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It was known throughout the ton that Draco Malfoy was an ardent fan of his Manor’s gardens. The swoop of wisteria hanging from an arbour, its flowers low and thick, ready to conceal all manner of encounters. The greenhouse with its tall glass panes so crystal-clear that visitors whispered of magic—when their mouths weren’t otherwise occupied, of course. And the hedge maze; oh, its blind corners, its cooling fountains.
Yes, Lord Malfoy kept his gardens in meticulous order. They were his primary distraction, ever since his fiancée had been murdered eight years ago.
An accident, everyone said—Society, the police, everyone—but he knew better. He’d spent years chasing the truth, then resigned himself to a life of not-knowing. The pain of constant what-ifs would drive him to drink if he didn’t find another outlet.
The gardens—and the dalliances they enabled—proved a thoroughly acceptable outlet. One he no longer strictly needed—time had worked its healing magic—but still enjoyed.
Which was why he required a reliable gardener.
“Reeder!” he shouted. The man met his gaze, wide-eyed, tilting his head up from under his large brimmed hat. Damn those eyes: what gardener needed lovely eyes?
“Yes?” he answered. His voice came out high; Malfoy had startled him. He grimaced, then scolded himself. The gardener was help. He shouldn’t care about startling the man.
Reeder collected himself: he cleared his throat and spoke in his standard tenor. “Apologies, sir.”
Malfoy waved his words away. “We have something to discuss,” he said. “Something you’ve been hiding.”
“Me?” he asked. “Hiding?” He ran his hands self-consciously over his gardening jacket. Malfoy followed their trail, then scolded himself anew. He would not allow himself to ogle his gardener’s hands, no matter how intriguingly delicate they were.
Blast. It had been too long since he’d whisked some young lady away from her chaperone for a turn in the hedge maze.
“The greenhouse, Reeder,” Malfoy continued, pinning him down with his gaze. “I know about the greenhouse.”
Reeder blanched.
“The conservatory’s contents,” Malfoy continued, pitching his voice to a low drawl. “But there’s something I don’t understand.”
He leaned forward. Reeder was a smaller man than he; he used his height to impose, lending gravity to his words.
“Dearest Reeder,” Malfoy said, layering honey into his voice before springing the trap. “What do you plan to do with all the rakes?”
Hermione needed her brain to cooperate, but all it could think was: Shit.
He’d noticed the rakes.
Of all the secrets she was keeping—her name, gender and circumstances, to name a few—the rakes were by far the most dangerous.
She’d come across Malfoy’s Help Wanted notice by sheer luck—a rarity, lately. It was posted for a trained gardener at the Manor’s sprawling estate; discreet, skilled, and willing to live on-premises. She knew why he was having difficulty; the Malfoy name carried the stain of his reputation as the city’s foremost rakehell.
And the gardens—well. Stains are painted from something, and everyone in the ton knew where Lord Malfoy wetted his brush.
She’d heard another rumour about him; one not so easily verified. The kind of rumour that spread fear, not giddy scandal. One overheard in pieces, and only ever in the least respectable corners of London.
That if you needed someone taken care of—as in, their soul forcibly leaving their body—as in, disposal under six feet of cold earth—as in, the only avenue left to Hermione that would ensure her safety—Lord Malfoy could be trusted for his competence and discretion.
Now, Hermione knew better than to trust whispered rumours. She needed to get to know him. She would have to observe him carefully. She would need access: his home, his routines.
To the rest of Society, the advertisement was a symptom of his corrosive reputation, but to her?
It was perfect.
She became Herman Reeder, son of Nelson Reeder, of Reeds and Ponds: a gardening supply shop, with the guild license to match—forged, of course. She managed to obtain a set of appropriate clothes, practised pinning and tying her hair to hide it, and found that the costume of gardener was particularly well-suited to concealing her curves. With all that done, it became very simple: in exchange for a home and the opportunity to stalk Lord Malfoy until she was sure he could do what she needed done, she gave up her name, gender, and social circle.
Truly, it was a bargain.
“The rakes, Herman,” Malfoy repeated. Perhaps the insult of over-familiarity would snap him out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into.
Reeder blinked, then assumed an appropriately chastened expression. “Apologies, my lord,” he said, “but I haven’t the foggiest what you mean.”
Malfoy raised his eyebrows. So that was how his scheming gardener was going to play this.
He snapped his fingers and pointed to the greenhouse. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s refresh your memory.”
He waited, arm outstretched, until Reeder started walking. The man gave him a look that Malfoy could only describe as… huffy. An incongruous expression on the face of a supposed professional groundskeeper. As Reeder went stubbornly on, Malfoy found his eyes drifting to another incongruous part.
No man he’d ever met possessed an arse that looked that good in overalls.
He shrugged: there was a first time for everything, he supposed. The opportunity for a turn in the garden with a man was new, but if they were to be cloistered in the greenhouse together…
He stopped in his tracks to pull himself together. The man was his gardener. He was Lord Malfoy. A Lord of refined breeding and taste, including for his dalliances.
The business with the missing tools deserved more of his attention; he needed to focus. Clearly, Reeder was hiding something, and he’d startled like a dove when he’d mentioned the rakes.
He ran a hand through his hair, and certainly did not allow himself to imagine it was Reeder’s hand.
Hermione reminded herself to pitch her voice low before she spoke. “After you, my lord,” she said, propping the door to the greenhouse open against her forearm.
Did she imagine it, or did Malfoy spend a moment too long inspecting the length of her arm? She swallowed against her rising gorge; he could pin her in an instant, slice through her skin to her veins, and time would do the rest. She was the gardener, and he was the man of the house; there would be nobody else who might happen upon the greenhouse. She would bleed out here, unknown, unmourned.
There was something in his eyes—a hunger. It called to her.
If he was the man she thought he was… If, then she could take this opportunity to ask for his help.
She still wasn’t sure. She wouldn’t be sure until she’d tested those rakes. If he'd even used the rakes as murder weapons; they were just her starting point, due to some promising rusty-looking stains. She’d planned to test them all, then test other items later, for good measure.
Why did he have to notice the rakes were missing?
Under the guise of moving tools from her fake father’s forged business, she’d brought with her a small mobile laboratory. It was the last vestige of her old life. It wasn’t much, but it was enough: the microscope and focusing lamps would at least tell her if those rusty stains were blood. It wasn’t foolproof, of course, but it was the best she could do. And if it was blood, it would be enough for the next step: she would summon the courage and ask Lord Malfoy for help.
She wasn’t ready.
Lord Malfoy strolled into the greenhouse with an air of perfect, predatory calm, then waited. Curse his stillness: it wasn’t fair. She was spiralling, damn it, and he stood there without a care in the world.
Her sudden anger helped her steel her nerves, and just in time: Malfoy pulled the door firmly closed and turned to her with heat in his eyes.
He’s going to kill me, she thought. He knows that I know he’s a murderer, and he’s going to kill me, and bury me in the garden, or throw me in the pond, and I’ll never get a chance to—
But what Lord Malfoy did was unexpected: he lifted his hands to her face, and tugged off her hat.
“Hey!” she shouted, raising her hands to the top of her head, where her hair was pinned and tied severely to keep it all underneath. “What do you think you’re doing? Give me that!”
Malfoy stood stock-still, staring with his mouth slightly open.
“Damn it!” Hermione hissed, and made to snatch the hat from him.
He moved quickly, raising it up over his head. Well out of reach.
“Damn it,” Hermione repeated.
“Show me,” Malfoy said.
“Can’t we just—”
“Now.”
Well. If today was to be the day she asked Malfoy to murder her almost-husband, she supposed it did no further damage for him to know who she was.
On the one hand: this explained so much as regards the delicate hands, the limpid eyes, the low muscle tone in the forearms.
On the other hand: his mysterious rake-stealing gardener had been lying to him.
On the other hand, his brain supplied, demonstrating ignorance of typical anatomy, she’s gorgeous.
She was in the process of unpinning her hair, and Malfoy found it startlingly erotic. She’d had a sort of wide bandeau wrapped from her upper forehead, and the hair underneath had been fiercely pinned down by an eclectic collection of accessories. These, she was removing one by one, tucking them carefully in her pocket as she went. She treated them with a care that made him think they were hers; they were high-quality, some decorated with pearls, others made with fashionable metalwork. With each pin she removed, another lock of hair curled free; it was a slow and torturous process, and Malfoy felt himself hardening in his pants as he watched her careful fingers work through her own hair.
“I suppose you have questions,” she said, in what must have been her normal voice, and—
He’d heard that voice before.
He realised, all at once: he’d seen that hair before, too.
Oh, fuck.
“You’re Hermione Granger.” His voice emerged husky and strained; he cleared his throat. “I thought you were… institutionalised?”
The arousal hadn’t faded yet, but the things he’d heard about this woman gave him cause to fear for his life. The fear and the arousal mingled in his chest, and… lower parts.
“He tried,” Granger said coldly. “I escaped.”
“You escaped to my Manor.”
She shrugged. “You needed the help. I needed…” She gestured around her.
It made an insane sort of sense, he supposed. And by all accounts, she was insane.
“So,” she said, with something tentative in her voice. “You’ve heard the rumours about me. I’ve heard some rumours about you, too.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?” he drawled, his arousal suddenly and cheerfully overcoming his fear.
She nodded. A blush rose over her cheekbones. She nervously tucked some hair behind her ear; ineffectively, as there was far too much to be tamed. He leaned forward into the thickening air between them, and heard her breathing grow shallow. She licked her lips and shyly looked away.
Yes: he had her.
She opened her mouth to speak. What she said wiped the grin off his face.
“I’ve heard you’re a reliable and discreet murderer.”
Hermione learned several things quickly.
She had been wrong about the blood on the rakes. She had been wrong about him, too: he’d never murdered a soul in his life. In fact, she was beginning to suspect he’d spread the rumours intentionally to heighten the spark of danger for his scandalous reputation.
Still, he listened.
She had nothing left to lose: she told him everything. If he didn’t believe her, well—she’d be back where she’d started, in a carriage on its way to the county asylum.
But if he believed her? If he came to understand her situation, and offered to help?
They sat side-by-side on the workbench out back of the gardener’s cottage on his estate, where she’d lived for the past several weeks. She’d brought the rakes outside and leaned them against the wall. He’d inspected their tips, eyebrows raised at the sight of the flaked-rust substance coating the tines.
“It does look like blood,” he murmured. “Have you tested it?”
She shook her head. “I only have sufficient supplies for a handful of tests,” she said. “I’ll need to combine the samples to make the most of it. I don’t need to know which rake has the blood; just if any of them do.”
He watched her steadily. “I’ll buy you supplies,” he said. “Test them individually.”
It took far less time than she’d thought it would. Malfoy had considerable resources at his disposal, and he gave her free rein of them. Supplies showed up at her cottage, addressed to Lord Malfoy care of Reeder, and they were more than ample: she had all the rakes tested in a matter of days.
And one of them—just one—was coated with blood.
She’d done it: the scheming, mad woman had done it.
The constable handed the rake back over to Malfoy. They, too, had tested it; they, too, had confirmed the blood. They’d re-opened the investigation into the death of his fiancée all those years ago. They’d held the rake as evidence throughout the process, and now—oh beautiful day—it was over.
There had been a confession, then a hanging, and now: the return of his property.
He sat silent throughout the entire carriage ride back to his estate, ruminating. He would have to do something with this rake. It had been the key to everything: it had unlocked his entire future for him. It had opened the door to the peace he felt in his heart.
And she—that wild, stubborn, mad, gorgeous woman—had been the one to hand it to him.
They'd joked about it: the absurdity, that a murderous rake (laughing at their double entendre: him, or the garden implement?) was what had brought them together.
He saw a shopfront out the window and leapt to his feet. “Stop the carriage!” he shouted, already leaning out the side. The carriage lurched to a halt and he leapt down to the cobblestone, rake in hand.
“Is it possible?” he asked the jeweller.
The rake lay between them. The jeweller had tested the metal: iron, with some brass fixings.
“It’s possible,” the jeweller replied, “but it’s a strange lady who wants a wrought iron ring for her wedding vows.”
“Yes,” Malfoy agreed. “Strange indeed.”
The deal was struck, and payment made. Malfoy and the jeweller shook hands with the murder weapon lying between them, soon to have a new life: the rake would be reformed.
Granger was going to love it.