“It’s not just Miss Arden’s fallen state they shout about. It’s her ideas.”
“Ideas that I cannot say I disagree with. I find her rather clear-eyed.”
He didn’t disagree either. His wife had made him read the book in its first printing and he’d thought Miss Arden skillfully made a case for a more equitable state between the sexes. Had he not been so disordered by her near-nudity when she’d said her name, he would have told her so.
He wished he had.
“I heard that Miss Arden lives just up the path,” Marianne said. “Apparently she’s here for the first time since her girlhood. The women at the market seemed less than pleased about it. They believe she’s stirring up some kind of trouble.”
Adam sat down beside her on the blanket. “As it happens, I met her.”
Marianne’s eyes lit with interest. “And you said nothing! How did you manage such an intriguing introduction?”
“I didn’t. She happened upon me in Tregereth’s belvedere when I was inspecting the foundation.”
His sister widened her eyes in delight. “Was she as terrifying as they say?”
He debated saying nothing, out of respect for Miss Arden’s privacy, but the incident had been so singular he was relieved to have someone to share it with. “She was, shall we say, indisposed. To put it delicately.”
Marianne clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed. “Oh, Adam. You poor man. Imagine you and an indisposed woman.”
If only she knew.
He blushed and looked away. “I think she found the encounter amusing.”
Marianne patted his arm. “Well, at least Miss Arden lives up to her legend.”
“Right.” He gazed out at the ocean. The swells breaking along Kestrel Bay were mighty today. He picked up his sketchbook and fished a piece of charcoal from his pocket. The upside to his mindless work for Tregereth was the chance to enjoy this view.
“Papa!” his daughter shouted. “A horse.”
He looked up and saw, indeed, a rider approaching from the direction of Miss Arden’s house.
“Mr. Anderson?” the rider called, drawing near. She was a severe woman with handsome features, no hat, and a confident way of sitting on her mare.
He stood. “Yes?”
“I’m Miss Tompkins, Miss Arden’s secretary.” She held out a note. “She asked I deliver this to you and wait for your reply.”
He reached up and took the folded paper from the woman’s hand.
Mr. Anderson—It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance yesterday. That my esteemed neighbor Mr. Tregereth has not yet come to me demanding satisfaction for trespassing on his land attests to your kind discretion. I wonder if I could request another favor: I am considering commissioning a substantial building and have need for the opinion of an architect. Might I prevail on you for a brief audience? I am entirely at your disposal.
Seraphina Arden
She wanted to see him.
Was it possible that their encounter had stuck with her the way it had with him?
Miss Tompkins looked at him expectantly, awaiting an answer.
He hesitated. Back in London, he had seen mentions of Miss Arden’s name in relation to some scandal among the peerage—something about a noblewoman who had run off with a radical. Affiliation with such talk would do him no favors, given his ambitions. The type of men on whom his fate relied had little tolerance for Jacobins.
And yet, he thought of Seraphina Arden’s crooked smile—the amusement in her eyes, when she’d looked back at him, like she knew she had something he was terrified of wanting—and felt himself nodding at her servant.
“Tell Miss Arden I will call on her tomorrow on my way home from Mr. Tregereth’s. She can expect me at half past four.”
Chapter Three
To take a lover outside the bounds of wedlock always invites risk, but the burden is not shared equally. If both sinners’ souls are imperiled in the next life for their transgressions, why should women alone pay the price in this one?
—An Essay in Defense of Ruined Women by Seraphina Arden, 1793
* * *
Writing was not ameliorated by a fine appearance, and yet Seraphina lingered over her toilette, brushing her hair until it gleamed and choosing a low-cut azure gown that did nothing for her prose but flattered her complexion and made a feast of her bosom.
One did not lengthen one’s manuscript by staring out the window, but as soon as the clock struck four, she found her gaze drifting from her work to the coastal path, hoping for a glimpse of a tall figure.
She rolled her eyes at herself, and wished Thaïs or Cornelia were here to laugh at her for allowing her urgent work to be distracted by thoughts of a Scotsman’s shoulders. But by half past four, she had abandoned the pretense of work entirely and assumed a vigil.
She’d been surprised when the architect had so readily agreed to call on her, but perhaps he’d agreed only out of politeness and had now reconsidered. He would not be the first man who had judged an association with her too great a risk. He would be the latest in a long and boring line of them. A point of pride on most days.
So there was no explaining this maidenish staring out the window and certainly no excusing the way her skin became too hot when a figure bearing Mr. Anderson’s proportions came walking up the coastal path.
She returned to her desk, smoothing her hair and making every appearance to seem unconcerned and lost in thought when Tompkins knocked on the door to announce her visitor.
The man who entered the room was dressed more formally than the windblown version she’d encountered in the belvedere. He had the kind of build that tailoring was made for, and though his coat bore the dust of a day’s work in the Kestrel breezes, he wore it like he was in a ballroom. She could only imagine the dazzling figure he would cut at a London soiree in a fine topcoat.
She was glad she’d worn this gown today. She’d make good use of it.
“Mr. Anderson,” she said, rising in a way that showed off her figure, “thank you so much for the call.”
He held himself stiffly, formal, looking polite and affable but a touch unsure about the eyes. She noticed he kept them trained on her face, as though perhaps they wanted to venture lower.
“My pleasure, Miss Arden,” he said.
“Please, have a seat.” She indicated the chair before her desk and he drew it back, making space for his long legs. He placed the small, tidy leather satchel that he carried on the floor. Despite his politeness, he had the attitude of being comfortable in his own skin. He knew himself. She could always tell.
Which meant his unease was about her.
“Are you familiar with my work, Mr. Anderson?”
This question was a test, as a certain kind of man would leer in response or make a joke of her.
But he only nodded, serious, if guarded. “I am.”
So he was not a libertine. She would start with business and move on to more carnal propositions once she had a better sense of him.
She gave him her most fetching smile. “Then perhaps you already know that I am an advocate for female education. I am here in Cornwall working on a manuscript calling for subscription pledges to build an institute for women devoted to education, and female training. I hoped that you might help me understand the cost of the project, such that my goals don’t exceed the likely expenses.”