THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  He did look startled—perhaps it was a flinch—but he answered. “One of the Rogues. Lord Darius Debenham.”

  She ached for him, but treasured the moment. “One of the Duke of Yeovil’s sons. I heard of his loss. I’m sorry.”

  He said nothing more, and she sensed that this connection, whatever it had been, was fading. She’d recapture it if she could, but had no idea how. They stood in silence for a moment or two. and then he said, “What happened eleven years ago, Susan?”

  The suddenness of it stole words. Eventually she said, “You know what happened, Con.”

  Did he think she would deny it? Try to claim it had been some huge mistake?

  “I suppose I do. You made your ambitions clear enough. Did you try to marry Fred?”

  She was poised on a razor edge. Did she admit that she’d never felt the same way toward any other man, that she’d bitterly regretted what she had done? Did she protect her pride with lies?

  She could summon the courage to go only halfway. “Aunt Miriam had hopes. I suppose we all tried a bit, but my heart wasn’t in it.”

  Do you hear what I’m saying Con? Do you care?

  His eyes were steady, his face without any readable expression. “And your heart was in it with me?”

  In the face of that daunting blankness, she could not make the ultimate surrender.

  And of course he didn’t care.

  He had Lady Anne.

  “Why do you ask, Con? It was a long time ago, and you are to marry soon.”

  His long lashes blinked over silvery eyes. “Ah, yes. Lady Anne. She has nothing to do with the past.”

  “She makes the past irrelevant.”

  He pushed off from the doorjamb and moved a step closer. “The past is never irrelevant, even if we wish it were. I wonder why you haven’t married. If you are telling the truth and don’t want the Crag anymore.”

  Through a tightening throat she said, “I am telling the truth.”

  The atmosphere had changed. He was still unreadable, but danger swirled with the candle smoke in the air.

  She’d told David she was in no danger here, and she’d thought it was true. Perhaps there were things men could sense that women couldn’t.

  “So,” he asked, “why haven’t you married?” He was demanding surrender and offering her nothing in exchange.

  “The bastard child of a tavernkeeper does not receive many worthy offers.”

  “You said Mel Clyst provided you with a dowry.”

  “I have no intention of being married for my money.”

  “Just as I have no intention of being married for my earldom. But you do have money?”

  She hesitated. Mel had bought property for her, but she’d poured all her recent income from it into supporting the Horde. She didn’t want to tell Con that, however, and she would be repaid.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have money.”

  “Then why are you playing housekeeper?” She realized too late that he’d come closer and closer until she was trapped against the table between two solid oak chairs with no way to escape short of pushing him out of the way.

  Would he move if she pushed? She didn’t think so.

  Heart pounding, she stood up straight. “I’m not playing. I work for my wages.”

  He put a hand on the back of each imprisoning chair, caging her. She gripped the table behind for strength. She didn’t fear that he would hurt her. She feared that he would kiss her, and by kissing her, conquer her entirely....

  “What happened eleven years ago?” he asked again, his eyes dark now, the gray only a rim around his pupils. At least one of the candles behind her must be guttering, because it played erratic light over his somber face, creating saints and devils in turn.

  “What do you mean? What do you want to know?”

  He leaned a little closer. “When we kissed that day in Irish Cove, was it as much a miracle to you as it was to me? Or was it simply an opportunity?”

  She couldn’t deny him this. “It was a miracle,” she whispered.

  “Ah.” He lowered his lips and she didn’t try to escape, but it wasn’t the fierce, experienced kiss she’d expected. It was the same tentative tasting she remembered. As hesitant. As wary.

  As miraculous.

  She sank her hips back against the table for support, clutching it for dear life as his lips pressed innocently against hers.

  He licked her cheek and her eyes flew open.

  She realized that tears were leaking. He straightened, and so did she. She brushed away the other betraying tears with her hands.

  “Memories?” he asked. “Or regrets? Whichever, Susan, it’s a damned shame you did what you did in Irish Cove.”

  He turned and walked out of the room, out into the silent garden. After a moment, Susan found the strength in her legs to leave by the corridor door and make it to the sanctuary of her rooms.

  Tears welled up.

  She never cried!

  But the tears broke free and she collapsed into a chair to weep for what she had done to a fifteen-year-old boy in love, and for the living pain it had created. She wept for the man he had become and the loss of the man he could have been.

  But she also wept for the loss of the man he was, a loss stated by those flat words. It’s a damned shame you did what you did.

  Because it said clearly: Abandon hope. The damage done is irreparable.

  Con paused by the evil fountain, glad at least that the water was turned off, though it left the enclosed garden eerily quiet. The faint light of the two distant lamps still glimmered on the splayed legs and arms of the woman pinned by pitiless claws. Her dark mouth looked like a scream.

  If he thought it possible, he’d tear it apart now with his bare hands. It would be gone tomorrow. If Susan didn’t see to it, he would. He couldn’t believe that he’d tolerated it even for a day.

  His mind had been fogged by Susan, but perhaps he was numb. Numbness was welcome sometimes, but mostly it was dangerous. He didn’t feel numb right now.

  He walked on, aching with the need to kiss Susan as he’d wanted to kiss her. That was the road to agonizing folly, however. That private discussion had been insane, but he’d wanted her to know. He’d not wanted her to think—

  God, stop it. Put this place in order, then leave. Return once a year for an inspection. Next time bring armor. Bring Lady Anne, a wife.

  He tried to summon a clear image of Anne, and could only assemble facts—slender, blond, a slight limp. That didn’t do her justice, but it was all his struggling mind could come up with.

  That was all right. They hadn’t met that many times as yet, so it wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t summon a clear picture.

  He knew she would make a perfect, tranquil wife.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Susan arose the next morning and set to work on her escape. She’d dreamed of being back in Irish Cove, of not saying those dreadful words, but a dragon had surged up out of the water. Con had tried to fight it, but been seared by flaming breath.

  She’d lain awake after that, going over and over everything Con had said, seeking hope.

  That was enough to tell her that she had to escape.

  Over her breakfast, brought by Ellen, she drew up a list of three local women who could be housekeeper at Crag Wyvern. They weren’t really of the caliber to run an earl’s household, but this was not a normal earl’s household, and Con did not intend to live here. If he managed to lease it, the new residents would hire their own principal staff.

  She wrote letters to them, asking if they were interested in the position. At some point she’d have to ask Con if he wanted to interview them, or to leave it to her judgment. For the moment, however, she intended to avoid him.

  Then, armored in her housekeeper’s clothes, she emerged to send off her letters and to organize the day. She unlocked the store-cupboards to distribute necessary supplies, noting everything in the record books. She noted what supplies were running low and sent off orders to
local merchants. She allocated tasks for the day as fairly as possible, then went to supervise the breakfast preparations.

  Con’s Spanish valet was in the kitchen, and he inquired about laundry facilities. She explained that washing was sent down to some women in Church Wyvern.

  He seemed a quiet and proper man, but he was creating quite a flutter among the maids with his Spanish ways and his wicked smiles. Thank heavens the two other men Con had brought were living at the stables in the village.

  Sarmiento had clearly been with Con for many years, and seemed both devoted to his master and proud of him. He was certainly ready to talk about him whenever one of the maids asked. Susan couldn’t resist lingering in the kitchen to listen.

  Then the valet turned to her again. “Mistress Kerslake, is the water for the big bath always available?”

  “Yes, Senor Sarmiento. I have ordered the cistern to be kept full, and the fire fed with charcoal. Has the earl not used it yet?”

  “Last night he was perhaps a little overtired. He asked only for the small tub. I will remind him tonight. He seems weighed down by his new responsibilities here, and would benefit from the luxury.”

  She couldn’t resist. “What do you think of Crag Wyvern, señor?”

  He rolled his eyes. “In my native land, dear lady, we often build with the forbidding outside and the sensual garden within, but we have the strong sun that must be hidden from and protected against. Here ... here where the sun is like skim milk and scarcely warms the earth ... ?” He shrugged and shook his head.

  But then he said, “Now, Lord Wyvern’s other home, Somerford Court, that is a suitable English home. There the gardens are outside and the rooms look out over distant vistas of the beautiful, green English countryside. People here say that this is not a good summer, that it rains too much. But I... I see the green the rain brings, and it is sweet to my eyes and heart.”

  Surely this was safe to talk of. “Somerford Court is on a hill?”

  “On a hill overlooking the valley of a river called Eden. Paradise. In the valley is the village of Hawk in the Vale. An old place, and friendly in the way of old places.” His dark eyes twinkled. “That is to say, they look at a foreigner like me with suspicion, but do not actually throw stones. It is the same in my own village back home. The earl’s close friend, Major Hawkinville, is son of the squire there. A great hero is Major Hawkinville, though he rarely raised a weapon. A warrior of the mind.”

  Susan wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but she thirsted for more of this information.

  “Major George Hawkinville, I assume,” she said. “And the other George? George Vandeimen?”

  His look was startled, and quickly hidden. “Ah. You know about the Georges, Mrs. Kerslake! He is Lord Vandeimen now. In that one, the family name and title is the same, which is not often the case, I understand. His family is all dead. It is a great tragedy. But now he is to marry a very rich woman. That is good, yes? He and my master have not met since Lord Vandeimen left the army, so I only know what I hear in the village.”

  “They haven’t met?” She knew immediately that she’d stepped over the line she’d drawn for herself, but she had to know. “Lord Vandeimen has been out of the country?”

  “No, señora. He returned to England in February, but has spent his time in London.”

  “What of Major Hawkinville?”

  “He is with the army still. Even after battle and victory there remains a great deal for the Quartermaster-General’s Department to do.”

  “It would be better if he were in England, though, would it not?”

  Susan knew she was showing more personal interest than was wise, but she fretted about Con. If there was some problem with Lord Vandeimen, then this other friend would help. The Rogues did not seem to have penetrated the shell, and the Georges—the triumvirate— were lifelong friends.

  “Lord Vandeimen visited his estate just before we left, senora,” Sarmiento said. “He was in the company of the rich woman who is to be his wife. He will now be able to restore Steynings to its former state. But alas, we had to come here before there was chance of a meeting.”

  Susan realized that she was being told these things deliberately. Lord Vandeimen returned to his home and Con moved to Devon? There’d been no particular reason for him to come here now. And he’d sent no word.

  It had been an impulse? A sudden need to escape?

  She didn’t need more concerns, more twists in the tangle, but she couldn’t not care.

  “And the Rogues?” she asked.

  The valet’s eyes lit. “Ah, the Rogues! ¡Que hombres más admirables! We spent much time with some of them in the winter.” He shivered dramatically, but still smiled. ‘The hunting. In what they called the Shires. They chase around all day after a fox. Why a fox, I ask? It cannot be eaten. But the English, they spend a fortune on horses to chase a fox. They spend another fortune protecting the fox so it can be chased. They are mad, the English, but the Rogues, they are magnificent. And after that we went to London, also with the Rogues. My master, he seemed happy then, but underneath is still the sadness.“

  “Lord Darius?”

  She’d startled him again. “He has told you of Lord Dare?”

  Did Con speak so little of something that obviously mattered so much to him?

  Sarmiento said, “A happy soul, Lord Dare, and worth mourning, but the darkness is not really Lord Dare, señora. It is war. War, she is like a fire that men walk through. As long as they do not see how hot it is, it does not burn. But then,” he added with an eloquent gesture, “if that changes ...”

  Susan swallowed. She didn’t want to know this. She didn’t want to know that Con was suffering when there was nothing she could do. “And Lady Anne?”

  “Lady Anne?” He seemed confused for a moment, but then said, “Ah. So kind and pretty.”

  What she wanted to know was whether Lady Anne was helping Con deal with his devils, but to ask would be to go too far. She excused herself and went to deal with a question about peas, knowing she should force all she’d learned out of her mind.

  It was impossible.

  Con was at outs with the Georges? Because they were both connected to the war?

  He was still close to the Rogues, but they didn’t seem to be helping him.

  It particularly worried her that he appeared to have come here expressly to avoid Lord Vandeimen.

  She went into the pantry to check that the silver had been polished properly. “Stop it!” she muttered, pushing a drawer closed. She was powerless, and going around and around these things was likely to drive her mad.

  Diddy came in. “The curate’s here, ma’am.”

  Susan turned to go, but Diddy added, “The earl’s got him. Taken him up to the Wyvern rooms. Wish I could see Mr. Rufflestowe’s face when he sees that lot!”

  So did Susan, but it reminded her of the fountain. She sent for Con’s men, Pearce and White, and asked them to look at it to see how it could be taken apart. White was a mere child, pale and nervy, but Pearce was a substantial man who might be able to do the job. She told him to hire more hands from the villages if needed.

  Then she set out to search Crag Wyvern for clever hiding places. Con, as far as she knew, was still upstairs with Mr. Rufflestowe, and de Vere was in the office, presumably engrossed. If the gold was hidden in there it would be difficult to find. The man seemed unlikely to leave the room!

  That had been one of the places she’d searched thoroughly, however, and it was hard to imagine a large concealed compartment that she hadn’t found.

  Thought of de Vere made her be systematic in her search rather than using her usual method—depending on inspiration. She considered where to start.

  The great hall was an unlikely spot, since it was frequently used as a passageway. The kitchens and servants’ areas could never reliably be private, and she’d never known the earl to go there.

  Very well, on the ground floor that left the dining room, breakfast room, drawing r
oom, and library.

  She went first to the dining room, pushing aside all memory of the previous night. She had searched this room—she had searched everywhere—but now she tried to find clever, concealed hiding places.

  The plain painted walls made this easier. It was impossible that there was a secret compartment behind them that could be accessed at will. She checked the dark oak floor and the plain ceiling and reached the same conclusion. There was an ornate plaster cornice but no other decoration, and she couldn’t see how the cornice could disguise any useful opening.

  Determined to be meticulous, she made her eyes travel the room again, seeking out anything suspicious. She didn’t find it, but when her eyes passed over the glass-paned doors into the garden she wondered if the gold was hidden out there.

  But no. She’d rarely seen the earl go there, either. He’d preferred to move around the house using the outer corridors. She’d never thought of it before, but it had been as if even the enclosed openness of the garden had been too much for his irrational fear.

  Even if he’d been in the habit of sneaking out to dig and bury at night, the garden had been under Mrs. Lane’s assiduous care. She would surely have noticed the ground being disturbed.

  Through a bush she could see Pearce over by the fountain. She resisted the distraction of going to see what he thought.

  She moved on to the breakfast room, which with its monastic simplicity was easy to cross off the list. When she went back into the corridor, she realized that she had to consider the corridors themselves. But the outer walls were not of medieval thickness, and the inner walls were even thinner unless there was some very skillful disguise work somewhere.

  She’d leave them for last.

  She followed the corridors to the great hall, however, scrutinizing the surfaces all around, and then went on to the drawing room. Having been carved out of one end of the hall, it alone did not have doors into the garden. There was only one window, and the room was poorly lit during the day.

  With paneled walls set with silk wallpaper, and elaborate plasterwork in the ceiling, it was a promising site for a hiding place, but it was only five years old, and she had been involved in some of its design.