“Excellent. One way or another, you will receive something from me by the end of next week.” Serena looked at the books beside him. “What were you reading when I came in and disturbed you?”

There was a hitch in his expression as he accommodated her change of subject. She had noticed that in their discussion last night. His concentration, when he focused, was total.

He turned the open book around and slid it across the table.

Serena looked down on a two pages filled with utterly incomprehensible mathematical problems. Symbols and formulas of a type she had not imagined could exist. She looked up.

“What is this?”

“These are calculus problems which are published in a journal four times a year. I have them bound into books and study them when I have the time. This is from 1812.”

Serena shook her head, her gaze moving from his face to the numbers, both of them oddly similar in their inscrutability. “You . . . read these journals?”

“Yes.”

She gestured to the pages and then pushed the book back toward him. “Will you tell me what these pages say?”

“Say?”

“Yes, what information do these numbers and symbols communicate to you?”

He took the book and turned it right-side up and gazed down at the page, his eyes flickering rapidly beneath his lowered lids as he surveyed the enigmatic contents.

When he finally looked up, his face was taut, his eyes a bit darker. It was an expression Serena had seen on her father’s face before he tackled a new project or when he found the perfect piece of marble. It was controlled, creative passion and it was the first real emotion she had seen him display.

“They make order out of seemingly random events. This,” he tapped the page but did not take his eyes from hers. “This explains everything if you can unravel its mysteries.” His voice was soft, but his gray eyes burned. So, here was a subject that excited him. Not money, not possessions, not the taking of a wife: numbers.

He looked at his hand, which was resting on the table and clutching his napkin hard enough that his knuckles had whitened. He frowned and tossed the wrinkled napkin onto his empty plate and stood. “I am sorry to leave you so abruptly but I have an appointment shortly. I have instructed Jessup to have my coach made ready for your return journey to London whenever you wish to leave. Inside it you will find Beech’s sketches and any other information I have about the estate grounds. I wish you a safe journey and look forward to hearing from you.” He bowed and was gone. It was like a whirlwind had swept through the room. Not a restful person at the breakfast table.

Serena pulled his open book toward her, flipping through the pages as she ate, looking for something that might help her understand the man who’d just left.

***

Gareth left Rushton Park in his curricle shortly after Mrs. Lombard departed in his coach and six. He didn’t see Mr. Featherstone before leaving and decided the man must have still been abed—even though it was after noon. He made two stops along the way and did not reach town until after eight o’clock