What Happened at Midnight(23)

The entire valley—dark and shrouded in night—seemed to fold itself into their kiss. His hands slid down her back, pulling her close; her lips were soft and yet so demanding on his. He wanted her, every inch of her. The crickets about them seemed to chirp an entire symphony, accompanied only by the distant sound of frogs.

If only the world could shrink to those things—heat and want—and expel the ragged past between them.

He pulled away from her. “Do you remember the first time I saw you? Your father had us all to dinner. And before we went in, you played the pianoforte. All the other men—barbarians, I was sure—talked through your performance. I could only think that it was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever heard.”

“I remember.” She took a breath. “I haven’t played in so long.”

“You were playing some variations.”

“The Goldberg variations,” she confirmed. “By Bach.”

“And after, I went up to you and demanded that you tell me what the point of a variation was—taking the same piece of music and altering it over and over, instead of creating something new. Do you remember what you said?”

She frowned. “Something like, ‘Why limit yourself to one melody, when the music is big enough to lend itself to endless possibilities?’”

“That’s what I think when I see you now,” he said. “I don’t understand most of what you’re saying, except that it makes me angry on your behalf. I can’t compress you into a few words, no matter how I try. I feel like I’m listening to endless variations on a theme of Mary. And I love what I hear.”

Her breath caught. “John.” She didn’t say anything else. She just held him, and when he kissed her, she melted into him again. Kiss after melting kiss—months of dreams and longings, all coming to life. He could make this right, somehow. He could make it up to her. They might have each other after all.

As for everything else? He’d make things right with his sister. He’d find some way to compensate his nephew for the loss. It didn’t matter how impossible it seemed that their families could reconcile; it was more impossible that he would give her up.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “God, I missed you.”

She nestled against him, so right against him that he couldn’t imagine ever letting her go again.

Maybe…

“You mentioned a favor,” he said. “At the beginning. I had almost forgotten it. About Sir Walter?”

She looked up, blinking in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “I…I became distracted. We are going to destroy Sir Walter. You and I.”

She fumbled in her skirt pocket and pulled out a tiny twist of brown paper. This she undid, revealing a piece of jewelry. It glinted in the moonlight as she held it up. “And we’re going to use this.”

Chapter Nine

JOHN DIDN’T THINK HE WAS the sort to be easily overawed, but Northword Hill was by far the most intimidating home he had ever entered. The entry was all mirrors and marble and a vast candelabra that sparkled overhead; the murals on the walls had the rich look of old wealth. Even the corridor that he was led down when he’d handed over his card and a brief description of his business was lined with paintings done by a single hand—a beautiful woman, playing the role of a Madonna; a still life with candlelight on fruit so vivid that he couldn’t believe it was flat paint.

He caught a glimpse of a pianoforte edged in gold through one door and a library, well stocked with volumes, through another before he was ushered into a parlor.

“Mr. John Mason,” the footman intoned, bowing and then taking up watchful residence at the door.

The lady of the estate sat in a seat, the arms carved with delicate patterns. For all that he towered over her while she was seated, he had the impression that she might have been on a throne, looking down on him.

“Lady Northword,” John said, bowing his head.

He had heard that Lady Northword was elderly. But the woman who inclined her head to him looked only old enough to command respect. There was still more auburn in her hair than gray, and she wore it half up, the rest a mass of tangling curls.

“Mr. John Mason,” she repeated. “Please sit.” She waited until he had done so before she continued. “Northword told me about you the other day. You’re the fellow who’s come all the way from Southampton to work on Beauregard’s fields.”

“Yes, my lady. That’s right.”

“That’s quite kind of you,” she said. “The rest of us have been hearing about his swamp for some time now.” Her eyes focused on him. Nothing rheumy or unclear about her, despite her age. “Beauregard says that you asked for no compensation. I find that passing strange.”

He ducked his head. “Not so strange, my lady. I had other reasons to visit the district.”

“Had you, now.” She contemplated him as if wondering how villainous his reasons were. “And now you’ve come all the way from Beauregard’s farm to see me.”

“Yes, my lady.” His hand played over the metal in his pocket.

“Passing strange,” she repeated.

“Not so strange,” he said. “You’re the only one I can give this to.” He opened his hand.

In that moment, faced with Lady Northword’s regal demeanor, the plan suddenly felt foolish. Some tenant might have lost the earring in the decades since Lady Northword had resided at Doyle’s Grange. And even if it had belonged to her, what did a viscountess care about a twist of gold and a bit of peridot? She likely had far finer pieces to adorn her—including the pearls at her ears now.