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them. He’d always liked peafowl. As a boy, he’d bought a pair from a neighbor and proudly given them to his father for Dornleigh. The earl had hated the noise, though. Dominic had enlisted Kyle to help capture the pair and return them to the neighbor before Wrexham ordered the elegant necks wrung.
    Following Mrs. Rector’s direction, he walked a corner path into a more informal area. Towering walls of smooth clipped yew provided a dark green background for lush borders of blossoming shrubs and flowers. From the varied selection, he guessed that there would be blooming from early spring to first frost.
    A wrong turn landed him in a rose garden. He’d never seen so many varieties of roses. The scent was intoxicating.
    By the time he reached the gardening sheds, it was mid-morning and he’d seen at least four different gardeners at work. Such extensive gardens required endless effort.
    He peered into the first shed, which was used for tool storage. No one. The next shed contained bins of various substances to be worked into soil to create different conditions. It was also empty. Next in the row was a long glasshouse, used to protect tender plants in winter and grow fruits and vegetables year round. Dominic was struck by the heat when he entered, for the glass panels trapped and magnified the effects of the sun. At the far end of the structure, he saw the back of a man standing at a broad workbench, though details were obscured by hanging plants that would do credit to a Brazilian jungle.
    As he approached the gardener, he saw that the man wore a turban and a loose, sashed blue cotton tunic that fell over baggy cotton trousers. The Indian garb must be very practical for garden work.
    “Kamal? I’m Maxwell.”
    The Indian turned from his repotting. Kamal was broad and strong and fearsomely bearded, and the turban gave him towering height. He was a formidable protector for his mad mistress. But what startled Dominic most were elaborate tattoos that covered Kamal’s hands and forearms with swirls and decorative patterns. Good God, there were even zigzag designs on his throat and on his cheeks above the bushy black whiskers.
    “Lord Maxwell.” The Indian placed both hands together in front of his chest and inclined his head.
    “Namaste.” The gesture was polite, but certainly not deferential.
    Dominic said, “Good day. I’m looking for Lady Meriel. Do you have an idea where she might be found?”
    The Indian studied him with dark, piercing eyes, weighing his worth. Kyle would have been furious at such a blatant appraisal. Even Dominic felt his hackles rise. “I presume you know why I am here.”
    “I know, my lord.” Kamal said in faintly accented but very fluent English. “You wish to marry the young mistress.”
    “I seek to discover if marriage is feasible,” Dominic said sharply. “That can’t be done if I can’t find the lady.”
    “She was in the herb garden.” Kamal gestured with his chin. “That way, along the path behind the glass house. But I am not sure. She may have left.”
    “If she has, I shall return for another suggestion.” Dominic left the glass house, glad to get into cooler air. The path Kamal had indicated was again walled with hedges higher than a man’s head, though these were not clipped to unnatural smoothness. The walkway soon opened up into a pleasant herb garden, but the girl wasn’t there. Dominic wandered the neat brick paths, noting signs of recent work. Had she seen him coming and fled, or left because she’d finished her task? He bent and pinched a downy leaf from an irregularly shaped blue-gray shrub, releasing a pungent odor. Some kind of mint, he thought.
    “Meo-o-o-ow!”
    An enormous orange marmalade cat slid sinuously from under a nearby bush. Golden eyes hot with interest, the cat reared up against Dominic’s leg and raspily slurped the fingers that had pinched the leaf.
    “So this is catmint.” Dominic ruffled the orange striped fur. “A good thing you