A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(8)

“Summerfield? You didn’t say Summerfield.”

Vaguely, he understood that she was vexed with him, and that he probably deserved it. But damned if he could bring himself to feel sorry. Her fluster was fiercely attractive. The way her freckles bunched as she frowned at him. The elongation of her pale, slender neck as she stood straight in challenge.

She was tall for a woman. He liked his women tall.

“I did say Summerfield,” he replied. “That is the residence of Sir Lewis Finch, is it not?”

Her brow creased. “What business do you have with Sir Lewis Finch?”

“Men’s business, love. The specifics needn’t concern you.”

“Summerfield is my home,” she said. “And Sir Lewis Finch is my father. So yes, Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell”—she fired each word as a separate shot—“you concern me.”

“Victor Bramwell. It is you.”

Sir Lewis Finch rose from his desk and crossed the office in eager strides. When Bram attempted to bow, the older man waved off the gesture. Instead, he took Bram’s right hand in both of his and pumped it warmly.

“By the devil, it’s good to see you. Last we met, you were a green captain, just leaving Cambridge.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”

“Thank you.” Bram cleared his throat awkwardly. “So was I.”

He sized up the graying eccentric for any signs of displeasure. Sir Lewis Finch was not only a brilliant inventor, but he’d become a royal advisor. He was said to have the ear of the Prince Regent himself, when he chose to bend it. The right word from this man could have Bram back with his regiment next week.

And idiot that he was, Bram had announced his arrival in the neighborhood by tackling the man’s daughter in the road, rending her frock, and kissing her without leave. As strategic campaigns went, this one would not be medal-worthy. Fortunately, Sir Lewis seemed not to have noticed his daughter’s bedraggled state on their arrival. But Bram had best conclude this interview before Miss Finch returned and had a chance to relate the tale.

He couldn’t be faulted for not making the connection. Save for the blue eyes they shared, she could not have been more different from her father. Miss Finch was slender and remarkably tall for a woman. By contrast, Sir Lewis was thick in the middle and short of stature. His few remaining wisps of silver hair would scarcely brush Bram’s epaulet.

“Be seated,” the man urged.

Bram tried not to betray much visible relief as he sank into a studded leather chair. When Sir Lewis handed him a drink, he rationed the whiskey in small, self-medicating sips.

As he drank, he studied his surroundings. The library was unlike any gentleman’s library he’d ever seen. Naturally, there was a desk. A few chairs. Books, of course. Whole walls of them, populating several floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves. The shelves themselves were separated by plaster columns with Egyptian motifs. Some resembled stalks of papyrus. Others were carved into the shape of pharaohs and queens. And to one side of the room, occupying most of the open space, sat an enormous coffin of solid, cream-colored stone. Its surface was etched, inside and out, with row upon row of tiny symbols.

“Is that marble?” he asked.

“Alabaster. It’s a sarcophagus, from the tomb of King . . .” Sir Lewis ruffled his hair. “I forget his name at the moment. I have it somewhere.”

“And the inscriptions?”

“Hexes on the outside. On the interior, directions to the underworld.” The old man’s hoary eyebrows rose. “You can have a lie-down in the thing, if you like. Good for the spine.”

“Thank you, no.” Bram shuddered.

Sir Lewis clapped his hands. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve brought two wagons through eight turnpikes just to discuss antiquities over a fine whiskey.”

“You know I haven’t. Idle chatter isn’t my purpose, ever. But I will take the whiskey.”

“And dinner later, I hope. Susanna will have already informed the cook.”

Susanna. So, her name was Susanna.

The name suited her. Simple, pretty.

Susanna. Susanna Finch.

Rather like the refrain of a song. A cheerful, stubborn sort of song. The sort of tune that persisted, dug a trench in a person’s mind and kept merrily chirping there for hours, days . . . even when that person would rather be rid of it. Even when that person would slice off his own great toe just to turn his attention to something, anything else.

Susanna. Susanna Finch. Susanna fair with brazen hair.

He turned his gaze to the window, which overlooked an immaculately tended garden. With each herb and shrub he glimpsed, he identified another element of her intriguing, garden-infused perfume. He saw lavender, sage, hyacinth, rose . . . a dozen other plants he couldn’t name. But through the open window, the breeze carried their scent to him. Lifting his hair with gentle fingers, just as she had.

He gave himself a shake. She was Sir Lewis’s daughter. He could not think of her this way. Or any way.

“So,” he said, addressing the older man. “You received my letter?”

Sir Lewis took a seat on the opposite side of his desk. “I did.”

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“You want your command back.”