A moment later their backs were turned and they were walking away toward the paddock, the gentle sway of the girl’s hips and the sound of her laughter as it drifted up to him, causing something to catch in his chest and flame in his loins.
I am damned.
Damned and double-damned.
The kisses had meant nothing. The sparks between them meant nothing. He’d got his hopes up for nothing.
She had made her choice.
He called for Thorne and sent him to find out when the stage ran. He tidied up his room, a task another man might’ve left to his valet or a housekeeper. He, however, needed something to do and the small staff in his brother’s employ surely had enough other things to contend with than cleaning up after yet another guest.
He felt invisible. He was used to feeling invisible.
Might as well wipe away any trace that he’d ever even been here and further that notion. Invisible people left no traces. There was no need to stay here, really, with the pain of Lady Grace’s victory staring him in the face. And he had no desire to.
Jimmy Thorne returned just as Del, having pulled the sheets off the bed, was folding them and laying them in a neat pile on a chair. If he thought such an action was beneath the captain’s station, he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.
“The stage down to London comes every afternoon just after one,” the man said, frowning as he watched Del pull the coverlet back up over the bed and neaten it with military precision. “We can catch it at the inn in the village. Shall I procure tickets, sir?”
Del paused and in that moment, he heard Lady Grace’s laughter from outside and the sound pierced his heart.
“Thank you,” he said simply, and pulling out his purse, deposited some coin in the man’s hand. “That would be most appreciated.”
* * *
Thorne left.
The room was silent and still. Echoing with emptiness. With the drapes shutting out the day outside, Del opened the desk once more, pulled out the quill from its brass case, uncapped the ink bottle, and put pen to paper.
“My dear Lady Grace,
I hope you will forgive me for my sudden departure, but it would appear that our efforts have yielded the prize you had sought, and my services to that effect are no longer needed.
Our trip to England was never intended to be a lengthy one, and as it has been some years since I’ve visited my parents, I have decided to catch the afternoon stage and return to Hampshire so that I might see them. I am sorry I did not get the chance to say goodbye, but do know that I will forever think of you with fondness and respect, and wish you and your captain well. If you should ever have need of me, I will always be honored to offer you my services.
Your friend, always,
Capt. Lord
33
Hambledon, Hampshire, England.
Deirdre O’Devir Lord was a handsome woman of some years, and she was busy going over the week’s meal plan with the housekeeper, Mrs. Adams, when the butler announced that they had a visitor whose identity he was asked, by the visitor himself, to keep secret.
“How odd!” said the Irishwoman, and tucking a long silver curl up into her hopelessly disheveled coiffure and twisting it around another strand to keep it there, left Mrs. Adams with the menu and headed toward the hall.
“Christian?” she poked her head into the library where her husband, his ankles propped on a leather footstool and a book in his hand, looked up. He was still as handsome as he’d been when she’d first met him all those years ago, as virile and commanding now as he was then, and she was glad that he’d finally retired from the Admiralty so she could have him all to herself. His gray eyes warmed when he saw her and he put the book down. “Is everything all right?”
“’Tis an unknown visitor who’s come a-calling,” she said. “Won’t tell Mr. Adams who ’e is.”
The admiral swung his legs from the stool, and got to his feet. His joints were increasingly stiff these days, especially when rain was in the air, and he vowed to add another half-mile to his afternoon walk in an attempt to loosen up. He’d be damned if he’d seize up like some of the other old coots his age. He may not be a young man, but he had plenty of fight left in him yet.
Arm in arm, the two of them walked from the library.
A figure, hauntingly familiar, stood in the gray light coming in through the tall, many-paned leaden windows. He had allowed Mr. Adams to take his hat and coat, and stood with his back to them looking out over the downs. For the briefest of seconds Deirdre thought she was looking at her brother Ruaidri, so alike was this young man’s wildly curling black hair to that of her brother’s, so proud and erect was his stance. And in the next second he turned, and she let out a happy shriek of excitement.
“Delmore!”
She ran to him and threw herself into his arms, laughing, the sharp edges of the bejeweled cross around her neck pressing into her flesh and his, molding her to her son, cementing their Irishness in this very English part of the world she had called her home for decades now. She hugged him with fierce abandon, and sudden tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She grasped his shoulders and held him at arms’ length, inspecting him with the thoroughness that only a mother could give.
“Ye’re lookin’ grand,” she said fondly, perusing him. “But yer color’s not good. Are ye feeling all right, my little laddie? Ye need to eat more, I think. I know ye’ve always been picky about yer food, and maybe coconuts and bananas are all Sir Graham has t’ feed ye out there in Barbados, but ye’re going t’ waste away to nothing if ye don’t pack some meat on those bones of yers!”
Her son laughed, a sound that warmed her heart because Del had always been her serious one. Even now she could see a deep pain in his eyes, a pain that made them almost purple, and her motherly heart wondered at the cause of it. But he was here, and there was plenty of time to not only feed him, but to learn and do something about whatever it was that had him looking so lost and forlorn.
“I can assure you, Mother, that we have more than coconuts and bananas to eat in Barbados. But I will admit to a certain craving for a good Irish stew. Preferably with that brown bread you always used to make when we were little.”
His father formally extended a hand. “Delmore, son. It’s good to have you home.”
“Thank you, sir. It is good to be home.”
“Not much to do around here now that I’ve retired from the Admiralty. I daresay, I’m bored out of my mind.”
“And yer father cannot stand being bored,” his mother chirped. “In fact, he’s going t’ write a book. ’Twill be about all the wonders of the world he’s seen from the quarterdecks of various ships. He’s even going t’ illustrate it!”
“Attempt to illustrate it,” said her husband, rather sheepishly. “I’m only just learning how to draw.”
“You’re more than proficient at anything you set your mind to,” Del said, and meant it. He’d always felt somewhat stiff and uncomfortable around his father, as though he might never quite measure up to what his father expected of him, though there was no denying that the admiral was more relaxed than Del had ever seen him and privately, he decided that retirement must agree with him.
“Let me ring for tea,” his mother said and off she bustled, humming. She had aged a bit since Del had last seen her, her hair grayer, her face more lined and her waist a bit thicker, but her effervescent spirit and earthy gentleness hadn’t changed a bit. He looked forward to just... being here, in his childhood home, where he could relax with his family and put Lady Grace and her memory far behind him.
“So how are you keeping, Del?” asked his father, motioning toward the hall and the library beyond. “Sir Graham treating you all right?”
“Aye, sir, but being his flag captain is more demanding than I’d have thought it would be.”
“He’ll teach you well. I can’t think of a finer mentor than one of Nelson’s own. And if he’s demanding, that’s to your benefit, and you know it as well
as I do.”
“Of course,” said Del, because it was unspoken knowledge between them that he, like his father before him, like his father before him— another Delmore, for whom he’d been named, much to his chagrin— had been admirals, and he was expected to follow the same path.
He strode with his father to the gold drawing room. His mother had always said she’d chosen the paper because it reminded her of the color of her husband’s hair, and while the walls were still a pale, sunny gilt that was quite cheerful against the day’s grayness, the draperies were new, the heavy fabric from the last century now replaced by a pale blue silk on which embroidered little birds flitted amongst green and yellow leaves. Above the fireplace mantel was a painting, poorly executed, of a ship of the line standing into what appeared to be Portsmouth Roads.
His mother reappeared, her boundless energy right along with her. “I see ye admiring that lovely work of art, Del! Doesn’t it fit the room well? Yer father painted it last month. ’Twas his first piece, and I’m ever so proud of him.”
Del put a hand over his helpless grin to hide it. The painting was awful. He pitied the book that was about to bear the burden of his father’s illustrations.
But then his heart softened. His austere father, always a perfectionist, always so very good at whatever he set his mind to, had found a challenge he had yet to master and Del figured that as long as his sire had something to strive toward, especially in retirement, his remaining years would be both rich and bountiful.
He went to his favorite old chair, relieved that it still wore the striped damask that he’d known as a child. As he sat, he felt a sudden wave of weakness.
“Are you well, my son?”
“I’m fine, Mother. Just—” he smiled wanly— “just hungry.”
Tea was brought in, the steam rising from the same old floral porcelain pot he’d always known, the same little cups that his mother had always brought out for their best company. The hot brew splashed into the cups. He looked hopefully at the plate of refreshments as it was set down before them and his heart, so recently bruised, so heavily laden, filled with that special joy of homecoming, of being back where he belonged. For there was the same thick brown bread his mother had always made, cut up into little rectangles and spread with thick pats of rich yellow butter.
Del sipped his tea, but as he looked at the bread, sudden nausea assailed him. He thought of the back and forth sway of the coach all the way down from Norfolk and wondered if perhaps, now that he’d finally escaped such torment, this was the equivalent of seasickness. It certainly explained why his muscles ached, and why wouldn’t they, trying to maintain his balance in such an unpredictable contraption? He lifted the teacup to his mouth. Heat flooded him from the inside out, leaving perspiration popping out on his forehead.
His mother was eyeing him critically. “Are you ill, Del?”
He set down the cup before his suddenly shaking hand could spill it. “I think I’m just out of sorts from the trip down from Norfolk,” he said. “We went up to visit Colin and his family.”
“How is he? Ariadne? The boys?”
“Happy. They’re doing well for themselves.”
I wonder what Lady Grace is doing at the moment. If she read my note with relief that I removed myself from a situation that would only cause her guilt and confusion. It was the right thing to do.
Wasn’t it?
“We were there for Christmas,” his father put in. “Had a wonderful time. Some nearby farmer brought a sick horse to your brother and he cured it when the farmer himself thought the poor creature needed to be shot and put out of its misery.” He reached for his tea. “It broke my heart when he left the Navy, but he’s as good an animal doctor as he was a naval officer. Got to admit, I’m proud of him.”
“He wields a mean needle,” Del said, willing his nausea away. “I got to stand in for one of his patients.”
“What?”
“Oh, just a minor scratch.”
By now, Ponsonby’s probably already asked Sir Graham for her hand. By now, they’ve probably already set about getting the banns posted, planning her wedding trousseau, dreaming of their future together.
His brow was beginning to throb and he rubbed at it, feeling slick, clammy moisture that came away on his fingers.
“Del, ye don’t look well a’tall,” his mother said in sudden concern, putting her cup down. “Come, let’s get ye settled into yer room. Ye need to rest.”
“I’m fine, Mother.” He reached again for his tea, paused, put it down, and pushed himself to his feet. As he did, the room revolved around him, and he grabbed at the back of the chair to keep himself steady. The pounding in his temples began to beat like a marine’s drum, his heartbeat increasing right along with it and he feared, suddenly, that he was going to be sick.
He barely felt his father supporting him as they made their way up the stairs, heard his own voice coming from far away as he asked for a chamber pot before he could cast up his accounts all over the carpeting, felt nothing but the blissful embrace of the soft featherbed as he tumbled, fully clothed, onto its blessed expanse.
By the time his mother got his sweat-soaked shirt off him and gasped in horror at the red and puffy wound swelling beneath a row of stitches on his forearm, he was already unconscious.
“Jesus, Joseph n’ Mary,” she breathed, her hand going to her mouth. The face she turned up to her husband was white. “Christian? What is it?”
“I’m guessing it’s blood poisoning,” he said grimly.
His wife pressed both hands to her mouth. They exchanged glances, and looked again at the angry wound on their son’s arm.
Both of them knew it was a certain death sentence.
“Del. Del!” his father demanded. “What has happened to you?”
But his son was already well past answering.
34
The day was glorious, the curricle was open, the horse was fancy, and the man handling the ribbons was Captain Sheldon Ponsonby.
Grace sat beside him, pressed by necessity against him, really, as the seat was exceedingly narrow. They were on the flat, grassy course on which the Norfolk Thoroughbreds trained, the wheels gliding over the turf and occasionally hitting a bump that sent her knocking against her companion. The hedge to her left seemed to fly past in a blur, and she felt the wind on her cheeks, pulling at her hat-strings and playing with the folds of her skirts.
Lady Ariadne had invited some of the local gentry for an afternoon lawn party, and a small crowd was lounging in the center of the field. Spots of color marked the pretty gowns worn by the daughters of those same gentry, all of whom were glaring daggers at Grace for having the good fortune to be the current occupant of Captain Ponsonby’s curricle, as well as attention.
By now, word had got round that he was formally courting her.
Yes, this day should have been the pinnacle of her joy, this jaunt in the curricle with the man of her dreams, a bigger-than-life memory to take out and relive with sighs and smiles for every day of the rest of her life.
Should have been.
And on the surface, it was. She smiled happily up at her handsome suitor, felt the sweet summer breeze on her face and in her nostrils. Beneath the surface though, currents ran strong, tainting her joy and making what should have been a grand day, one of conflicting emotions.
And it was all because of Captain Lord.
He’d been gone less than a week, but she felt his absence in a profound and piercing way that troubled her. How shocked she’d been when she’d found his note beneath the door to her room. Even now she remembered her numbness at his sudden departure, which had felt like a blow to the stomach. Her anger. And finally her sorrow, which lingered still, and sent the only clouds scudding across what should have been a happy heart at the situation in which she currently found herself.
You didn’t even say goodbye.
Did our friendship mean so little to you?
The pain at his defection was almost visce
ral, and she forced him from her mind. She would not let Captain Lord or anyone else, anything else, ruin this day that she had hoped for, longed for, all but prayed for, for so long.
And yet...
“Why so pensive, Lady Grace?”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a smile meant to be reassuring. “I have a lot on my mind today.”
“It’s far too perfect of an afternoon to be troubling yourself with heavy thoughts.” He clicked to the horse. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am.”
“I hope you’re not frightened. Am I driving too fast? I’ll slow down if you wish.”
“No, it is fine.”
“Are you cold? Hot? Getting too much sun?”
“No, I’m quite content, Captain.” He looked genuinely concerned and she suddenly felt both guilty and irritated. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m not frightened at all.”
“Good to hear. Because after giving each of the Falconer and Lord children a ride, I feared the poor horse would be spent by the time it was your turn. I must say, if I could trade each of the turns that were wasted on a child for yet another one with you, I would be the happiest man alive today.”
Grace’s pasted-on-smile froze in place. “Wasted on a child?”
He had the good grace to redden. “I beg your pardon, poor choice of words on my part. What I meant to say, Lady Grace, is that I regret any moment spent with others when it could have been with you.”
She felt a bristle of irritation. “That is very gallant, Captain, but I don’t regret seeing the delight of each child who enjoyed a ride in your curricle. Why, it was surely the highlight of the day for each of them.”
He steered the horse around a slight depression in the turf. “Well, maybe not for young Ned Falconer. Poor lad looks quite miserable, I daresay.”
Grace glanced toward the grassy field, where Colin and Lady Ariadne, the Falconers, Lord and Lady Weybourne (the brother and sister-in-law of their hostess) and several neighboring families were abandoning their game of croquet to enjoy picnic baskets that footmen were setting down near blankets spread out over the grass. The admiral, looking peaceful and relaxed, was deep in conversation with Colin, their wives digging into the picnic baskets and handing food to eager children. Mary and Anne Falconer were chasing a butterfly, their high giggles and laughter floating on the wind. And sure enough, there was Ned.
My Saving Grace Page 22