Suitors and Sabotage(64)

Ben spent a good half hour doing nothing other than staring at the tree outside the library window. It really wasn’t that fascinating, and yet he couldn’t concentrate on anything else.… So it served.

“There you are,” Ernest said as he entered, cutting up Ben’s hard-earned peace entirely. “I have been looking for you everywhere. Had Stanford not seen you sneak in here, I would not have come in. Didn’t think you even knew this room existed.”

“That’s rich, brother dear. Where do you think the best architecture books are stored?”

“Oh yes, true enough, I suppose.” Flopping down in the wingback chair opposite, Ernest scrubbed at his eyes and then raked his hair back. “Ben, I need your help.”

Ben said nothing. The purpose of this conversation would be apparent soon enough. He knew he did not need to contribute yet.

“Something is wrong with Imogene. I don’t understand it. She is acting like a skittish colt again. I thought we had gotten over all that. Moved past her bashfulness. She knows me now; we have had many delightful conversations.… And yet she looked as uncomfortable as the day I first met her. Unless I understand what is amiss, there will be no point in asking her anything. She would not consent to be my wife if she remains in this state.”

Ben frowned and moved his eyes to stare once again at the tree. This was a puzzler. Something had changed since … hunkering under a parasol … looking deep into each other’s eyes. With a churning gut, Ben swallowed in anxiety. “Did she say? Did you … ask? Does it have anything to do with the day at the castle when the wasps attacked?”

Furthering Ben’s uneasiness, Ernest nodded. “I think it does.”

Ben took a sharp, though silent, breath. “Oh?”

“I think … I hate to say this, Ben. But I believe Imogene is easily upset. Worries needlessly.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is talking about the incidents again. Saying that they could not be accidents. That the wasps’ nest was knocked down by a rock. That you are in danger. That someone is orchestrating these disasters. She is worried about your safety. Stop smiling, Ben, I am being sincere. It’s a little troubling—that she cannot take these happenstances in stride without seeing a villain in our midst. You need to talk to her.”

Blinking, Ben looked back at his brother. “What, me?” he said with great intelligence.

“Yes. Could you? I don’t know what to say, but as it is you who seems to be suffering the brunt of these incidents, perhaps you can explain to her, explain that they are only accidents and that we must move past them … look forward to other events.”

“Such as a proposal in the folly.”

“Yes, exactly. See, I knew you would understand.”

“Understand, yes. But can I assist? I doubt it, Ernest. Imogene has a strong mind and her own opinions.”

“We see her so differently.”

Ben nodded. “There now, with that I will agree.”

“But will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Speak to her, Ben. That’s what we are talking about.”

“But I don’t think…”

“Please, Ben.”

Ben closed his eyes and pursed his lips for a moment before answering. A private talk with Imogene was not on his list of agreeable pursuits. He would rather commune with a bear … perhaps a tiger. “Where is she?” he asked instead.

“Thank you. I knew you would. I left her in the garden, sketching the fountain.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Ben offered his brother a long-suffering look. Ernest just laughed.

*

IMOGENE WAS INDEED sketching by the fountain. It was a shame, for if she had moved at all, even to a neighboring flower bed, Ben would have rushed back to Ernest claiming that he knew not where she had gone. But no, there she sat, a vision of loveliness and tranquillity. She wore a light rose-colored spencer atop a cream gown accented with lace, matching bonnet sitting on the bench beside her; the sun kissed her golden tresses with great affection.… No. He should not use the word kiss to describe anything about Imogene Chively; it was too … fraught with peril.

“Hello, Ben,” she said without looking. Quite the feat when he was standing off to the side.

“I did not mean to intrude.” If Imogene sent him away, then that, too, could be an excuse, a reason to return to Ernest with the quest unfulfilled.

“No, not at all.” She turned her head and smiled—ruefully … wistfully? Something was indeed wrong. But did he want to know what that was? “Did you wish to sketch as well?” she asked. “I have an extra piece of paper and can break my graphite pencil should you—”

“No. No, thank you. I have drawn this fountain seven times to Sunday, though better success with it of late.”

“Of course.” She returned her gaze to her paper and continued her rendering.

Silence hung in the air as Imogene sketched and Ben stood off to the side, glued to the gravel, wishing himself a hundred miles away and sitting next to her at the same time. That would have been quite the feat, too.

“You have improved greatly, Ben,” she said, misinterpreting his inability to speak. “I think you can be comfortable returning to Lord Penton.”

“Would that I could, but my sketches are of small matters, pieces. I have yet to draw a full door let alone a building.”