“Another tall order.”
“We have much work to do, Lady Fitzhugh.”
His tone was serious, yet at the same time full of anticipation. She found herself both daunted by what he wanted and fiercely determined to rise to the challenge. Perhaps a garden was not the only thing they’d grow together. Perhaps they could also nurture a successful partnership.
“I’m not afraid of work,” she said. “Give me a goal and point me to it.”
You really aren’t afraid of work,” Fitz marveled a few days later.
“I used to practice the piano five hours a day,” she said. “I hated it. Compared to that, this is nothing.”
She might have smiled—her eyes crinkled, but he couldn’t see the rest of her face, which was concealed by a black scarf. She was nearly entirely swamped in black, a dress of black silk trimmed with crape, a thick black mantle, a sable muff for her hands. Fitz was dressed just as heavily, three pairs of stockings inside his boots, gloves, two woolen mufflers. A fire burned in the grate and still he was cold.
Since their marriage, most of their energies had been concentrated on Henley Park, not the town residence, which remained dank and drafty. In summer, it was bearable. But now, late in the year, he fancied himself growing arthritic in the frigid temperatures.
At night it was so frosty in his room that he’d given serious consideration to knocking on her door and asking to climb in bed with her—not to break their pact, but for warmth.
“You play beautifully.” Sometimes, when his sisters or Hastings visited Henley Park, they asked her to play for them.
“I play well. Beautifully is another matter altogether. You need musicality to play beautifully. I can only press the keys and make sounds.”
“I can’t tell the difference.”
“Many people can’t—all those hours of practice.”
“Good. By the time we are done here with all our hours of practice, your father’s managers won’t be able to tell that we’ve maneuvered them.”
“You really think so?”
“I do,” he said. “You are very convincing. And surprisingly wily. You’ll have them eating out of your hand.”
Her eyes crinkled again. He wondered once more whether she’d let him hold her at night—just for warmth. But of course he’d never ask. A pact was a pact.
She pulled her scarf more snug around her face. “Should we practice some more with you as Mr. Hawkes?”
“No, I think I’ll be Mr. Mortimer this time.”
“Oh, good, you do a very fine Mr. Mortimer.” She looked at him, her eyes bright and clear. “I know the stakes are terribly high, but this is actually fun.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “It is.”
The meeting was set to take place in January, a day after Lord Fitzhugh’s twenty-first birthday. It was important that he come into his majority, so that they no longer needed Colonel Clements’s permission—or forgiveness—for any decisions. And so that they were not two children dealing with men who’d been in business for decades.
The night before, after dinner, she’d given him his birthday present, a signet ring with the Fitzhugh coat of arms. And inscribed inside, the family motto, Audentes fortuna iuvat.
“Fortune favors the bold,” he translated. “Highly applicable to the occasion. I will wear it tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” she said, trying not to sound breathlessly gratified—which she was.
He gauged the size of the ring and put it on the index finger of his right hand. “A perfect fit.”
Now she was only breathless. His hand looked different with the square, heavy ring upon it. Or perhaps the ring only emphasized the qualities he’d acquired since their wedding, the cool dedication and the calm authority.
She wanted him to touch her with the ring on his hand. Badly.
“I hope it will bring us good luck,” she said.
“I hope so, too. But should things go ill, at least we will know it is only because of the capriciousness of luck, that we have done everything in our power to seize the opportunity.” He placed his hand on her arm. “And whatever the outcome tomorrow, I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in this endeavor—or any other, for that matter.”
It was not a declaration of love, but one of friendship. Her heart ached—yet at the same time, filled with sweetness. She closed her hand over his, the one bearing the ring.
“It will happen,” she said. “If not tomorrow, then another day. Sooner or later the prize will be ours.”
The meeting was a theatrical production.