Lucy sobbed once and then she had herself contained. She remained in the garden until she could no longer hear the departing carriage wheels.
SIMON CLIMBED INTO HIS CARRIAGE and settled into the red leather squabs. He rapped on the roof, then leaned back so he could watch the Craddock-Hayes house recede out the window. He couldn’t see Lucy—she’d remained in the garden, still as an alabaster statue when he left—but the house could be her surrogate. They jolted forward.
“I can’t believe you stayed in this country village as long as you did.” Christian sighed across from him. “I would’ve thought you’d’ve found it terribly boring. What did you do all day? Read?”John Coachman whipped the horses to a trot down the drive. The carriage swayed. Henry, sharing the seat with Christian, cleared his throat and cast his gaze to the ceiling.
Christian glanced at him uneasily. “’Course, the Craddock-Hayeses were very hospitable and all that. Good people. Miss Craddock-Hayes was nicely solicitous of me during those ghastly dinners. I fancy she thought she was protecting me from her father, the old blowhard. Very kind. She’ll make a good vicar’s wife when she marries that fellow Penweeble.”
Simon almost winced, but he caught himself in time. Or thought he did. Henry cleared his throat so loudly that Simon feared he’d dislodge some vital organ.
“What’s the matter with you, man?” Christian frowned at the valet. “Have you got some kind of catarrh? You sound like my father in one of his more disapproving moods.”
The house was a toy now, a small, bucolic spot surrounded by the oaks of the drive.
“My health is quite all right, sir,” Henry said frostily. “Thank you for inquiring. Have you thought of what you will do on your return to London, Lord Iddesleigh?”
“Mmm.” They’d rounded a curve, and he could no longer see the house. He peered for a moment more, but that chapter of his life was gone. She was gone. Best forgotten, really, all of it.
If he could.
“He’ll probably want to do the rounds,” Christian nattered on blithely. “Catch up on the gossip at Angelo’s and the gambling dens and the soiled doves at the more notorious houses.”
Simon straightened and closed the window shade. “Actually, I’m going on a hunt. I’ll have my nose to the ground, ears flapping, an eager bloodhound racing to find my attackers.”
“But wasn’t it footpads?” Christian looked puzzled. “I mean, pretty hard to do, track down a couple of lowlifes in London. The city’s full of them.”
“I have a fairly good idea who they are.” Simon rubbed his right index finger with the opposite hand. “In fact, I’m almost sure I’ve already made their acquaintance. Or at least the acquaintance of their masters.”
“Really.” Christian stared, perhaps realizing for the first time that he was missing something. “And what will you do when you have them cornered?”
“Why, call them out.” Simon bared his teeth. “Call them out and kill them.”
Chapter Seven
“. . . And I really do think the repairs to the roof over the vestry will last this time. Thomas Jones assured me that he’ll do the work himself instead of letting one of his lads bungle it.” Eustace paused in his dissertation on the church improvements to carefully guide the horse past a rut in the road.
“How nice,” Lucy interjected while she had time.The sun was out as it had been the previous Tuesday. They drove into Maiden Hill on the road Eustace always took, past the bakery and the same two elderly ladies haggling with the baker. The ladies turned as they had the week before and waved. Nothing had changed. Simon Iddesleigh might never have landed so suddenly in her life only to fly away again.
Lucy felt a mad urge to scream.
“Yes, but I’m not that certain about the nave,” Eustace replied.
This was new to the catalogue of church problems. “What’s wrong with the nave?”
He frowned, lines etching themselves into his normally smooth brow. “The roof has begun to leak there as well. Not very much, only enough to stain the ceiling so far, but it will be harder to get to the damage because of the vaulting. I’m not sure even Tom’s eldest will enjoy that job. We may have to pay him extra.”
Lucy couldn’t help it. She threw back her head and laughed, silly peals that were overloud and seemed to echo in the bright winter air. Eustace half smiled in that embarrassed way one does when one isn’t quite sure of the joke. The two elderly ladies trotted across the green to see what the commotion was about, and the smith and his boy came out of his shop.
Lucy tried to calm herself. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Eustace glanced at her, his coffee-brown eyes shy. “I’m glad to hear your mirth. You don’t often laugh.”
Which only made her feel worse, of course.
Lucy closed her eyes. She suddenly realized that she should have cut this off ages ago. “Eustace—”
“I wanted—” He started talking at the same time as she, and their words collided. He stopped and smiled. “Please.” He indicated she should continue.
But Lucy felt awful now and not eager to start what would no doubt be an uncomfortable discussion. “No, I beg your pardon. What did you mean to say?”
He took a breath, his wide chest expanding under the coarse brown wool of his coat. “I have wanted to speak to you about an important matter for some time now.” He turned the carriage behind the church, and suddenly they were secluded.
Lucy had a terrible premonition. “I think—”
But for once Eustace didn’t defer to her. He continued speaking right over her. “I wanted to tell you how much I admire you. How much I enjoy spending this time with you. They’re comfortable, don’t you think, our little carriage rides?”
Lucy tried again. “Eustace—”
“No, don’t interrupt. Let me get this out. You’d think I wouldn’t be so nervous, as I know you so well.” He inhaled and blew out a gust of air. “Lucy Craddock-Hayes, will you do me the honor of being my bride? There. That’s over with.”
“I—”
Eustace pulled her to him abruptly, and her voice ended in a squeak. He crushed her gently against his big chest, and it was like being enveloped by a giant, smothering pillow, not unpleasant but not entirely comfortable either. His face loomed above hers before he swooped in to kiss her.
Oh, for goodness’ sake! A wave of exasperation crashed over her head. Not, she was sure, what one should be feeling when being kissed by a handsome young man. And to be fair, Eustace’s kiss was quite . . . nice. His lips were warm, and he moved them in a pleasing way over her own. He smelled of peppermint—he must have prepared for this kiss by chewing some—and on that thought, Lucy’s impatience changed to fond sympathy.
He broke away, looking very pleased with himself. “Shall we tell your father?”
“Eustace—”
“Gadzooks! I should’ve asked his permission first.” His brow crimped in thought.
“Eustace—”
“Well, it can’t come as any great surprise, can it? I’ve been courting you for a long time now. ’Spect the village considers us already married.”
“Eustace!”
He started slightly at the loudness of her voice. “My dear?”
Lucy closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to shout, but he would natter on. She shook her head. Best to concentrate if she was to get through this. “Whilst I am deeply appreciative of the honor you do me, Eustace, I . . .” She made the mistake of looking at him.
He sat there, a lock of brown hair blowing against his cheek, looking perfectly innocent. “Yes?”
She winced. “I can’t marry you.”
“Of course you can. I really don’t think the captain will object. He would’ve shooed me off long before now if he didn’t approve. And you’re well past the age of consent.”
“Thank you.”
He flushed. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Lucy sighed. “But I . . . I really can’t marry yo
u, Eustace.”
“Why not?”
She didn’t want to hurt him. “Can’t we just leave it at that?”
“No.” He drew himself up in an oddly dignified manner. “I’m sorry, but if you’re going to reject me, I think I at least deserve to know the reason why.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. It’s just that”—she frowned down at her hands as she tried to find the words—“over the years, we fell into a kind of habit, one that I no longer questioned. And I should have.”
The horse shook its head, jangling the tack.
“I’m a habit?”
She winced. “I didn’t—”
He placed both his big hands on his knees and clenched them. “All this time I expected that we would marry.” His hands flexed. “You’ve had the expectation of marriage as well; don’t tell me you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And now you expect me to give this up on a whim of yours?”
“It isn’t a whim.” She drew a steadying breath. Crying would be a cowardly way to win his sympathy. Eustace deserved more from her. “I’ve been thinking and thinking over the last days. I’ve agonized about what we are to each other. It just isn’t enough.”
“Why?” Eustace asked the question quietly. “Why should you question what we have, what we are together? It seems nice to me.”
“But that’s just it.” Lucy looked into his eyes. “Nice isn’t enough for me. I want—I need—more.”
He was silent a moment as the wind blew a few leftover leaves against the church door. “Is it because of that Iddesleigh fellow?”
Lucy looked away, took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. “I expect it is, yes.”
“You know he isn’t coming back.”
“Yes.”
“Then why”—he pounded his thigh suddenly—“why can’t you marry me?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to you. You must know that.”
“I think you should let me be the judge of that.”
“Maybe so,” Lucy conceded. “But then you need to let me be the judge of what is fair to me. And living my life in a compromise, in a nice marriage, is no longer tenable for me.”
“Why?” Eustace’s voice was husky. He sounded close to tears.
Lucy felt moisture prick her own eyes. How could she have brought such a good man so low?
“Do you think you love that fellow?”
“I don’t know.” She closed her eyes, but the tears overflowed nevertheless. “All I know is that he opened a door into a whole new world I never even knew existed. I’ve stepped through that door, and I can’t return.”
“But—”
“I know.” She made a slashing motion with her hand. “I know he won’t be coming back, that I’ll never see or speak to him again. But it doesn’t matter, don’t you see?”
He shook his head and, once started, couldn’t seem to stop. His head swung back and forth in a stubborn, bearlike movement.
“It’s like . . .” Lucy raised her hands in a pleading gesture as she tried to think of the analogy. “Like being blind from birth and then one day suddenly being able to see. And not just see, but to witness the sun rising in all her glory across an azure sky. The dusky lavenders and blues lightening to pinks and reds, spreading across the horizon until the entire Earth is lit. Until one has to blink and fall to one’s knees in awe at the light.”
He stilled and stared at her as if dumbstruck.
“Don’t you understand?” Lucy whispered. “Even if one were made blind again in the next instant, one would ever after remember and know what was missed. What could be.”
“So you won’t marry me,” he said quietly.
“No.” Lucy let her hands drop, deflated and weary. “I won’t marry you.”
“DAMMIT!” EDWARD DE RAAF, the fifth Earl of Swar-tingham, roared as yet another boy whizzed past. The boy somehow managed to avoid seeing de Raaf’s large, waving arm.
Simon stifled a sigh. He sat in his favorite London coffeehouse, his feet—shod in new red-heeled pumps—propped on a nearby chair, and yet he could not drag his mind away from the little town he’d left over a week ago.“D’you think the service is getting worse?” his companion asked as he was passed over again. The boy must be blind. Or willfully not seeing. De Raaf stood a solid six feet and some inches, had a sallow, pockmarked face, and striking midnight black hair worn in a messy queue. His expression at the moment was enough to curdle cream. He didn’t exactly blend into a crowd.
“No.” Simon sipped his own coffee thoughtfully. He’d arrived earlier than the other man and was thus already set up. “It’s always been this awful.”
“Then why do we come here?”
“Well, I come here for the excellent coffee.” Simon glanced around the dingy, low-ceilinged coffeehouse. The Agrarian Society, an eclectic, loose-knit club, met here. The only terms of membership were that the man had to have an interest in agriculture. “And, of course, the sophisticated atmosphere.”
De Raaf shot him a ludicrously outraged look.
A fight broke out in the corner between a macaroni in a deplorable pink-powdered, three-tailed wig, and a country squire wearing muddy jackboots. The boy scurried past them again—de Raaf didn’t even get a chance to raise his hand this time—and Harry Pye stole into the coffeehouse. Pye moved like a cat on the hunt, gracefully and without any sound. Add to that his nondescript appearance—he was of average height and looks and favored a dull brown wardrobe—and it was a wonder anyone noticed him at all. Simon narrowed his eyes. With his physical control, Pye would have made a formidable swordsman. But since he was a commoner, no doubt he had never held a sword; only nobility could wear one. Which didn’t stop Pye from carrying a wicked little blade in his left boot.
“My lords.” Pye sat in the remaining chair at their table.
De Raaf let out a long-suffering sigh. “How many times have I told you to call me Edward or de Raaf?”
Pye half smiled in acknowledgment at the familiar words, but it was to Simon he spoke. “I am glad to see you well, my lord. We had news of your near murder.”
Simon shrugged easily. “A trifle, I assure you.”
De Raaf frowned. “That’s not what I heard.”
The boy slammed a full mug of coffee down beside Pye.
De Raaf’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”
“What?” Pye’s gaze lowered to the empty space on the table before the earl. “Aren’t you having a cup today?”
“I—”
“He’s decided to give up coffee,” Simon cut in smoothly. “Heard it’s not good for the libido. Huntington wrote a treatise on it recently, didn’t you hear? It especially affects those nearing their middle years.”
“Really.” Pye blinked.
De Raaf’s pale, pockmarked face crimsoned. “What a lot of rot—”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed it affecting me.” Simon smiled blandly and sipped his coffee. “But then again, de Raaf is considerably older than I.”
“You lying—”
“And he’s recently married. Bound to have a slowing-down consequence, that.”
“Now see here—”
Pye’s lips twitched. If Simon hadn’t been watching closely, he’d have missed it. “But I’m newly married as well,” Pye interrupted softly. “And I can’t say I’ve noticed any, ah, problem. Must be the age.”
Simon felt a strange pang as he realized he was the odd man out. They turned in unison to the earl.
Who sputtered, “Despicable, lying, caddish—”
The boy whirled by again. De Raaf frantically waved his arm. “Ahhh, damn!”
The lad disappeared into the kitchen without ever turning his head.
“Good thing you’ve given up the sacred brew.” Simon smirked.
A crash came from the brawl in the corner. Heads swiveled. The country squire had the dandy, sans wig, on his back against a table. Two chairs lay broken nearby.
Pye frow
ned. “Isn’t that Arlington?”
“Yes,” Simon replied. “Hard to recognize him without that atrocious wig, isn’t it? Can’t think why he chose pink. No doubt that’s the reason the rural chap is pummeling him. Probably overcome with loathing for the wig.”
“They were arguing over swine breeding.” De Raaf shook his head. “He’s always been a bit unreasonable about farrowing pens. Runs in the family.”
“Do you think we should help him?” Pye asked.
“No.” De Raaf looked around for the boy, an evil gleam in his eye. “Arlington could benefit from a beating. Might knock some sense into him.”
“Doubt it.” Simon raised his mug again, but then lowered it as he saw a slight, scruffy character hesitating in the doorway.
The man scanned the room and spotted him. He started toward them.
“Dammit!” de Raaf exclaimed beside him. “They’re ignoring me on purpose.”
“Do you want me to get you a coffee?” Pye asked.
“No. I’m going to do it myself or die trying.”
The man stopped before Simon. “Took me most of the day, Guv, but I’ve found him.” He proffered a dirty scrap of paper.
“Thanks.” Simon gave the man a gold coin.
“Ta.” The little man tugged a forelock and disappeared.
Simon opened the paper and read: The Devil’s Playground after eleven. He crumpled the note and stuffed it in a pocket. And only then realized the other two men were watching him. He raised his brows.
“What’s that?” De Raaf rumbled. “Found another one to duel?”
Simon blinked, taken aback. He thought he had kept his dueling secret from de Raaf and Pye. He’d not wanted their interference or their moralizing.
“Surprised we know?” De Raaf leaned back, endangering the wooden chair he sat in. “It wasn’t that hard to ferret out how you’ve been spending the last couple of months, especially after that sword fight with Hartwell.”
What was the big man’s point? “Not your business.”
“It is when you’re risking your life with each duel,” Pye answered for them both.
Simon stared hard.
Neither man blinked.
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