“It’s not for you,” Rose said, snatching it from Violet. “It’s addressed to Rowan.” So saying, she slipped a fingernail beneath the sloppy red wax seal and snapped it off.
“Rose!” Mum chided.
“You wouldn’t want to give him a letter without reading it first, Mum, would you? It could be improper for one so young.” Without waiting for her mother’s answer, Rose scanned the page. “The handwriting is rather messy,” she commented, then began reading. “‘Dear Rowan.’” She looked up. “Rather familiar salute, don’t you think?”
“Goodness, Rose,” Lily said, uncharacteristically impatient. “Must you criticize every word?” She snatched the letter back from her sister. “‘Dear Rowan,’” she repeated. “‘I am sorry about your clothes. But it was funny. I hope you will come see the stars. Love, Jewel.’”
“‘Love, Jewel?’ Love?” Violet rolled her eyes toward the elaborate plastered ceiling. The blurry curlicues up there seemed in keeping with the little girl’s intricate intrigues, with the five-year-old’s plans for…
Well, the only word for it was seduction.
Lily smiled dreamily. “Yesterday when you brought Rowan back, you said Jewel was in love.”
“I was exaggerating. And to write it down…” Violet couldn’t imagine declaring herself so casually on a piece of paper. Writing was permanent, important. Once something was in writing, it was there forever.
That was one of the reasons she wished to publish a book.
“I’m in love, too,” Rose declared.
Violet blinked. “With whom?”
“With Lord Lakefield, you goose. To instruct his niece to write a letter to Rowan…well, it just goes to show he’s a true romantic.” Looking rather theatrical, she laid a graceful hand on the smooth skin exposed by the neckline of her periwinkle gown. “Why, it’s almost enough to make me overlook the fact that he’s poor as a church mouse.”
“What a thing to say, Rose!”
Her hand dropped. “Well, lucky for me, it doesn’t matter, does it? Thanks to Grandpapa, when I turn eighteen I’ll have enough money to nab whomever I like, rich or destitute.”
Violet reminded herself to be patient, but she couldn’t help gritting her teeth. “Thanks to providence, that won’t be for three years, by which time we can hope you will have grown up.”
“Girls,” Mum warned. “That’s quite enough.” She turned to Violet. “Lord Lakefield’s houseman is waiting. Will you be taking Rowan to see the stars?”
“I’ll bring him,” Rose offered.
Taking a cue from her husband, Mum pretended not to hear. “Violet?”
“Yes, I’ll do it, Mum,” Violet said with an elaborate sigh.
But it was mostly for show. She had to admit, she was curious to see the stars. And for some odd reason, she felt a need to save the viscount from a predatory girl like her sister. Not that she didn’t love Rose, but a gentleman of Ford’s intellect deserved someone who appreciated more than just his exterior qualities.
Quality though his exterior was.
And it was very well done of him to have made Jewel write an apology, though she wondered how he could have neglected to supervise its contents before sending the letter.
Love, indeed.
TWELVE
HITCHING HERSELF forward on one of the drawing room’s faded red chairs, Jewel jumped one of Ford’s checkers with hers and palmed her new captive. “Your turn. Will Rowan come tonight, do you think?”
“I have no idea what he’ll decide. I don’t understand children.”
“But Uncle Ford, you like children, don’t you?”
He’d never thought he had particularly. But as he looked at his charming niece, he didn’t have the heart to say so. “I like you.” Studying his position on the black-and-white board, he lifted one of his dark-stained counters. “And I’d wager Rowan does, too,” he added to put a smile on her face. “He seemed much more fond of you after your jest. That was brilliant, baby. You certainly know your way to a young man’s heart.”
Click-click-click. Three diagonal jumps over her natural wood pieces, and his darker piece was at her end of the board. “King me,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.
Draughts. He was reduced to playing draughts. And she’d beaten him three times already. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had beaten him at draughts; he must have been seven years old.
For all his intentions to come home to Lakefield to focus on work and not women, the opposite seemed to be happening. When he wasn’t paying attention to his niece, he was fretting over his shabby estate. Rather than unlocking the secrets of the universe, his ingenuity was aimed at persuading a young woman named Violet Ashcroft to spend as much time here as possible.
Jewel crowned his piece with one of the hostages she’d taken. “Do you like Rowan?”
“I do. He’s very interested in my laboratory.” Too interested. But at least the lad had a good brain and a healthy curiosity.
“Do you think Rowan’s big sister is pretty?”
Did he? He’d initially thought Violet was nice-looking at best. But now when he pictured her he saw a bold and vivid face, softened by the thoughtful expression in her brandy-brown eyes…
“She’s pretty,” he said, surprising himself.
They both looked up as Hilda came in. “Harry seems to have disappeared,” the housekeeper said. “Where is he?”
Ford shrugged. “I don’t know.” There didn’t seem to be much he knew these days.
“He went to Rowan’s house,” Jewel said nonchalantly, jumping two more of Ford’s men.
Hilda smoothed her wide white apron. “And why is that?”
“I asked him to take a letter there.”
“A letter?” Ford frowned at the board, where his pieces seemed to be disappearing at an alarming rate.
“A letter to Rowan,” his niece clarified. “An ap-ap—” She glared at him, as though daring him to help her. “An a-pol-o-gy.”
“You wrote a letter?” Hilda asked.
“You wrote a letter?” Ford echoed. “All by yourself?”
“Well, I know how to write, you know. Mama taught me. What’s so hard about that?”
Ford took his turn, removing none of Jewel’s pieces. “It’s not the writing of it, baby, it’s thinking to do so in the first place. I’m impressed.”
“Mama says even a tomboy should have good manners.”
“I like the
