of glancing out to observe who came and went. There was no need to see her; indeed, he did not wish to. What further did they have to say to one another, save for his making an abject apology? Her scorn yesterday had made her position plain. And Higgenthorpe, Lazonby reasoned, obviously meant to go in through the servants’ entrance.
Ruthveyn’s butler, however, had a block’s lead and legs nearly as long as Lazonby’s. Higgenthorpe crossed Park Street, then vanished by turning up the alleyway. A few yards further along, Lazonby heard what could only be the back gate clattering shut behind the fellow.
But Ruthveyn’s garden, as Lazonby recalled, was deep, the path long. Reaching the gate just as Higgenthorpe started up the steps to the back door, Lazonby opened his mouth to call after him, but just then a flash of motion caught his eye.
Anisha .
Lazonby went perfectly still.
She sat in the small arbor at the easterly edge of Ruthveyn’s garden, turned slightly away from him, her head bent to some sort of task. Through the sprays of yellow forsythia that swayed gently round the latticework, he could easily make out her smooth, shining cap of inky hair, for Anisha rarely wore a hat. She hated them, in fact, and thought them a strange English affectation.
It was one of the things he liked best about her, he realized.
Not her contempt for hats but her quiet disdain for conventions she found foolish.
And when she lifted her hand to brush back a loose wisp of hair, he wished, suddenly and acutely, that he were a different sort of man. That his life had turned out differently. Or that he had never left Westmorland as a hotheaded young fool and set out for the excitement of Town.
He had been but eighteen years old and truly had not grasped the fact that a man’s misjudgments could follow him the whole of his life. Despite the visions of evil that had haunted his mother and his own rigorous training as a Guardian, he had wanted to escape; to blot out his own secret fears with wretched excess. Young, wealthy, and charming, he’d believed the world his oyster to seize, and had waded out into those dangerous currents after it with a naïveté that now astounded his older, wiser self.
Just then Anisha lifted her chin and laughed. Her laugh was light and always put him in mind of tiny bells. Tiny, elegant bells.
He realized then that he was still standing at her gate like a startled stag, simply staring—and further, that Anisha was not alone. Indeed, at that very moment she stood and turned, as if to step back onto the meandering garden path. And when she froze, he knew that he had been seen.
“ Lazonby—? ” Her voice rang out across the garden, sharp in the spring air.
A pity he had not gone up the front steps and rung the bell like a gentleman ought.
A pity he was such a fool.
But there was nothing to be done now save brazen it through.
“Lady Anisha!” He leaned over the gate. “Pardon the intrusion. I thought I heard your voice round back.”
It was an obvious lie, for the house was massive and the wind blowing north, but she seemed not to heed it and came down the steps, leading someone by the hand. “Do lift the latch and come in,” she called out. “Look, I have had a visitor. I think perhaps you know her?”
A second lady followed from the arbor—and even at a distance, she was easily recognizable.
Good Lord.
“Lazonby! How fortuitous.” Anaïs de Rohan wore one of her dark, vibrant gowns, with her hair tumbled atop her head like an afterthought.
Left with no alternative, Lazonby pushed open the gate and started up the walk, wary now on two fronts. Miss de Rohan swept down the garden path beside Anisha, standing a head taller and wearing her soft, Madonna-like smile. The path was meandering, allowing time for his unease to take a good, firm grip.
An ax-wielding Amazon, he had called her. That had been uncharitable—and untrue.
But when she reached him, Miss de Rohan caught his empty
Ruthveyn’s butler, however, had a block’s lead and legs nearly as long as Lazonby’s. Higgenthorpe crossed Park Street, then vanished by turning up the alleyway. A few yards further along, Lazonby heard what could only be the back gate clattering shut behind the fellow.
But Ruthveyn’s garden, as Lazonby recalled, was deep, the path long. Reaching the gate just as Higgenthorpe started up the steps to the back door, Lazonby opened his mouth to call after him, but just then a flash of motion caught his eye.
Anisha .
Lazonby went perfectly still.
She sat in the small arbor at the easterly edge of Ruthveyn’s garden, turned slightly away from him, her head bent to some sort of task. Through the sprays of yellow forsythia that swayed gently round the latticework, he could easily make out her smooth, shining cap of inky hair, for Anisha rarely wore a hat. She hated them, in fact, and thought them a strange English affectation.
It was one of the things he liked best about her, he realized.
Not her contempt for hats but her quiet disdain for conventions she found foolish.
And when she lifted her hand to brush back a loose wisp of hair, he wished, suddenly and acutely, that he were a different sort of man. That his life had turned out differently. Or that he had never left Westmorland as a hotheaded young fool and set out for the excitement of Town.
He had been but eighteen years old and truly had not grasped the fact that a man’s misjudgments could follow him the whole of his life. Despite the visions of evil that had haunted his mother and his own rigorous training as a Guardian, he had wanted to escape; to blot out his own secret fears with wretched excess. Young, wealthy, and charming, he’d believed the world his oyster to seize, and had waded out into those dangerous currents after it with a naïveté that now astounded his older, wiser self.
Just then Anisha lifted her chin and laughed. Her laugh was light and always put him in mind of tiny bells. Tiny, elegant bells.
He realized then that he was still standing at her gate like a startled stag, simply staring—and further, that Anisha was not alone. Indeed, at that very moment she stood and turned, as if to step back onto the meandering garden path. And when she froze, he knew that he had been seen.
“ Lazonby—? ” Her voice rang out across the garden, sharp in the spring air.
A pity he had not gone up the front steps and rung the bell like a gentleman ought.
A pity he was such a fool.
But there was nothing to be done now save brazen it through.
“Lady Anisha!” He leaned over the gate. “Pardon the intrusion. I thought I heard your voice round back.”
It was an obvious lie, for the house was massive and the wind blowing north, but she seemed not to heed it and came down the steps, leading someone by the hand. “Do lift the latch and come in,” she called out. “Look, I have had a visitor. I think perhaps you know her?”
A second lady followed from the arbor—and even at a distance, she was easily recognizable.
Good Lord.
“Lazonby! How fortuitous.” Anaïs de Rohan wore one of her dark, vibrant gowns, with her hair tumbled atop her head like an afterthought.
Left with no alternative, Lazonby pushed open the gate and started up the walk, wary now on two fronts. Miss de Rohan swept down the garden path beside Anisha, standing a head taller and wearing her soft, Madonna-like smile. The path was meandering, allowing time for his unease to take a good, firm grip.
An ax-wielding Amazon, he had called her. That had been uncharitable—and untrue.
But when she reached him, Miss de Rohan caught his empty
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