THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  “Still at breakfast?”

  Con turned to see Susan in the garden doorway in a becoming peach-colored dress and modish bonnet. Another Susan, and one he could become very used to seeing in the morning. Beside her was a shorter, pretty young woman with big, sparkling eyes.

  “I’m Amelia Kerslake,” she said, without waiting for an introduction, though she did drop a curtsy. “I’m sure you can use extra hands, Lord Wyvern.”

  As he rose with the other men, Con said, “We can use extra hands, if you’re not easily shocked, Miss Kerslake.” He looked a question at Susan, wondering if she’d told her cousin the details. She only smiled, which was somewhat hard to interpret, so he said, “But we poor paltry males have only just begun our breakfast and need our sustenance. Will you sit with us?”

  Once everyone was seated, Con introduced Hawk, noting that young Amelia was eager to test her flirtatious teeth on anything male. He was sure Hawk and Race could cope.

  To Susan, he said, “Is your brother coming?”

  There were other things he’d rather say, but during a night short on sleep, he’d arrived at a point of calm and acceptance. It would seem that she had too.

  “He had some business to do, but will come up later. He still hasn’t decided.”

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “No, but we ladies are impatient to begin the hunt,” she said to everyone, “so do eat up.”

  All the men laughed and cleaned their plates with speed.

  “Army training,” said Race, standing first. “The call to battle means don’t waste what’s on the table.”

  “Only to someone who needs a deep trencher to support a reed-thin frame,” Con said, finishing more slowly.

  Susan was amazed at how possible it was to be with Con like this, to be friends. Almost sisterly, though very unsisterly hungers swirled beneath. It was as if life had layers.

  Like living water under ice, though that wasn’t a good analogy, since the top surface of her life was surprisingly warm and almost joyous.

  Like a delicious crust on a pie?

  Like cream on a cake?

  Like manure spread on a fallow field?

  “What are you smiling about?”

  She looked sideways at Con and told him.

  He laughed aloud. “Don’t take up poetry.”

  “Perhaps there’s a place in the world for earthy poetry.”

  He winced at her pun. “Like the stone around the hearth,” he offered. “Warmed from what it contains.”

  Smiling, they followed the others into the courtyard. De Vere was protesting that he was a great deal more substantial than a reed. Amelia had plucked a tall ornamental grass and was considering him against it, pretending the matter was in doubt.

  Susan laughed along with everyone else, feeling a powerful rightness in the world, which was strange when her heart was breaking. Stones around fires did sometimes crack from the heat.

  There was something so steady and strong between her and Con, however, that it was precious. Once this was over, they might not meet again. She was sure they wouldn’t seek meetings. But the knowledge that the bond still lasted would be sustaining.

  She still wished for other things, even prayed for other things, but not at the expense of another woman’s heart.

  She did wonder if Lady Anne would want a husband who would rather marry another. In the night, she’d fought and won the temptation to write and tell her. She knew Con would do his best not to let his divided heart show, and his best would be very good. Perhaps, in time, his regard for his wife and the mother of his children would deepen into a true love.

  She had to pray for that, too.

  She had brought this upon herself. Con might try to take the blame for writing to Lady Anne, but he would never have reacted that way if she hadn’t behaved so foolishly all those years ago.

  She caught Major Hawkinville looking at her with far too keen an eye, and chose the bold approach. “The atmosphere of Crag Wyvern does incline to melancholy, doesn’t it, Major?”

  “Perhaps one has to be particularly susceptible, Miss Kerslake.”

  “And you are not of a melancholic disposition?”

  “I’m far too practical. Why is this empty basin labeled ”The Dragon and His Bride‘?“

  She moved closer to it. “It had statues. The dragon and his bride.”

  “Ah. Having seen the Roman bath, I can imagine.”

  “Are you talking about the fountain?” asked Amelia, who had always been able to follow many conversations at once. “I’d like to see the figures.”

  “It’s not suitable,” Susan said.

  “You’ve seen it, and you’re as much of a maiden as I am.”

  Susan flashed Con a look, then knew it was a terrible mistake. She could feel her color rising and of course could do absolutely nothing to stop it. “I know it’s shameful at twenty-six,” she said in an attempt to cover it, “but there’s no need to make such a point of it, Amelia.”

  “Susan!” Amelia exclaimed, going pale. “You know I never meant—”

  “Yes, I know,” Susan said, going over to hug her. “I was funning. But the statues are not at all pleasant.”

  She saw de Vere looking at her with raised, speculative brows and knew she might as well have shouted her sin from the rooftop.

  “I think I should see it,” Major Hawkinville said. “I need to see everything to do with the old earl if I’m to help solve this puzzle. But then,” he added, with a slight smile, “I’m no maiden.”

  Susan thought he’d picked that up to cover the moment and said a prayer of thanks. As she expected, however, Amelia insisted that she should come too.

  “Very well, but don’t tell Aunt Miriam!”

  She distinctly heard the major murmur, “I doubt she’s a maiden, either.”

  Con led the way, since he knew where the figures had been placed—in a windowless alcove off the great hall.

  “We couldn’t face trying to get them up or down stairs,” he said, “and they’d be leaving through the hall anyway. They’re only about half size,” he added, drawing back a heavy curtain, “but dashed difficult to manhandle.”

  Susan stood back to let Major Hawkinville go in, but when Amelia followed, she felt obliged to look.

  Apart, the figures lost some of their unpleasantness.

  The dragon lay on its back, its legs in the air like a puppy, making its large organ ridiculous and its snarl rather like a silly grin. She bit her lip, and Amelia laughed outright. The woman, however, was still somewhat embarrassing, if only because she looked as if she was in a private ecstasy.

  Con stayed outside, though when Amelia laughed, de Vere went in. Susan heard him say something, and Amelia laughed again.

  “Doubtless highly improper,” she said to Con, joining him outside.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “What are you going to do with those figures?”

  “If your brother takes up my offer, it can be his problem.”

  The others emerged then, Major Hawkinville steering Amelia and de Vere like a teacher with young pupils. He gave Con and Susan a wry smile, but even so, she thought he assessed them.

  He was one of those men, she decided, who couldn’t help puzzle out everything they came across. She gathered, from things Con had said on the way to Irish Cove, that puzzling out things had been part of “the Hawk’s” work for the Quartermaster-General’s Department. Mostly he’d been engaged in the usual QM work—moving the army around efficiently and making sure it had the necessary supplies to live and fight with. He’d also, however, shown a gift for sorting out problems and investigating crimes.

  A man like that would be bound to detect the feelings between them, she supposed. All the more reason for these to be their last days.

  Lady Anne could be perceptive and intelligent too, and even if she did not see them together, others would.

  Stories would weave from place to place and reach her eventually. They always did.


  “Did inspiration strike?” Con asked his friend.

  “No, but I didn’t expect it to. My method is the tedious accumulation of details. Eventually a pattern emerges that points to the solution.”

  “You are assuming some sanity at work.”

  ‘True chaos is rare. Madmen have their logic and purposes, too.“

  “If you insist. I give you command of this, Hawk.”

  They all went up to the Wyvern rooms, Amelia exclaiming with delight at the gothic decor along the way. Yorrick the skeleton was a particular thrill.

  At the sanctum door, Con took out his key, but it wasn’t locked. They entered to find Mr. Rufflestowe busily cataloguing. He looked considerably startled at the invasion, and Susan at least was startled to find him there. She’d forgotten all about him.

  “We’re on a hunt, Rufflestowe,” Con said. “A legal document that the earl misplaced, probably in these rooms.”

  “I have placed any papers I’ve found in the books on the desk, my lord, but none are legal documents. Most are scribbled notes, some are recipes.”

  Con went over and looked quickly through them. “As you say.” He looked at the major. “What method do we use?”

  “A systematic one,” Hawkinville said, eyes already stripping the room of secrets. “We have six people and four walls, a desk, and the rest of the space. You take the desk, Con—”

  But Mr. Rufflestowe interrupted. “If you will permit, my lord, I will begin work on the books in the other room.”

  Con’s brows rose, but he said, “By all means, but keep an eye open for a legal documents, or a place where one might be concealed.”

  The curate left, and Con laughed. “I wonder what devilment he thinks we’re up to?”

  “Here,” Susan pointed out, “devilment is not a word to be laughed at.”

  “But laughter chases away the devil,” de Vere said.

  “Five,” Hawkinville firmly interrupted. “Con, you should still take the desk, since there’ll be papers there to do with the earldom. The rest of us will take a wall each.”

  Susan found herself with the door wall. That meant significantly fewer shelves to search, but even so, she was soon very weary of the painstaking business. She also wished she were back in her gray gown. Her hands and dress were covered with dust.

  She glanced at Amelia and found her murmuring the odd comment to de Vere as she went through racks of scrolls, and laughing at his quiet replies. De Vere had the ingredients to explore, which he was thoroughly enjoying.

  Con was sitting at the desk sorting papers into piles much as de Vere had done in the office, but when he looked up and caught her eye she knew it was not a task he enjoyed.

  They shared a wry smile and returned to work.

  Then the door beside her opened and Jane came in, her face disapproving as always. “A Mr. Delaney, milord,” she said, looking around the room as if they were a bunch of children up to no good.

  Con rose. “Nicholas. Good, you haven’t missed the fun.”

  “As bad as that, is it?” said the man who must be Nicholas Delaney, leader of the Rogues.

  As introductions were made, Susan studied him with interest. He was handsome in a casual style. Even his blond hair had a softer tone than de Vere’s, and looked as if it was barbered only when he thought about it.

  She remembered being intrigued by Con’s stories of him. He had almost hero-worshiped him, though it hadn’t been expressed as such. His name had simply come up a great deal, with many sprinklings of “Nicholas says.”

  Yesterday Con had mentioned visiting him. Though that had been about all he’d said on the subject, she felt the visit had helped him settle his mind about many things.

  “Hawk’s in charge,” Con said. “I feel blessed to have the paperwork. Most of the rest of the stuff is foul in both physical and metaphysical ways.”

  “But remember,” Delaney said, “I have an interest in these matters. Is that claiming to be mandragora?” he asked, going over to a jar on the shelves.

  “Can you tell if it is or not?” Hawkinville asked.

  “I was given an illustrated lecture on the subject once.” Delaney opened the jar and extracted a withered, bifurcated root. “By all the sorcerers, I think it is.” He popped it back in the jar. “You can sell that for a fair amount, Con.”

  “Excellent, but need I remind you that we’re looking for a document?”

  Nicholas laughed. “Aye-aye, sir!”

  Hawkinville said, “If you have knowledge, Delaney, perhaps you could check for treasures while de Vere takes over my wall of books. I will search the spaces in between.”

  Susan saw Delaney nod as if this made perfect sense.

  He caught her looking at him and smiled. She turned hastily back to her shelves of books, resenting another perceptive observer.

  More than perceptive.

  Knowing.

  What had Con told him?

  Nicholas Delaney worked quickly through the rest of the ingredients, then came over to study the books Susan had already opened and checked. “Did you see anything by the Count de Saint Germain here?”

  “I haven’t been looking at titles,” she said. “But Mr. Rufflestowe has catalogued all these, I believe.”

  “He being interested in titles, but not in clever hiding places. I’ll check his lists. Con has offered me first pick.”

  “You are a student of alchemy, sir?” She couldn’t help but show her disapproval.

  “I’m a student of everything,” he replied with a smile, taking out a book, opening it, then returning it to the shelf. “You have lived in this area all your life, Miss Kerslake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably you knew Con when he visited here years ago, then.”

  She grew belatedly wary, but wouldn’t lie. “Yes. We are of an age.”

  “He clearly had interesting memories of his time here. Ah, excuse me.” He reached in front of her to take a tall, leather-bound book off the shelf. “A Physica et Mystica. Con,” he called across the room. “Your fortune is made. The last copy I heard about went for three hundred.”

  “The Earl of Wyvern’s fortune is made,” Con corrected. He looked at the desk and table. “I think I’m finished here. I suppose it was unlikely that the marriage certificate would be in such an open spot, and I can’t see any secret compartments.”

  “No offense, Con,” Hawkinville said, “but I’d like to check that.” He pulled out all the drawers, checking for hidden compartments. Then he slid under the furniture on his back and they heard tapping and rattling, but when he worked his way out, he said, “You’re right. Nothing.”

  He dusted himself off. “Nothing in the floor or ceiling. The shelves here are fixed very solidly to the walls, and there are no spaces between them. Windows, curtains, doors. All clear. The proportions of the room seem right.”

  So that was what he’d meant by the spaces in between. Susan thought of her haphazard search for the gold and knew they were in the hands of a professional.

  She honestly wished she could leave it entirely in his hands.

  “I think we should have a luncheon,” she said, then realized that it was no longer her place to even think of such things. Even as housekeeper it had not been her place.

  But Con said, “An excellent idea. We might as well invite Rufflestowe.” He opened the door to the bedroom and Susan saw the curate bent over something on the cleared top of a bookcase.

  “Found something?” Con asked.

  The curate straightened, looking a little pink. “No, not really, my lord. I suppose this is not part of my ascribed duties, but the poor lady looked so . . .”

  Con went in, and Susan followed. Rufflestowe had been bent over the slashed picture that had hung on the wall.

  “I begged some egg white from the cook, my lord,” the poor man said, looking as if he expected to be rebuked, “and used a sheet of thick paper on the back. It is not sticking down very well as yet.”

  All the
same, the slashed scraps had been pulled together enough that a face existed.

  Delaney demanded the story of the picture, and Con told it.

  Amelia leaned closer. “She looks familiar....”

  “We think it’s Lady Belle,” Susan told her gently. “When she was younger than you.”

  “Oh, yes, there’s a family portrait of her and Aunt Sarah hanging at the manor. This is probably a drawing for it. How horrid of him to cut it up like that and then keep it. If he disliked her so much, why not throw the picture away?”

  “The ways of hatred,” Con said thoughtfully. “I wonder if this can be picked up....”

  He did so, carefully, and it more or less stayed together. “Follow me.”

  He went out into the corridor and along to the Saint George rooms. Susan, realizing what he was thinking, hurried ahead to open the doors. They all ended up around the Roman bath with Amelia commenting wide-eyed on the pictures.

  “It’s the same,” Susan said, whispering for some illogical reason, as if the woman on the ceiling, and on the floor of the bath, and in the portrait, might hear.

  They were all the same person. All Lady Belle.

  Her mother.

  “And the fountain figure,” Hawkinville said.

  “By heaven, you’re right.” Con looked again at the slashed picture. “He had them all done in the image of Isabelle Kerslake, and doubtless saw himself as the dragon. God damn his black soul.”

  “Already done, I have no doubt, my lord,” said Mr. Rufflestowe.

  Con gave him the picture. “Take this back to the Wyvern rooms, Rufflestowe, then join us for luncheon.”

  The curate took the picture, but said, “I thank you most kindly, my lord, but I must return home. I am to preach tomorrow and must work on my sermon.”

  Con smiled wryly. “I think we must have provided much material for it.”

  The curate headed back to the old earl’s rooms. The rest of them made their way thoughtfully down to the lower floor, coming to rest in the garden. Susan had no doubt they were all feeling in need of the relief provided by green and growing things.