by Edith Layton
“Yes,” he said simply. “Well, at least, anyone who matters. And so if they knew about my father and great-grandfather, I’d be a figure of fun to some, one of pity to others, and considered a shady character by many more. I only wonder how my uncle managed to keep the thing secret so well.”
“Well, I know your father was disinherited and cast out by your grandfather, and in turn, your great-grandfather had estranged himself from the family. His father was very moral, a friend of Cromwell, I believe.” Her smile became wicked, reminding Constantine of the young man in the portrait above her. “So you don’t have to fret. Wickedness seems to skip a generation in your family. The bad blood probably won’t appear in you. You’ll never pass a jewelry shop window and feel a sudden urge to break the glass and carry away the pretties, and any pretty lasses in your path. But your son, now … I’d beware if his infant playmates had silver rattles.”
Constantine’s eyebrows lowered. She was far too amused. At his expense. Her bright topaz eyes sparkled, her mouth curled up in a catlike grin. He seldom saw a grown female look so much like a cheeky boy, but it suited her. She was, he became aware again, a damned fine-looking young female, warm and soft-spoken. Standing this close to her, he realized the fresh wild scent of her reminded him of sun-warmed meadows of red clover and wild poppy, very unlike the intriguing, teasing French perfumes that the women he knew wore. But no decent woman he knew would be with him at this hour of the night, with only two inept guardians in sight, unless she was interested in getting him in her bed.
That thought didn’t appall him, exactly.
She gazed up at him, studying his face, as though seeing things in it that he had never seen, looking as fascinated by him as she was by the portraits of his ancestors. The room was chilly, yet he felt the glow radiating from her and was drawn to it like a freezing man seeking a fire. It seemed to him that she’d drawn closer. It was dark and suddenly warm and they were alone in the wonderfully quiet darkness. Her full pink lips parted in a smile. Her head slanted. Her lashes fluttered down to douse the sparkle in her topaz gaze as his head dipped toward hers—until he realized he could see her eyelashes so plainly because he was moving closer.
His head reared up and he took a quick step back, feeling as though he’d stood too close to the edge of a precipice. A shudder ran through his body, whether because of his narrow escape or because his senses jangled from suddenly interrupted desire he didn’t know. But he felt both relief and frustration.
Of course she was tempting, he told himself. He was a man and she was a lovely young woman, and more, she seemed free of all the constraints of polite society. He doubted she was a loose female. She was merely an oddity, as outrageous in her speech, candor, opinions, and likely also in her behavior, as any of his bizarre ancestors whom she so admired.
She was an interesting woman and a promising-looking one. But he had no time or reason to contemplate her. He had to ignore how appealing she was. He had a mission. He’d been assaulted by an impossible truth. Charlotte’s father had had him investigated and never discovered any of this, he was sure, or he certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to so much as approach her, much less become engaged to her.
But was his secret safe? Even in this little obscure village? Or might it one day escape and make his life miserable? He had to discover all, and mend all too. He must find out all about his wretched heritage, see how far the knowledge ran, stopper up what he could with money or charm, or promises, or threats. And then leave this place and his sorry history behind him, forever. Constantine put his hand on his vest pocket, withdrew his watch, and glanced at it. He stiffened. This place must have bewitched him. It was past midnight, and here he stood, as good as alone with an unmarried young woman, with only the chaperonage of a sleeping old woman and a comatose footman. And the young woman had a rogue of a grandfather who had already said he wanted Constantine as a grandson-in-law. Constantine blinked. Was he mad to have lingered so long in such jeopardy?
He bowed. “The hour is later than I could have imagined,” he said. “I’m sorry to have kept you awake so long. May we continue this conversation tomorrow?”
“Certainly,” she said, as coolly as though she hadn’t sensed the strange moment that passed between them. “I ride before breakfast. Would you care to join me?”
Constantine frowned. He kept town hours. “Perhaps,” he said evasively. “But if not, then may we speak at luncheon, say?”
She laughed. “Say anytime all day. I have few pressing errands. Oh, there are visits to make to neighbors and chores to do in the garden, I love to garden. But we’ve not had anything as interesting as yourself here for many a day. And you are a guest. If you want me, just ask for me, and I’ll be glad to bear you company. Good night. Young Platt will show you to your room. The house is enormous, and you could get lost in the dark. And Grandfather sleeps with his pistols under his pillow. Habit, I suppose.”
Constantine repressed a shudder, bowed, and gratefully left, with young Platt trudging behind him.
“Well, well, well,” Lisabeth whispered, as she looked up again at Captain Cunning on his dark windy beach. “Could you have guessed that you’d pass down your looks, sir, and not a breath of the life that was in you? The same wicked brows, the same beautiful eyes. Sometimes I think I can see a spark in them that had to come from you. But he’s such a stick! Such a pity, what a shame.”
The painted eyes seemed to sparkle.
Lisabeth’s own smile returned. “No, sir,” she said, with another curtsy to the portrait, “you are entirely unique, utterly without compare. And I’m grieving for it, disappointed and let down. I actually tried to see if I could discover life and fire in him. I thought I almost had. But you have more, even painted on canvas as you are. He was tempted, I’d swear to it. But then appalled. Appalled! Can you believe my folly? Now, that,” she murmured to herself as she turned to go wake her old governess and steer her up to her bed, “is what comes from falling in love with an illusion.”
“Nay, lass,” Miss Lovelace said from behind her. “Not an illusion. You’re right. There wasn’t a thing wrong with old Captain Cunning, or his grandson, nor never was. Hearty lads, with heads and hearts in the right place, even if their actions weren’t always proper, nor legal. But they weren’t mean or cruel, and they didn’t harm anyone if they could help it. Only,” she added with a little sigh, “in their line of work, they often couldn’t help it.
“You’d have loved either of them. And they, you,” Miss Lovelace said sadly. “But that’s not to be. Nor will your heart be broken. Heartache is what comes of trying to fit the illusion to what isn’t there. I’m pleased you know it so soon. The lad looks like them, but he’s nothing like.”
Lisabeth tilted her head. “Lovey? I never thought! Did you know them?”
“I knew his father. Charming fellow. Bright and fun-loving. A rascal, in the nicest way, of course.” She sighed. “They’re gone now, all those bright, clever young men.”
“His son isn’t like him at all,” Lisabeth said sadly.
“Yes. That’s his tragedy. He was ruined by his uncle, I think. Brought up proper as a parson, with not a speck of life left in him. Too bad. But be kind to him, Lisabeth, for he’ll never know what he missed, except in his dreams. And he’s been trained to ignore them.”
Lisabeth sighed too. “I suppose it’s also because it skips a generation. All that wildness and courage.” She grinned. “Now, maybe if I can stay unwed until Lord Wylde’s son grows up—now there would be a man for me!”
“Nay, don’t be foolish,” Miss Lovelace said. “And blood doesn’t skip. It races, it flows, and it may tell, if it isn’t stopped up too soon. Lord Wylde’s blood’s grown thin and sluggish. He’s got just enough to get him through the life he chose, but it wouldn’t be enough for you, or any lass with spirit.”
Lisabeth smiled at her beloved governess. Esther Lovelace was a scandal and a delight. She was well read, well bred, and had lived badly. She knew lite
rature, history, art, and music, and even more about life. Lovey was small and busy, with snow-white hair, bright blue eyes, and a plump smiling face. She looked like a retired cook or nursemaid. But she’d been a governess in her younger days, before she’d met Lisabeth’s grandfather. She’d been hired by him, as had many of their servants, both those who could still serve and those who now lived in this big old house in retirement. They’d taught Lisabeth loyalty, as well as how to wink at dishonesty if it was for a good cause. They were, for all their age, a lusty, lively crew. Lisabeth grew up learning how to speak well, and freely.
“Let be, my love,” Miss Lovelace said. “You’ll find a right mate, and a true love. And maybe both in the same man!”
“Amen!” Lisabeth said, laughing.
And giggling, they made their way up the stairs to their beds.
Chapter Five
Lisabeth got ready for bed slowly, not like hours earlier, when she’d gone through a wild scramble trying to dress exquisitely for her lofty company. She was a woman who only bothered to dress well for church or a neighbor’s occasional dinner invitation, and she usually wore her day gowns until they wore out. Tonight she’d searched through wardrobes and sent the maids scurrying, looking for pins and combs and ribbons—for all the good it did, she thought grumpily.
She’d come in from the damp and was going to say hello to her grandfather, until she saw the stranger standing there in his study. Even though she’d met few gentlemen, she knew the visitor could be no other than the nobleman from London her grandfather had told might be arriving. She hadn’t expected him so soon; she’d never expected him to look the way he did. Lord Wylde! He was really beyond her wildest dreams. He was the very opposite of his name. He was calm, contained, well mannered; well bred, handsome as he could stare, and seemed at ease in all company. Lean, dark, and elegant, he was nevertheless the image of his wicked ancestor; but also the perfect civilized gentleman.
Best of all, she’d thought, he was real, and really there! He must have actually been considering their fathers’ mad pact. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.
So she had rushed upstairs and bathed and dressed as though for a party. Her hair was dried, brushed till it crackled and shone, and then tied back behind her head, so it fell in curls on one shoulder. She’d worn her lucky golden locket at her neck, the one with a miniature of her mother’s face in it, and had decided on a deceptively simple russet gown. It had long sleeves, for the weather, a low neckline, for fashion, and a high waist that she hoped made her look more statuesque. She’d looked in the glass and sighed. There was not much she could do about that. She was small. The fashion was tall. But they’d be sitting at dinner, and maybe he wouldn’t notice.
That wasn’t to say she had fallen in with her grandfather’s ridiculous plan. She didn’t even know the man, and had just recently been told about his existence. Lord Wylde might turn out to be a fool; he might be toplofty—she’d thought she’d caught a hint of that in his expression. Until he’d flashed that smile! It had been so sudden and so charming. Maybe too charming? she’d worried. He could even be a wastrel, looking for a way to improve his fortunes. She needed a man who was wise and considerate, and self-supporting. But her grandfather was wise. He wouldn’t have invited a rogue to meet her, whatever sort of pact his son had made.
Whatever Lord Wylde was, he was the most exciting thing that had happened to Lisabeth since … forever, she guessed.
She’d rushed down the long stair to the study, where her grandfather always entertained before dinner. At least, where he always entertained those few important guests they’d had. Their life was simple, their visitors, the same. Her grandfather’s many business acquaintances were merchants, often well-to-do, but seldom paragons of good manners. This would be, she’d thought, the first time they’d actually ever entertained an honest-to-goodness nobleman, a true gentleman. She’d paused at the door to the study, taken a deep breath, and walked in.
Their visitor had been standing by the hearth, talking with her grandfather. He’d been wearing simple black-and-white evening dress, but his closely fitted jacket was perfection, and his high white neckcloth gleamed even in the intermittent light. She saw a glimpse of his white shirt and a peacock-blue waistcoat, with a golden fob hanging at his lean waist. His legs were long and muscular. He was so splendid he took her breath away. This was the man Grandy wanted her to marry? She’d been half inclined to say “I do” instead of “good evening.” How lucky could she be?
He’d turned, looked at her, bowed, and smiled, his teeth as white as his impeccable linen.
Her heart had raced. She’d curtsied. She hoped she didn’t make any mistakes in speech or actions this evening. Lovey had taught her manners, but she’d never tried them out in such high company.
So she’d spoken. And so had he.
And it turned out he was nothing like the man she’d been hoping for. He was a stick, a priss, an arrogant muttonhead, more concerned with the proprieties than life itself. But he looked so much like the man she’d loved since childhood, Lisabeth felt confused and cheated. So now she slipped her night rail over her head, reached for a thick comfortable robe, tied it tight, opened her door and tiptoed down the stairs in search of comfort.
She found it where she always had. A light was still on in his study. She eased the door open. Now there was a fire in the hearth, and a lighted lamp on his desk. He knew. He always knew.
“Thought you’d be down here sooner or later tonight,” her grandfather said. He gestured to a deep chair by the hearth. “Sit down and tell me about it.”
She plucked a pillow off the chair, and clutching it in front of her, sank to the thick carpet in front on the hearth instead, as she’d done since she was a child.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “Impossible! But I know you meant well,” she told him. “You always do. And so I thank you for your trouble, I do. Still, I have to tell you that though I’ll be nice and I promise to be gracious for so long as he stays here, that’s that. Can you forgive me? I don’t mean to be unappreciative, I don’t want to put you into a pet after all your pains, but Grandy, I have to be myself.”
“Wouldn’t want you to be less,” Captain Bigod said gruffly, his smile so tender it was slightly loopy. “I just wanted to give you a chance to meet him. Can’t meet his kind out here in the back of beyond, y’know. Not that there’s anything wrong with the fellas hereabouts,” he added hastily. “And if you set your sights on one, I wouldn’t stand in the way, ’less I had good reason to. But the truth is, you’re two and twenty and you don’t seem to love any fella at all.”
“Except you,” she said with a tender smile.
He didn’t answer; he just gazed at her fondly. As she knew he would. He smiled, because he knew she was playing him like a fiddle, and even so, he appreciated her. She was his sunrise and sunset, and they both knew it.
She was such a pretty little thing, he thought again, as he had since the day they’d brought her to him, an hour after she was born, and placed her in his arms. Her ma had died producing her, and his clever, foolish son hadn’t much cared about anything but seeking amusement after that. But at least he’d left his father that babe in his arms.
Now, of course, his granddaughter was grown, and in his eyes, even prettier. He knew no higher compliment for a woman, and he’d known all kinds of females in his time. Because in his experience, a beauty was a standoffish kind of female, as impressed with her looks as those looking at her were, and his Lisabeth surely wasn’t that. In fact, she didn’t think much of her looks at all! And a gamine was a lass who was perky but full of backtalk, and his Lisabeth wasn’t that either. A handsome woman belonged on a coin or a locket, but not in a man’s arms. He’d met Originals but all they ever wanted to do was run rings around a fellow and impress him with their wit. His late wife had always been described as a good woman, and he’d loved her dearly, but she’d been called that because her looks had never been more than passable. That had
been good enough for him, but she’d lamented her appearance, and so ignored it, as he did.
As for the wenches he’d known, and he’d known many, he wouldn’t even think of them at the same time he did his granddaughter.
His Lisabeth had them all beat. She had wit and looks and charm, and it all came naturally to her.
She had everything a man could want. She was small, but also just the right height to have to look up to any man of stature. She was well spoken and so kind that he’d never heard her talk down to any man. Even though she could, he thought, she was that well educated. He’d seen to it. There was nothing worse than an ignorant person in his eyes, man or woman.
She was perhaps too fetching. He feared for her when he saw the way men looked at that lush mouth, and then the lavish form beneath it. But they didn’t dare look at her that way when he was there, and if they did, they never did again, not if he was there to see to it.
The trouble was, he was getting on, and he worried because he knew he wouldn’t be there to protect her forever. She needed her own man; she needed a husband for that.
“I liked the cut of his jib,” he said now. “He’s a gentleman through and through. Not a bit standoffish or puffed up, like some I could name.”
“Oh, Grandy,” she said on a long disappointed sigh. “But of course he’s standoffish and puffed up. That’s the problem.”
“Just getting used to his surroundings,” her grandfather said. “Give him time. Some fellas need time to loosen up. He’s smart, of course, well, his father was a clever fellow too. And his looks …” He stared at the ceiling of his library, as though trying to summon up the right words.
She laughed. “Yes, I know who he looks like, but he’s nothing like him at all.”
“Yes,” her grandfather went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “like his father, the spit and image. And more like the great captain hisself, only more modern looking, o’course.”