” he said abruptly. “Has your family done nothing to provide you with a proper female companion since your mother died?"

There was a clatter of metal as a rusted spoon slid off the top shelf and bounced on the floor. “Botheration,” she said, and left it there. In a voice muffled by her upraised arm she asked, “What did you say?"

"A companion,” he repeated patiently. “You should certainly have a respectable lady living here with you."

She dropped her arm and looked around at him. “Whatever for?"

"To uphold the proprieties, of course. No young lady of your age and connections lives alone."

"Oh, I don't live alone! Thaddeus and Theo—"

"—are of no consequence whatsoever in this instance. You should have a proper chaperon, a lady of decent breeding. For your own protection, if nothing else."

Her gray eyes were wide and soft in the dimness. “Protection from what?"

He could guess what Miss Lambourne's life had been. Shuttered up with her eccentric great-uncle, who probably had been the only one of the family who would take Claresta and her little girl after her husband had died. Locked up and abandoned, her considerable fortune “administered” by a guardian who had undoubtedly forgotten her existence—it made Ransom's jaw tighten in a way that those who knew him would have considered ominous.

"From all sorts of things,” he said harshly. “Any rogue could barge in here and take whatever advantage of you that he liked. Look at the freedom you've allowed me, and never demanded the least evidence of my credentials."

She turned around on the stool, leaning with her hands braced behind her against the shelves. “Yes, we did have a fellow who stole some of Thaddeus's garden tools once. But that was years ago, and Thaddeus and Theo beat him to an inch when they found him. No one's bothered us since."

"I didn't necessarily mean thieves. There are worse dangers which threaten an unprotected lady, if you take my meaning."

Her forehead furrowed. After a moment she said, “I don't believe that I do."

"Miss Lambourne, I know you've lived a sheltered life, but you must be aware that there are men in this world who would not hesitate to ... to..."

She watched as he stumbled, her gaze as innocent and interested as a wild sparrow's.

"Who would not hesitate to take liberties with your person,” he finished brusquely, deciding that the case required strong language.

With an expression of utterly naive curiosity, she asked, “What kind of liberties?"

Ransom closed his eyes and released an explosive sigh. “Really, Miss Lambourne, it would not be at all proper for me to discuss such a thing with you. But you may take me at my word. You need a chaperon."

She stood frowning at him a moment longer, and he knew he had not made the least progress in impressing the dangers of her situation upon her. He lifted his goblet and took a swallow of the bitter wine as she turned back and scanned the shelves. She tilted her head back and mumbled, “What was I looking for?"

"Salt."

"Oh. Yes.” She stood on tiptoe and reached once more for the top shelf. In the midst of a thumping and shuffling of jars, she asked, “Are you going to take liberties with my person, Mr. Duke?"

Ransom choked on his wine, having been caught observing the trim turn of her ankles again. “Most certainly not!” He set down the glass and added in a more controlled voice, “As a gentleman, I do not go about ravishing unprotected females, I assure you."

"Oh,” she said, without much interest. She stuck her nose in an open jar and sniffed loudly.

Ransom watched her, amused in spite of himself. She clearly had no notion of what he was talking about. He found her attitude rather pleasing after years of experience with hard-eyed courtesans and simpering young misses who contrived to swoon at the mere mention of a stolen kiss.

He sipped at the wine again and then set it down with a grimace. He was determined to find a way to rectify the shameful neglect of her station here. He could be certain, at least, that her cousin's irresponsibility was not deliberate. Lord Edward Lambourne had fortune enough of his own, and a brain too small to leave room for more than folly and fashion. No, it was pure self-centered preoccupation that had resulted in this travesty of common familial duty. And as much as Ransom abhorred it, he could see possibilities in the situation which could work to his own advantage.

Miss Lambourne was proving distinctly difficult to dislodge. He'd spent the afternoon attempting to reason with her, but had succeeded only in gaining permission to take the speaking box and use it for whatever patriotic purposes he might be able to imagine. He could imagine quite a few. Indeed, he wanted to shout in triumph every time he thought of the speaking box and the infinite possibilities of communication through thin air.

But he needed Miss Lambourne, too. Not only to begin work to improve the instrument, to adapt it to use at sea or on a battlefield. And not only to prevent the secret from falling into French hands. No, it was more than that which made him want to remove her from this place as soon as possible.

He was afraid for her life. He had not exaggerated the way his agent had come to a violent end. She was in danger, he was certain, and that was why Ransom was sitting here chewing tough mutton and making himself a nuisance to an elderly grump and his muddled mistress. And why he had no intention of leaving without her.

She gave a crow of success from her stool and hopped down with a dusty jar balanced precariously in one hand. As she set it before Ransom, he could read the large initials N.A.—C.L. on the label, but the quantity of spidery writing underneath was illegible. Miss Lambourne handed him a spoon and sat down, pink and a little breathless from her exertions.

"N.A.—C.L.” He frowned at the white crystals. “Are you certain this is salt?"

"Oh, yes. That would be the chemical formula, you see. Sodium chloride. Uncle Dorian often labeled things that way. He was a great chemist, you know.” She seemed to realize that her reassurance might not be quite the thing to make Ransom completely easy in his mind, and added, “But of course, he would never have kept anything poisonous in the dining room."

"Of course.” Ransom peered dubiously at the label, where among the faded script the words “Salt” and “Co. Lvs.” were legible, along with an abbreviation. “Dare I ask what this ‘Aphro.’ signifies?"

She squinted at the lettering and waved a vague hand. “I expect that means that it's African salt."

He sprinkled a little on his forefinger and touched his tongue to it. The familiar rich and bitter flavor filled his mouth, unmistakeable. He nodded, satisfied, and spread a generous amount over his mutton, hoping to disguise the meat's blandness if not its texture.

"I believe we'll reach Mount Falcon by mid-afternoon tomorrow.” He attacked the mutton once more, taking advantage of her momentary attention by employing the old “assumption-of-success” tactic to advance his ends. “We'll carry the speaking box with us, and I can arrange to have several trustworthy fellows pack up everything here and follow directly. You won't be separated from your work for more than a day or two."