The talk turned to the craft, produce and art contests; Madeline let the chatter wash over her as a potential danger took shape in her mind. She waited until all Mrs. Entwhistle’s points had been discussed to say, “One item we haven’t considered—the venue.”
Everyone looked at her, the surprise on their faces quickly replaced by faint embarrassment as they all realized they’d taken it for granted that she would host the festival at Treleaver Park as she had for the past four years.
Glancing around the circle, she smiled reassuringly. “As you know, the Park has hosted the festival since the late earl was taken ill, but the home of the festival is here, at the castle. Its roots—which are ancient and sunk in our collective pasts—lie at the castle, not at the Park.” She turned her gaze on Gervase. “Now the castle once again has an earl in residence, then perhaps it’s time for the festival to return to its true home.”
Most were nodding; all looked expectantly at Gervase.
His slow, easy smile curved his lips. He inclined his head to them all, his gaze coming to rest on her. “Thank you—I’m sure I speak for Sybil and my sisters, as well as our staff, in saying we’d be delighted to welcome the festival back within the castle grounds.”
Murmurs of approval and appreciation rose around them. Holding the festival at the castle would ensure an even better turnout than holding it at the Park, as many in the district were still curious about the castle’s most recent acquisition—the earl.
Madeline smiled. Had the festival been held at the Park, organizing various entertainments would have given Gervase an excellent excuse to be forever visiting and getting under her feet. And under her skin.
Feeling smug, she met his eyes, only to see—was that unholy amusement?—lurking in the amberish—tigerish—depths.
He knew why she’d so graciously handed back the festival, but he’d seen some advantage in that for him.
Damn! She managed to keep the word from her lips, managed to keep the linked expression from her face, but her mind raced.
To no avail. She would have to wait and see what he did—how he capitalized on her first offensive move.
Sybil rang for the tea trolley; Madeline set aside her pondering—too dangerous with him so close—and set her wits to avoiding him and his attentions for the rest of the meeting, until she could escape.
She learned how Gervase planned to capitalize on her action the next day; in the early afternoon, Milsom knocked on her office door to announce his lordship, the Earl of Crowhurst.
Surprised, Madeline stared as Gervase entered. After one glance at her he turned his gaze on the room, taking in the many bookshelves filled with ledgers, the huge map of the estate on the wall, the brass lamp poised to shed light over the polished surface of the enormous desk so she could work on papers and accounts at night.
The door closed behind Milsom. Gervase’s eyes rose from the open ledger before her to her face. “So this is where you hide.”
Where you hide the real you; the insinuation was clear in his tone, in his acute gaze.
She deflected that disconcerting gaze with a bland smile. “Good afternoon, my lord. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She waved him to an armchair angled before the desk.
He smiled, quite genuinely, and sat. “You owe my presence to your suggestion to shift the festival back to the castle, of course.” Sitting back, he met her gaze. “I’ve come to pick your brains over the details involved.”
She kept her all-business smile on her lips. “I’m afraid I know nothing about how the festival was hosted at the castle. My experience only relates to the four years it’s been held at the Park.”
“Indeed. However, as you no doubt are aware, many of the staff at the castle retired when my uncle died. The current staff have little idea of the logistics involved. I fear that without guidance we’ll be hopelessly unprepared.”
“Ah.” She looked into his eyes, and saw no way out. She’d saddled the castle with the festival; it was only fair that she explain what they’d have to accommodate. “I see. What do you need to know?”
“While Mrs. Entwhistle has supplied a detailed list of the types of entertainments and amusements involved, she was regrettably unspecific about quantities. How many booths, tents and enclosures will we need to set up for the various activities, how many for the produce displays and for the visiting peddlers and dealers?”
She held up a hand. “One moment.” Rising, she went to a nearby cupboard. Setting the door wide, she searched through the numerous papers stacked within; finding the packet she sought, she extracted it—or tried to, but the whole two-foot-high stack started to tip.
“Oh!” She tried to hold it back—and would have failed, but suddenly Gervase was there, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached past her; his big hands spanning so much more than hers, he first steadied the stack, then gripped the packets above the one her fingers had closed around.
“Take it now.”
She slid the packet out. She stepped back immediately, trying to calm her thudding heart—wondering if she could convince herself it was shock and not his nearness that was making her pulse race. Making her curiosity not just stir, but leap. She slapped it down, and decorously returned to the desk. Sitting once more, she nodded wordless thanks to him as he closed the cabinet, and came back to drop into the armchair.
“The number of booths and so on should be listed in here.” Untying the ribbon securing the packet, she rifled through the sheets. “Yes.” Pulling out one sheet, she glanced at it, then held it out. “The accommodations we provided last year.”
Gervase took the sheet; sitting back in the armchair, he studied it.
And thought of her.
She was too deeply entrenched as “her brothers’ keeper” in this room; not even his brushing against her, inadvertent though that had been, had seriously undermined her hold on her damned shield—it had slipped, but she’d recovered all but instantly. Neat figures marched down the page in his hand. How to get her out of here? “What areas are we looking at in total? What was the approximate square foot-age—or acreage—required?”