es, or servants’ calls for help—she could become as caught up in working out a riddle as he.
As time passed, she shed by degrees her bonnet and cloak. More than two hours after she’d come, she was still bent over the maps, looking for a way out of her difficulty.
ABOUT this time, Mr. Wilkerson was out in the court-yard, gossiping with a postilion. Consequently, he was unaware that Mr. Carsington had come downstairs and was on his way to the private parlor he’d reserved as his headquarters. Since Mr. Wilkerson was not there to inform him, and Mr. Carsington did not encounter a servant en route, he had no idea who was in the small dining room nearby.
The door happening to be open, Alistair idly glanced inside as he was passing and discovered directly in his line of vision a small, round, distinctively feminine bottom.
It was draped in green fabric whose fine quality his connoisseur’s eye could not fail to discern, even while this same eye was assessing the form beneath and calculating how many layers of cloth came between the dress and skin.
All this was the work of an instant, no more. But she must have heard his footsteps pause. Or perhaps she heard him catch his breath—and snatch his wits back from where they were wandering and remind himself he’d better continue on his way: He could not afford to be distracted by a female, no matter how perfect her derrière.
Whatever the cause, she lifted a head capped with a disheveled mass of coppery hair and turned a deep blue gaze over her shoulder at him…and smiled.
It was she.
“Miss Oldridge,” he said, his voice dropping so low that the two words sounded like “grrrr.”
“Mr. Carsington.” She straightened and turned fully toward him. “I had not thought you would be up and about at this early hour.”
Was she being sarcastic? “It is nearly two o’clock,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. Have I been here all this time?”
“I haven’t the least idea now long you’ve been here,” he said.
She threw a frowning glance at the map. “Well, I never meant to stay so long. That is, I meant to come back later, when you were awake.”
“I am awake.”
“Yes, and”—she eyed him up and down—“and looking very neat and elegant.”
Alistair wished he could say the same for her. Someone had made a valiant attempt to tame her hair with a braid coiled and pinned on the crown of her head. But of course half the pins were on the floor and the table, and the coil was listing to starboard. His hands itched to get at it and put it right. He clenched them and forced himself to look elsewhere.
Grimly he regarded the expensive dress. This green was even more unbecoming than the shade he’d first seen her wearing. The style—oh, it had no style at all. It was plain and dull and about as flattering as a flour sack.
He turned his gaze to the maps.
“I needed a new one,” she said. “We had a very fine map of the area, but my father drowned it in the Derwent River in November.”
“I see.” He did, all too plainly. “What I don’t understand is why you or your father would need one. I was told that yours is one of the older families hereabouts. I should think you’d know the land quite well.”
“My own property, yes, but Longledge Hill gets its name from its length, which is considerable,” she said. “It actually comprises several hills—far more territory than I or even my father could know intimately.” She turned back to the table and pointed to the map. “We have Captain Hughes on one side of us, and Sir Roger Tolbert on the other. Even though we visit frequently, I certainly do not know every stick and stone of their land. I was particularly curious about Lord Gordmor’s property, which is actually a good deal less, you see, than fifteen miles away.”
“It comes to nearly twice that for carts and packhorses traveling deeply rutted and circuitous roads,” Alistair said. “If we could cut a canal in a straight line, it would extend not even ten miles. However, since rocky hills lie along that line, and our route must go round landowners’ out-buildings, timber yards, and such—we estimate fifteen miles of canal.”
He moved to stand beside her at the table. “Is this why you needed a map? You wished to study our route more carefully? Is it possible you are having second thoughts about your opposition to our plans?”
“No, I’m having second thoughts about Lord Gordmor,” she said without looking up.
The fitful sunbeams from the dining room’s single window made a fiery froth of the wispy ringlets about her face. The braided coil sagged further toward her ear, which, being small and perfectly shell-shaped, made the imperfect hair arrangement—not to mention every stitch on her persons—all the more aggravating.
“You had perhaps pictured him as one of those rapacious villains of industry who evict humble shepherds and cowherds from their huts and erect immense, smoking factories on what used to be grazing land?” Alistair said.
“No, I had pictured him as being resourceful,” she said. “When a solution I devise proves unworkable, I look for another way to solve the problem. But having failed to interest us in his canal, Lord Gordmor has not, as I supposed he would do, exercised his imagination. Instead, he has kept to his original solution. The difference this time is, he’s sent in heavy artillery to blast us into submission.”
Alistair would have understood immediately what she was saying if his mind had not been otherwise occupied.
The braided coil not only continued to sag but was un-coiling as well. Though he hadn’t heard the pins drop, he was sure more were scattered over the map-covered table than a moment ago. Any minute now, her coiffure would tumble completely to pieces. He could barely keep his hands still.
Thus distracted, he said, “Heavy artillery? You cannot think we will bring in our machinery and troops of canal cutters and bully our way through. You are aware, I hope, that we cannot build a canal without an Act of Parliament, and Parliament will not approve a canal proposal the landowners unanimously oppose.”
“You are the heavy artillery,” she said. “In this part of Derbyshire, the Earl of Hargate is at least as important as the Duke of Devonshire. Your family has been here quite as long, and your father is held in exceptionally high esteem. Two of your brothers are paragons, and you are a famous hero. Lord Gordmor chose his partner very wisely, indeed—as well as a convenient time to contract influenza.”
Alistair froze, almost literally. After a moment’s incredulous outrage, he settled into a cold fury. “Correct me if I have misapprehended, Miss Oldridge,” he said with bone-chilling politeness. “You believe Lord Gordmor or I—or perhaps the pair of us—decided to use my family’s position and my own notoriety to mow down the opposition? You think that is why I came? To what? Overawe the yokels? Perhaps even touch their hearts with the evidence of my great sacrifice on behalf of King and country?” At the reference to his troublesome leg, a bitter note crept into his voice.
“Lord Gordmor has not a fraction of your impact upon local opinion,” she said. “He is not a Derbyshire man. His title is recent, bestowed only in the last half century. And he is not famous.” Her chin went up. “I do not see why you take offense. I merely state the simple facts of the case, which should be obvious to everybody—though I suppose no one else will say it to your face.”
“You know nothing about Lord Gordmor,” Alistair said tightly. “If you did, you would be aware he would never be so dishonorable as to use me or my position to foist a wicked scheme upon anybody.”
His leg was twitching angrily. It hated standing too long in one position. He stepped away from the table.
“I said nothing about foisting wicked schemes,” she said. “Really, you seem to have a turn for the theatrical, Mr. Carsington.” Her brow wrinkled. “Or perhaps they’re rhetorical flourishes. ‘Overawe the yokels’ is apt, but ‘rapacious villains’ and ‘wicked scheme’ are off the mark. I do not think your canal is wicked. If a suitor is rejected, it does not follow that he is wicked, merely that he does not suit. Does your
leg pain you?”
“Not in the least,” he said while a spasm shot through his hip.
She, too, backed away from the table. “I know I’m supposed to take no notice,” she said. “But it is never proper to ignore someone’s discomfort. You move more stiffly than before. I collect your leg pains you. Perhaps you wish to walk about. Or sit. Or elevate it. I shouldn’t keep you here arguing with me, at any rate. I’m sure you have a great many important things to do.”
Alistair had many, many important things to do. But she had thrown everything into a tumult, like her hair, and he was not ready to be dismissed. “Miss Oldridge, you know perfectly well that you are the most important thing I have to do,” he said, and instantly regretted it. Where were his vaunted powers of address? Good grief, where were his manners?
He paced to the window and back, and to the window again. His leg treated him to several spasms. It was furious with him.
She watched him, her expression troubled. “The long ride in the cold rain last night cannot have been good for your injury. I did not think of that until now. My great anxiety this morning was finding your broken body in a ditch. I had resigned myself to picking up the pieces. Why am I important?”
Listening to her talk about searching for his broken corpse made Alistair forget what he meant to say. He recalled how she’d left a warm, luxurious house and ridden out in the darkness and freezing rain to bring him back. He could not imagine any other woman—save, perhaps, his mother—doing such a thing. But then, unlike most other women, Miss Oldridge was the responsible member of the family, the one in charge.
The one upon whom his canal depended, he reminded himself.
He should be making the most of this opportunity.
He marshaled his ideas into order. “No one else will speak freely to me,” he said. “You said so a moment ago. I need to understand what the objections are to the canal.”