“How nice to meet you, Lord Linsley,” murmured Olivia in reply. Anxious to cut the meeting short, she was about to excuse herself when the boy looked up, revealing a large purpling bruise around his left eye. “My, that is quite a gruesome shiner you have,” she said admiringly. “I imagine there’s a corking good story to it.”
Prescott flashed a shy grin. “I hit my head on a bundle of wheel spokes when the Tunbridge Wells mail coach ran over a very large rut in the road. I was in the boot, you see, and it was pitch dark, on account of it being close to midnight—”
“Scottie,” warned the earl, in a tightly coiled voice. To her, he added, “Forgive us, Miss Sloane. I am sure you are not interested in my son’s misadventures.”
Actually she was. That the Perfect Hero had a boy prone to mischief was intriguing. However the look of solemn reserve on his face made clear he did not wish his son to talk about it. “I am sure there is a very exciting story to why you were in the boot of the mail coach,” she murmured. “And while I would no doubt enjoy hearing it—”
“I stowed away,” blurted out Prescott.
Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia saw John’s mouth thin to a grim line as his son hurried on with his explanation.
“My best friend Lucy helped me. Her father owns the inn in our village.”
“How very intrepid of you. I imagine you wanted a grand adventure.” Olivia smiled, recalling one of her own youthful escapades. “I once snuck into our neighbor’s farm cart on market day, thinking it would be quite an exciting lark to journey to Dover.” She chuckled at the memory. “But it wasn’t at all what I expected. The truth is, it was horrible! I ended up cold, starving, and smelling like turnips for the next week.”
“I didn’t like it very much, either,” admitted Prescott. “It was wet as a witch’s tit—”
“SCOTTIE!” exclaimed John.
Olivia had to bite her lip to hold back a peal of laughter.
The boy scrunched his face in confusion. “What? Wilkins says that all the time and you never bellow at him.”
“It is not a word that ought ever be said in front of a lady,” explained John tightly.
“Sorry,” said Prescott in a small voice.
Olivia dismissed it with an airy wave. “Oh, pffft. I’ve heard a good many worse sayings than that,” she confided.
Prescott responded with a grateful smile. “Lucy knows a lot of colorful words, too. She’s eleven, so she has more experience in life than I do.”
Leaning down, Olivia gave a conspiratorial wink. “Yes, well, we older women are wise in the ways of the world.”
The boy giggled.
As for John, he was watching her with a hooded gaze that was far less revealing of his feelings. Disapproving? It was hard to tell. His dark, thick-fringed lashes formed an impenetrable curtain over his dark eyes.
Olivia pulled herself back from pondering what emotions the earl might be hiding. At the moment, it was quite obvious from his fidgeting that his primary wish was to be rid of her company.
After her “dancing-naked-in-the-ballroom” comment and strange ritual of stroking wood and stone chess pieces, he must think her the Hellion from Hades.
“Well, do enjoy your stay in London, Lord Linsley,” she said, becoming a bit edgy herself. She didn’t relish having to explain the real reason for own her presence in the gardens. “I am sure you will find Town more interesting than…wherever it was you were going on your Adventure.”
“Actually I was on my way here to Town,” replied the boy, darting a defiant look at the earl. “On account of having a very important meeting arranged.”
Olivia felt her skin begin to prickle. Oh, no. No.
Impossible.
“Father did not approve,” he went on. “But an honorable gentleman does not back out of his commitments, so I was forced to—”
“As I said before,” interrupted the earl. “Miss Sloane is not interested in hearing any more childish tales of woe.”
“I’m sure your father has only your best interest at heart.” Impossible, she repeated to herself. Trying to shake off her sneaking suspicions, she essayed a joke. “I do hope you weren’t dashing off to Gretna Green to be married over the anvil.”
“It’s not me who is thinking of getting married,” blurted out Prescott. “It is Father.”
“Scottie.”