Page 59 of A Season for Scandal

I stared, beginning to understand. When Oliver had found out the accident was in Paris rather than London, he had also found out that his mother had run away. Without him.

“Where were you?” I asked, the words barely more than a whisper.

“I was away at school,” he said roughly, then quickly in the same breath he added. “I don’t blame her. I am glad she was leaving him. I wanted her to do it. I just…”

“You wanted her to take you too,” I finished.

Again, we were quiet.

“Why did you choose the book?” he asked finally.

“What?”

“The book to open the door. Why did you pull on it?”

“Oh,” I said, fidgeting. “Something about it looked different, I suppose. And then it had a flower on it, a foxglove.”

“Foxglove for secrets,” Oliver said, and he clearly noticed my surprise. “My mother’s little joke. This was her room originally, though it looked different then, a sanctuary of sorts, I suppose.”

“How did you even learn to do all this?” I asked, reaching out towards a dazzling ruby necklace, but stopping short of actually touching it. I had never seen anything like the creations on display down here, didn’t come from a world of rubies and diamonds.

Oliver reached over and picked up the necklace, then he gently took my hand by the wrist, pouring the gemstones into my palm, where they sat, cool and heavy, the vibrant scarlet of spilled blood.

“After the accident, I came back for the funeral, but my father swiftly sent me back to school in London. I was angry, grieving, and I started slipping out of the place whenever I could, looking for trouble.” He gave me a rueful look. “One day I got into a fight with a group of boys in a – let’s say less than reputable – part of town, and despite my high opinion of myself I did not come out the winner.”

“What happened?” I asked, setting the necklace carefully back down.

“I tried to drag myself back to school, but I only got as far as Clerkenwell. I don’t precisely remember, but apparently I lost consciousness on the doorstep of one of the jewellers there.” Now his smile turned fond. “Mr Peets owned the place, and when he found me – a scrubby little schoolboy with a bloody nose, he took me in and cleaned me up. He was gruff and no-nonsense, but kind in his way. I don’t know why, but the whole story spilled out of me – about Mother and Ellen and school and my father. It was probably disjointed nonsense, but he listened, and afterwards he showed me around his workshop. I was fascinated.”

“He taught you?”

Oliver nodded. “Over several years, when I kept turning up at his place like a bad penny. Clerkenwell is teeming with craftsmen, so he introduced me around, encouraged my interest, and I had the opportunity to study different techniques.” Amusement threaded through his voice. “Not the education my father thought he was paying for, though I did just well enough in school to keep out of trouble.”

He spoke with more animation than I had seen before, and I felt a strange kinship with him – I understood at once that the way he felt about his work was the way I felt about my garden.

“When I left school and came home, I began creating this room. Mr Peets had put me in touch with Mrs Finch and she and I started up a correspondence. I was interested in finding a way to use my skills and my resources to do something … better.”

“What did your father think about all this?” I asked, puzzled.

Oliver gave a short laugh. “He didn’t think a damn thing about it. Richard Lockhart never had the slightest interest in me or anything I did, beyond the fact that he had a son to whom he could leave his business and this home, just as his father had and his father’s father.There have been Lockharts at Lockhart Hall for five hundred years.” These last words were uttered in a scathing tone, presumably an impression of the man himself.

“He was a fool,” I said coldly.

“Excuse me?”

“Worse than a fool,” I amended. “In many, many ways, but a fool in this. That he didn’t try to know you, that he didn’t see your talent for himself.”

Silence fell. Oliver stared at me, his eyes wide. I could see the pulse leaping in his throat.

He took a sudden step towards me. Another step, crowding me back against the workbench. My own breath was coming fast and my whole body felt …hectic, tingling wildly.

He lifted his hand then, his fingers coming to cup my face. His thumb traced a line across my cheekbone, and his gaze dropped to my mouth before rising to meet my own.

My lips parted on a soft exhale.

“Why,” he said softly, “are you covered in dirt?”

“I…” I tried to think, to formulate words. “What?” I managed.