Ryder said to his wife as she came into the dining room, sniffing the air, "Rosalind has become impertinent, Sophie. What do you think we should do?"
"Wallop her, Father," Grayson said.
Sophie laughed. "Don't let her have one of Cook's nutty buns. That way I will have more and she will learn a valuable lesson."
"There are three left, Aunt Sophie," Rosalind said. "I swear I took only one; it's your son who is the glutton."
Grayson toasted her with his teacup.
Sophie said as she selected a nutty bun, "The Earl of Mountjoy presents the face of a man of mystery, a man with dark secrets. I have always found that a man of mystery piques a woman's curiosity, she cannot help herself. It is the nature of things."
Rosalind nodded. "He is mysterious, yes, but he also looked apart from everyone at the ball, as if he knew he had to be there but did he want to be?"
"That is called arrogance," Sophie said and took a blissful bite of one of the three remaining nutty buns. She chewed slowly, eyes closed. "Ah, Nirvana is close."
"I don't think women are allowed in Nirvana, Mother," Grayson said.
Sophie waved the last bit of nutty bun at him before she popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes again. "Ah, you are wrong, my dearest. I have ascended."
Grayson said, "Nicholas Vail sounds like Uncle Douglas. He has a way of looking at a roomful of people as though their only purpose is to amuse him."
"He even has the look of Douglas when he was young," Ryder said thoughtfully.
Rosalind said, "He's coming to visit and I never even spoke to him. I could perhaps understand his wishing to visit me had he waltzed with me, since I am such a superb dancer, but he didn't. And he never enjoyed my wit, since I didn't have the opportunity to speak to him. Hmm, perhaps others spoke to him of my lovely way with words, my exquisite grace, do you think?" Even as she laughed at herself, she saw him very clearly in her mind. She could easily see him wearing a black cloak billowing in a night wind. He oozed mystery, dark boundless secrets, hidden and obscure.
Sophie said, "Regardless of his motive for wishing to see you, Rosalind, I would say he's a man who likes to be in control. One cannot be in control unless one knows about everything."
"Perhaps, my dear," Ryder said slowly, "just perhaps you are right. The earl does
look like he knows what he's about, and if that is indeed true, then he must know that you are not an heiress. So it's a mystery we have."
"It isn't always about a girl's dowry, is it, Uncle Ryder?"
"Yes," said Ryder.
"Ha," said Sophie. "You took me with naught but the chemise on my back."
Ryder Sherbrooke's blue eyes dilated, something neither his son nor his ward wanted to explore, something that made both of them vastly uncomfortable. Rosalind took another drink of her tea. Grayson played with his fork.
Sophie said, "He doesn't look like an easy man. All those secrets. He looks like he's seen many things, done many things, perhaps to survive." She sighed. "He is so very young."
"Not so young at all, Mother," Grayson said. "He is about my age. Perhaps I look mysterious as well?"
His mother, no fool, said immediately, "Of course you do, dearest. And your novels—goodness, there are so many terrifying happenings, so much mystery, my poor heart nearly leaps out of my chest, and one wonders where these black mysteries shrouded in dread and cunning come from. One must accept that they emerge from a mind that cannot be understood, only admired and marveled at."
Rosalind listened, feeling her own heart sound slow, hard strokes. She saw Nicholas Vail standing in front of Uncle Ryder, dark as a Barbary Coast pirate prince who would perhaps return to his opulent tent and lie at his ease on silk pillows, and watch veiled dancing girls. As for his size, well, he was larger than Uncle Douglas, she was certain of that. And he looked powerful, a hard disciplined man, both in mind and body. Nicholas Vail—she realized his name sounded through her mind with a strange sort of familiarity, and wasn't that odd? But she knew she 'd never heard of the family. And he was an earl—Lord Mountjoy. She 'd never heard the title before either. She wondered what he wanted with her. She was eighteen and not at all stupid. How she wished that Ryder Sherbrooke, the man whose blood she wished she carried, would let her meet with Nicholas Vail alone, completely alone. Unfortunately, she thought sadly, that wouldn't happen. It was not one of the benefits of being eighteen and unmarried.
5
At exactly eleven o'clock, Willicombe, his bald head shining brilliantly from the new recipe he'd used just that morning—aniseed, imagine that!—spoke in his lovely musical voice from the doorway of the first-floor drawing room, "The Earl of Mountjoy, madam."
Sophie said, "Do show the earl in, Willicombe."
Nicholas Vail paused a moment in the doorway. His eyes went to her immediately, as if no one else were in the room.
Ryder, who was standing by the fireplace, pushed off the mantel and walked to the young man, forcing his attention away from Rosalind. "My lord, do come in and meet my ward, and my son, Grayson."
Nicholas was a hunter, but he wasn't stupid. He bowed over Mrs. Sherbrooke's hand, then Rosalind's hand, but he didn't linger. He realized Grayson Sherbrooke was studying him intently, and said to him, "You write mysterious novels, Mr. Sherbrooke."