A Bride by Moonlight

by Liz Carlyle

  Lisette felt her face color. “They have quarreled?”

  “Hardly.” Hepplewood’s smile was muted. “One does not really quarrel with Mamma, does one?”

  “Lord Hepplewood,” said Lisette abruptly, “why do I somehow get the impression you’re a far better man than you make out? In fact, I sometimes wonder you’re much of a rake at all.”

  At that, he grinned, his flawlessly white teeth flashing. “Ah, my dear Miss Colburne!” he said. “Have you finally surrendered to my facile charms? Women generally do, in the end. Even my dear Miss Willet, I think, has succumbed.”

  Lisette opened her mouth to reply, but it was not necessary. Lord Hepplewood had cut her a deep, elegant bow, then passed her by. For a moment she could only stare after him. Perhaps he was a cad. She didn’t know, and it wasn’t her problem. Shaking off the urge to follow Diana, Lisette hastened up the stairs.

  Jolley, apparently, had hesitated long enough to permit her to catch sight of him turning the next corner. Lisette sent up a little prayer of thanks. And by the time she’d trotted up two flights of stairs and wound her way through the rabbits’ warren of corridors, Jolley was walking away again, and tucking something back into the pocket of his coat.

  Lord Saint-Bryce’s office door stood ajar.

  Lisette slipped inside, started to close it, and then thought better of the notion. Were she to be discovered, a closed door would be suspicious. Instead, she threw it wide, and began methodically to search, alert to any sound.

  The room was not terribly large. Swiftly, she surveyed the fitted bookcases flanking the hearth. No volume leapt out. With an eye to the door, she pulled the two books that had obvious bits of paper tucked inside.

  Both were agricultural tomes marked with scraps that held nothing of interest: a boot maker’s receipt and a scribbled note from Mr. Crawford about repairing a granary roof. She shoved them back and turned her attention to the stacked drawers that should have held files.

  She pulled out each drawer to find all had been emptied. And rather recently, for there was not a speck of dust inside. Disappointed, she looked behind the draperies, then tipped aside the three landscapes that hung about the room, peering behind each for hidden papers or perhaps even a safe.

  Nothing.

  She tried the desk. It appeared to be locked. Quelling her impatience, Lisette pushed and pulled each drawer in turn, all to no avail. On a muttered curse, she examined the surface. There was a blotter, well used. An inkwell, empty. An antique silver wax-jack, tarnished and absent its snuffer—clearly a sentimental piece.

  Lisette put it down and moved on. A stack of books sat neatly piled on one corner; a Bible, a dictionary, a treatise on animal husbandry, and the Book of Common Prayer, all well thumbed. Hastily she flipped through each and found nothing.

  Just then, Lisette froze. Footsteps—light and quick—were coming down the passageway. Snatching up the fairy tales, she left the desk and stepped swiftly to the door, then turned her back to it setting one arm akimbo.

  “Miss Colburne—?”

  “Oh, dear!” Lisette spun around, deeply furrowing her brow. “Oh, Mrs. Jansen, there you are. But . . . where am I?”

  Mrs. Jansen looked unhappy. “You are in Lord Saint-Bryce’s study,” she said with faint disapproval. “Gwyneth—Miss Tarleton—wishes it kept locked until she has finished cleaning it out.”

  “Really?” Lisette tried to look stupid—which, after last night, didn’t feel like much of a stretch. “The door was cracked when I came by, and so I thought—” Here, she looked about the room, then shook her head. “Somehow I thought this was the door to the schoolroom.”

  “The schoolroom?”

  “Yes, but all the doors on this floor look very like, do they not?—at least to one unaccustomed to grandeur.” Lisette gave a sheepish smile. “In any case, I found a book of fairy tales in the library and thought I might show it to Beatrice?”

  “Then I fear you simply went left when you should have gone right.” She turned and, with an efficient snap of her wrist, locked them inside the room. “The rooms are back to back, or nearly so.”

  “But you—you just locked us in,” said Lisette, staring uneasily at the lock plate.

  “We’ll go another way.” But Mrs. Jansen was looking at her oddly. “Miss Colburne, are you perfectly well? Your eyes, they look a little—”

  “A little red, I know.” Lisette forced a sheepish smile. “The grass this time of year makes me sniffle. I ought not have walked through the gardens last night with Lord Hepplewood.”

  “Ah,” said the governess.

  “In any case, the way out is . . . ?”

  “Follow me.”

  Then Mrs. Jansen crossed to a panel of wainscoting topped by the smallest of the landscapes, and cleverly pushed a piece of molding. Lisette felt suddenly foolish. A wall panel she had not noticed swung neatly out, taking both wainscoting and painting with it.

  Surprised, Lisette gazed at the narrow, unlit passageway beyond. In the gloom, she could see it was lined with cupboards over counters on one side and open shelves on the other, some of which were stacked with books and toys. One shelf, the lowest, was neatly lined with dolls, carefully seated, while the taller shelves above were set with miniature pieces of furniture.

  “How clever,” Lisette murmured. “What is this room?”

  “An old butler’s pantry,” she replied, waving at the shelves as she passed through. “I keep some of Beatrice’s books in here, but mostly it stores her toys.”

  Lisette knelt to look at a miniature sofa. “This is precious.”

  Bea’s governess glanced back. “Those shelves, I fear, are—or were—Bea’s makeshift dollhouse.”

  “Indeed, I can see that this shelf is the parlor,” said Lisette. “And this one is a child’s bedchamber. And here—look, a tiny kitchen!”

  A wistful expression sketched over Mrs. Jansen’s face. “Beatrice tells me that she is too old for all that now, but I do still find her hiding in here sometimes, rearranging the furniture and giving her dolls instructions.” Suddenly, her voice hitched. “That’s when I know she’s missing her father.”

  “Did they often play together?” asked Lisette, rising.

  “Oh, yes, that’s why he moved his study upstairs,” said the governess. “Lord Saint-Bryce adored Bea.”

  Here, however, her face fell as if she feared she’d spoken out of turn. Then Mrs. Jansen set a finger to her lips, and pulled open the door at the other end of the pantry.

  “Oh, Beatrice,” she sang out, “look who has come to call.”

  The girl sat at a long worktable, her head bent over a slate, her bouncing blonde ringlets pulled over one shoulder as she worked a row of numbers. On seeing Lisette, her eyes brightened at once, and she tossed her chalk down with a sharp clack!

  “Miss Colburne,” she said excitedly, rising to manage a perfunctory curtsy. “Have you come to visit me? Would you like to see my leaf collection?”

  “Actually, I brought you my favorite book of fairy tales.” Lisette cut a swift glance at the governess. “But honestly, the leaf collection sounds more interesting. Might she do so, Mrs. Jansen?”

  “Oh, by all means. But there are some fifty specimens in it now. To make it educational, shall we see if Beatrice can identify them all?”

  “I know I can,” bragged the girl, going to a deep shelf and pulling out two massive albums.

  “The challenge is on, then,” Lisette declared.

  The child slipped back into the chair beside Mrs. Jansen, her back to the door. Just then, a shadow fell across the threshold. Lisette looked up to see Napier standing in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space, one long-fingered hand set flat to the door’s surface, pushing it wide.

  The same hand that had touched her so intimately last night. At the sudden memory, something hot and melting rushed through her, leaving Lisette with the urge to flee. Or throw herself shamelessly at the infernal man.

  His gaze caug
ht hers, his eyes dark and questioning as he stepped inside. He, too, likely noticed the evidence of her miserable night.

  Suddenly Beatrice saw him. “Lord Saint-Bryce!” she said, leaping up.

  “Good morning, poppet,” said Napier, making her a neat little bow. “Am I interrupting?”

  “I was just about to do all my leaves,” she said on a breathless rush. “Will you watch me? They think I cannot know them all, but I do. I’m quite sure I do.”

  “I don’t for an instant doubt you, child.” Napier dipped his head in Mrs. Jansen’s direction. “If I may be permitted, ma’am?”

  “But of course,” said the governess. “Beatrice looks forward to your daily visits.”

  Lisette was unaware of Napier making any visits to the schoolroom, but there was no mistaking the comfortable familiarity that existed between the two. It reminded her again how little she knew of him. How little he’d shared of his purpose in coming here; of his hopes or his dreams or even his fears—assuming Napier had any of the latter.

  “Is your trip canceled?” asked Bea hopefully. “I thought you were going away with Craddock.”

  “Mr. Craddock is under the weather,” he said, “so we’ve postponed a day or two.”

  He was indeed dressed for riding, in a dark coat and a pair of glossy brown riding boots that molded to his calves. But no amount of elegance, Lisette imagined, could have offset the hard angles of his face or the weariness in his eyes.

  Mrs. Jansen had leapt up to pull out one of the small chairs. “Do sit down, Mr. Napier.”

  Lisette watched as Napier attempted to fold himself into it and scoot it beneath Bea’s worktable. He may have looked incongruous given his long legs and grim countenance, but Lisette had to commend the effort. Bea’s welfare might soon fall to him, and he was wise to cultivate a friendship with the child. Lisette had been precisely Bea’s age when she’d lost her own father. She understood with painful clarity what it was like to be an orphan.

  “Now, on to the leaves.” Napier leaned back and extracted a gold watch from his pocket, thumbing it open with a theatrical gesture. “And let’s do the thing properly. Shout out when ready, Bea, and I shall time you.”

  A grin spread over the child’s face. “Then ready, set, go!” she cried, flipping the first page.

  She did indeed begin as if it were a race, rambling off alder, ash, aspen, and beech as she tore through the pages. But by the time they had reached the assorted oaks—pendunculate, holm, and sessile—they had all begun to laugh and clap. Then, finishing tidily with wych elm and yew, Beatrice slammed the book shut and beamed around the room.

  “Ninety-three seconds,” declared Napier, snapping the watch cover shut, “assuming one allows for Miss Colburne’s bursts of applause.”

  “That did slow me down,” the girl chided.

  Just then, Napier shifted, doubtless attempting to stretch his cramped legs. But when his booted calf brushed Lisette’s, she jerked. The extraordinary wave of sensual awareness swept her again, warming her cheeks.

  Of course the arrogant devil noticed, his gaze catching hers across the table, one eyebrow lightly lifting.

  Mischief needled Lisette. With a faint smile, she slipped her foot from her shoe and brushed it quite deliberately up the length of his boot. All the way up, over the deeply turned cuff, until her toes could tease the inside of his knee through the snug breeches, then stroke slowly along his inner thigh with just the right sort of pressure.

  And then she stopped short—but ever so slightly. Napier’s eyes flashed with warning—but there was an unmistakable heat, too.

  “Oh, may I have a look at your collection, Bea?” asked Lisette sweetly, returning her foot to its shoe. “I like to keep my hands busy—and sometimes even my toes.”

  “The vicar says idle hands are the devil’s work,” said the girl, turning the heavy book, “but he’s never mentioned toes.”

  Without looking at Napier, Lisette reopened the scrapbook to flip back and forth between the pressed leaves. “Heavens, are all these native to England?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Beatrice. “But those in the second volume are not. They’re the leaves Papa collected during his travels to Asia and Africa before I was born. Even before Gwyneth was born.”

  “My, Asia and Africa!” said Lisette. “How adventurous he sounds.”

  “Papa was an explorer,” Beatrice declared proudly. “Well, until my eldest uncle died. Then Papa had to settle down to do his duty.”

  She said the words in a parroting fashion, perhaps with little idea what they meant.

  “Well, duty is an important thing,” Lisette murmured, remembering Napier’s story about the rapscallion heir shot dead at Primrose Hill. “For my part, I’ve never been anywhere, really, unless one counts Boston.”

  “Of course one must count Boston,” said Mrs. Jansen defensively. “I’m told Massachusetts is the most beautiful of all the colonies.”

  Lisette did not trouble herself to correct the term and instead smiled down at Beatrice. The girl had taken a fresh leaf from a little wicker basket on the table, and was tracing it onto a sheet of thick, cream-colored paper.

  The paper, curiously, appeared to have something printed on the reverse side, and Napier, too, was watching Bea, and fixedly. No hint of desire heated his eyes now.

  “What of yourself, Mrs. Jansen?” he murmured without glancing up. “Have you lived all your life in England?”

  “Why, no, as it happens,” she said. “I lived on the Continent for a time.”

  “Where you met your husband, perhaps?” said Napier offhandedly. “You see, I once knew a family named Janson—with an o—from Northampton. But your name is spelled with an e, in the Dutch fashion, I’d guess? And sometimes pronounced differently, too, I expect?”

  “Just so, Mr. Napier,” she said, “though I was born a plain Miss McDonald from Glasgow. My late husband was a spice merchant from Amsterdam.”

  Napier finally looked up. “You must miss him greatly,” he said, holding her gaze in an odd, measured fashion.

  Mrs. Jansen blushed, and looked away. “I—yes, I do,” she said. “But he was a good deal older than I. And sadly, we were not married long.”

  “I hope it was not a protracted illness,” said Napier solicitously.

  “A few months.” Her face saddened. “It was a bilious condition, but I never quite understood the particulars.”

  “Tragic,” murmured Napier. “And the business?”

  “It fell on hard times,” she said, “so I sold it.”

  “Well, that was likely for the best.” But his brow had furrowed absently, and Napier had begun to pat through his coat pockets.

  “I’m glad it was sold,” said Beatrice, now sketching veins onto her leaf, “because Gwyneth brought her to live with me. And I shan’t let her leave Burlingame—never, ever.”

  Napier had given up on his pockets. “I beg your pardon,” he said, cutting a rueful glance at Mrs. Jansen, “but I seem to have come away without my notebook. Might I trouble you for a piece of paper? A minute ago, Craddock told me something I meant to jot—”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Jansen had flashed a pained expression, and risen to pull out a drawer. “I haven’t anything proper,” she said, digging through it, “unless I go to my room. But I can give you this, and you might use the back of it?”

  “Oh, anything,” said Napier with a wave of his hand.

  She turned around, smiling, and passed him a piece of cream-colored letterhead.

  “Thank you, you have saved me,” said Napier, proceeding to jot some numbers on it. “Craddock spews out the most frightful facts and figures, and imagines I’ll remember them.”

  Lisette looked down at the letterhead. De Groff en Jansen it said across the top, the type an ornate script with great loops and swashes, and below it three lesser lines in a language she could not make out.

  She reached over, and drew her finger along the words. “Mrs. Jansen, what does this say?”


  The lady colored again, and bent over the table. “De Groff and Jansen,” she said, pronouncing the last more like Yonsen. “Importers of Rare Spices and Fine Teas. And below that, our old address in Sint Antoniesbreestraat.”

  At Lisette’s surprised look, the governess shrugged almost sheepishly. “I thought it a waste to throw good paper away,” she said. “We use it here in the schoolroom. It’s perfectly serviceable for that.”

  “Most economical of you,” Lisette declared.

  Napier, however, was carefully folding the paper and tucking it away in his pocket, and Lisette thought she knew why. She had not long to consider it, however. In the next moment, there came the sound of footsteps hastening down the passageway and Gwyneth Tarleton almost burst into the room, her face genuinely alight.

  “Come, Bea, quick!” she said, extending her hand to the girl. “It’s Anne and the baby! The carriage just turned it!”

  They were, for the most part, a convivial group in Burlingame’s state dining room that evening. Despite the small size of their gathering, Duncaster had ordered the massive chamber thrown open and the thirty-foot dining table appropriately shortened.

  Though she had to force herself not to stare at Napier through much of the meal, even Lisette could see that Anne, Lady Keaton, was the darling of the family and Duncaster’s favorite grandchild.

  The prettiest of the Tarleton sisters, Anne was a petite young lady who possessed Gwyneth’s fine eyes and Bea’s heavy blonde ringlets. Her personality, however, seemed far more outgoing than either of her sisters. Her visit put Duncaster in a rare good humor, and despite the presence of Lady Hepplewood’s nemesis, Miss Willet, the viscount demanded Marsh break out the best wine with every course until Lisette was a little dizzy with it.

  As to Miss Willet, she was a handsome if not beautiful girl of perhaps nineteen years old. Thankfully, the chill her presence cast over dinner was not quite severe enough to leave anyone frostbitten, and lasted only through the fish course, for Duncaster seemed disposed to approve of anyone Anne had befriended. Even Lord Hepplewood looked smitten with his betrothed.