She swallowed hard as she looked back to the driver.
“I wasn’t aware you were the famous Lord Bromwell,” she said, determined that he appreciate that, although what kissing him without the excuse of his fame might suggest about her, she didn’t want to consider.
“Forgive me for being remiss and not introducing myself sooner. And you are?”
“Eleanor Springford, my lord,” she lied, hoping he would mistake her blush for bashfulness and not shame.
The driver’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “We were talking about yer tattoo, too.”
“It’s a common practice among the South Sea islanders,” Lord Bromwell gravely replied, as if it was the polite thing to do, like taking tea. “Ah, here comes Jenkins’s carriage.”
With that, he strode off to meet it, leaving Nell to wonder what such a man would make of her if he ever learned the truth.
Chapter Three
I believe it is an intense curiosity and an unwillingness to simply accept the world without further explanation that separates the scientist from the general population. It is not enough to see a thing; the scientist seeks to find out the how and why it works, or in the case of the natural world, how and why a creature does what it does.
—from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell
“The supper will be served in half an hour, my lord,” Jenkins announced from the door of the slightly smaller, more cramped room Bromwell had taken when they returned from the scene of the accident so that Miss Springford could have the better one. “The wife’s glad she killed that chicken this afternoon, or she’d be in some state now, I can tell you, what with you here and all.”
“I’ve been here plenty of times before,” Bromwell replied as he reached for his brush, determined not to look a complete mess when he went below. “She should know I like everything she makes, especially her tarts. When I was stranded on that strip of sand, I would have sold my soul for one.”
“Tush, now, my lord, that’s almost blasphemy, that is!” Jenkins cried, although he beamed as proudly as if he made the tarts. “I’ll be telling the wife, though. She’ll be pleased.”
“As I am by her tarts,” Bromwell said, bringing his hair into some semblance of order, although it occurred to him that it was in need of a trim.
“Ah, here’s Johnny now with your baggage, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Bromwell said as the boy carried in his small valise.
With another nod, Jenkins left him to change, followed by the gaping Johnny, who paused on the threshold to look back and whisper, eyes wide. “Was you really nearly et by cannibals, my lord?”
“I might have been, if they had caught us,” Bromwell replied gravely, and quite truthfully.
The lad’s eyes grew even wider.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Bromwell said, starting to close the door.
The lad nodded and disappeared.
Bromwell shut the door with a sigh. He was seriously beginning to wish he’d left that part of his voyage out of his book. Everybody asked about it, to the exclusion of many other fascinating events and observations.
Well, in mixed company, at any rate, he thought as he took off his soiled shirt, trousers and stockings. When he was with men after suppers or in the clubs, they wanted to know about the women and sexual practices, waiting with avid and salacious curiosity.
They were inevitably disappointed when he began describing the flora and fauna of the islands, including spiders, instead. Sometimes, if they listened and were patient, he would describe a heiva, a celebration involving dancing, the otea done by men, the upa upa by couples, and the hura, called hula in Hawaii, danced exclusively by women.
Recalling some of those dances and the dancers who’d performed them, he donned a clean white shirt, woollen trousers and stockings. What would Eleanor Springford think of those dances?
What would she think if she knew he’d participated?
Between that, and his insolent kiss, she’d certainly think he was no gentleman, although her response hadn’t been exactly ladylike, either.
He suddenly remembered that he’d heard her name before, and his heart began to pound as if he were again participating in an otea. Lady Eleanor Springford was the daughter of the Duke of Wymerton. She was also one of the many young ladies his mother had mentioned in hopes he would take a wife and stop chasing after spiders.
What the devil was a lady of her wealth and family doing dressed in such plain, inexpensive clothes and travelling alone in a mail coach headed to Bath?
He had no idea, but he doubted it was a pleasure trip.
If she was in some sort of trouble, it was his duty to help her; it would be his duty whether she was twenty and pretty, or sixty and the homeliest woman he had ever met.
Determined to speak with Lady Eleanor and offer her any assistance he could render without further delay, Bromwell hurried down to the dining room.
But when he entered, he found the room full of people he’d never seen before, and he couldn’t see the duke’s daughter anywhere.
Everyone fell silent when they realized he had arrived, so he plastered a weak smile on his face and, as he continued to silently search for Lady Eleanor, again damned the fame he’d never wanted.
“Oh, my lord! What a tragedy!” cried an overdressed, middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown overburdened with ruffles and frills, in a shocking combination of orange and pink that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bordello.
She hurried toward him past a group of silent, brawny men. He suspected they were local farmers or tradesmen dragged here to meet the famous naturalist by their wives, many of whom were equally colorfully dressed in the latest styles.
“Indeed, it was a most unfortunate occurrence,” he muttered, unable to look directly at that gown another moment.
“I’ve been after them to fix that road,” a man growled as he ran a puzzled gaze over Bromwell, thinking, no doubt, that the viscount didn’t look like a world-famous explorer.
Bromwell had long since given up trying to explain that he was a different sort of explorer, that his journey had been intended to find flora, fauna, insects and especially spiders, not lands to claim, people to conquer or resources to exploit. “May the local government take heed,” he said politely.
“They will if you write a letter to the Times about it,” the man declared as Jenkins appeared, dressed in what was surely his Sunday best.
Bromwell’s discomfort increased as Jenkins introduced him to the local gentry like he was some prized possession Jenkins was eager to show off, beginning with the man who’d complained about the roads. Since Bromwell liked Jenkins, he submitted, but he also continued to look for Lady Eleanor, until he decided she must be dining in her room.
This was going to be a long evening, he thought as he stifled a sigh, taking one last survey of the room.
At last he spotted her, crammed into the corner as far as she could get and wearing a flowing gown of pale blue silk like something fairies had cut out of a summer’s sky. Unlike the other women’s gowns, the cut was simple, with a bodice high in the back, a modest neckline, tight sleeves and only one ruffle at the hem. Her dark brown hair, which had been covered by her simple straw bonnet, proved to be thick and lustrous in the candlelight. It had been done simply, yet elegantly, around her gracefully poised head. In spite of the simplicity of her gown and hair, she was easily the most elegant, best-dressed woman in the room.
Having been blessed with uncommonly good eyesight, however, he immediately noticed something odd. Unlike the clothing she’d been wearing earlier, her gown