Not wanting to be discovered, he stood, ready to quit this place without Jane any the wiser.
But when he peered around the corner to where the door was nestled between palm trees, Mr. Miggins made a sudden, unexpected appearance.
The heavily bejowled butler bowed calmly as if he hadn’t just taken a year off Raven’s life. “Pardon me, sir, but would you care for anything from the kitchens?”
“How did you—” Raven felt the flesh of his brow pucker. “How long have you known I was here?”
“Ever since Miss Jane went to teach her lessons and I came to clear away the tray, sir,” the butler said blandly.
“Does she know?”
“Of course, sir. When I informed her, she begged that I not disturb you. As for the matter of the kitchen . . . we have an excellent selection of cold meats, cheeses and pies.”
Embarrassed, he raked a hand through his hair, combing through the uneven layers. He wasn’t used to being caught unawares. Keep a watchful eye, he reminded himself mockingly.
But ever since meeting Jane, he’d noticed that his own rules were falling by the wayside, and fast. Well, not anymore.
“Much appreciated, Miggins,” he said. “But I’ll just have a cup of tea and be gone.”
“Very good, sir.” He bowed as if to leave, but hesitated. “Also, I regret to say that the family’s copy of Debrett’s is not currently in residence. It has been at the bookbinder’s since Master Charles and Master Tristram launched it from their trebuchet last week.”
Raven was struck by a rise of reluctant amusement. This house was a regular Bedlam. “How far did it go?”
“All the way from the pyramid to the Parthenon. As you might imagine, there was much celebration in the hall.”
Miggins walked away after that, seeming pleased even though his impassive expression never betrayed him.
Left alone, Raven straightened and stuffed in the tails of his wrinkled shirt. When he walked around the maze of plants into the open area, he expected to find Jane waiting to gloat.
Instead, he found her kneeling before an open trunk, sifting through the contents in a frenzy. She lifted books and various objects from the depths for cursory examination before hastily casting each one aside in scattered piles on the stone floor.
Sliding a glance his way, she grinned and spoke as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. “I had an epiphany.”
“And I had an accidental nap,” he said, walking past the labyrinth behind her to the tea trolley.
As he poured a cup, his hungry gaze swept over the crystal dish of deep red jam and the slices of toast, cut on the bias and lined up like gabled rooftops inside the silver claw-footed rack. But no. He refused to linger long enough to break his fast. Already he sensed that one more delay would only lead to another.
So, he would drink this and then go, he told himself. And he most definitely wasn’t going to ask about her epiphany.
Gulping down the tea in two scalding swallows, he moved nearer to the trunk. “I’ll be leaving now.”
Still immersed in her exploration and bent over the side in a fine display of her curvy bottom, she gave an absent wave. “Be sure to steer clear of the open garden beyond the wall. Phillipa has talked Charles and the twins into racing backwards down the hill. There are sure to be casualties.”
He took a step, then hesitated. “Why didn’t you simply tell them not to?”
She lifted her head just enough to brush a wisp of hair from her temple and stared at him dubiously. “They’re children. How are they expected to learn about gravity, or cause and effect for that matter, if they’re locked in their bedchambers? Every moment is an opportunity for learning. Not all of us choose to turn our backs on enlightenment.”
The scolding edge of her tone did not escape his notice. “I see what you’re doing.”
“I have no idea what you could mean.”
She blinked, innocent and owl-eyed, but then gave herself away by biting her lower lip. She did that, he noticed, whenever she was keeping herself from saying what she really wanted to.
“You’re pretending that it doesn’t matter a whit to you if I walk out that door.”
She went back to rummaging, but he caught sight of her cheek lifting in a grin. “It worked before, didn’t it?”
“That was an accident. An accidental nap.”
“There’s no such thing. You chose to stay. Aristotle said ‘choice, not chance, determines your destiny’ and that ‘the ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.’”
“Well, what did he know, anyway?”
She burst into laughter, the sound bubbling over the sides of the trunk like an overfilled pot of jam on a cookstove. It was so sweet and rich that he wanted to taste it.
Sitting back on her heels, she gazed up at him, her tempting lips parting in a smile. “Ask me about my epiphany.”
“No,” he said, feeling in serious danger of liking Jane Pickerington. “I’m leaving now before I do something I regret.”
Without another word between them, he turned and walked toward the glass door.
Then, just as he set his hand on the bolt, she called out, “I think my uncle knows the Northcotts.”
Raven went still. His feet were suddenly leaden and weighted to the mud rug.
He tried the bolt. But his hand wouldn’t obey, the tendons seemingly enervated by interest.
The problem was, he’d been thinking about her comment earlier, regarding his birthmark being a scar instead. The only reason he gave it a passing thought was because he remembered something from long ago.
When he was near the age of seven, an old caretaker had confessed that he’d been the one who’d found Raven on the doorstep of the orphanage.
“Never seen such an angry babe a’fore. There ye were, half-frozen, howlin’ loud enough to shake down the walls, and waving that arm marked with a bird as black as pitch. Determined to survive, ye were. Must be in yer blood. Never forget that, lad.”
And Raven hadn’t forgotten.
. . . a bird as black as pitch . . .
Could that have been a scab on his skin from a cut? A scab that had healed and left him with the pale red scar that the beadle of the orphanage had told him was a birthmark?
He didn’t have an answer. But what he had in abundance was something he’d been trying like hell to deny—overwhelming curiosity.
A heavy breath evacuated his lungs. Damn her and her epiphanies!
* * *
Raven slowly turned on his heel to face her and Jane knew she’d piqued his interest beyond a mere passing curiosity. At last!
Now, to keep hold of it, she mused.
The problem was, she didn’t have any proof to validate her claim. At least, not yet. She was sure it was here, somewhere. All she knew was, if she could discover a bit more about his origins, it would not only benefit him but the primer as well.
To her way of thinking, the more time she spent in his company, the more she would understand the mindset of scoundrels and how they came into being.
“As you may recall, my uncle—Duncan’s father—is in prison,” Jane began. After years of telling bedtime stories, she’d learned that the more salacious the opening scene, the more eager her siblings were to listen.