Sleepless at Midnight Read online

  She’d been tempted to tell her sister and friends of the rumor, but hadn’t wanted to say anything that might discourage Carolyn from attending the house party. Especially now that her sister was making such strides in rejoining society and emerging from her mourning—accepting Lord Langston’s invitation being the largest and most significant step thus far. It was, after all, only a rumor. If Lord Langston was indeed looking for a bride, Carolyn was out of the question as a prospective candidate. Her sister had confessed to her that she had no intention of ever marrying again. That she would only marry for love, and could never love another man as she’d loved Edward. Of course, Lord Langston wasn’t privy to that information, but Sarah had every confidence that Carolyn would make certain he knew should the need arise.

  Of course both Emily and Julianne were both eligible bride candidates. Therefore, she intended to keep a sharp eye on Lord too-handsome-for-his-own-good Langston to determine if his character rendered him good enough for either of her friends. Unfortunately, based on what she’d seen of him thus far, he fell firmly into the nincompoop category.

  And now she had to pilfer—or rather borrow—a shirt from her dismissive host. A tiny smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. It might actually be fun to get the best of him. Take something of his—temporarily, of course—without his knowledge. A chortle tickled her throat. Laugh at me, will you, Lord Langston? Well, you’re nothing but another of those spoiled nincompoops. And I shall have the last laugh upon you.

  Pushing her glasses back into place, Sarah said to her companions, “We all have our assignments. I call this first meeting of the Ladies Literary Society of London adjourned and move that we reconvene here at one A.M tomorrow to begin work on Franklin N. Stein.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Emily, raising an imaginary glass in toast.

  Quick good-nights were said all around, then they slipped from Sarah’s room to make their way stealthily down the corridor to their own bedchambers.

  After closing the door behind them, Sarah leaned against the oak panel. Her gaze fell upon the list she’d left on the antique escritoire, and pushing off from the door, she walked toward the small desk. After picking up the pen, she slowly dipped the nib into the inkwell and added her last requirements to the Perfect Man list. The most important requirements. The ones she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say in front of the others. For although she was among her closest confidants, some things were still difficult to admit. To anyone.

  When she finished writing, she set down the pen and looked at her words. Does not judge people by their looks. Can discern beauty beneath that which is plain. Does not look through people as if they don’t exist.

  She had no reason to believe that such a man existed, but so long as she was dreaming him up, why not dream big?

  Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, and she rose to walk to the window. She’d always loved the sound of summer storms, found the slash of the rain against the roof and windows oddly soothing. Streaks of lightning flashed and she glanced out the window. And froze. At the sight of a man exiting a nearby copse of elms to approach the house. Amid the intermittent flashes, she saw him hurrying across the lawn, head bent, carrying a shovel, his hair and clothes plastered to him. Suddenly, as if he felt her gaze upon him, he paused and looked up. She shrank back, clutching the heavy velvet curtains flanking the windows, but not before she’d gotten a good look at him. And instantly recognized him.

  Heart pounding for no good reason she could think of, she waited several seconds, then peeked out the window once again. He was gone.

  Had he seen her? She frowned at the question. So what if he had? She wasn’t the one skulking about at an ungodly hour during a storm, clutching a shovel.

  But what had Lord Langston been doing outside in the rain in the middle of the night, traipsing about in a furtive manner with a shovel in the first place? Why it was precisely the sort of thing that—

  Her gaze jerked to the three leather bound books on the night table that comprised The Modern Prometheus.

  —precisely the sort of thing that Victor Frankenstein had done.

  Her imagination, which had always been lively, threatened to run amok. She reeled in her runaway thoughts and with a frown stepped away from the window. Surely there was a logical explanation for her host’s odd behavior.

  And she was determined to discover what it was.

  Chapter 3

  The first mauve streaks of dawn were just seeping through her window when Sarah quietly exited her bedchamber. She’d awakened early, as she did every morning, anxious to be outside, especially so as the rain had ceased at some point during the night, and she longed to breathe in the fresh, damp scents of the air and grass after a storm.

  When the carriages had approached Langston Manor late yesterday afternoon, she’d caught glimpses of what appeared to be impressive gardens and was eager to explore and make some sketches. Especially now, in this quiet predawn time, as she would have the entire outdoors all to herself.

  With her worn leather satchel containing her sketch supplies tucked under her arm, she rounded the corner of the corridor. And collided with a young maid carrying an armful of snowy bed linens.

  “Oh! I beg yer pardon, miss,” the maid said, clutching her teetering bundle closer to her chest. “I weren’t expectin’ anyone to be about so early.”

  “My fault,” Sarah said, bending to pick up both her satchel and a pillowcase that had fallen from the top of the maid’s stack. “I was lost in thought and not watching where I was going.” She straightened, deftly refolded the pillow case, then set it on top of the maid’s bundle.

  “Th-Thank you,” stammered the clearly stunned young woman.

  Sarah fought the urge to look toward the ceiling. Ridiculous that the maid should be surprised by a mere act of common courtesy, especially as she herself had been the one not paying attention. Good lord, she was a lowly physician’s daughter, not visiting royalty. If she lived to be one hundred, she’d never grow accustomed to the formality of the world of Society that Carolyn had married into. She often wondered how her sister tolerated it.

  “You’re welcome…?” she inclined her head, waiting for the young woman to supply her name.

  “Mary, miss.”

  Sarah pushed up her glasses and smiled. “You’re welcome, Mary.”

  The maid’s gaze took in Sarah’s plain brown day gown. “Did ye need somethin’, miss? Is the bell cord in yer chamber not workin’?”

  “There’s nothing I require, thank you. Except perhaps directions to the gardens?” She held her satchel aloft. “I was hoping to do some sketching.”

  Mary’s face lit up. “Oh, the gardens are beautiful, miss, especially after a rain. And so well-tended. Passionate about plants and flowers, his lordship is.”

  Sarah’s brows shot upward. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. Rolls up his sleeves and works in the garden himself. Not afraid of gittin’ dirty like some gentlemen are. Even saw ’im once heading into the gardens late at night.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Rumor belowstairs is that his lordship is growin’ some sort of night-bloomin’ flowers wot requires lots of care.”

  “Night blooming flowers?” A sense of excitement filled her at the thought of such unusual blooms, and then she inwardly cringed, scolding her overactive imagination. Lord Langston had simply been tending his garden last night and she’d cast him in the role of a Frankenstein-like mad scientist. “Such blossoms are very rare.”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about it myself, miss, but his lordship is an expert about plants and flowers and such.”

  “I shall look forward to discussing it with him at the first opportunity,” Sarah murmured. Perhaps she’d misjudged Lord Langston. Any man who loved plants and flowers couldn’t be all bad. Nor could a man who was willing to spend the time to coax night blooming flowers to grow.

  After Mary instructed her to exit the house through the drawing room’s French windows,
Sarah thanked her and headed that way. The instant she stepped outside onto the flagstone terrace, a sense of peace infused her. Deep golds and pinks stained the sky, glowing with the first hints of the rising sun’s muted rays. Leaves rustled in the towering elms that speared upward as they flanked the house, providing background music for the birds’ gentle morning warbles.

  After drawing in a cool, deep breath scented with the lingering fragrance of fresh rain, Sarah started across the flagstones. Her breath caught at the beauty of the vast garden spread before her. Curving trails lined with well-tended borders meandered through acres of perfectly manicured lawns and hedges. Copses of trees, beneath which inviting benches were placed, would provide shade as the sun rose. Clearly her host did indeed harbor a passion for his garden, as this was one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen. She could only imagine how breathtaking it would be once it was flooded with sunshine.

  Anxious to explore, she moved down the flagstone steps. The wet grass dampened her sturdy shoes and the hem of her gown, but rather than finding it uncomfortable, she reveled in the familiar and much-loved sensation. She walked slowly along, choosing curving paths at random, marveling at the gorgeous profusion of annuals and perennials. Her mind registered each one as she passed—impatiens, columbine, daisy, blue pimpernel, among dozens of others.

  The soft trickle of water reached her ears, and she followed the sound. Several minutes later, after rounding a curve, to her delight she came upon a large round stone fountain from which rose a statue of a robe-draped goddess. She carried a tilted urn, pouring water in a gentle stream into a pond at her feet. A stone bench arced around a portion of the fountain, and the entire small clearing was surrounded by tall hedges. Feeling as if she’d discovered a secret hideaway, Sarah sat down and opened her sketch pad.

  She’d just completed a rough outline of the fountain when she heard a soft crunch of gravel. Looking up, she saw a huge dog walk into the small clearing. The beast halted when it caught sight of her. She remained perfectly still so as not to startle the animal, hoping he was friendly. The dog lifted its massive head and sniffed the air.

  “Good morning,” Sarah said softly.

  The beast’s tail wagged at her greeting, and with his tongue lolling, he trotted toward her. Lowering his head, he sniffed at her boots, then made his way upward to her knees. She continued to remain still, giving him the opportunity to get her scent while she took in his shiny, dark, short-haired coat. Apparently satisfied that she was friend and not foe, he issued a single, deep woof then sat—right on her boot.

  Satisfied that he was friend and not foe, Sarah smiled. “Woof to you as well.” She set aside her sketch pad then buried her fingers in the dog’s scruff and scratched. His dark, intelligent eyes dropped in doggie ecstasy and he raised a massive wet paw which he plopped on her lap.

  “Oh, you like that, don’t you,” she crooned, then laughed when her new friend made a sound that resembled a sigh of contentment. “My dog loves that as well. How is it that you’re out here all alone?”

  No sooner had she voiced the question than another crunch of gravel sounded. Still scratching the dog, she looked up and watched a figure enter the small clearing. A figure she immediately recognized as being her host, Lord Langston. He caught sight of her and stopped as if he’d walked into a wall. Clearly he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

  His gaze flicked to the huge canine pinning her in place, and with a frown, he whistled softly. The dog immediately slid his paw from her lap then stood. After shooting Sarah a look that appeared to say I have to go now, but I’ll be back, he obediently trotted to his lordship, where he plunked his rump on the ground. Right on one of his lordship’s polished boots.

  Sarah rose, pushed up her glasses then offered Lord Langston an awkward curtsy, swallowing her annoyance that he’d burst upon her sanctuary and interrupted her. Especially as she had no right to be annoyed. After all, it was his garden, and clearly his dog. Still, why wasn’t the man abed? From her observations, she’d concluded that the majority of noblemen didn’t present themselves until at least noon. Of course, this was a perfect opportunity to discuss his garden and his night blooming flowers, inconvenient though the timing was.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  Matthew stared at the young woman, recognizing her as his houseguest with the soup-fogged spectacles from last night’s dinner. Lady Wingate’s sister, whose name he still could not recall. He swallowed his annoyance that she’d interrupted his quiet walk. Why in God’s name wasn’t she still abed? From his observations, he’d concluded that young women rarely presented themselves before noon. And when they did present themselves, they were certainly more put together than this chit with her wrinkled, wet-hemmed gown and haphazard coiffure, which listed precariously to the left, slipping from whatever moorings she’d obviously hastily shoved into the flyaway strands. And why in God’s name was she looking at him in a way that made him feel as if he were intruding upon her?

  Damn it all, as her host he supposed he’d have to remain here and exchange some polite, inane pleasantries with her. Which was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d needed this walk, this time alone to clear his head, to occupy his time until Daniel made his trip to the village smithy to gather information regarding Tom Willstone’s appearance on the estate last night. Well, he’d do what he had to, then escape at his first opportunity.

  “Good morning,” he said, resigned to his fate of several minutes of forced conversation. His gaze dipped and he barely suppressed a wince at the outline of a huge, dirty wet paw print marring the front of her gown. Good God, the instant she noticed it she’d no doubt fly into the boughs. He made a mental note to mention the soiled gown to Harbaker. The housekeeper would see to it that the garment was properly cleaned. He hoped to God he wouldn’t be forced to replace it. Women’s gowns cost ridiculous amounts of money.

  “I see you found my dog,” he said, wading into the silence.

  “Actually, he found me.” Her gaze flicked to the dog and she flashed a smile. “He appears to enjoy sitting on people’s feet.”

  “Yes. Sitting—I taught him that. However, he requires a bit more instruction on where it is proper to plant his bottom.” Even as he reached down to give his pet’s warm, sturdy neck an affectionate pat, Matthew vowed to have a stern chat with the beast about routing out unwanted houseguests during their morning walk. “He didn’t frighten you, I hope.”

  “Not at all. I’ve a dog of my own. She nearly matches yours in size. Indeed, except for their coloring, they look very much alike.” Her gaze settled on his pet. “He’s very sweet.”

  He barely managed to hide his surprise that she owned such a large animal. Most ladies he knew possessed tiny, yappy lapdogs who did nothing more than piddle on rugs, bite one’s ankles, and lounge about on satin pillows.

  “Sweet? Thank you, however I can assure you he much prefers to be regarded as fierce and manly.”

  She looked up and a tiny smile played around the corners of her mouth. “I’m certain he’s both—in a very sweet way. What is his name?”

  “Danforth.”

  “An interesting name. How did you happen to choose it?”

  “It somehow…suited him. All alone, are you?” he asked, looking about. “No chaperone?”

  Her brows rose, then her lips quirked in clear amusement. “A woman my age is more apt to serve in the capacity of chaperone rather than require one, my lord.”

  A woman her age? Obviously she was older than he’d surmised. Not that he’d paid particular attention. He squinted a bit in her direction. Didn’t look a day over two and twenty. The muted lighting clearly hid a multitude of aging sins. And there was no denying that those spectacles and dowdy gown lent her a spinsterish air.

  “Rather early to be out,” he observed, proud that his voice didn’t sound the least bit annoyed.

  “Not for me. This is my favorite time of day. I love the soft quiet, the gently rising light, the peace and s
erenity of dawn. The promise of a new day filled with possibilities.”

  Matthew’s brows rose a bit. It was his favorite time of day as well, although he wasn’t certain he would have been able to express it why quite so eloquently. “I know precisely what you mean.”

  “Your gardens are lovely, my lord.”

  “Thank you—” Damn it, he wished he could recall her name. So much easier to excuse oneself when one could say, Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Jones, but I really must be off. Was it possible her surname was Jones? No, no that wasn’t it—

  “I understand you’re an expert gardener and horticulturalist.”

  Her statement yanked him back and he squashed the urge to look skyward. Obviously his servants’ mouths had been running amok. Next time he hired someone, he was going to make certain that all candidates for the job were mutes.

  “It is my great passion, yes,” he said, uttering the same lie his activities had forced him to tell more times than he cared to admit.

  Her face bloomed into a smile, one that showed off perfectly straight, pearly white teeth and creased deep, twin dimples into her cheeks. “It is my great passion as well.” She indicated the grouping of plants surrounding the fountain. “These hemerocallis flava are the healthiest specimens I’ve ever seen.”

  Hemero-what? He barely suppressed a groan. Bloody hell, if he didn’t have rotten luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all. What were the odds that the first woman he’d met in months who was able to discuss something other than fashion and the weather would be some bloody plant expert?

  “Ah, yes, they are particular favorites of mine,” he mumbled. And now it was time to escape. He slipped his foot from beneath Danforth’s rump and took a backward step. And bumped into the edge of the fountain. And discovered—or rather his arse discovered—that it was the wet edge of the fountain. The cold, wet edge.