Gail Eastwood

by An Unlikely Hero

  “Oh, I know.” Trust me, how well I know. Gilbey hoped the pain he felt did not show on his face.

  “We will have to find a moment to tell them this latest tidbit,” Nicholas said.

  “Ah. I had best leave that to you, my friend. Your father has made it abundantly clear that he does not want me near your sister Venetia.” Gilbey opened his mouth to say more, then closed it. Somehow it felt wrong just now to betray what Vivian had told him about Venetia’s scheme. Trust me, she had said. Apparently she had some kind of plan. Very well, then. He would give her some time.

  “Talking to servants is something we might want to do a bit more of,” he said instead, steering the conversation back to the blackmail investigation. “Ever since we visited Colby Compton I have been thinking about ways the knowledge of your sister’s condition could have become known. We have not found any direct and obvious links between our suspects and Vivian, but perhaps the link we seek is more subtle. I thought some conversations with the servants who came with our guests might be helpful.”

  “Good idea. Thornborough brought at least four with him. Most have brought maids or valets, and a few brought their own grooms. The stables would be a good place to start.”

  Nicholas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You say my father put in a word with you, did he? I didn’t think he was paying enough attention to know you have been near Venetia.”

  “Ha. I believe your father knows twice as much as you, Nicholas. Do not underestimate him.”

  “He does not know about the blackmail attempt.”

  “Hm. As far as we know, but even now I begin to wonder,” Gilbey replied. “I doubt I have ever met such a confounded family full of schemers. How did I ever let you talk me into coming here?”

  Gilbey managed to avoid both of the twins for the remainder of the day. He felt as though he and Venetia were engaged in a silent game, each trying to attain opposite goals. Each time she made some move designed to put him in company with her sister, he had to make a counter move. At dinner he had to convince Lord Lindell to trade seats with him; during the musicale that evening he had to ask Lord Ashurst to take his place to turn pages for Lady Vivian at the pianoforte. When the company was invited to sing, he had to maneuver a different place to stand from the one Venetia tried to assign to him.

  Was she testing him again? Was it really all a game? He did not think so. He sensed something was wrong—there was no light in Venetia’s eyes, and although he heard other people’s laughter from time to time, he never once heard hers. He would have defied her father to demand an explanation except for one thing—he happened to think that her father was right. If he did not want a wife, what business had he with her? If he did want a wife, still what business had he with her? He could not provide a proper life for the daughter of a duke. He needed to stay away from her, for both their sakes.

  On Saturday he thought his job of staying away from the twins would be easier. The list for the treasure hunt was long and quite clever, and the participants in the hunt were encouraged to go about in pairs—ladies paired with ladies, of course. Most of the men preferred to work alone, Gilbey included, and he thought in the vast Rivington gardens it would not be difficult to avoid company altogether.

  Indeed, once the group scattered into the various pathways and terraces, he began to find the event entertaining. He took himself off to one of the higher terraces, where he could command a view of the gardens spread below him. There he watched the ladies in their colorful muslins traipse to and fro, looking like flowers themselves with their matching parasols, frowning at their lists or laughing in delight when they achieved some success. Snatches of their conversations floated up to him: “A pink rose, a cream rose, a rose the color of blood . . .” “Stone stairs six in number . . . drat, these are only four! Now where . . .?”

  The men wandered about like independent shadows in their darker colors, occasionally meeting up and comparing notes. “How many fish did you count in the lily pool? Felt like a damn fool sitting there counting ’em . . .”

  Gilbey felt relieved to put his mind to something besides the crop of troubles he had found at Rivington. He had already observed a number of the items on the list during previous walks in the garden. He knew that what was missing from the statue of Venus was her hand, and he knew the inscription on the sundial in the sundial court. “Love always” was part of it. He did not agree.

  He filled in all the information that he could without having to circulate through the gardens, and then plotted a route that would move him through efficiently. He could count most of the fountains from his present vantage point, but he had never gone into the walled garden, and he did not know how many fountains, if any, might be there. That was also the location of the topiary peacock that had been endangered during the archery contest. A pass through there would bring him out by the pergola covered with Venetia’s prized wisteria. She had said the set of vines were her father’s pet and had been loved by her mother, but in his mind he would always connect them with her. Surely it was the only answer to “a tender climbing Chinese flower.” He doubted many of the others would solve that one.

  He found that the walled garden had no fountain at all, for it was designed like an Elizabethan knot garden in a geometric pattern, with neat gravel paths all bordered with boxwood. He retrieved a pebble from the topiary peacock, and let himself out by the old wooden arched door in the crumbling side wall.

  The door swung outward and almost knocked Venetia off her feet. He was so stunned to find her there that for a moment he just stood.

  “My God, Venetia! Are you all right?” he blurted out when he found his tongue. “I did not expect anyone to be there.”

  She gave him a smile that was definitely sad. He felt his heart turn over. Should he shake her with anger or comfort her in his arms?

  “I expected to find you here,” she said.

  “Did you, by George! What were you doing here, waiting for me?” Another scheme. Anger was edging out comfort.

  “Yes.” She had the nerve to speak plainly, but at least it was the truth.

  “I am surprised you did not try to substitute your sister.”

  “I am constantly surprised by the way you know which one of us is which.”

  “How did you know I would come here?”

  “You are the only one who knows about the flowers. No one else has noticed them or cared to ask. I put the clue on the list quite purposely.”

  He was strongly tempted to walk away. He knew he ought to walk away. But his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground as firmly as the vines around him. “All right, I am here.”

  She looked down and took a few steps along the pathway before turning back to him, almost as if she were embarrassed. “It seemed the only way. About my sister . . .”

  “Yes, what about your sister? She has a mind of her own, and so do I, yet you seem intent on pushing us together. Why do you insist on meddling?”

  She seemed taken aback by his aggressive response. Good. Make her think.

  “I thought I explained before. I must make sure she finds a good husband. Her need is greater than mine . . .”

  “And you decided since I was not a blackmailer I would make her a good husband? Did it ever occur to you that I might have some feelings about that?”

  “Yes! Yes, of course. That is why we are here talking . . . You have been doing all you can to avoid both of us. I just thought, if you got to know her, if you would spend a little time with her, perhaps you might discover that you cared for her! Perhaps you would find the idea of marriage less displeasing . . . Oh, why will you not consider it?”

  She looked straight up at him in her desperate appeal, and he found that he could not stay angry. She looked so beautiful standing under the flowery canopy. The leaves and blossoms threw a lacy pattern of sunlight over her. “Light and shade by turns, but l
ove always,” said the words on the sundial.

  He did not realize he had said them aloud until he saw the look of utter surprise and then wariness on her face.

  “Love is the thing,” he explained quickly. “Your sister needs someone who can and will love her. I cannot be that man.”

  “But why? I mean, how do you know? How can you say that, when you haven’t even tried?”

  Because, he suspected, it was already too late—he had already given his heart to her. But he would not say that. “I am not a suitable match for either of you, as your father would be the first to tell you,” he said instead. “In fact he has warned me to keep away from you. There are other reasons . . .”

  “Will you not tell me what they are?” she asked very quietly.

  He sighed. Maybe he should. “My own father . . .” he began, but at that moment they heard laughter. Lord Munslow and Lady Norbridge came around the corner at the far end of the pathway that led under the pergola.

  “Why, I do believe it is Lord Cranford with one of our hostesses,” Lady Norbridge proclaimed cheerfully. “I won’t even try to guess which twin you are from this distance. I suppose you’re going to say you are comparing your lists.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Not at all, Lady Norbridge,” Venetia said quickly. “I am not playing the game—how should I, when I made up the list? But Lord Cranford chanced to stop me in passing to ask a question . . .”

  Lady Norbridge narrowed her eyes. “Of course. Lady Venetia, is it not? You are always so smooth. Well, never fear, we shall say nothing. How should we? After all, we are out here unchaperoned as well!” She laughed as if that were a supremely humorous jest.

  As if you needed a chaperon, Venetia thought. She could easily have shot the older woman at that moment. Whatever Cranford had been about to reveal might be exceedingly important to her future and Vivian’s, if it helped her to understand him. At least Lord Munslow looked a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable, which Venetia counted in his favor. But the moment between her and Cranford was lost. She only hoped she could find another such opportunity to speak with him in the days ahead.

  The opportunity presented itself with surprising ease the following afternoon. Most of the party had gone with the St. Aldwyns into Withington to attend the parish church there, and had spent the early afternoon walking, writing letters, or pursuing other quiet Sunday pastimes. In the late afternoon, plans were made to go punting on Rivington’s small lake.

  Venetia thought she could go with Lord Cranford—if she could convince him to accompany her—and still go out a second time with the Duke of Thornborough, as there were not enough punts to accommodate all of the guests at once. The trick was getting a chance to speak to Cranford before he invited one of the other ladies.

  “Please, Vivian, you must help,” she begged as the twins walked across the lawn down to the water. “I know he will try to avoid me. He and I were interrupted in the middle of a very important conversation yesterday—we must finish it!”

  “This is a switch,” Vivian said wryly. “I thought you would be asking me to go in the boat with him.” She was reluctant to be part of a new scheme, but after a little more begging, she agreed.

  As it happened, Gilbey was in the process of asking Lady Caroline when Vivian stopped him. “I was under the impression that you had promised my sister,” she said with a perfect mix of puzzlement and reproval in her voice. Behind her, Lord Chesdale expressed an interest in asking Lady Caroline.

  Gilbey had no recourse without being rude; he could no more contradict Lady Vivian than he could insist upon taking Lady Caroline after Lord Chesdale spoke. The twins and Fate had outmaneuvered him.

  “Am I to be delivered on a plate?” he asked Vivian as they walked toward her twin.

  Color flooded into her face, the first time he had seen either of the twins blush. It was very becoming.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “She only wants to talk with you—she said something about an interrupted conversation.”

  He groaned. “Your father will be very displeased when he learns about this.”

  They were close enough so that Venetia heard his remark. “Everyone can see that this was not your idea.” She glanced about, looking a bit embarrassed. “You look like a prisoner being marched to his execution. Truly, I did not know I was such an antidote.”

  Hardly an antidote, Gilbey thought. More like a beautiful thief who has stolen my heart. She looked resplendent in a dress of sky blue muslin with a spencer in a darker shade of the same hue worn over it. A modestly proportioned straw cottage hat with a brim that dipped artfully in front emphasized her eyes. Admiring her, he revised his thought. Maybe he was a prisoner, after all—captivated by her charms. But God help him, he could not say that to her.

  “Well, never mind,” she said, clearly piqued when he did not answer her comment. “This may not require much of your time.”

  Gilbey assisted her into the punt, marveling at how such casual contact between them could affect him so much. Fire spread from his fingertips through all his veins. Just looking at her seated in the little boat set off a craving that nothing could fulfill.

  She said nothing as he poled them out from the shore. Other punts were still near them and the occupants could be heard laughing and talking. A few of the gentlemen were not used to punting and had trouble controlling their boats, spinning round in circles to the amusement of the others. No stranger to punting on the river in Cambridge, Gilbey soon had their boat out and away from the crowd.

  “This is a peaceful spot,” he said, smiling and giving an extra push to their pole. “Where to, milady?”

  “Let us stay within sight of the others, but out of earshot—can you do that?” she asked. When he nodded she appeared to relax somewhat.

  “I know what you must think of me,” she began. “Meddling, managing, manipulative—all most unflattering to a female. I hope you can understand me a little—at least you know the reason for the things I do. I had hoped to understand you a little, also. You were talking about the reasons why you wish to postpone marriage when we were interrupted yesterday. You mentioned your father.”

  Perhaps if he explained, she would leave him alone. The thought of her turning her attention to the other gentlemen depressed him, but that was the way things must be. Looking out across the tranquil surface of the lake, he let the punt drift.

  “My father must have been very passionate and romantic as a young man,” he said. “He fell in love with a Scottish woman whom he desired above all else, and when neither of their families approved of their match, they eloped.” He felt oddly detached, telling the story as if it were about someone he hardly knew. “He brought his wife to his home in England, and they had two children, a pair of twins. The mother pined for her homeland and taught her children Scottish songs. When this boy and girl were eight, she died in childbirth.”

  He took a deep breath. “Their father was so grief-stricken, they might as well have been orphaned. He all but turned his back on them. It was if the father’s spirit had gone with the mother. Because the relatives were estranged, the children hardly knew anyone. They grew up without any parent’s loving guidance.”

  Her eyes were dark with sympathy. “What happened to them?”

  God help him, if only she would not look at him like that! He tore his gaze away from hers, back out across the water. They were very slowly making their way around one of the small islands in the lake.

  “The girl grew up full of romantical notions, and when her time came to marry, she ran away to Scotland, to an aunt she had never met. Luckily for her, she met a man along the way who fell in love with her. They are married and have two children, and she is just as full of romantical notions as she ever was.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “He sees all the pain and suffering the parents�
� love created. He will not make the same mistake.”

  “Mistake?”

  “To marry for love. Now do you understand?”

  He risked another look down at her. She nodded silently, staring down at her hands in her lap. She looked so dejected, he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms. He gave the pole a mighty heave and sent the punt skimming out beyond the shadow of the willow trees on the island.

  Past the trees, the lake seemed enchanted. The late-afternoon sun shone brightly on the water, shimmering and sparkling, dancing on the surface. The ripples from the small flotilla of punts plying the water multiplied the magical effect.

  “Look,” he said, hoping the beauty would offer her some of the comfort he could not.

  She raised her head, but her reaction was not what he expected. “Oh my God,” she said, her eyes widening with what could only be alarm. “Vivian. Where is Vivian?” With one hand shielding her eyes, she began to scan the other boats.

  “What is it?” he asked, thoroughly puzzled. “She is with Ashurst.”

  She gestured impatiently with her hand. “The light. The bright sunlight. It could trigger a seizure. Abrupt changes in light often affect her that way.” She was agitated now, twisting about in the boat.

  “All right,” he said decisively. “Sit still. We’ll find them.” He was beginning to understand a little himself. The light, the thunderstorms that one day. Venetia was reacting now with the same urgent restlessness as she had that morning when she learned Vivian had gone riding. He pushed the pole repeatedly, moving the punt much faster.

  “I don’t see them,” Venetia moaned. “They must still be behind one of the islands.”

  “If they are, then she will still be all right, will she not?”

  He had brought the punt around in a wide circle, and now started back toward the islands again. He saw. Ashurst just as the other punt emerged from the shadows.