* * *
James’s melancholy had lifted. He still felt a dark threat in the air, but through it a few rays of light had penetrated so that the rest of his life did not seem as bleak as it had an hour before, when he realized he had serious competition for Ivy.
If he had to fight a duel to prove his manhood, then he would fight a duel. Even though it meant learning to use a gun with his left hand. Time was his true rival.
Time, and whoever was at his study door as he sat contriving excuses to seek out Ivy to apologize for his behavior. Or to resume where they had left off. He hadn’t imagined that she’d fused her sweet body to his and kissed him like a sorceress who had just discovered her own power. He was still as hard as steel. In fact, he should check whether it was her at the door.
No. Ivy wasn’t privy to Carstairs’s secret code of knocks. His rap-rap-RAP meant an important person had come to call, a person James knew.
He rose from his desk and scowled at the door. It wouldn’t be Wendover, annoyed that James hadn’t returned to the lake to fish. Wendover would not bother knocking.
“What do you want, Carstairs?”
“I regret interrupting you again, Your Grace, but there is another gentleman here from London who claims you are acquainted and insists on speaking with you.”
“It’s not that rhyme-maker again?”
“Oh, no, Your Grace. But—I’ve a sense there might be a connection to our governess.”
“Is this ‘sense’ grounded in fact, Nostradamus, or is it a message you received from another world?”
Carstairs chuckled. “He mentioned Fenwick Manor, Your Grace.”
“Dear God. Send him in.”
James returned to his desk. Now what? A confrontation with another suitor for Ivy’s hand? Who could blame the woman for hiding inside that house for so long? No wonder the gardener had let the thistle and thorns grow roof-high to conceal the Fenwick sisters from the world.
But a wall of thorns hadn’t protected Ivy from James.
He glanced up in surprise at the gentleman Carstairs ushered into the room. He was in his late sixties, with tousled gray hair, jacket too short in the sleeves, and a high-quality coat that needed a good cleaning.
“Don’t you remember me, Ellsworth?” he asked, dropping into a chair without waiting for an invitation.
James narrowed his eyes. Where in the world would Ivy have met this person? “Have we met?”
“You lost a hand of cards to me at the club.”
“Did I?”
“Then I lost three to you.”
“I don’t doubt your word, but I’m afraid I still don’t remember.”
“A crowd of us went out after your victory to celebrate and ended up sailing down the Thames on a barge with several amorous women. I fell off, and you saved me.”
James expelled a sigh. “Now I remember, Ainsley Farbisher. What brings you here?”
“I understand you are managing a property I would like to acquire.”
“A . . . property?” James felt the muscles at the back of his neck tense in forewarning. It was one thing for James to covet Ivy as a treasured possession. It was quite another for a gin-soaked old gent to sit across his desk and echo the same sentiment. “I hope you are not referring to a person in my employ.”
Ainsley’s eyes bulged. “Good heavens. I was speaking of the attractive parcel I passed on my way here. The house that stands beyond the stone bridge.”
“You mean Fenwick Manor?”
“Yes, that’s it. The Tudor estate in the oak wood.”
“And you don’t wish to marry any of the ladies who occupy the house?” he asked, scowling in suspicion.
Ainsley contemplated the question. “Is that a condition of acquisition?”
“Have you ever seen the inhabitants of the manor?” he asked pointedly.
“No, I haven’t. Is it in use as some sort of an asylum?”
“Excuse me?” James asked, masking a smile.
“I was told by a tavern keeper that several men who’d visited the manor had disappeared inside the house and that their remains were never found due to tragic circumstances or—” He wavered, appearing afraid to continue.
“Or what?” James asked, completely enjoying this legend of the Fenwick sisters.
“—or else the house is currently in use as a country brothel and the men who enter would rather die than leave.”
James did smile then. “Ainsley?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Come here and take a look at my boots.”
Ainsley obeyed, withdrawing a handkerchief from his coat to dab at his brow. “Handsome, they are. The height of fashion.”
“I’m glad you approve. Your head will be pinned beneath the sole of one if you make another ridiculous remark about asylums or brothels.”