The Secrets Of Lord Lynford. Bronwyn Scott

with neatly made beds, braided rugs, dust-free wardrobes and bright white curtains hanging at the windows. The rooms smelled of lemon polish and linseed oil. ‘Mr Kitto’s wife designed the dorms,’ Eaton explained, making no effort to hide his pride. ‘She believes the homelier the place feels, the more comfortable the boys will be here.’

      ‘And the less likely they will be to leave,’ Mrs Blaxland translated in more blunt terms. ‘Tell me, how is enrolment? Do we have enough boys to fill these chambers?’

      Eaton shut the last door behind them and directed her back towards the staircase. ‘We have two-thirds of the rooms accounted for, which I think is excellent for a first semester.’ Twenty-one boys ranging in age from seven to fourteen would be arriving the day after the open house. ‘Once word spreads regarding the quality of student and the superiority of musical education we offer at the Cornish Academy, we will reach capacity soon enough,’ he assured her, but her sharp green eyes met his assurances with questions.

      ‘Do you have quality students?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I think the challenge of such a school is not the idea of it, but the location, as I’ve mentioned before in correspondence. Why would a person of any talent want to travel to the wilds of Cornwall for a musical education when one could be in London? Or go abroad? I fear those who have choices will not choose the academy at Porth Karrek.’

      She was bold-tongued, her comments blunt and bordering on rude. Perhaps that was simply how it was in business circles where money mattered more than manners. Eaton chose to be impressed with her analysis rather than offended by the implication that the academy would only be capable of drawing mediocre students.

      ‘The talent you seek will come if you and the other patrons tell them to. Quality enrolment is all of our obligation.’ Richard Penlerick had been adamant on that issue. He’d been promoting the academy in London just days before the murder. ‘One cannot simply throw money at a project and expect that to be enough to ensure success.’ The words came out harshly against the sudden tightness of Eaton’s throat, but he wouldn’t apologise for them. If Eliza Blaxland took his response as a scolding, then so be it. He wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mean it as one. He was the son and heir of a wealthy family. If it had only been about money, he could easily have bankrolled the school entirely by himself. He didn’t need patrons’ funds the way a struggling orphanage in St Giles did. He needed the names and reputations behind the funds.

      Eaton cleared his throat and offered Richard Penlerick’s often-voiced sentiment. ‘The quality of our students will depend on the quality of our patrons. That is why I sought you out in particular. You are well known in Cornish circles for your appreciation of education.’ Even if those circles had failed to convey how young she was.

      At the bottom of the stairs he showed her into the drawing room where the Sébastien Érard piano stood in pride of place. ‘This is where our recitals will be held. Mr Kitto will perform at the open house, of course.’ He smiled, reminding her he’d done his part in securing a well-known musician for headmaster, one with a name that would draw talented students.

      He allowed her to appraise the Sébastien Érard with her sharp eyes before he got to the heart of the matter. ‘Surely all of this checking up could have been handled at the open house. Why have you really come, Mrs Blaxland?’ Did she have a student she was hoping to get admitted? Did she have an instructor who needed to be hired? Whoever they were, they would have to earn their place here, no matter how much money she donated. Kitto wanted only the best. They wouldn’t attract the best if they took in just anyone.

      She gave him a polite smile he did not mistake for friendliness, although it did serve to warm him none the less. ‘I have found in the years of running my late husband’s mines that scheduled appointments can often result in misleading impressions. When one arrives unannounced, one sees a clearer representation of the truth.’ She was already a fortress of perfection in her dress and in her speech, but in her directness she was nigh on impenetrable. Eaton felt the urge to penetrate that directness, to lay siege to its walls.

      ‘You mean an ambush, Mrs Blaxland?’ Sparring with her was quite a warming exercise indeed. A part of him that had been dormant since returning from London was waking up.

      ‘An ambush assumes someone can be taken by surprise, that someone lets his guard down,’ she countered smoothly. ‘If one is always prepared, one cannot be caught unawares.’

      When was the last time Eliza Blaxland had been taken unawares? From her cool façade, he would guess it had been a while, if ever. It was hard to imagine anyone got anything past her. Eaton would take that as a challenge—not that he wanted to take advantage, but he would like to surprise her, just to prove to her that it could be done. How would she react when things were out of her control?

      He studied the flawless perfection of her face, its smooth contours with its elegantly set nose, green eyes and that mouth—that gorgeous pink mouth with its full, kissable lower lip. His gaze lingered there while his thoughts drifted. What would bring a crease to those perfect features? What might fluster her well-ordered world? Had old Huntingdon Blaxland ever flustered her, aside, perhaps, from dying? Would a kiss be enough to offset that world? She was a widow, after all. He could presume she’d been kissed before. Would she like to be kissed again? He found he would like to pursue that course of action. Between Richard Penlerick’s death and the school, it had been a while since he’d felt a spark of interest.

      They were hardly the thoughts one ought to have about a wealthy patroness, yet when the patroness was so aloofly, coolly attractive, it seemed a natural progression of thought to wonder, what if? They returned to the main hall, the front door just feet away, providing a less-than-subtle opportunity to bid Mrs Blaxland farewell and get on with his day. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you here. As you have already ascertained, there’s much to be done.’

      ‘There is one more thing.’ She gave him another long perusing stare with those intelligent eyes. ‘I thought you’d be older. I was unaware Bude’s heir was so...young.’ She was implying that perhaps he might not be up to the task of overseeing a school, that a man of his age and station was better suited to the frivolous pursuits of London.

      ‘Twenty-eight is young?’ he queried with a sardonic cock of a dark brow. It was an odd remark coming from a woman who couldn’t be more than thirty-three, but time and age were different for females. ‘It’s been some time since anyone has thought of me as young. Good day, Mrs Blaxland. I will look forward to seeing you at the reception.’ He gave her a small bow in farewell. ‘I assure you that you needn’t worry. I am in my prime.’ He’d been unable to resist the final remark. Intuition suggested that no one teased Mrs Blaxland and someone ought to. People didn’t build impregnable fortresses around themselves without reason. He was intrigued as to what her reason might be.

      ‘You most certainly are,’ she acknowledged with a slight, indifferent nod of her head, but beneath that cool exterior, something akin to interest sizzled and flared in her gaze before it was snuffed out by practice and perhaps practicality. But it was too late. Eaton smiled over his little victory. She’d already given herself away. Eliza Blaxland wasn’t as unaffected or as distant as she appeared.

       Chapter Two

      It had been a long time since she’d been surprised—not since the day Huntingdon had left for the office and never returned. Five years, eight months and three weeks, to be precise. Eliza sat back against the leather squabs of her coach and let out a deep sigh. In the intervening years, she’d become used to being the one doing the surprising; she’d had to if she meant to keep the shareholders on their toes. But Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, heir to the ducal seat of Bude, had done all the surprising this afternoon. The ambush had been her idea, hers to control, but she’d not been prepared for him. Eliza reached for her fan. From the first glance of his dark eyes, his heat had nearly incinerated her glacial cool.

      Years of practice had made her confident in the belief that her skills would rise to any challenge, that her