“I am uncertain we brought your book on beekeeping, sir.” Billings stood by, stoic as ever, with several starched cravats in hand. “But since you are here, perhaps you would choose your jacket for dinner this evening?”
“My choice of clothing is not nearly as important as those bees.” Rupert came out of the trunk and fussed with his hair, trying to get it out of his face. “They do not look at all like the bees kept on the castle grounds. I think they are a different breed entirely. I have asked the beekeeper about catching them.”
Billings simply stared at him, cravats still in hand.
The valet assisted Rupert with insects when required but had no interest in them on his own. With a sigh, Rupert gestured to the closet. “The blue jacket, then.”
“Very good, sir.” The valet turned with his cravats, apparently intending to stow them away, when he paused. “I nearly forgot to tell you, sir, but Miss Sharpe sent back your drawings. They are upon your desk.”
“She did?” Rupert brightened at once and rushed to the desk. A stack of papers waited for him, with a half sheet on top of the whole. He held it at an angle to read with the low evening light.
Mr. Gardiner,
I have given your sketches color, to the best of my ability. I apologize for the time I took to complete the task, but with the arrival of the new guests, my time has been limited. I hope you find my work satisfactory.
Miss A. Sharpe
A numbered list below her note labeled the flowers.
The sketches had gone to her four days previous. Four days. She had worked with more speed than he had thought possible. How had she done it so swiftly?
He took up two of the papers and held them to the light, studying the colors carefully. Each drawing had a small number in one corner, corresponding to the name of the flower on the list Miss Sharpe had sent.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, noting the unique orange of the Welsh poppy, the delicate shading of white Ground-elder. Wildflowers and those planted and cultivated by the groundskeeping staff were each given the same amount of care.
“I take it you are pleased with her work, sir?” Billings sounded disinterested, but when Rupert glanced up, he saw his valet’s eyes had narrowed.
“Very pleased. She has a perfect eye for color and an artist’s hand. Look at these.”
Billings came closer and accepted one of the papers. He hummed with feigned interest. “It is lucky you found out about her talent.”
“Indeed.” Rupert took up several more sheets, sifting through them. “Her work is stunning.”
“You ought to tell her that, sir.” Billings put his paper back in the pile. “It does a soul good to know when their work is appreciated.”
“You are right, of course.” Rupert put the papers down and clapped his valet on the shoulder. “As you well know. Thank you, Billings. I will find her and give Miss Sharpe her due.” He glanced out the window. “After my work is done today.”
Rupert had left most of his things outside, near the edge of the forest where he had caught sight of the bees.
He really needed better organization. And to send to his home, sixteen miles away, for his beekeeping book.
Striking out for the gardens with a wide-brimmed straw hat upon his head, Rupert walked with purpose. He knew his way around well enough, and cut through hedges and around a folly, thinking only of his various tools, nets, and sketchbook waiting for him.
Or trying to think only on those things.
Keeping his mind busy upon his task kept it away from his curiosity about Miss Sharpe. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a week and truly began to despair of ever seeing her again.
The number of guests in the house had tripled the amount of people at dinner. And the table was, unfortunately, too well balanced for anyone to think of sending for the governess.
Thankfully, since the duke made it clear that Rupert had much to occupy his time, no one expected him to be about to entertain anyone. Though there were two young women at dinner the evening before who had shown more than a passing interest in coming to know him. That would likely change the moment the duke’s eldest child, his son and heir, arrived for the house party.
Truthfully, it was the presence of the unattached ladies that had sent him to the far reaches of the castle gardens. He had no wish for husband-hunting females to come in search of him.
A scream of laughter caused Rupert to falter in his step. A shout of dismay followed the laughter, and then sounds of distress from several voices assaulted him.
What sort of gentleman would he be to keep walking? It sounded as though something dreadful had happened on the other side of an ivy-covered wall. Rupert sighed, tugged the brim of his hat lower, and went directly for the wall. He put his hands atop it, then heaved himself up.
Sitting on the wall, a leg over each side, Rupert looked down into the garden. The plants and flowers cultivated in that area were all imports from the Far East. The head gardener had put them into a walled garden to avoid creating hybrids with English flowering plants.
Several children of various ages were standing in a circle beneath a tree, all looking down. Two women, dressed in severely dark gowns and wearing sour expressions upon pale faces, stood on the edges of the circle.
And in the circle itself, which Rupert could barely make out even from his higher position, Miss Sharpe knelt on the ground with a child half in her arms.
Rupert dropped down into the garden and hastened to her side. “Excuse me, children. Please, stand back. Give the little one some room.” He spoke firmly, and found the children hastening to obey. The sour-faced women relaxed their glares and one of them directed the children to the other side of the garden.
Miss Sharpe looked up at him, her face pale and eyes burning with what he assumed to be anger—but where was that anger directed?
“Mr. Gardiner, thank goodness you are here. Geoffrey fell out of the tree, and I cannot move him on my own. I think we must send for a doctor.”
The one remaining sour woman huffed. “I am certain the lad is fine. He is forever getting into scrapes. He will rouse and be well.”
Given the way Miss Sharpe’s eyes narrowed at that declaration, Rupert knew he had found the source of her anger. He addressed himself to that woman. “Thank you for your opinion, Miss…?”
The matronly woman drew herself up. “Miss Felton. I am the governess for Baron Addington’s children.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “And Geoffrey.”
Ah, one of the guests had brought a governess along with his brood. Rupert nodded to her. “Thank you, Miss Felton. I know the duke has a fondness for children, and his honor will demand nothing less than a full examination of the child to ensure his good health. If you will excuse Miss Sharpe and I, we will take him up to the house and see to his needs, as His Grace would wish.”
The woman puffed up like a hen, but she made no protests. “Very well. I will see to His Grace’s children.”
Miss Sharpe lowered her voice and spoke quietly to the child, whose eyes were barely open in a wince. “Geoffrey, Mr. Gardiner is going to help me get you to the house. You must try very hard to remain still while he carries you.”
“Yes, Miss Sharpe.” The boy’s eyes closed. He was so young. He could be only five or six years old.
Rupert put one arm beneath the boy’s knees and the other around his shoulders, necessitating he brush Miss Sharpe’s arm as he did so. She kept her support there until he stood, making the movement easier to accomplish. The little boy groaned, turned paler still, and tucked his face against Rupert’s shoulder.