Читать книгу The Secrets Of Lord Lynford - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 11

Every minute mattered now that the school’s opening was upon them. Eaton pushed up his sleeves and gripped the oak table. At the other end, his headmaster, the renowned composer Cador Kitto, gave a nod and, with a mutual grunt, they lifted the heavy table. Around them, workmen painted and swept with feverish urgency. School began in three days and some students would arrive early to be on hand for the open house in two. The past few days it had been all hands on deck, even his—especially his. Eaton didn’t believe in leading idly. He refused to stand back, shouting orders to others, without lending his own efforts to the project. Besides, staying busy made it possible to forget other unpleasant realisations, albeit temporarily; that Richard Penlerick was dead, life was short and there was nothing he could do about either.

They manoeuvred the table into place at the front of the room and set it down with a relieved thud. Damn, but good oak was heavy. Eaton swiped at his brow and Cador laughed. Eaton groaned. ‘Did I just smear dirt across my forehead?’

‘Yes, but no matter. There are no ladies about to see you.’ Cador winked.

‘Just for that, you can unpack the books.’ Eaton chuckled.

‘Oh, no, I’ve got instruments to oversee.’ Cador wiped his hands and nodded towards the door at the arrival of Eaton’s secretary. ‘Looks like you’ve got business to attend to.’

Eaton turned, stifling a sigh. He far preferred physical labour to the never-ending tedium of paperwork, especially when there was so much to get done, so much to forget. It was too easy for his mind to wander into difficult territory when he was doing paperwork. He found a smile; it wasn’t the secretary’s fault. ‘What is it, Johns?’

‘There’s someone asking to see you, my lord.’ Johns was young, hired to help with the record-keeping and correspondence at the school, and today he looked every inch of his mere twenty years. Johns shifted from foot to foot, his cheeks tinged a fading pink which Eaton didn’t think was due to the exertion of the stairs. Whoever was waiting had been quite insistent.

‘Do they have an appointment?’ Eaton looked about for a rag to wipe his hands on. Johns would have to learn how to be a better gatekeeper.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Has one of the boys arrived early?’ Eaton gave up on a rag. His mind was already working through options. There were rooms ready on the third floor if needed and the cook could be called in to prepare food a day earlier than planned, although provisions weren’t expected to arrive until tomorrow...

Johns cleared his throat. ‘It’s one of the patrons, my lord. One of the widows.’ Johns’s tone was urgent now. Some of the insistence that had been pressed upon him by the unexpected visitor was now being relayed.

Eaton relaxed, although he did wonder what had upset his secretary. Two of the school’s patrons were wealthy widows and he couldn’t imagine either of them being the source of such angst. ‘Is it Mrs Penhaligon? Has she come to see that her piano is properly installed?’ Austol Penhaligon’s widow had donated her expensive Sébastien Érard double action keyboard piano, much to Cador’s delight. The other, a Mrs Blaxland, was an extraordinarily rich woman from Truro, whom Eaton had never met. He’d assumed her age, which must be considerable, had brought about an inability to travel. Her husband, Huntingdon Blaxland, had been sixty-five when he died and that had been five years ago. She likely let her money do the travelling for her these days. Thanks to her generous donations, the boys would have the finest music instructors Cador Kitto had been able to find, acquired from the Continent on his summer honeymoon.

Soft fabric rustled behind Johns, giving Eaton his only warning before no-nonsense female tones announced, ‘No, not Mrs Penhaligon, I’m afraid.’ Apple-green skirts and shiny chestnut hair swept past Johns with an imperious air that smelled of peach orchards and vanilla, the very best and last of summer. ‘I’m Eliza Blaxland.’ She ran a gloved hand along the surface of the oak table, collecting dust on the pristine tip of one finger. ‘And you, Lord Lynford, have some accounting to do.’

Eaton gave her an assessing stare. This haughty virago was Eliza Blaxland? What had the elderly mining magnate been doing with a woman like her? She was no frail grey-haired widow, practising philanthropy from her armchair. This was an elegant, sophisticated woman in her early thirties with decades of life and fire still left to her, a woman who valued being in control. If so, she’d have to adjust. He was more than happy to take her money for the school, but not her orders. He was the Marquess of Lynford and his deference was given sparingly. He could not be bought, nor could he be intimidated. ‘Accounting, Mrs Blaxland? In what way? I was unaware we had an appointment, let alone any accounting to do.’ He was usually the one who did the intimidating. How interesting that she thought the interaction might go differently. She needed to learn that her cheques did not allow her carte blanche in the school and that included showing up two days early for the open house.

She was not daunted by his cool reception. Instead, she returned his assessing stare with one of her own, making him acutely aware that she was entirely his antithesis. While he stood before her sans waistcoat, jacket and cravat, shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled with a belatedly remembered smudge of dirt on his forehead, she was all elegant summer perfection in her apple-green walking ensemble of India muslin, matched head to toe from the brim of her green-crepe chapeau Lyonnaise to the peeping toes of her green half-boots. ‘I disagree. You are two days from opening and this place is a madhouse.’ She held up the dusty finger of her glove in reminder. ‘My money did not pay for chaos.’

Eaton summoned up a smile from his repertoire, the one known for successfully impressing older, more conservative women who occasionally found his love of adventure a tad too liberal—until they tried it for themselves. ‘I assure you, all will be in order for the open house.’ She was not convinced. Her gaze roved about the room, taking in the painters, the movers, the sweepers, casting doubt and disappointment wherever her eyes landed. Eaton grimaced. He needed to get her out of this room. There were plenty of spaces that were finished. It was too bad she hadn’t found him in one of those. ‘Might I offer you a tour, Mrs Blaxland?’ The woman was likely to poke her nose into all the rooms on her own—at least this way he could keep an eye on her. He could control a tour, although it would cost him an hour of work to squire her around. Still, better an hour of work lost than a lucrative patron. Disappointed patrons often bred other disappointed patrons. ‘On our tour, we can discuss whatever it is you’re doing here.’ It was a subtle reminder that she was the one in the wrong, the one who’d shown up uninvited.

He gestured to Cade, giving her no chance to refuse. ‘Let’s start with an introduction to our headmaster, Cador Kitto, lately from Vienna. He’s composed at the Hapsburg court.’

Cade, with his wavy blond locks and Continental élan, bowed over her gloved hand with a courtly aplomb that made Eaton envious of the man’s slender elegance. ‘A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs Blaxland. Our students will benefit greatly from your patronage.’ A little dose of Cade could go a long way in smoothing ruffled feathers—at least that was what Eaton was hoping for, particularly when he didn’t know what had ruffled her feathers in the first place.

‘What you describe as chaos, Mrs Blaxland, I consider progress. Allow me to show you.’ They left Cade and the busyness of the classroom behind. He toured her through the students’ rooms on the third floor, showing her chambers with neatly made beds, braided rugs, dust-free wardrobes and bright white curtains hanging at the windows. The rooms smelled of lemon polish and linseed oil. ‘Mr Kitto’s wife designed the dorms,’ Eaton explained, making no effort to hide his pride. ‘She believes the homelier the place feels, the more comfortable the boys will be here.’

‘And the less likely they will be to leave,’ Mrs Blaxland translated in more blunt terms. ‘Tell me, how is enrolment? Do we have enough boys to fill these chambers?’

Eaton shut the last door behind them and directed her back towards the staircase. ‘We have two-thirds of the rooms accounted for, which I think is excellent for a first semester.’ Twenty-one boys ranging in age from seven to fourteen would be arriving the day after the open house. ‘Once word spreads regarding the quality of student and the superiority of musical education we offer at the Cornish Academy, we will reach capacity soon enough,’ he assured her, but her sharp green eyes met his assurances with questions.

‘Do you have quality students?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I think the challenge of such a school is not the idea of it, but the location, as I’ve mentioned before in correspondence. Why would a person of any talent want to travel to the wilds of Cornwall for a musical education when one could be in London? Or go abroad? I fear those who have choices will not choose the academy at Porth Karrek.’

She was bold-tongued, her comments blunt and bordering on rude. Perhaps that was simply how it was in business circles where money mattered more than manners. Eaton chose to be impressed with her analysis rather than offended by the implication that the academy would only be capable of drawing mediocre students.

‘The talent you seek will come if you and the other patrons tell them to. Quality enrolment is all of our obligation.’ Richard Penlerick had been adamant on that issue. He’d been promoting the academy in London just days before the murder. ‘One cannot simply throw money at a project and expect that to be enough to ensure success.’ The words came out harshly against the sudden tightness of Eaton’s throat, but he wouldn’t apologise for them. If Eliza Blaxland took his response as a scolding, then so be it. He wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mean it as one. He was the son and heir of a wealthy family. If it had only been about money, he could easily have bankrolled the school entirely by himself. He didn’t need patrons’ funds the way a struggling orphanage in St Giles did. He needed the names and reputations behind the funds.

Eaton cleared his throat and offered Richard Penlerick’s often-voiced sentiment. ‘The quality of our students will depend on the quality of our patrons. That is why I sought you out in particular. You are well known in Cornish circles for your appreciation of education.’ Even if those circles had failed to convey how young she was.

At the bottom of the stairs he showed her into the drawing room where the Sébastien Érard piano stood in pride of place. ‘This is where our recitals will be held. Mr Kitto will perform at the open house, of course.’ He smiled, reminding her he’d done his part in securing a well-known musician for headmaster, one with a name that would draw talented students.

He allowed her to appraise the Sébastien Érard with her sharp eyes before he got to the heart of the matter. ‘Surely all of this checking up could have been handled at the open house. Why have you really come, Mrs Blaxland?’ Did she have a student she was hoping to get admitted? Did she have an instructor who needed to be hired? Whoever they were, they would have to earn their place here, no matter how much money she donated. Kitto wanted only the best. They wouldn’t attract the best if they took in just anyone.

She gave him a polite smile he did not mistake for friendliness, although it did serve to warm him none the less. ‘I have found in the years of running my late husband’s mines that scheduled appointments can often result in misleading impressions. When one arrives unannounced, one sees a clearer representation of the truth.’ She was already a fortress of perfection in her dress and in her speech, but in her directness she was nigh on impenetrable. Eaton felt the urge to penetrate that directness, to lay siege to its walls.

‘You mean an ambush, Mrs Blaxland?’ Sparring with her was quite a warming exercise indeed. A part of him that had been dormant since returning from London was waking up.

‘An ambush assumes someone can be taken by surprise, that someone lets his guard down,’ she countered smoothly. ‘If one is always prepared, one cannot be caught unawares.’

When was the last time Eliza Blaxland had been taken unawares? From her cool façade, he would guess it had been a while, if ever. It was hard to imagine anyone got anything past her. Eaton would take that as a challenge—not that he wanted to take advantage, but he would like to surprise her, just to prove to her that it could be done. How would she react when things were out of her control?

He studied the flawless perfection of her face, its smooth contours with its elegantly set nose, green eyes and that mouth—that gorgeous pink mouth with its full, kissable lower lip. His gaze lingered there while his thoughts drifted. What would bring a crease to those perfect features? What might fluster her well-ordered world? Had old Huntingdon Blaxland ever flustered her, aside, perhaps, from dying? Would a kiss be enough to offset that world? She was a widow, after all. He could presume she’d been kissed before. Would she like to be kissed again? He found he would like to pursue that course of action. Between Richard Penlerick’s death and the school, it had been a while since he’d felt a spark of interest.

They were hardly the thoughts one ought to have about a wealthy patroness, yet when the patroness was so aloofly, coolly attractive, it seemed a natural progression of thought to wonder, what if? They returned to the main hall, the front door just feet away, providing a less-than-subtle opportunity to bid Mrs Blaxland farewell and get on with his day. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you here. As you have already ascertained, there’s much to be done.’

‘There is one more thing.’ She gave him another long perusing stare with those intelligent eyes. ‘I thought you’d be older. I was unaware Bude’s heir was so...young.’ She was implying that perhaps he might not be up to the task of overseeing a school, that a man of his age and station was better suited to the frivolous pursuits of London.

‘Twenty-eight is young?’ he queried with a sardonic cock of a dark brow. It was an odd remark coming from a woman who couldn’t be more than thirty-three, but time and age were different for females. ‘It’s been some time since anyone has thought of me as young. Good day, Mrs Blaxland. I will look forward to seeing you at the reception.’ He gave her a small bow in farewell. ‘I assure you that you needn’t worry. I am in my prime.’ He’d been unable to resist the final remark. Intuition suggested that no one teased Mrs Blaxland and someone ought to. People didn’t build impregnable fortresses around themselves without reason. He was intrigued as to what her reason might be.

‘You most certainly are,’ she acknowledged with a slight, indifferent nod of her head, but beneath that cool exterior, something akin to interest sizzled and flared in her gaze before it was snuffed out by practice and perhaps practicality. But it was too late. Eaton smiled over his little victory. She’d already given herself away. Eliza Blaxland wasn’t as unaffected or as distant as she appeared.