Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “Mayhap. But I’ll be glad when we’re done and out of here.”

  She nodded, her stomach clenching. No use denying it. She was frightened, of what might happen in the next few moments, of what she might learn. She might clear Simon. Equally possibly, she might not. She wasn’t sure which prospect scared her more. “You really believe he loves me?”

  “Aye. Now promise me you’ll not ask to speak to the viscountess this time.”

  “I promise,” she said impatiently, for they had discussed her plans already. “When I get inside I’ll pretend to be faint, and someone, a maid, I hope, will get me water. And then I’ll find out what I can about the Honorable Geoffrey Vernon.”

  The cart topped a rise, and there it was again, the splendid view of sea and sky. To the right, the chimneys of the house were just visible. “And then get out of there. The viscount’ll wonder why someone from some charity is asking after a member of his family.”

  She smiled faintly. “Even Leonora Higglesby has maidenly feelings. And the Honorable Geoffrey is a handsome man.”

  There might have been a smile at the corners of McNally’s mouth; it was hard to tell. “Be careful, lass,” he said, sweeping the cart around the last curve and pulling to a stop under the portico. “Even Miss Higglesby has her weaknesses.”

  Blythe frowned, but before she could ask what he meant, a groom had come to hold the horse’s head, something that hadn’t happened in their previous visit. All else was the same, however, from the hollow boom of the massive door knocker crashing down, to the butler looking down his nose at her.

  At sight of her, he assumed a martyred expression. “You, again?”

  “Yes.” She smiled tightly. “After considering it I have come to the conclusion that it is my duty to try again to spread the word about the plight of distressed seamen.” Blythe took a deep breath. “It is an important cause, you realize, with women and their babies being dependent on the good that the Society does. I count it, no, I deem it an honor to serve such a noble purpose, even if in such a humble way.” She glanced up at the butler, and inexpertly batted her lashes. “Please?”

  The butler looked as if he had just caught a whiff of fish dead several days; his lips pursed and his cheeks quivered. “Come in, then,” he said, his voice shaking, and abruptly turned away, leaving Blythe to follow. “Wait here.”

  “Thank you. Excuse me.” She batted her lashes again. “Might I have something to drink? I find that being in the hot sun and talking as I must about the poor distressed seamen makes me quite thirsty. And when I think of what they suffer, why, I get quite faint—”

  “As well you might,” the butler interrupted, and Blythe at last managed to put a name to his expression. He was laughing! “I’ll have someone bring you some water.”

  Blythe watched him go, delighted. Why, that had been easy! The butler was completely fooled by her nonsensical pose, and so would anyone else be. She might even persuade him not to tell the viscountess of her presence when he returned with her drink, though that would likely make him suspicious. Unless she asked him for a donation? She nodded. Yes. Leonora would do that kind of thing, she decided.

  A footfall made her turn, to see a maid in starched black and white, holding a tray, upon which sat a crystal tumbler of water. It looked so inviting that Blythe, who a moment before hadn’t cared about a drink except as a prop, was suddenly very thirsty. “Thank you.” She took the tumbler from the tray as if being served were something she was accustomed to. “Where is the butler?”

  “Mr. Goodfellow?” The maid’s voice squeaked. “Dunno. Gone abovestairs, I think. He said as how I was to bring you this water.” Her brow puckered. “Did I do right?”

  “Exactly right,” Blythe said bracingly, sorry for the brusqueness her disguise required. “Do you know of the Seamen’s Benevolent Aid Society?”

  The maid fidgeted. “Er, no.”

  “As I thought. Well. We were formed in—”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but I must be about my duties,” the maid broke in.

  “What? Oh. Yes. Quite. And I imagine they are considerable.” She let her gaze sweep the hall. “So many paintings. I suppose you have to dust them all?”

  “Well, er, yes, miss.”

  “Hmph. As I thought. That is the house there, is it not?”

  The maid glanced at where Blythe pointed. “Yes, that is Moulton Hall. Miss, I really should—”

  “And him?” Blythe had turned to the portrait of the Honorable Geoffrey. “Is this the Viscount Stanton?”

  “Oh, no, miss,” the maid said, sounding shocked. “He’s been dead and gone this age.”

  “Oh? Then is the viscountess his wife?”

  “No, miss.” The maid stared at her. “He had no wife.”

  “Pity. And no children”

  “The viscount?”

  “No, no, this man here.” She prodded at the painting. “Did he not have children?”

  “No, miss.” The maid stared at her, clearly perplexed. “Why?”

  Blythe sighed, a heavy sound. “He was quite a handsome man. Not that I usually notice such things, of course, but I couldn’t help but see it this time. A pity.”

  “What?”

  “That he had no heirs, of course. I firmly believe in the laws of primogeniture.” Now where had that come from?

  “I beg your pardon, miss?”

  As well she might, Blythe thought. She had no idea herself what she was talking about. “A nobleman should have a son to inherit. It is as the world was meant to be.”

  The maid licked her lips, and glanced to the side, as if to assure herself they were alone. “Well, as to that, miss, there are those who say he did.”

  “Really.” Blythe’s voice was frosty. “And yet you say he wasn’t married.”

  “Huh. Things like that don’t always matter to the gentry.”

  “Really.”

  “Really.” The maid drew herself up, apparently offended, the last reaction Blythe desired. Leonora Higglesby was not, she reflected, a comfortable person. “I am sorry, miss, but why you are asking all these questions?”

  “That is what I would like to know,” a musical, amused voice came from behind them. Blythe turned to see a woman poised on the staircase, a beautiful woman, with raven dark hair dressed without powder, and a gown of shimmering lilac silk. Blythe’s stomach clenched. Dear heavens, the viscountess.

  She froze, and yet one thought remained clear. She must protect Simon. The best way to do that was to stay in character. “My lady.” She dropped into a deep curtsey. “You honor me with your presence. Indeed, I did not expect to see such an august personage as yourself today. Hoped, nay, prayed, but knowing the demands you must have on you—”

  “Miss Higglesby. Miss Higglesby!”

  Belatedly remembering what her name was supposed to be, Blythe looked up. “Yes, my lady?”

  “You do prattle on.” The viscountess continued down the stairs, her skirts swinging from side to side. Why, she wasn’t much taller than Blythe herself. It was her bearing that made her appear so, something Blythe would have to remember in future. “I hadn’t heard that about you.”

  Her stomach clenched again. “You have heard of me? Oh, indeed, my lady, I am honored indeed—”

  “Yes, yes.” She snapped her fingers. “You, there.”

  The maid straightened. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Miss—Higglesby and I will be in the morning room. Pray see to it that we’re not disturbed.”

  The maid curtsied. “Yes, my lady.”

  “In here, Miss Higglesby.” The viscountess swept along ahead, past a bowing footman who opened a door off the hall. They entered a sunlit room, with the windows opening onto the vista of fields and sea and sky. Within, all spoke of quiet, gracious comfort and a long heritage: the pleasantly faded carpet; the sofa table, highly polished, but dark with age; even the pair of dueling swords, hanging crossed over the mantelpiece. “Pray be seated.”

  “Thank you, my lady.�
�� Blythe sat down, composing herself, wondering desperately what to say. “I am honored that you deigned to see me today, and all because of the good work the Society does—”

  “Please.” Honoria held up her hand.

  “My lady?”

  “Spare me that, at least. But would you care, Miss Marden, to tell me why you’re really here?”

  “I’ve often wondered what became of you,” the Reverend Tulley said after his housekeeper had served them tea and cakes in his study, and then departed. “Terrible shame what was done to you, and so I told the old viscount many a time. Not that he would ever listen.”

  “No,” Simon said mechanically, holding the fragile china cup in both hands, as if afraid of dropping it. His mind was awhirl. He had family. He had had a father. He had—by God, he had a title! Or should have had. For some reason it had all been taken from him. “Did you know my father?”

  “Oh, yes, that I did, that I did. Quite a handful, young Master Geoffrey. You favor him.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “And your mother, my son. Is she well?”

  Simon shook his head and set down the cup, untasted. “She died, reverend, when I was young. My relatives raised me.”

  “Ah. So that is why you never returned.”

  “Returned to what?” Simon rose, restless, and began to pace. The study was a good-sized room, but it was dark from the ivy growing over the diamond-paned windows, and so filled with books and papers that it seemed small. Yet everything was clean, and there was a strange sense of order to the various piles. His history, Reverend Tulley had told him, or, rather, the history of southern England that he was writing, particularly in regard to the churches of the area. It was his magnum opus, his life work, and he fully expected it would still be unfinished when he died. It was all very strange, Simon thought. Taking tea with a country vicar in his home—what could be more normal? Yet there was nothing normal about the situation. “I didn’t know where to come to, until now.”

  Reverend Tulley’s eyes grew round. “Did you not know who your father was, my son?”

  “No. My mother never said.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear.” He shook his head. “That is bad, very bad. To be denied your rightful place—”

  “Why was I?” Simon interrupted. “Do you know?”

  Tulley seemed to consider his answer. “I do,” he said after a moment, and looked up, his eyes remarkably sharp. “I fear I don’t fare well in the tale, though.”

  “Why?”

  “I let the page in the parish register listing your parents’ marriage be destroyed.”

  Simon sat down, hard. “Why?” he asked, stunned.

  “Well.” Reverend Tulley made a face. “I was young and, I fear, rather weak. I liked my brandy, you know.”

  “Oh?” And what had that to say to anything?

  “Yes. When I married your parents, I knew there’d be trouble. Your grandfather—a hard man he was, my son, perhaps it is just as well you never knew him—would not be pleased at his son’s choice. Not that he ever was.” Tulley leaned back, folding his hands. “They never did get along, those two, not from the day Master Geoffrey was born.”

  “Why not?”

  “The viscountess died in childbirth. Very difficult, you see, for the viscount, as it was a love match. He blamed his son. What made matters worse is that they were so much alike.”

  Simon leaned forward, listening intently. “How?”

  “Oh, hardheaded when they had to be, quick thinking, quick to argue, stubborn to the point of being pigheaded. Yet they wanted different things in life. For the old viscount, there was the land. For Master Geoffrey, there was the whole world.” He sent Simon a sharp look. “You’re like him in that, too, I think, but maybe not elsewise? You strike me as perhaps more subtle than they.”

  Simon smiled. “I’m an actor.”

  “Ah. I believe I understand. You’ve learned other ways of getting what you want. Good. They had some memorable battles, those two.” Tulley shook his head. “Worst of all was when your parents married. The old viscount would have none of it, of course. He threatened to cut Master Geoffrey off without a penny. Master Geoffrey said he didn’t care, he’d make his own life. We never saw him again here.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Off someplace with your mother, I don’t know where. I do know the old viscount was upset, oh my, yes, he was. Though he wouldn’t admit it. He was angry at his fool son, that was all. Not worried. Not sorry.”

  “Was he sorry?” Simon asked, softly.

  “I think so, my son. We heard nothing from young Master Geoffrey—”

  “Excuse me.” Simon held up his hand. “How do you know all this?”

  Tulley nodded. “Fair question. Your grandfather and I were by way of being friends. At least, the closest to a friend as he came, and even that went wrong in the end. I told him what he’d done was wrong, but he wouldn’t listen.” Tulley shook his head. “Then we heard that Master Geoffrey had joined the army.”

  Simon sat up straight. “What!”

  “It was in 1746, my son.”

  “The year I was born.”

  “Yes, and the year of Culloden.”

  The battle that had finally ended all hopes for a Stuart monarchy in England. Simon was beginning to understand. “Oh.”

  “He fought for the Pretender, I’m afraid, but he did die a hero. He pulled a wounded comrade to safety. You’ve much to be proud of in your father.”

  “Mm.” Simon rose and began pacing again. His father, fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie and dying for a losing cause; his mother, alone and pregnant. “She came back here, didn’t she?”

  Tulley nodded. “Yes, carrying you, my son. And she went up to the big house.” He looked away. “She did not stay. The old viscount cast her out, refused to recognize her, or you. She begged him for your sake, saying you were his heir.” He stopped, lifted his shoulders, and then went on. “He said she had no proof and he would not accept you. Grandson or not, his heir was not going to come from a common actress.”

  “Why did you let him do it?” Simon demanded, wheeling and facing him. “How could you, a man of God, have let him destroy the register?”

  Tulley lifted his shoulders again. “Weakness, my son. I liked my brandy in those days, perhaps too much. And the Stantons hold this living.”

  “I see,” Simon said, after a moment.

  “I would have had no place to go. Oh, I’ve regretted it bitterly since. I’ve prayed about it and about you and I’ve no doubt I’ll do my penance for it. Weakness, my son. Just—weakness.” He looked at his fingers. “But after that day, I never touched another drop, no, not one, and never have I done anything more difficult. But in the end I found my courage again. I realized I’d been most derelict in my duties, one of which was to save the viscount’s soul. I never missed a chance after that to remind him about you.”

  Simon shot him a look. “For all the good that did.”

  “Oh, I think it did do some good. Towards the end, he would talk about you.”

  “He would?”

  “Yes. He’d mention your age, wonder how you were getting on—he knew you were with a theatrical troupe, and I think that worried him, though he wouldn’t admit it.”

  “My aunt and uncle were as fine a set of parents as anyone I could wish,” he said, sharply.

  “No doubt, no doubt. I think, though, at the end, your grandfather would have sent for you.”

  Of all possible outcomes to the story, this was one Simon had not imagined. He stood very still, not breathing. How different his life would have been. “Why didn’t he?”

  “He died, my son. A sudden apoplexy. It was very fast. The title passed to his cousin.”

  “The present viscount?”

  “No, his father. I don’t believe he knew of you. Your grandfather kept matters very quiet.”

  “So the viscount now doesn’t know about me.”

  “No. And I thought it best to lea
ve things be.” He looked squarely at Simon. “If I mentioned your existence, there would have been problems over it. I knew you at least had your mother, and she had family. I knew you were taken care of.” He paused. “I don’t know if I did right, or not. But I’ve thought of you often, my son. Yes, that I have.”

  Simon nodded, looking out the window onto a garden in dire need of weeding. “You did do the right thing, I think,” he said, finally.

  “How can you say that? I helped take away your birthright.”

  “You left me with people who loved me. I lacked for nothing, you know.” He turned. “Except a father, and my father’s name. And if we’d come back here, my mother and me, I wouldn’t have been just a bastard. I’d have been Geoffrey Vernon’s bastard.”

  “Harsh words, my son.”

  “But true. No, I’m not sorry,” he said, and as he did so realized he spoke the truth. He didn’t regret his upbringing, didn’t regret the loss of a title and the power that came with it, tempting though it was. Who would he be, had he become viscount? Not Simon Woodley, but Christopher Vernon. A stranger. Not, however, a man falsely charged with murder.

  He frowned and turned. The reverend was a decent man, and apparently unaware of the cloud over Simon’s name. With anyone else that would be to the good, but not with this man. Not if Simon wanted the answers to all the questions that plagued him. “There’s something I haven’t told you about myself,” he said.

  “Whatever it is, it can’t be very serious.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Simon said, and, sitting down, plunged into his tale, telling of his arrest and the subsequent events. Though he tried to keep it short, the telling took some time. He finished by explaining how he had learned of his connection to the Stantons, and the possibility that the viscount was involved in some way.

  “His lordship?” Tulley recoiled. “Never!”

  Something uncoiled within Simon at the protest, a knot of fear he hadn’t known was there. Fear that, for some reason, the family he’d never known wanted rid of him permanently. “You sound pretty certain.”

  “As certain as I can be of any man, yes.” Tulley shot him a look. “You’ve been through a great deal, my son.”