by Candace Camp
Something flickered in Royce’s eyes—a momentary mirroring, perhaps, of her own thoughts—but was quickly gone. His expression became aloof, the smile vanishing. His voice and look were impersonal as he guided her into the steps of the dance, and Mary frowned at him in irritation. Her annoyance made her forget her embarrassment, however, and it was easier to follow the steps. By her second time around the floor, she was able to relax and follow him almost naturally.
“There, that’s better,” he said in a low tone.
“I beg your pardon?” Mary set her face in the expression Miss Dalrymple had been urging on them for days as the correct response for dampening pretensions. Mary was not entirely sure what constituted “pretensions,” but she decided that Royce’s attitude of indifference was reason enough to make the face.
“Well done,” he murmured. “If you can respond to a compliment in that fashion and dance the waltz without a misstep, you are practically assured of success.”
“Don’t be absurd. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I certainly recall no compliment.”
“I expressed approval because you had stopped thinking about yourself and were simply enjoying the dance.”
“I wasn’t enjoying it.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Then we must continue to practice until you do.”
“And I cannot imagine why you thought I was thinking about myself.”
“I could see it on your face. I fear you will have to learn to school your expression if you hope to make it through the choppy waters of the ton.” He leaned closer and murmured, “I could see, for instance, that when I put my hand on your waist, you were thinking of the other night.”
Heat flooded Mary’s cheeks and she would have stumbled, but his grip tightened and kept her moving through the steps with only a minor stutter.
“You think entirely too much of yourself,” she retorted.
“No doubt. Still, I know that is where your thoughts were. Mine were as well.”
“Indeed? You looked as if you scarcely knew me.”
He chuckled. “Would you have had me leer at you? I think that would hardly have helped you through the dance.”
“Of course not. You are talking nonsense.”
“Am I?” His eyes glinted down at her, and Mary could feel a familiar and most unwelcome heat stealing through her body.
With a grimace, she pulled away from him. Miss Dalrymple, who had been pounding out the waltz beat with her palm on the piano top, stopped and glared at Mary.
“Miss Bascombe! A lady does not simply stop in the middle of a dance.”
“I didn’t feel like continuing,” Mary replied crossly.
“That is of no importance. One should press on until the end of the dance. After that, of course, you may plead a headache and ask to be returned to your chaperone. But one must not interrupt the dancing.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, we are just practicing!”
Miss Dalrymple’s bosom swelled with indignation, and Mary was reminded forcibly of a pouter pigeon.
Before she could speak, Sir Royce stepped between them, saying, “I fear it was my fault, Miss Dalrymple. I was teasing Miss Bascombe, and it quite distracted her. You must blame me.”
Mary watched Miss Dalrymple somewhat sourly as she simpered at Sir Royce. It was most annoying the way the woman, so rigid with them, positively melted if Royce so much as smiled at her.
“Now, Sir Royce, isn’t it just like you to take the blame?”
“Mmm. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
Miss Dalrymple frowned at Mary. “Sarcasm is not beguiling, particularly in a young person.”
“I wasn’t trying to be beguiling,” Mary shot back. “Really, Miss Dalrymple, must we be charming and sweet our entire lives? Is there no time when we are allowed to be ourselves?”
The older woman pursed her lips. “Not if you expect to land a husband. No man wants a wife who cannot keep a civil tongue in her head. Isn’t that right, Sir Royce?”
He, for once, was at a loss for words. “Um … well …”
“I am quite aware of Sir Royce’s standards in a wife.” Mary sent him a single, flashing glance. “Fortunately, I would not think to look for such a paragon of a husband as Sir Royce.”
Even her sisters looked amazed at Mary’s caustic tone. Miss Dalrymple drew her breath to deliver a lecture, and suddenly Mary felt as if she would explode if she had to listen to one more word from that woman.
“Excuse me,” she said shortly. “I fear I am not good company this afternoon.”
With that, she whirled and ran from the room. Behind her she heard Miss Dalrymple sharply call her name, then Royce’s calming murmur.
Mary rushed down the hall and out the back door, afraid that one of her sisters might take it into her head to come after her. Mary did not feel like talking to anyone, even Rose. She had made a fool of herself, she knew. She did not care what the annoying Miss Dalrymple thought, but her siblings would not understand why she had spoken so slightingly about Royce. Indeed, she was not sure she understood it herself.
Mary crossed the terrace and went down the steps into the garden. She had walked through much of the garden that lay close to the house, but today she headed toward the lower garden, where the plants grew in wilder profusion, leading to the small orchard and beyond that a meadow. Perhaps a longer walk would help her work out why she had grown so irritated with Sir Royce. She had forgiven him for what he’d said that night to the earl. Nor was she angry about what had happened between them at the inn. That had been as much her fault as his, the result of the excitement of the moment, the bizarre situation in which they had found themselves.
But, she realized, he had been able to move on, seemingly to forget about the passion that had flared between them. He could be at ease, even flirt with her in his old, meaningless way, whereas she found her mind returning again and again to those few minutes, reliving the kisses and caresses. Indeed, if she was honest with herself, she knew that she wished she could experience those things again! It was absurd. Pointless. And that, she knew, was the crux of the problem, the basis for her irritation: she wanted something—someone—she could not have.
Mary raised her head and glanced around, faintly surprised to find how far she had come. Somehow she had wandered onto a path lined on both sides with thick green hedges that grew higher than her head. Where was she?
She turned in a circle. She could see only the curving hedges about her. Finally, with a shrug, she started forward again. She was bound to emerge from the hedges at some point, and once she could see the house again, she would be able to find her way back.
After a few more minutes, Mary came upon an intersection of paths. She paused, wondering whether to turn left or right. The hedges grew high in either direction until they curved out of sight. What was this place? As she stood there, she heard a rustling noise on the other side of the hedge.
“Hello?” she called, turning toward the noise. Perhaps one of her sisters had come looking for her, and the two of them were wandering about only a few feet from each other. “Is someone there?”
She was met with a profound silence. Yet somehow, she knew there was someone on the other side of the hedge. She took a few steps, her ears alert for the slightest sound, and again she heard something—had that been the crackle of twigs breaking?
Mary stopped, poised and waiting. From beyond the hedge came only silence. But she was certain now there was someone … something there. It was not the quietude of emptiness, but the heavy, brooding hush of an enforced stillness.
“Who’s there?” she asked sharply. “Answer me!”
Was that breathing she heard? Mary was too aware of her pulse thudding in her ears to be certain. A faint scent teased at her nostrils, tugging at her memory. The smell of pipe smoke, underlaid with whiskey … Cosmo.
There was a small, sharp crack. Mary whirled and ran back the way she had come. She didn’t know what path she had taken, so she could not retrac
e her steps. She simply ran as fast as she could, her heart pounding. She turned right or left on impulse, praying that her choices would not lead her straight to the person on the other side of the hedge. Finally she wound up in a bower where rosebushes grew in sweet-smelling abundance along climbing trellises that arched over the path. And there, at the end of the flowery tunnel, the garden opened up. She flew down the path toward it.
A man’s form entered the bower, silhouetted against the light so that she could see only the dark outline of him. With a shriek, she stopped abruptly, sliding on the fallen petals beneath her feet.
“Mary?” The man started forward.
“Royce! Oh, Royce!” Mary ran to him, too relieved to even think of propriety.
At her obvious distress, he broke into a run. Mary threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on tightly.
“Mary! What happened? What’s the matter?” Royce’s arms went around her, pressing her to him. “Are you all right?”
Mary nodded and clung to him, luxuriating in the feeling of being safe. But gradually she became aware of the intimacy of their situation. Her body was flush against Royce’s all the way up and down; she could feel his hard bone and muscle pressing into her softer flesh. His strength and warmth surrounded her.
If anyone saw them like this, it would be scandalous. And on the heels of that thought came another: if she remained in his arms much longer, she would be all too likely to raise her head to kiss him. She shuddered and stepped back.
“Are you cold? Here.” He peeled off his jacket and settled it on her shoulders. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“I—it was probably nothing.” With Royce standing beside her, her fears of a moment ago began to seem foolish and exaggerated.
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You came running at me like the hounds of hell were after you. Don’t tell me that you ran away like that from nothing.”
Mary felt a flush steal up her throat. “Well, yes, I did think—but there wasn’t really any—I was probably just being silly.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened, and then we’ll decide whether it’s silly?”
Mary sighed. “Very well. I was walking, and I wasn’t
really watching where I was going. I was, well …”
“In a high dudgeon?” he suggested.
She smiled faintly. “Yes, that is a fair description. I am sorry that I was snappish with you. I—Miss Dalrymple fairly drives me mad. But that is no excuse—”
“It doesn’t matter. What happened as you walked?”
“I wound up between very high hedges, and I realized that I was lost. So I stopped, trying to decide which way to go, and I—well, I heard a noise.”
“What kind of noise?”
“Nothing frightening, really. Just a rustling, as if someone had brushed against the other side of the hedge or was walking through leaves or—I’m not sure what, but it sounded as if there was someone there. So I called out, thinking they could help me find my way back. I thought perhaps it was a gardener or one of my sisters, come looking for me. But there was no reply. So I started forward again, and I heard something more, or I thought I did, and I called out again. No one answered, but I—it just felt as if there was a person on the other side of the hedge. That probably sounds foolish, but—”
He shook his head. “No. I know the sensation.”
“A twig snapped, and I took off running.” She was not about to get into the topic of the scent she had smelled or its relation to her stepfather. “I didn’t know where I was going. Then you came along.” Mary shrugged. “I am sorry that I threw myself at you. You must think me hysterical.”
“Believe me, you have never been around a hysterical woman if you think that. Let’s go back to where you were and see what we can find.”
“It was probably only nerves,” Mary warned, but she fell in beside him as he started off in the direction she had come.
“I have never met a woman less prone to ‘nerves.’”
“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”
Royce grinned at her. In the dappled shadows of the bower, his eyes were the color of dark green leaves. “Oh, it is.”
She found herself smiling back. “Still, upon reflection, ’tis likely that it was only an animal, if it was anything.”
“When you called, did you hear it scurry away?”
“No. There was complete silence. I was listening very hard.”
“Don’t you think most animals would have run from the sound of a human voice? And a dog would have barked or growled or tried to join you, surely.”
“Then perhaps a gardener.”
“Why wouldn’t a gardener answer when you called out? I can’t think why anyone would not have answered you—unless they were someplace they should not be.”
They had reached the high hedges, and Mary led him back through them as best she could. “What is this place?”
“A maze. It was built generations ago and became rather overgrown. We used to play here as boys, and after Oliver inherited, he had it restored to its former condition. There’s quite a lovely little pond at the center.”
“Here, I think.” Mary pointed to the hedge on the right. “It was just about here that I heard the noise. I walked that way a few steps before I turned and ran back.”
Royce studied the hedge for a moment, glancing in both directions. “Come with me. I think I can find my way to the same spot on the other side.”
Mary followed him, growing more convinced by the second that she had imagined the whole incident. It was absurd. Wasn’t it? Particularly absurd was the thought that it might have been Cosmo. She could not smell that scent now. And even if it had really been there, how could she be sure that it was the smell of Cosmo’s tobacco? The tobacco was not his alone; doubtless many other men put the same blend in their pipes, or something close to it.
“I think this is just about opposite where you were.” Royce looked down, his eyes carefully sweeping the area.
Mary joined him in his search, though she was not sure what she expected to find. Beside her, Royce stiffened, pointing to the ground right beside the hedge. “Look.”
Mary’s eyes followed the direction in which his finger was pointing. There in the slightly damp earth was the impression of a shoe.
Royce’s tone was grim as he went on, “Someone was here.”
“But why?” Mary asked in a hushed voice. “Why would someone have stood here and said nothing?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
“This print could be from some other time, not necessarily this afternoon.” She tried surreptitiously to sniff the air. Was there the faintest trace of something smoky? She could no longer be sure.
“I don’t think so,” Royce told her. “The print looks fresh to me, not dried out. Nor was it made by a gardener. It is clearly a gentleman’s shoe.”
“Oh.” Mary looked again at the print. He was right. It was not the broad outline of a boot, but the slender, more fitted form of a shoe made for a gentleman. “Do you think …” She looked up at him, hating even to express the thought.
“That it’s the same man who tried to abduct your sister?”
Mary nodded.
Royce paused thoughtfully, then said, “It seems unlikely. After all, it has been several days since that incident, and we are miles away. He would have had to follow us all this way, staying out of sight the whole time.”
“Yes, it seems far-fetched.”
“I will speak to the gardeners,” Royce went on, “see if any of them have spotted someone lurking about. I’ll send one of the grooms into the village to ask around, find out if there have been any strangers staying there since we returned.” His voice hardened. “And I’ll make bloody sure that the grounds are patrolled more carefully. There will be a full complement of gardeners out here every day. You and your sisters will have no cause to feel unsafe. Though I would prefer it if you did not walk alone this far
from the house again. Stick to the upper gardens.”
“Surely that’s not necessary,” Mary protested.
“Probably not. But just this once … humor me.” He turned, offering her his arm. “Now, would you care to see the rest of the maze?”
Mary smiled. “That sounds very nice.”
The hedges continued high on either side, curving sometimes and at others running in a straight line. Royce made each turn without hesitation, though Mary grew more and more lost as they went along.
“I hope I never wind up here alone. I should doubtless starve to death before I found my way out.”
“It’s not that bad once you’ve learned it. But it does serve to keep out strangers.”
They came out at last upon a tranquil circle, surrounded on all sides by hedges except for the single opening. Inside the circle lay a pond, still and soothing. Lily pads floated in it, and two large goldfish swam lazily through the water. Completing the pleasant picture, two stone benches sat on either side of the pond. Entering the circle was like stepping into a cool green room. Mary felt separated from the rest of the world, and her earlier fright seemed distant, even foolish.
“It’s beautiful,” Mary breathed, walking up to the pond.
“I’m glad you like it.” Royce came to stand beside her. “Would you like to sit for a while?” He gestured toward one of the benches.
They settled onto the bench side by side. After a moment, Royce said, frowning, “I had thought to give you and your sisters riding lessons, but perhaps I should not if someone is lurking about.”
“What? No, you mustn’t change your mind,” Mary protested. “Camellia would love to ride. We should all enjoy it—if nothing else, it would get us out from under the gimlet eye of Miss Dalrymple.”
He chuckled. “That is certainly a consideration.”
“Please …” Mary put her hand beseechingly on his arm. “We don’t know that the footprint belongs to anyone wishing us harm. The more I think about it, the sillier it seems. And you will be with us when we are out riding, in any case. Say you will do it.”