ThePerfectPoison










TWENTY-THREE

“MR. FLETCHER IS MOST CERTAINLY NO FOOTMAN,” PATRICIA fumed in low tones the following afternoon. “What’s more, he obviously doesn’t know how to act like one, either. Look at him, lounging there against the wall, eating tea sandwiches as though he were a guest in this household.”
Lucinda exchanged a quick, amused glance with Lady Milden. It was three-thirty in the afternoon and the drawing room was decorated with more than half a dozen elegantly dressed young men. Through the window she could see two more eager, rather anxious-looking gentlemen in their early twenties, coming up the steps, bouquets in their hands.
The room was already crammed with cut flowers and posies of every description. She had been forced to dampen her senses to suppress the reek of decay but Patricia and Lady Milden seemed to find the floral offerings delightful.
It was not just the underlying essence of the mass of dead flowers that rattled her senses. Faint currents of psychical energy pulsed lightly in the room. All of Patricia’s admirers were members of the Society. That meant that each was endowed with some degree of talent. Put that many psychically gifted people in a confined space and even a person with minimal sensitivity would notice something in the atmosphere, she thought.
Mrs. Shute and two of her nieces who had been brought in to assist with the expected crowd of suitors bustled in and out continuously with fresh tea and an endless supply of sandwiches and small cakes. It was amazing how much food healthy young males could consume, Lucinda reflected.
The social rules that governed this sort of visiting between eligible young ladies and gentlemen were quite strict. Patricia was ensconced on the sofa in front of the teapot. Lucinda and Lady Milden were seated in chairs on either side, flanking her but allowing room for the admirers to approach Patricia and chat with her.
None of the young men should have remained for more than ten or fifteen minutes at most but half an hour had passed and thus far none had left and more were arriving by the minute. They took turns complimenting Patricia, but under the watchful eyes of Lady Milden and Lucinda, few of them could sustain a conversation for long.
“I will agree there is no way we could pass Mr. Fletcher off as a footman,” Lucinda said calmly. “That is why Lady Milden and I decided to introduce him as a friend of the family.”
“But he isn’t a friend of the family,” Patricia snapped. “He’s supposed to be a servant of sorts but he doesn’t take orders at all well. I told him to remain out in the hall. He would have had no trouble keeping watch from that location. Instead he insisted on coming in here.”
Lucinda was forced to admit that Edmund Fletcher was not at all what any of them had been expecting in the way of a bodyguard. One assumed that men who chose such a career came from the streets. Mr. Fletcher, on the other hand, not only dressed like a fashionable young gentleman, he had the manners, airs and—hardest of all to imitate—the accent of a man who had been well bred and well educated. He was also, she sensed, a man of some considerable talent.
“Just ignore Mr. Fletcher,” Lady Milden advised cheerfully. “I expect he is merely trying to carry out his responsibilities.”
“Not only doesn’t he take orders, he tries to give them,” Patricia muttered. “He actually had the nerve to inform me that I was not to stand in front of the window. Can you imagine?”
A young man with a ruddy complexion and an empty teacup in hand approached hesitantly. Patricia gave him what Lucinda thought was an especially brilliant smile.
“More tea, Mr. Riverton?” Patricia asked.
“Yes, thank you, Miss McDaniel.” Dazzled, Riverton held out his cup. “I understand from what you said at the ball that you are interested in archaeology.”
“Indeed I am, sir.” Patricia poured tea into his cup with a graceful flourish. “It is a passion of mine.”
“I am positively passionate about the subject, myself,” Riverton said eagerly.
“Is that so?” Patricia gave him another vivacious smile.
Across the room Edmund Fletcher rolled his eyes and downed the remainder of a sandwich. It seemed to Lucinda that his reaction caused Patricia to sparkle even more brightly.
Mrs. Shute loomed in the doorway. “Mr. Sutton and Mr. Dodson.”
The new arrivals were ushered into the drawing room. Lucinda thought she sensed the level of energy rise as those already present took stock of the new competition. Lady Milden appeared supremely satisfied with what she had wrought. Edmund Fletcher ate another sandwich and appeared even more bored.
A flicker of awareness made Lucinda look out the window again. She saw Caleb alight from a hansom and start up the front steps. A few seconds later she heard his low voice in the front hall.
Mrs. Shute appeared again. “Mr. Jones.”
Caleb entered the drawing room like a force of nature. The hum of masculine voices went abruptly silent. The young males moved out of the path of the new arrival, watching him with a mix of wariness, admiration and envy, the way young cubs might watch a full-grown lion. The level of power in the drawing room went up several degrees.
Caleb nodded once at Edmund Fletcher, who returned the silent acknowledgment with a respectful inclination of his head.
Ignoring the other males in the vicinity, Caleb stopped in front of Lucinda, Patricia and Lady Milden.
“Ladies,” he said. “I wonder if I might borrow Miss Bromley for a while. I have a great desire to tour her conservatory.”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Milden said before Lucinda could speak on her own behalf. “Run along. Patricia and I will do very nicely on our own.”
Lucinda rose and went toward the door with Caleb. She did not speak until they were out in the hall.
“A tour of my conservatory, Mr. Jones?” she said dryly.
“It seemed a reasonable enough excuse to remove you from the drawing room.”
“I appreciate that. I’m happy to take a respite. It is painful watching all those eager gentlemen try to make polite conversation with Patricia.”
“Matters appear to be proceeding well on the matchmaking front,” he observed.
“Yes. Lady Milden is very hopeful of finding a match within days.”
“What of Miss Patricia? Is she showing any signs of interest in any of the young men I saw back there?” Caleb asked.
“She is charming to all of them and appears to be enjoying their company but the only strong emotion of any sort that I have been able to detect is an incomprehensible animosity toward Mr. Fletcher.”
“Why the devil has she taken a dislike to him?”
“I fear it is, in part, his own fault. He has made it clear that he doesn’t think highly of any of her admirers or, indeed, of the entire project. I believe he feels that Patricia’s approach to finding a husband is much too businesslike. He said something to the effect that he felt as if he was attending an auction of bloodstock at Tattersall’s.”
Caleb frowned. “Odd way to look at it. Using Lady Milden’s consulting services strikes me as an extremely efficient and logical approach to the problem.”
“Yes, Mr. Jones, you did make that clear.” She led the way into the library.
“How is your shoulder today?”
“Still a bit sore but that is only to be expected. Shute is also recovering nicely. I assume you came here this afternoon because you have some news of the progress of your investigation?”
“No.” He opened the French doors and ushered her ahead of him into the conservatory. “I came here this afternoon because, what with one thing and another, we have not had an opportunity to talk.”
“About what?”
“The drying shed.”
Horrified, she whirled to face him. She could feel the blush heating her face but she managed to keep her voice cool and composed; every inch a woman of the world. Which was, she thought, precisely what she had become thanks to what had transpired in the drying shed.
She cleared her throat delicately. “I hardly think that a conversation on the subject is necessary. That sort of thing happens occasionally between mature men and women.”
“Not to me it doesn’t. Never had an encounter of that nature in a drying shed in my life.” He closed the doors very deliberately and looked at her with a disturbingly steady expression. His hard face was more dour than usual. “It was obvious that the experience was a novel one for you, as well.”
“It is not as though I have had a great many opportunities of that sort, sir,” she said crossly. “What is there to discuss?”
“Under normal circumstances, marriage.”

“Marriage.”

“Unfortunately, I am not in a position to offer it to you.”
She was starting to feel quite unsteady. Automatically she gripped the nearest sturdy object, a workbench, and tried to breathe normally.
“I assure you I never held any expectation of such an offer.” She waved one hand in what she hoped was airy dismissal. “It is not as if I am an innocent young lady like Patricia, who must guard her reputation. Heavens, mine was shredded beyond repair when my fiancé died.”
“You were innocent,” he said as though she had committed some grave crime. “I knew that even before I took you into the drying shed but I chose to ignore it.”
Now she understood. He did not blame her. It was himself he was accusing of having committed a crime.
She straightened her shoulders. “I am twenty-seven years old, sir. Believe me when I tell you that there is a limit to the joys of innocence. At some point ignorance is no longer bliss. I found the events of last night extremely enlightening and . . . and educational.”
“Educational?” he repeated neutrally.
“And enlightening.”
“I am relieved to hear that you did not feel that our time in the drying shed was entirely wasted.”
She blinked. His tone had not changed but something told her that she had offended him. Fine. Let him take offense. She was not feeling at all charitable toward him at the moment. She picked up a pair of shears and began snipping some dead blooms off a spray of orchids.
“Don’t give our time in the drying shed another thought, Mr. Jones,” she said.
“That will be a problem. I have not been able to stop thinking about it.”
She was so startled she very nearly nipped off a young bud. Her pulse skidded. Very carefully she set the shears aside.
“What did you say?” she asked.
He shoved his fingers through his hair. “I have come to realize that the memories of last night will be with me always.”
He did not appear thrilled by that discovery.
“I’m sorry if you consider that to be a problem, Mr. Jones.” She was definitely starting to sound waspish now. “Perhaps you should have considered that possible outcome before you suggested that stroll to the drying shed.”
“I did not say that the memories were a problem. But it will take some time to accustom myself to them.” He frowned. “I have always been able to put aside those sorts of intrusive thoughts when I wished to concentrate.”
“Now I’m an intrusive thought?” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Mr. Jones, it may interest you to know that is not the sort of compliment a woman treasures from a man after an intimate encounter.”
“I’m handling this rather badly, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” she said through her teeth. “You are.”
“No doubt that is because I am trying to avoid the subject of marriage.”
She chilled. “You were the one who brought up that subject. Not me.”
“Lucinda, you have every right to expect an offer of marriage. I consider myself a man of honor. I should make that offer. I regret to say that I cannot.” He paused. “Well, not yet, at any rate. Perhaps never.”
Pain mingled with outrage, squeezing her heart so tightly she could hardly breathe. It was not that she wanted to marry him, she thought. But it would have been nice to know that the encounter in the drying shed had meant something more to him than a stain on his honor and a few intrusive thoughts.
She took refuge in pride.
“Look around you, Caleb Jones.” She swept out her hand to indicate the conservatory and the large house beyond. “Isn’t it obvious that I do not need to marry any man? I have survived great scandal on my own. I manage the inheritance I received from my parents very nicely and live a comfortable life. I have my passion for botany, and I take enormous satisfaction in helping the people who live in Guppy Lane. That is more than enough to fill a woman’s life to the brim. I assure you, for a lady in my situation, an affair is far more convenient than marriage.”
“Yes, I can see that.” His dark brows came together in a fierce line over his eyes. “I do realize that I fail to meet most if not all of your requirements in a husband.”
“That is not the point, sir.”
“Hypothetically speaking, what would a man in my position need to offer you to induce you to marry him?”
She was coming to know that cold, intense look. Caleb had sensed another mystery to be solved.
“Love is what he would need to offer, sir.” She angled her chin. “And I would need to be able to offer him a reciprocal emotion.”
“I see.” He turned away a little, as though he had just developed a keen interest in the odd Welwitschia mirabilis plant nearby. “I have always found love to be impossible to quantify or describe in any clear and meaningful way.”
That was the logical, scientific mind for you. If one could not define something, it was easier to pretend it didn’t exist. She could almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
“Yes.” She smiled coldly. “Love is impossible to define with words. Just as the paranormal colors of the flowers that I see when I open my senses are impossible to describe.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “In that case, how does one know if one experiences it?”
That gave her pause. She could not confide her own feelings for him. He was, at heart, a man of integrity. That was why his sense of honor was gnawing at him this morning. She did not want to increase the weight of his guilt. After all, she shared equal responsibility for what had happened between them. What was more, she did not regret that incredible experience even though she was now paying a price.
She unfolded her arms, picked up the watering can and began industriously sprinkling a Lady fern. “Lady Milden says it is an intuitive thing, a matter of sensing a psychical connection of some sort.” Just as I did with you in the drying shed.
His eyes narrowed. “Did you feel that type of connection with your fiancé?”
Thoroughly disconcerted, she set the watering can down rather forcefully. She opened her senses wide, taking comfort from the invigorating energy of the conservatory.
“No,” she said, feeling more in control again. “But he seemed to be ideal for me in every regard. He met all of the requirements on my list. Every last one of them. I was certain that love would grow between us. How could it not? That is what all the guides to marital happiness promise, you see. Choose your husband carefully and love will follow.”
“Good Lord. There are books written on the subject?”
His astonishment would have been amusing under other circumstances, she decided.
“Hundreds of them,” she said blithely. “Not to mention the endless number of articles that appear in the ladies’ magazines.”
“Damn, I did not know that. I have never heard of such books and articles for men.”
“Very likely because men would not bother to read them,” she said. “Why should they? Marriage does not entail the same degree of risk for them that it does for women. Men enjoy so many more rights and freedoms. They need not worry excessively about being ostracized from the polite world if they are caught in a compromising situation. They can travel when and where they please without raising eyebrows. They can choose from any number of careers. An unhappy marriage can easily be compensated for with an expensive mistress. And if a man does decide to abandon his wife, he can be assured that the divorce laws will favor him in every regard.”
“You can save the lecture, Lucinda,” Caleb said dryly. “Rest assured every man in the Jones family has heard it often enough from the Jones women.”
She flushed. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. I know that you hold very modern views on the subject of women’s rights.” Probably one of the many reasons why I have fallen in love with you.
He frowned. “You said your fiancé met every requirement on your list?”
She sighed. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one that tells me that you’ve picked up the traces of yet another mystery. In answer to your question, yes. Mr. Glasson seemed quite perfect. In hindsight, it was astonishing just how perfect he was. But it was not until after we were engaged that I realized the truth. He met only one of my requirements.”
“Which one?”
“He most certainly possessed a fair amount of talent,” she said grimly. “I could sense it when I was near him.”
“A botanical talent?”
“No, although he did, indeed, have some knowledge of the subject. Eventually I discovered that almost everything about him was fraudulent. Yet somehow he managed to convince not only me but my father that he would make an ideal husband for me.”
“In other words, he had a gift for deception.”
“Yes, it was quite amazing, really.” She shook her head, still baffled by how she had been taken in by Ian Glasson. “Even Papa was deceived by him, and I assure you, my father was an excellent judge of character.”
Caleb’s expression became even more thoughtful. “Sounds as though Glasson was a chameleon talent.”
She blinked. “What?”
“In my spare time I am devising a taxonomy for the various sorts of strong talents. The Society needs a more useful method of classifying and describing the ways in which powerful paranormal abilities are manifested.”
“You astound me, sir,” she said, amused. “I would not have thought that you had any spare time.”
He ignored that, momentarily distracted by the new subject. “In the vast majority of people with talent, the psychical ability does not rise above the level of a vague, generalized sensitivity.”
“Intuition.”
“Yes. But my research of the Society’s historical records as well as my observations indicate that whenever a very strong talent appears, it is almost always highly specialized.”
Now she was starting to become intrigued. “Such as my talent for analyzing the energy of plants?”
“Exactly. Or a talent for hypnosis or aura reading. Chameleons have an ability to not only sense what someone else desires but, for short periods of time, generate the illusion that they can fulfill those desires.”
She frowned. “Why the time limitation?”
“It takes a great deal of energy to maintain the illusion, especially if the intended victim is intelligent and if he or she possesses a fair amount of sensitivity. Sooner or later, the image is shattered and the chameleon’s true nature is revealed.”
“That probably explains why Mr. Glasson was rarely in my company for long periods of time.” She hesitated. “Although there were occasions when we attended the theater or a lecture and were together for several hours.”
“Those were situations in which your attention was directed at other things. He would not have been required to exert a high level of energy for an extended period.” Caleb regarded her with a considering expression. “What caused you to suspect that he was not what he appeared?”
She blushed and turned away slightly. “You must understand that at the start of our association I was very impressed by his restraint.”
“Restraint?” Caleb sounded baffled.
Caleb was a brilliant man, she decided, but sometimes he could be amazingly thickheaded.
“Mr. Glasson was very much the perfect gentleman,” she elaborated.
“I don’t see why that would arouse your suspicions.”
She turned on her heel to face him again. “For pity’s sake, sir, Ian Glasson kissed me as though I were his sister or his maiden aunt. Chaste and passionless does not even begin to describe it. Need I make myself any more clear?”
Caleb looked dumbfounded as comprehension struck. “Good Lord. He kissed you as though you were his aunt ?”
“I assure you, he was extremely respectful of the proprieties.” She closed the hand on which she wore the ring into a small fist. “Right up until the afternoon he attempted to rape me in the Carstairs Botanical Society gardens.”



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