hesitated. A flutter, reminiscent of the excitement she’d felt at the salon, filled her. This was her chance to delve into the mind of the artist, to watch him at work, find out what drove him. For if she could figure out how he did it, she might understand whether she had it in herself to take those same risks with her poems—or whether she would dabble in secret forever.
Elizabeth sensed her capitulation. “It’s settled, then. Write him back.”
After Elizabeth left, Bea pulled out her mystery note once more, determined to decipher its code. The more she’d pondered it, the more she’d decided it unlikely the note was actually addressing the indelicate topic of pregnancy—poetic conventions about “seed planting” aside.
The author of the note advocated a planting and watering schedule based on days of the week. Presumably this made keeping track easier, but Bea found it oddly meticulous. Didn’t most gardeners tend to their plants based on the plants’ needs, and changes in the weather, rather than a preset timeline?
But if the author’s insistence on establishing a timeline served another purpose…
The most likely reason—not that any reason was particularly likely—a woman might find a note tucked into her sleeve, Bea presumed, was to arrange a meeting she might not want others to know about. A lovers’ rendezvous, perhaps, or payment of a private debt…even a bribe? Everyone had their secrets.
She returned to the note.
…the pleasure of a garden need not be limited to daylight. Last to be planted—on Saturday, for Sunday is a day of rest—are ten clusters of night-blooming plants.
Saturday. Night. Perhaps ten o’clock? Where, where? Bea tapped a fingernail on her desk, and then it came to her. A pleasure garden. Vauxhall.
The salon had been Monday evening. Today was Tuesday. If Bea’s interpretation was correct, then the secret meeting had not yet come to pass.
Bea was fairly certain she wasn’t the one who’d been invited.
What if she were to attend anyway? She had nearly four days to decide.
Philippe strummed anxious fingers against his thigh as the unmarked carriage waited outside Lady Pullington’s home. Her missive accepting this outing had come as a relief, even a bit of a surprise.
The door of the townhome opened and Lady Beatrice Pullington, dressed in a pale green gown with a light wrapper, descended the steps.
Philippe leaned forward.
Another figure, a woman with striking red hair and an emerald gown, followed behind her.
He sat back. A chaperone. Disappointing, but to be expected. The carriage door opened and the footman assisted both ladies up.
Philippe smiled broadly, falling back on the natural charm that had always come so easy to him. “Ladies. Welcome.”
“Monsieur Durand. Permit me to introduce my companion this afternoon, the Duchess of Beaufort.” Bea settled herself across from him, the redhead at her side.
Philippe gave a makeshift bow, as much as the tight space allowed. “Your Grace. It is truly an honor for a simple craftsman such as myself to spend the afternoon with not one, but two of Society’s loveliest ladies.”
The two women laughed and exchanged a glance. What was that about?
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Durand,” the redhead said. “I was very sorry to have missed the salon, so accompanying my dear friend Bea is a welcome opportunity. May I ask our destination?”
Every inch of the young duchess bespoke polish and, Philippe sensed, a protectiveness of Lady Pullington. He paused and rubbed his thigh, weighing his answer. “Je regrette…I am unable to offer you a specific destination. As you may know, I am unfamiliar with England’s countryside. I simply instructed our driver to take us a bit outside the city, and planned to explore until I found something that caught my eye.”
The duchess arched a brow. “Am I to understand you intend to drag us into the wilderness without purpose or destination?”
Definitely protective. He gave her a smile designed to disarm. “Never without purpose. And your safety is my utmost priority, vraiment. It is only that I seek the very best setting to complement your friend’s luxuriant beauty.”
Beatrice Pullington was being remarkably silent, but he thought he detected a blush at his last statement.
“I see. What sort of scenery is it you envision?” the duchess asked.
He tilted his head. “Something natural, yet alive. To be honest, I hoped to observe Lady Pullington as she freely wanders. When it is right, I will know.”
“Oh.” Lady Pullington’s eyes widened, and the spark of awareness that passed between them was nearly tangible.
He shifted back and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, you are a native here. Perhaps you know of somewhere that will suit?”
The redhead smiled at his flattery, and Philippe silently praised Beatrice Pullington for her choice of companion. Had she shown up with an ancient harridan immune to charm, the outing would have been infinitely less pleasant.
“The gardens at Montgrave.”
“An estate?” he asked.
“Yes, my husband’s and my country seat. It is not terribly far—perhaps two hours, a little more.”
“I see. The journey is manageable, though the return trip will limit our exploration. Are these formal gardens, then?” Philippe frowned.
“Not in the way of the sculpted gardens in France,” Lady Bainbridge answered. “Montgrave does have some English gardens that are lovely, but if those do not suit, the grounds themselves are extensive and offer a great variety of natural scenery. If you find it to your liking, you might have access to it as long as you need.”
It was a generous offer. Using the duke’s grounds might make his subject more comfortable, as she would be under the implied protection of her powerful friends. He needed her relaxed. However Beatrice Pullington might fascinate him, and whatever his reputation with women, Philippe had always acted the part of a gentleman.
He smiled. “Montgrave it shall be.”
Philippe watched as the duchess flicked another of those assessing glances first at Lady Pullington, then him. What was she planning?
More importantly, how did he get Beatrice Pullington to relax? She’d spoken barely two sentences the entire journey. Oh, she’d nodded, smiled, and murmured agreement as he and Lady Bainbridge tried valiantly to draw her into the conversation, but eventually they’d all lapsed into a desultory silence, lulled by the motion of the carriage.
The vehicle rolled through a set of stone and iron gates, signaling their arrival to the duke’s estate.
Philippe turned his gaze from the perplexing women across from him to the small window. Outside, the grounds were manicured, with swans floating serenely on a pond. Too formal. A sprawling manor came into sight, and behind it on the left, a sun-dappled meadow framed by woods. He smiled. There was promise in those fields.
Their vehicle drew to a stop, and the three climbed out. The young duchess, moving slowly, was the last to emerge.
“We are not expected, but there is always a small staff in residence here if you would care for refreshments before starting,” she offered.
“Merci. A kind offer, but if Lady Pullington is amenable, I prefer to take advantage of this fine afternoon and begin immediately.” He shrugged a shoulder, indicating the satchel he carried. “As I did not know when we set out where we would end up, I did pack a light repast.”
Lady Pullington opened her mouth to respond, but her companion cut her off. “Oh dear, I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Pardon?”