Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03]

by Dangerous Illusions

  She had been completely right, Gideon thought as he strode along the flagway toward Jervaulx House. He had been waiting and hoping things would change, that somehow everything would fall out the way he wanted it to. He had hoped Jervaulx would come to realize that he had a son who was entirely capable of assisting him with his many duties. He had hoped the feud would somehow die out for lack of interest or that the key to resolving it would just turn up. And he had hoped that when everything else fell into place the way he wanted it, Daintry would discover she could not resist him any more than he could resist her.

  She had been right, too, in blaming his past for his present attitudes. He had been taught at school to follow orders and do as he was told, and military life had reinforced those lessons. He could certainly claim, as he had, that as a brigade major he had carried grave responsibilities, but the truth was that he had simply waited for orders and then seen them carried out. His responsibilities had been clearly defined, his duties likewise. He had rarely had to sort things out and decide what was best to be done. No wonder he had felt all at sea when he first returned to England, for in truth, he had been uprooted. He remembered telling Penthorpe that Jervaulx did not know how to let go of past duties to take better care of present ones. He ought to have taken some small heed of his own observation. It was time, he decided, to step out of his old life and into the new.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, he was not surprised to find Jervaulx still at his desk in the book room, reading some sort of document. The glow from the lamp reached no farther than the edges of the desk, and what tapers had been lighted earlier in the wall sconces had guttered. The only other light in the huge room came from the fire, still burning brightly and setting shadows dancing on the carpet and in the nearby corners.

  Gideon moved to pull the bell cord near the hearth, and Jervaulx looked up at last. “The servants have gone to bed.”

  “Not all of them, sir. Thornton was in the hall when I came in, and though I told my own men not to wait up for me, I am nearly certain that both of them will still be up and about. You ought to have rung for more light, Father. You will ruin your eyesight. Yes, Thornton, I rang,” he added when the footman entered. “Replace some of these candles, will you? It ought to have been done sometime ago.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thornton said placidly, but even in the dim light, Gideon did not miss the oblique glance the man shot toward the marquess. “I’ve brought some with me, sir, thinking they might be wanted.”

  Jervaulx was watching his son.

  “I suppose,” Gideon said, returning the look steadily, “that you told them all you did not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Nothing further was required of them, and they must rise very early. There was no need, Thornton, for you to stay up.”

  “No, my lord. I’ll just light these candles now.” He moved toward the wall sconce nearest Gideon, and as he passed him he said quietly, “Mr. Peters is still up as well, Master Gideon.”

  Gideon nodded and moved nearer the desk. “I must ask you to stop now, Father, because I want to talk to you. I’d have waited until morning, but since you are up, I’d like to do it now.”

  “There is nothing so important that it cannot wait.”

  “On the contrary,” Gideon said calmly. “Thank you, Thornton, that will be all. Tell Peters that his lordship will be up in half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thornton said, slipping quickly out the door.

  “Now, see here,” Jervaulx began, “you cannot give orders like that in this house.”

  “You can certainly countermand them,” Gideon agreed, drawing up a chair to the desk, “but I hope you will hear me out first, sir. May I sit down?”

  Jervaulx shot him a look. “You must do as you please, of course. No doubt you will anyway.”

  Taking his seat, Gideon smiled. “I have not come to that yet, I promise you, but I have done a great deal of thinking tonight. Indeed, I walked all the way from Berkeley Square to Jervaulx House, and was so lost in thought that the journey seemed to take but minutes.”

  “You ought not to have walked such a distance,” Jervaulx said harshly. “Any sensible man, having once been attacked in the street, must surely know better than to offer his person for a second attack. You are not fully recovered yet, and indeed, what does one keep a carriage for if not to use it?”

  “I am perfectly stout again, sir, and I wanted to think. I had a few accusations flung at my head tonight that I fear were perfectly justified, and though I should like to think I have merely been keeping my own counsel these past months, I fear I have been little less than a coward.”

  “Nonsense, you are no coward.”

  “I am glad to hear you say so, sir, but I tell you frankly that I am presently quaking in my shoes lest I infuriate you when I tell you that I want you to turn over certain of your duties—specifically all of those relating to the Cornwall estates—to me, and that I would like you to do so at once.”

  “You fancy yourself as a magistrate, sir?” The tone was sarcastic, and Gideon had all he could do not to wince.

  “No, sir, I don’t. Not yet, at all events. I do not know nearly enough about the county or the law. But I can learn. Indeed, I wish to learn, and in the meantime, I am perfectly capable of finding someone to accept the appointment in your stead. And that I will do before the summer Assizes at Bodmin.”

  “And just how, knowing as little as you do about the county, not to mention the law, do you propose to find that person?”

  “I will let it be known that a new appointment must be made, and that you wish to know who is willing to undertake the duties. I am an excellent judge of men, sir, and once we discover who is willing, it will not take long to learn which man is best qualified. Yours, of course, must be the final decision, since it will be upon your recommendation that the appointment will finally be made. However, I give you fair warning that if I should discover the Earl of St. Merryn to be both willing and best qualified, I will not hesitate to submit his name to you.”

  His tone was admirably firm, but it occurred to him as he fell silent that he could not more clearly have challenged the marquess if he had flung down a glove on his desk. He waited for the earth to shake. Instead, Jervaulx said mildly, “May I ask who was so misguided as to call you a coward?”

  Looking narrowly at him, Gideon told himself he was crazy to think he saw a glint of amusement in Jervaulx’s eyes, and said cautiously, “I’m afraid it was Lady Daintry Tarrant, sir.”

  “So the wind still sits in that quarter, does it?”

  Certain that he wanted only to change the subject, Gideon said, “You need not concern yourself about that, sir. She is still very much betrothed to Penthorpe and says she will not have me in any case. At present, I should rather discuss Deverill Court. I know it must be a great disappointment to you that it will come to me and not go to Jack, but since it must—”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Utter nonsense,” Jervaulx repeated roughly. “No father could be disappointed in a son who was mentioned in dispatches after such a battle as Waterloo.”

  “I meant—”

  “I don’t care what you meant, Gideon,” Jervaulx said, getting up.

  The look in his eyes now was one that had terrified Gideon as a boy, and even now, he discovered, it had the power to bring him instantly to his feet. “Sir, I think—”

  “Be silent,” Jervaulx snapped. “You will listen to me now, by heaven. I will not allow you to think for one more minute that I am disappointed in you.”

  “But—”

  “Your brother coveted the Jervaulx title, Gideon, but he had little interest in the duties that go with it. He was a fine lad, sporting mad and popular with his friends, and I grieve for his death almost as much as I grieved for your mother; but Jack would have made a poor master unless he had changed his ways considerably. I thought you were the same. You showed little interest in the estates, and although I began to t
hink you might when I learned you had turned the muniments room upside down, searching for information about that old feud, it quickly became clear that your main interest lay in seeing how many house parties you could attend. That being exactly the way your brother liked to spend his time, I thought you were like him.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to meddle,” Gideon said, forcing calm into his voice, “and I had reasons of my own—”

  “I know your reasons now. Had I not already begun to suspect them, they would have become clear when I saw you nearly leap out of your skin when that young woman had the audacity to challenge me in my own court. Since you still seem bent on making a fool of yourself in that direction, it is gratifying to learn that my initial opinion of you was not entirely justified.”

  Gideon stared at him. “You don’t object to my interest in St. Merryn’s daughter?”

  “Of course I object, but you endow me with powers well beyond those I possess if you think I can stop you from marrying where you choose when you are fully of age. Or would you have me believe that you would never marry to disoblige me? And before you protest that you would honor my wishes, let me point out that I do have a considerable regard for your integrity.”

  Gideon spread his hands with a rueful grin. “You leave me with nothing to say, sir, but the point is a moot one since she is still under age—not to mention betrothed—and even if she were neither, I could scarcely insist that she disobey her father. Until the discord between our families is laid to rest, there is nothing I can do to further my cause. And since one of the accusations she flung at my head tonight is that I have done nothing to discover its key, I do wish you would tell me how the animosity between the two families began.”

  “All I know is that Tarrant was at fault and that some sort of threat was made, after which he refused to accept a challenge from your grandfather. More than that I was never told.”

  “Lady Daintry said there were rumors of Jacobite dealings.”

  “That is possible, of course. There was a good deal of that sort of thing in Cornwall at the time, but there cannot have been much to it, since there was no public accusation. The complete answer may he in the family papers, of course.”

  “That’s why I turned the muniments room inside out,” Gideon said, “but not knowing what to search for does rather impede my progress. I looked for mention of the Tarrants, of course, but aside from some matters of business between the two families—perfectly straightforward, as far as I could tell—there was nothing. When I return—” He broke off. “You managed to divert me from my point, sir, but I hope you do not mean to forbid me to take control of things at the Court.”

  “I have no objection.”

  “Then why did you never ask for my help? Indeed, you ought to have insisted upon it.”

  “A reluctant landlord is a bad one,” Jervaulx said. “Had I seen you display more than a slight interest in the estate when you returned from the Continent, I would gladly have arranged for you to move into a more influential position there. But since I did not, there seemed nothing to do but to look after things myself until you did express an interest.”

  “I thought you disliked me,” Gideon said, surprised at how just saying the words affected him. “I might never have dared.”

  Jervaulx turned suddenly toward the fireplace, his body stiffening. His voice was rough when he said, “I have never disliked you. After your mother’s death, I found it impossible to allow myself the luxury of revealing such depth of feeling for anyone else. For months after her death, I was so afraid of losing you or your brother that I could not bear the sight of you on a horse, or swimming, or doing any of the other active things boys love to do. Indeed, my fear was so great that I thought it was certain to smother you. Jack was already at Eton by then, of course, and sending him back after her funeral was especially hard. I knew that if I was ever to send you there at all, I had to distance myself emotionally. And after Jack’s death, I was alone, Gideon, and you were still at war, likely to be killed at any time. Can you imagine what it was like for me then? If I do not show my feelings, it is because I have not believed it safe or wise to do so, not because I do not have any.”

  Gideon found it hard to speak. At last, he said, “I will not fail you, sir. Do you return soon to the Abbey?”

  “I must remain in London for some weeks yet,” Jervaulx said, turning at last with a weary smile, “but I confess, I will be relieved to relinquish the duties of magistrate. I had expected to have to go to Deverill Court from here, but now I shall be able to go straight to the Abbey instead.” He moved to put out the lamp on the desk. “Do not make a stranger of yourself there, my son.”

  “I-I won’t, sir,” Gideon said.

  He lay awake that night for a long time, thinking over what Jervaulx had said, and wondering what his life would have been like if they had not been strangers for so many years. It was, he knew, nearly as much his own fault as his father’s, and he vowed that no child of his would ever wonder what he thought of him. Thinking of children soon brought his thoughts to Daintry, and he wondered what she would say when he told her that his father would not stand in the way if she agreed to marry him. No doubt it would be something rude; however, he thought that if the opportunity arose before they left London, he would tell her.

  But the next morning his vigilant servants, agreeing for once, thought it better not to wake him, with the result that he slept till well after noon, and when he went to Berkeley Square shortly after three, he discovered that St. Merryn had meant it when he had said they would stay only until after the ball. The knocker was off the door, and the servants were packing up to close the house. The family had returned to Cornwall.

  Twenty-one

  LOOKING OUT THE CARRIAGE window at the passing countryside, Daintry sighed, thinking her father had whisked them out of London so fast that she had scarcely had time to snatch up the things she would need along the way. They had not departed until nearly two o’clock, however, and she had kept an eye on the square in hopes that Deverill would come to call before they left, but he had not. Perhaps he had thought better of it. More likely, he simply had not realized they had meant to leave so soon. Penthorpe, too, would be surprised by their abrupt departure, although her father had promised to send word to him.

  “No point in staying longer,” St. Merryn had declared before retiring the night before, “for there’s no saying what mischief you’ll be getting up to if we do. We came to town to find you a husband, after all, and now Penthorpe’s back, it will be better to be married from your own home, and so I have explained it to him. He may not want to go to Cornwall at once, I suppose, but I shall make it clear that he is not to linger here too long.”

  Lady St. Merryn had objected, albeit weakly, when the plan was made known to her, but Cousin Ethelinda had attended to the details, and since all but the upper servants and their personal ones would be following at their own pace with the baggage, she could give no good reason not to leave at once.

  Charles and Davina, much to everyone’s surprise, had also decided to go. Davina, peeping into Daintry’s room soon after Nance had wakened her that morning, had said laughingly, “It is dreadful to be rousted out so early when one would much rather sleep all day—especially after such a night—but your father is complaining that if we delay, we shall not be able to leave until Monday, and he is quite right because dear Mama St. Merryn will make a grand fuss if he tries to make her travel on a Sunday.”

  “You really are going with us, then.”

  “Oh, yes, for now that matters are clearer between us, we don’t mean to spoil them again, and our habits have become so set, you know, that there is no telling what will happen if we go on larking about as we have been. I shall miss the parties and balls much more than Charles will, but I daresay I shan’t miss them quite so much if I can spend more time with him.”

  That she might actually get to spend more time with him was evident by the fact that he had agreed to occupy a carria
ge with her rather than riding as he usually did, so although Daintry was not convinced that things would turn out as Davina hoped they would, she could not blame her for believing they might.

  For once, she shared a carriage only with Lady Ophelia, who was looking particularly chipper. As the carriage left the cobblestones for the Exeter road, she said, “A pity we must leave just when I’ve finally had the benefit of a good night’s sleep, though I cannot think what possessed me to drift off like I did.”

  Feeling sudden warmth in her face, Daintry was grateful for the dim light in the carriage, and hoped her great-aunt would not notice her reddening cheeks.

  Lady Ophelia went on, “You know it was the oddest thing, my dozing off like that. I believe I have never done such a thing before in my life, and to think I did not so much as stir when I was carried upstairs or when Alma undressed me and got me beneath the covers. I am no lightweight either, you know. I hope whoever carried me did not do himself an injury.”

  “It was Deverill, ma’am. He had no difficulty.”

  “I do not suppose he would, though I own, I am surprised your father allowed him to penetrate so far into the house.”

  “Papa had other things on his mind, I suppose,” Daintry said, thinking of Geoffrey and Susan and wondering what her father had heard about that unfortunate incident. She wished that she might have seen her sister before they left, to learn if Deverill had been right to think she would be safe.

  Lady Ophelia chuckled. “Poor St. Merryn. What he must have thought, finding me sound asleep like that, but I tell you, I am too grateful to have had a full night’s repose to concern myself with what a figure I must have made. Why, I had begun to believe I should never adapt to London hours this year.”

  Daintry bit her lip.

  “What is it?” the old lady demanded. “You look like a cat that’s been at the cream. What mischief have you been brewing?”

  “It was not my brewing, ma’am, and was mischief only because it went awry, but I confess, your sleep was not entirely natural. When you said you were thirsty, Penthorpe gave you a cup of punch that Deverill had intended for him to drink in hopes of keeping him from getting into an altercation with Geoffrey.”