Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“It’s not really that big,” he said. “The map distorts area.”

“It does?”

“You did not know that?”

His tone was not insulting. It was not even condescending, but nonetheless, she felt foolish. It seemed like the sort of thing she ought to have known. And certainly it was the sort of thing she’d like to have known.

“It comes from having to spread a spherical object onto a flat plane,” he explained. “Try to envision wrapping this map around a sphere. You’d have a great deal of extra paper at the poles. Or conversely, try to imagine taking the surface of a sphere and laying it out flat. You would not get a rectangle.”

She nodded, cocking her head to the side as she considered this. “So the tops and bottoms are stretched. Or rather, the north and the south.”

“Exactly. Do you see how Greenland looks nearly equal in size to Africa? It’s actually less than one tenth the area.”

She looked up at him. “Nothing is as it seems, is it?”

He was silent for just long enough to make her wonder if they were still talking about maps. And then he said, his face devoid of emotion, “No.”

She shook her head, turning back to the map. “Strange.”

And she thought she heard him say, “You have no idea.” She glanced at him curiously, intending to ask what he meant, but he’d already returned his attention to the map.

“These projections do have their advantages,” he said, sounding somewhat brisk, as if it were his turn to wish to change the subject. “It is true that they do not preserve actual area, but the local angles remain true, which is why they are so useful in navigation.”

She was not sure that she fully understood what he was saying, but she enjoyed listening to him discuss something so academic. And she adored that he had not brushed it aside as a topic that would surely be of no interest to a lady. She looked over at him and smiled. “You certainly seem to know a great deal about this.”

He shrugged modestly. “It is an interest of mine.”

She sucked in her lips, a habit of hers that her mother detested. But she could not seem to help it. It was something she always did when she was deciding what to say. Or whether to say it.

“There is a name for this subject, is there not?” she asked. One of her feet was tapping nervously in her shoe. She wanted to know the name, because she wanted to try to look it up in her father’s encyclopedia at home, but she hated revealing her ignorance. It brought to mind all those times she’d been forced to smile politely when her mother described her as smart (but not too smart).

“You mean mapmaking?”

She nodded.

“It is called cartography. From the Greek chartis, for map, and graphein, to write.”

“I should have known that,” she muttered. “Not the Greek, I suppose, but at least the word. Did my parents think we would never have use for a map?”

“I imagine they thought you would have others to read them for you,” Thomas said gently.

She looked over at him in dismay. “You agree, then? That I have been educated appropriately?”

It was a terrible question to ask him. She’d put him in a dreadful spot, but she couldn’t help it.

“I think,” he said, his voice soft and deliberate, “that if you showed a desire for more knowledge, you should have been given the opportunity to acquire it.”

And that was the moment. She didn’t realize it right away, and in fact she wouldn’t realize it-or rather, she wouldn’t let herself realize it-for several weeks to come. But that was the moment she fell in love with him.

Chapter 11

An hour later, after pulling fourteen atlases from the shelves and explaining to Amelia the difference between Mercator, sinusoidal, and conical map projections, Thomas deposited her in one of the front drawing rooms and notified the butler that she was there to see Miss Eversleigh.

Grace would have to be informed of the morning’s activities, there was no getting around that. If a lie could not be made as close as possible to the truth, then Thomas was of the opinion that the truth ought to be made as close as possible to the lie. Everyone was far less likely to get confused that way. This meant, however, that Amelia needed to visit with Grace, and more important, that Grace understood that she was to have been shopping in Stamford that morning and invited Amelia back to Belgrave.

He, however, needed to speak with Grace first, without Amelia’s knowledge, and so he positioned himself in the doorway of another drawing room, closer to the stairs, where he might intercept her before she reached her destination.

After five minutes he heard footsteps coming softly down the stairs. Definitely a feminine footfall. He moved closer to the doorway, confirmed that it was indeed Grace, and, when the time came, reached out and yanked her inside.

“Thomas!” she exclaimed after her initial yelp of shock. Her eyes widened as she took in his disheveled appearance. “What happened to you?”

He put his finger to his lips and shut the door behind them. “Were you expecting someone else?” he asked, since her surprise had seemed more to the who than the actual event.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. But her skin colored all the same. She looked about the room, probably to discern if they were alone. “What is wrong?”

“I needed to speak with you before you see Lady Amelia.”

“Oh, then you know she is here?”

“I brought her,” he confirmed.

Grace silenced, her face showing her surprise. She glanced over at the mantel clock, which revealed the time to be still before noon.

“It is a long story,” he said preemptively. “But suffice it to say, Amelia will inform you that you were in Stamford this morning, and you invited her back to Belgrave.”

“Thomas, any number of people know quite well that I was not in Stamford this morning.”

“Yes, but her mother is not among that number.”

“Er, Thomas…” Grace began, sounding very much as if she was not certain how to proceed. “I feel I must tell you, given the number of delays thus far, I would imagine that Lady Crowland would be delighted to know-”

“Oh for God’s sake, it is nothing like that,” he muttered, half expecting her to cry out, “Despoiler of innocents!”

He ground his teeth together, not at all enjoying the singular experience of having to explain his actions to another human being. “She assisted me home when I was…impaired.”

“That was most charitable of her,” Grace said primly.

Thomas glared at her. She looked as if she were about to laugh.

Grace cleared her throat. “Have you, er, considered tidying up?”

“No,” he bit off, all sarcasm now, “I rather enjoy looking like a slovenly fool.”

She winced-audibly-at that.

“Now listen,” he continued, eager to bypass her embarrassment, “Amelia will repeat what I have told you, but it is imperative that you not tell her about Mr. Audley.” He nearly growled the last; it was difficult to utter his name without an accompanying wave of revulsion.

“I would never do that,” Grace replied. “It is not my place.”

“Good.” He’d known he could trust her.

“But she will want to know why you were, er…”