Skylark

by Jo Beverley

  “An Arab with a nice understanding of English protocol. Most intriguing.”

  Like her scent, which made it damn hard to think.

  “Let’s be orderly,” he said. Yes, do let’s. “HG. We assume that’s your husband, Hal Gardeyne?”

  She shook her head. “How could he return to trouble anyone? You may not know, but first sons in this family are always called variants of Henry.”

  “Ah. So Lord Caldfort is a Henry, too?”

  “No, because he was a second son, so his name is John. He inherited when his older brother, Henry, died. That Lord Caldfort had a son—Henry, of course—who died at sea.”

  “Navy?”

  “A scholar of some sort. He was traveling to Greece. But poke around the Gardeyne family tree and there are dead Henry Gardeynes by the bushel.”

  “But how many alive?” he asked.

  Fear flickered in her eyes. “Only the two infants. My Harry, and Jack’s newborn Hal.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms, and only to comfort. “HG can’t be them, then, can he? ‘Having been for some years a guest of Oscar Ris . . .’ So it must be something to do with a dead Henry Gardeyne.”

  He had his reward when she relaxed, even smiled a little. “Old debts? Old scandals?”

  “Connected to a woman called Mary Woodside. Could she have been a mistress to any of the dead Henrys? Perhaps turning up with a bastard child in tow?”

  Too late he realized that could embarrass. He knew Hal Gardeyne had been a notorious womanizer, but did Laura?

  She didn’t even seem conscious of it being a delicate subject. “A bastard wouldn’t shock Lord Caldfort. He regards them as proof of manly virility. Do you know what nationality a man called Oscar Ris might be?”

  “Spanish? Portuguese?” He looked at the letter again. “What about Captain Dyer?”

  “Lord Caldfort has many military friends, but I’ve never heard the name.”

  “With a military man involved, it might be something to do with the war.”

  She sat back, shaking her head. “Lord Caldfort retired from the army nine years ago, and even then he’d been behind a desk for a decade. There’ve been no other military men for generations. The Gardeynes like the comforts of England. The only one I know of who’s gone traveling was the old viscount’s son, and see what came of it. A watery grave.”

  But then she came alert like a pointer sensing game. “Could it be? His ship went down in the Mediterranean, close to Arab countries. He was on his way to Greece. Could Oscar Ris be a Greek name?”

  Suddenly, delightfully, she was the Laura of his youth—quick, bright, and soaring above reality.

  “Not obviously,” he said.

  As always, she wasn’t daunted. “But his return would certainly be a shock, wouldn’t it? Because then Lord Caldfort wouldn’t be Lord Caldfort anymore.”

  As always, her enthusiasm was infectious. “It’s an idea. And this Farouk is offering to remove the inconvenience. Astonishing.”

  But then, unlike the Laura of old, she came back to earth. “It is, isn’t it? Astonishing. Unbelievably so. How could anyone come back from the dead?”

  “Lord Darius did so.”

  “But that was one year, not ten.”

  “True.” Stephen looked back at the letter to focus his mind. “What do you know about this Henry Gardeyne?”

  “Very little. He died—or whatever—long before I married Hal.”

  Her voice was enough to make thought difficult. Voices didn’t change, and it was almost as if they were back in Ancross, working on a puzzle.

  “There’s a memorial to him in the Gardeyne plot,” she said. “I think it says he was twenty-one. And a portrait of him hangs in the hall.”

  “Ah, I saw that and wondered if it was the vicar as a younger man, but there’s something too dreamy about it.”

  “In his eyes, I think.”

  He made the mistake of looking up and was caught by her eyes. There was nothing dreamy about them, alas, but poets had praised Laura Gardeyne’s brilliant sapphire eyes.

  He’d known them all his life, but not like this, by intimate candlelight; she an experienced woman, he a desirous man. Desirous. What a pretty word for burning hunger that threatened his sanity, his reason, and his control over this situation. If he tried to move his hand, he feared it would shake. If he tried to speak, he could not possibly make sense.

  “I’ve always thought that picture shows a romantic zest for adventure rather than dreaminess,” she said, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having. “It makes his early death so sad. I’d like him to be alive, but where could he have been all these years?”

  He grasped the simple question like a lifeline. “With Oscar Ris, apparently.” Think. Think. “But as you say, that makes no sense. Why would he linger abroad when a title awaited him in England?” He sought a suggestion as a courting bird might seek a worm to tempt his mate. “What if Henry sired a son before he died? A legitimate one.”

  Her lips parted in a delighted smile. “And the wicked Farouk is offering to kill the child for money? Brilliant, Stephen!” But then she sobered. “We have to prevent that.”

  We. What towers of hope a man could build on one word.

  “Even if it deprives your son of his inheritance?”

  Those eyes could spit fire, as he well knew. “You imagine I would blindfold myself to another child’s death in that cause? What sort of monster do you think I am?”

  He raised his hands. “I’m sorry. Of course I don’t think that, but I’m a man of law, Laura. I’m accustomed to pointing out the legal consequences of decisions. As long as you understand.”

  “I do.” Now she was cold, but it was a passionate cold. Everything she did was passionate. “So, a child, and the object enclosed must have been proof of his legitimacy. I looked, but I didn’t see anything. Certainly not a document.” She fixed him with her gaze, and even cold it burned him. “We have to do something.”

  We again. If you insist, he thought, as a worm of an idea uncurled, an idea he knew he should resist.

  She was looking into nowhere now. “You’re going to think me mad.”

  I know I am. He sucked in the vision of her, the delicate perfume, the movements of her breasts with every breath. He should speak. “Why?”

  “Because, I’m looking with hope at the thought of Harry not being the heir to a title.” She turned those eyes on him again. “Stephen, if Henry Gardeyne is alive, or his legitimate son is alive, they are the key to Harry’s safety.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “If Harry isn’t heir to anything, he’s safe.”

  It took the strength of Hercules to keep his hand passive in hers, and his heart was thundering. “Many would think you mad.”

  She laughed. “So he won’t have a title and he’ll have to make his own fortune, but he won’t have to grow up at Caldfort, and he will live!”

  He turned her hand then, held it in both of his, longing to raise it, kiss it. “As your legal adviser, no matter how informally, I have to ask you to think before you act on this.”

  She snatched her hand back. “What became of Stephen the warrior for justice? How can I possibly permit a murder, even by inaction?”

  Words escaped him for a moment, then he managed, “I don’t mean that. This could all be a hoax, however, an attempt at extortion. Do you want to succumb to that for your own advantage?”

  Yes, she did, he saw. Her angry frown came of guilt. “With so much evidence?” she demanded.

  Now that this had become a legal matter of sorts, he regained some sanity. Her legal adviser. God have mercy.

  “How much evidence is there?” he asked. “Someone knows that Henry Gardeyne existed. That could be anyone. He has sent some supposed proof of something, we know not what. Mary Woodside eludes us, as does Oscar Ris and any explanation of a ten-year absence.”

  “You’re being coolly analytical again,” she complained with a pout. Yes, definitely a pout that made him want to hug
her, it was so part of their youth. Perhaps she recognized it, too, for her expression softened and she suddenly looked away.

  Was that the first sign that she saw him as a man?

  “My virtue and my flaw,” he agreed. “Shall I attempt to awe you with my brilliance to compensate? I’d be willing to gamble that Mary Woodside is the name of the ship Henry Gardeyne traveled on. The one that sank.”

  She looked back at him, eyes bright again. “Oh, brilliant, indeed!”

  “That’s public knowledge, too,” he pointed out. “A villain could have discovered it.”

  “But a villain would have to have a reason to look it up. Hence,” she declared triumphantly, “contact with Henry.”

  He had to smile. This followed the pattern of so many debates of their youth. “A point, I grant you.”

  She smiled back, and he’d swear it was unrestrained, a smile she might have given him in the past, before Hal Gardeyne had come into their lives. No, before he had made a mess of everything while a skylark sang.

  “I’m glad you happened to come here today, Stephen, and that you invaded this room. I think I’d be going mad without your steadiness.”

  Steadiness?

  “Do you see that as aging?” she asked. Damn, she’d always been too good at reading him. “We’re both past being wild, I think.”

  “Are we?” Quickly he added, “Yes, of course we are. I’m a responsible Member of Parliament, supporter of worthy causes, and you’re a respectable matron and mother. Wearing caps, no less.”

  That bloody cap—plain, encompassing, and tied beneath her chin—should be illegal. She touched it as if suddenly conscious of it. And blushed. What the devil about her damn cap made her blush?

  She grabbed the letter and read it again, though they’d sucked it dry. Oh, the deuce, he’d as good as said she was an aged antidote.

  “I’m sorry. You’re still a young, beautiful woman, Laura. If you return to society, you’ll be a toast again.”

  “Toast?” she echoed, still hectic with color. “Thank you, but I can’t leave Harry as long as there’s any hint of danger.”

  “Take him with you when you marry.”

  Her bright color faded. “Lord Caldfort will never permit that. He says his heir should grow up here, and he’s right.”

  “Ah. But only as long as he is the heir. I understand better now.”

  “I’m not doing this for selfish reasons.”

  “Of course not.” But it was certainly additional motive for him. If Laura needed to find a new heir for Caldfort before she could marry, he was heart and soul for the cause. What’s more, it fit in with his plan.

  “What we need is the truth,” he said, “and that can only be found in Draycombe.”

  She smiled brilliantly at him. “You would go there and find out for me?”

  “No.”

  Color rushed beautifully into her cheeks. “Stephen, I’m so sorry! Why should I assume that you have time to do that? You must be very busy—”

  He raised a hand and stopped her. “I’m never too busy to help a friend.” He couldn’t help adding, “Especially you, Laura. I can certainly go and uncover some facts, but once we have them there may be decisions to make. Decisions only you can make.”

  “What decisions?”

  He was telling the truth, he realized, which certainly made this easier. “I don’t know, but I can imagine dilemmas. What if HG is Henry Gardeyne’s son, but an idiot or impossibly corrupt? Do we inflict such an owner on Caldfort?”

  “The law . . .”

  “. . . must always be tempered by common sense.”

  “Stephen, I’m shocked!”

  He waited and she added, “I can’t decide that.”

  “Who else? Your Harry is too young, and Lord Caldfort’s desires might not be the same as yours. He could well pay Farouk’s price. That’s why you must travel to Draycombe and judge for yourself.”

  She stared at him. “How? It’s impossible without explanation, and how could I explain?”

  “You’re about to visit your family, which is halfway there.”

  “But I can hardly arrive at Merrymead, then immediately leave.”

  She was right, but he thought he saw a solution. He needed to tighten and tidy his plans, but he thought they would work. In more ways that one.

  “It’s late,” he said, standing, “and our minds are buzzing with tiredness and tangles. Let’s sleep on it. I’ll travel part of the way with you tomorrow, which will give us time to talk far from prying ears.”

  She stood, too. “I suppose I’ll have to do something. Perhaps Father or Ned could go to Draycombe.”

  “I’ve always thought them rather conventional. Salt of the earth, et cetera, but if matters become . . . irregular?”

  She winced. “You’re right. But I don’t like to impose on you, Stephen.”

  “Sleep on it,” he said, suppressing all reaction.

  But he could not resist taking her hand and kissing it. Lightly, but even that was more than he’d ever done before. Holding her hand, he said, “I stand your friend, Laura, and I will help you sort this out. It will be no imposition.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. “Then I think heaven did send you here today.”

  “There’s an Eastern philosophy that says that nothing happens by chance. That we are ruled by destiny, which cannot be fought. Good night, Laura.”

  He made himself leave, having found less than he longed for but more than he’d hoped. And probably a great deal more than he deserved.

  Chapter 12

  Laura watched the door close, then sank into her chair. Stephen’s last words hung in the air as if they had import, but that must be exhaustion speaking. She needed sleep, but it felt impossible. How could she sleep with her mind and her body in turmoil?

  They’d been together in her boudoir in their nightwear!

  That awareness had prickled over and through her, so it had been a miracle that she’d spoken a word of sense. It sizzled in her still, making even the movement of her cotton nightgown against her skin scarcely bearable.

  She stood and went into her bedroom, stripping off her clothes, then scrubbed with cold water. Disgusting—that’s what it was when carnal lust distracted her from matters of life and death. Life and death for Harry. She clasped a dripping cloth to her breasts and the cold water trickled down, gathering on her thighs.

  The first unmarried, virile man to enter her orbit, and she had become a would-be whore.

  She tossed the useless cloth back in the bowl, but the madness was cooling. When she was dry and back in her nightgown, it no longer tormented her skin. She looked in the mirror, fearing to see a slack-mouthed slut, but she was Laura Gardeyne, lady.

  In her cap. She put her hand to it. Oh, Lord, her cap!

  That had almost been her ruin.

  Hal had made a game of her nightcaps. He liked taking them off, which was largely why she’d worn them. He’d saunter into her bedchamber saying, “Off with that cap, wench. . . .”

  Her body clenched at the memory of the words, at the memory of what always followed. She pressed her hand over her mouth, then bit it. She missed it so much, so much.

  She could relieve herself and she would, but it wasn’t the same. It was more than a year since a man’s strong body had pleasured hers, and it would be many more before one would again, and her tears marked a tragedy fierce enough for the Greeks.

  She climbed into bed but it took a long time to fall asleep, and she woke twice in the night. The second time, unable to settle, she went up to the nursery to reassure herself that Harry was still all right. He was fast asleep and she stood there looking at him, wondering if he’d hate her one day if she managed to free him of a viscountcy.

  That, not lust, had stolen sleep, but it wasn’t as if she had any choice. If Henry senior or junior existed, Caldfort must be theirs. She couldn’t try to prevent that.

  But she would rejoice if Harry became safe and she became free. No lying
about that. She wanted to be free to leave, to live, to love.

  She returned to her bedchamber. As she passed Stephen’s room she only allowed herself to think about important matters—the journey and the letter from Azir Al Farouk. Because she was concentrating on that so fiercely, she realized there was something useful she could do. She could sketch a copy of Henry Gardeyne’s portrait.

  Her drawing portfolio was already packed in her coach bag, but she dug it out and slipped into the dim corridor again, candlestick in hand. What would be her excuse if she was caught now? She was almost beyond caring. She’d announce that she was as eccentric as Lady Caldfort, but devoted to nighttime portraiture.

  She went down to the hall and copied the picture as best she could by the light of one candle. She paid particular attention to the bones of the young man’s face, the line of his nose, and the shape of his one visible ear. Those things didn’t change much over time.

  She would have made a more finished job of it, but the clock struck six and she heard a rattle from the kitchen area. The staff was stirring. She hurried back to her room and closed the door with a shudder of relief. She almost felt as if her own life was in danger. Perhaps it was. What would the Gardeynes do if they learned that she knew this secret?

  She wouldn’t feel safe until she and Harry drove away. With Stephen as escort. Thank God for that. She could even imagine Jack riding after to kill them both. She wasn’t sure what Lord Caldfort would do about the letter, but she felt certain Jack would not accept the return of his cousin.

  After acquiring Hal’s small pistol, she’d not done anything with it. Now she carefully cleaned, checked, and loaded it. She paused, thinking that if Hal was looking down from heaven, he’d approve.

  “You’re an unlikely guardian angel, Hal,” she whispered, “but keep our son safe.”

  She packed the case in her trunk but put the pistol in her coach bag, feeling considerably more secure.

  No chance of getting back to sleep now, but too early to ring for breakfast. She worked a little on the drawing, but then realized it was a mistake. Anything she added now might make a better picture, but would be less like the original. She put it in her portfolio and returned that to her bag.