by Jo Beverley
Stephen smiled. “Not yet. You see, we don’t know what we should do. Even if Dyer is Henry Gardeyne, we have an unexplained decade of absence. We also have a cripple. In body only, or in mind? He might not be the sort of man who should be given control of an English estate and all the people dependent on it.”
“Ah.”
Laura studied the man. “You don’t seem shocked, Mr. Kerslake.”
He turned to her. “My predecessor as Earl of Wyvern was insane, Mrs. Gardeyne, but not enough to be confined, which was unfortunate. He did considerable damage. If someone had prevented his reign, it would have been a blessing.”
“Then you understand why we have to try to find out more before taking any action. Because . . .”
“Because when you liberate him, you might wish to cage him elsewhere. I’d offer Crag Wyvern except that it might tip a delicate mind into madness all by itself. I do know some safe places, however.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Stephen murmured.
Kerslake’s lips twitched. “There’s a farm not far inland from here where the people are completely trustworthy. If you liberate Gardeyne but don’t want him on the loose, take him to Stonewell Farm. I’ll draw a map.”
He took out a tablet of paper and drew roads and signs. On the back he scribbled a note of introduction. “I’ll stop by Stonewell on my way home and warn the Huddlers. No details, just that they might need to keep a man confined for a day or two.”
Laura found herself again feeling that she’d landed in an unreal world where these shocking things were taken as normal.
He passed the paper to Stephen. “They’ll be happy it’s not smuggling business. That’s getting risky. That’s one problem about the end of the war,” he said, putting away his tablet and picking up his riding cloak. “Too many ex-officers willing to become preventive men, and the navy with not enough to do, creating trouble all over the place. That’s the only reason the slaves of Algiers were liberated, you know. A fighting navy with nothing else to do.”
“And that expedition cost a shocking number of lives for little direct value to Britain.”
“Freedom,” Laura protested. “Thousands of Christian slaves were freed, and one was from Berkshire.”
“A handful were English, yes. But only a handful.”
“So we should care less about foreigners?”
“Resources are never infinite, Laura, so they must be used with discrimination.”
Kerslake swung on his cloak. “I’ll leave you to the ethical debate and pursue the practical.” But he added to Stephen, “The key to ending smuggling is to lower taxes to reasonable levels. I intend to apply myself to that when I’m in the House of Lords. Will I have your support in the Commons?”
“Certainly.” The two men shook hands. “And now you’re associated with the Rogues, there’ll be others.”
“So I gather. Life takes strange turns, doesn’t it? Less than a year ago I was an estate manager with no weightier responsibility than that.”
He turned to bow to Laura, and she thought of one more thing.
“Could you alert us if the Reverend Jack Gardeyne arrives in the area? Lord Caldfort will probably send him here at some point.”
“Of course.”
He left, and Laura said, “A very impressive man.”
“I certainly look forward to working with him in London. So, what do we do now?”
“I’m puzzling over something,” she said. “Something about Kerslake . . .”
“What?”
But she’d realized what, and it wasn’t something she wished to speak about. The oddness was that the young man had never once looked at her with the interest, or just the acknowledgement of beauty, that she’d come to accept as her due. How terrible that she was so accustomed to it. Perhaps this time in disguise would be good for her. Like a penitential fast.
She moved on to other matters. “So we have only Farouk and Dyer to deal with, and our hypothesis, that Dyer is Henry Gardeyne. I was thinking about that during the sermon.”
“Tut-tut.”
She grinned at him. “I was thinking that if Henry is alive, he must have changed. I’m going to reproduce my copy of his portrait and try to age him.”
“An excellent idea.”
Did he seem surprised?
She went to get her drawing portfolio and returned to find Stephen gone. He reappeared from his room. “Just checking the wall, but I think that’s hopeless. They’d have to bellow for us to hear what they’re saying.”
“We might hear more through the doors.”
“I thought of that, but didn’t you notice how the boards in the corridor squeak? Embarrassing to be caught out there. More to the point, it might make them suspicious. We don’t want them to make a run for it before we’ve sorted it all out.”
She sighed and sat in a chair that caught the light. “It seems such a simple problem, doesn’t it? But it has us stumped.” She took out a clean sheet of paper and set to work. “When I’ve done this, we still have to find a way to compare it to Dyer. Perhaps when Farouk goes out . . .”
“Locked doors,” he reminded her.
“They could be locked from the inside.”
“Why?”
“Ah-ha! So you do think he’s a prisoner. Thus, he’s Henry Gardeyne!”
He laughed. “Checkmate. But I’m not willing to make any assumptions.”
“Nor am I . . .” An idea occurred. “I think what I need to do is ‘accidentally’ leave the altered picture where people can see it. Mrs. Grantleigh, Topham, the servants.”
“An excellent idea!” He leaned closer to look at her work. “What would ten years do to a man? Surely they can’t have been comfortable ones. Adventuring. Imprisonment?”
Laura looked up from the light outline she’d drawn.
“Didn’t the maid say Captain Dyer is pale? Some English people were imprisoned in France.”
“But they were all released in 1814.”
“Perhaps he was badly injured and has only just made it home.”
“With an Egyptian servant? That is damned peculiar.”
“It all is,” she complained. “But I won’t give up hope. Sit for me, Stephen. I need to see how a man’s face changes.”
He obliged, moving a chair opposite, but said, “I must point out that I’m not Gardeyne’s age. I’m only twenty-six.”
She smiled as she studied him. “I promise you, I do not see you as aged. Or,” she added, “stuffy.”
Their eyes met in wary acknowledgement of that kiss, but they weren’t ready to talk about it yet.
Laura seized the excuse to make a quick sketch of Stephen, capturing the elegant lines that his body seemed to fall into so naturally, his long hands, and his high, intelligent forehead. She conveyed his features with a few strokes, unwilling to linger there. Long, straight nose, high cheekbones, flared brows, and clever lips.
She wasn’t sure why that word came to mind, but it did. He’d always had expressive lips. When he saw her studying him, they turned up slightly in a guarded question.
“How do you see me, then?” he asked.
As the man I want naked in my bed.
That thought startled her with its brutal honesty, but Stephen—any man—deserved better than to be used to slake a widow’s hunger. She returned to the drawing of Gardeyne and chose a safe response. “As a very good friend.”
When she looked up again it seemed to her that Stephen’s lips had hardened. Did he want to be more? Would a quiet life with Stephen not be so dull after all?
Later. There would be time enough later to work through all of this. She blinkered her mind on the task of creating a picture of an older Henry Gardeyne. That youthful roundness would have gone. Would he be as lean as Stephen? Frail, someone had said. She thinned the face close to the bone, hinted at sunken eyes, then turned the happy smile bitter. The hair?
Men wore their hair shorter now, so she removed most of the poetical locks. She fiddled with it, the
n passed it to Stephen. “I think he looks too old now. It’s all guesswork.”
“Older, but perhaps not too much so if he’s had a hard time of it. He’s even slightly familiar. More of a resemblance to Reverend Gardeyne, perhaps.”
Laura moved the drawing so they could both see it. “I don’t see that except in the general Gardeyne features. Jack is fleshy. A bit more like Hal, perhaps.” But then she pulled a face. “It feels lifeless to me. I’ve never tried to do an imaginary portrait before. I don’t know how.”
“It’ll do. We know what we’re looking for now, and perhaps a glimpse in a window will be enough. Let’s get you out for another dose of sea air, spyglass in hand. Sooner or later the man must obligingly sit at his window.”
“It will be more difficult to study the inn during daylight.”
He rose and rang the bell. “Heroes relish a challenge.”
“Heroes?” she queried.
“We are equal in this enterprise, I think.”
That warmed her, a warmth that lingered as she put on her outer clothing. Equals. For much of her life she’d not even considered that. She’d accepted that women, for all their qualities and abilities, were not the equals of men.
When had that changed? Perhaps some time in the past year when she’d had no husband, and when his substitute, Lord Caldfort, had been so obviously frail in mind and body. But perhaps the final straw had been Jack.
Jack was the sort of man who expected to command women by right, but she’d never felt any inclination to bow down. Once she’d suspected that he wanted to harm Harry, he’d become her enemy. One could not feel subservient to an enemy.
Chapter 28
When they left the inn, Stephen kept his mind fixed on their purpose, but it was an effort. Moment by moment, Laura was shredding his sanity. He was even beginning to read wicked interest in her friendly glances.
“Let’s move behind that wooden rig,” he said. “We can probably study the Compass from there without being too obvious.”
She agreed and they ambled down onto the beach in that direction.
“What is this?” she asked as they moved into position.
He looked at the tall timbers. “Perhaps something to support a boat in the building?”
From within the ugly, concealing bonnet, framed by faded curls and dark circles, her blue eyes sparkled. “Does it hurt to admit to ignorance about something?”
He smiled back. “Of course not. There are vast fields of human knowledge that have escaped me.”
“Really? I’ve always been in awe of your knowledge.”
A rational man would appreciate being admired for his mind.
He turned toward the Compass and focused the lens. “The curtains are up, but I see no one.” He turned the telescope back out to sea. “Plenty of ships.”
He passed the glass to her and she scanned the waves. After a while, she swung the spyglass around, pausing on one building after another until she could settle on the inn.
“You’re right. Nothing to see.” She lowered the glass and gave it to him. “We can’t stay here doing this for long without being thought peculiar.”
“Let’s do one brisk walk along the front,” he said, putting away the telescope. “That will be expected.”
“Not too brisk,” she reminded him as they walked back up to the road. “I’m frail.”
“Perhaps I should hire a chair. I could wheel you up and down.”
She grinned at him. “That might be fun.”
“Cousin Priscilla,” he said with a quelling look, “does not enjoy fun.”
“Yes, she does. She finds her fun in gossip and nosiness.”
Laura found it was hard to be Cousin Priscilla while strolling in the autumn sunshine arm in arm with Stephen, especially when the rustle of the waves seemed to whisper of wickedness.
“I’m not at all surprised that seaside visits have become so popular.”
“Invigorating, isn’t it?”
That’s one way of putting it.
She’d expected to be comfortable with Stephen, especially once they’d dealt with the embarrassment of his proposal and her unfortunate reaction. They’d even cleared the lingering sourness of Lady Skylark. She’d expected a return to before, when they’d been living in the remains of youth, still like brother and sister.
Now, despite occasional teasing, they were man and woman, and this—a stroll, arm in arm—was the sort of thing a man and woman, not a youthful pair of friends, would do. It had the same effect as eating a meal together had, just the two of them.
They passed a notice about an upcoming assembly, a sight that reminded Laura of how she’d used to avoid dancing with Stephen. She’d not disliked it, but it had seemed too like dancing with a brother. Everyone knew that no young lady would do that if she could obtain a real partner.
How very, very strange.
They arrived back at the inn and were snared by Topham bearing an invitation to take tea with the Grantleighs. It was impossible to completely refuse, but Laura made the excuse of tiredness and sent Stephen down alone. She spent the time migrating between listening at the wall and watching through the window, and achieved precisely nothing except even more tangled thoughts.
By the time Stephen returned, she’d abandoned vigilance and was reading a book. “Did the Grantleighs know anything about the other guests?” she asked.
“Nothing new. As you said, Mrs. Grantleigh saw them arrive. Dyer was pale and swathed in blankets, and Farouk carried him upstairs.” He looked over her shoulder. “Ah-ha! A novel.”
“I never denied reading them.”
“Guy Mannering. It’s good.”
She cast him a look of exaggerated astonishment. “Sir Stephen Ball reads novels!”
“We took turns reading from The Mysteries of Udolpho once.”
“When we were very young.” But she smiled. She was coming to love these returns to the past. “We even made a play of it, remember? You were noble Valancourt, and I was Emily because you refused to act love scenes with your sister.”
“It would have been most unnatural.”
“You could have romanced Juliet.”
“She was too young for such things.” But he was smiling in an interesting manner. “ ‘Ah, Emily!’ ” he quoted. “ ‘I have then little cause to hope. When you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love me!’ ”
“You remember that? Wait, wait . . .” The words popped into her memory. “ ‘And if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me this new occasion for uneasiness!’ Said, as I remember, turned away, with pale and faltering hand stretched back to dissuade insistence.” She stood and took the pose.
“Exactly. ‘Is it then true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever?’ ”
“I turn, hands clasped to trembling bosom. ‘Oh, sir, explain yourself.’ ”
“ ‘Can any explanation be necessary?’ I demand imperiously. ‘Oh, Emily, how could you so degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!’ ”
“I believe you skipped some there,” she complained. “It was a long speech.”
“He did prose on a bit. That was the crux of it. She should have trusted. If these feather-witted heroines would only trust their heroes, all would be simple.”
“If men were not so pestilential, it would be easier for heroines to trust despite the evidence!”
“On with your part, wench.”
“I’m not sure I remember it.” But she knew her lips were twitching. “Oh, very well. ‘Valancourt!’ ” She stretched out her hand to him. “ ‘I was ignorant of all the circumstances you have mentioned—’ ”
“ ‘All,’ note. Even she thought he went on a bit.”
“ ‘The emotion I now suffer,’ ” she quoted sternly, “ ‘may assure you of the truth of this. Though I had ceased to esteem—’ ”
“Fickle . . .”
“ ‘—I had not taught myself entirely to forget you.’ ”
“Weak willed . . .”
>
“Say your next line, sir.”
He laughed. “ ‘Am I dear to you, then, still dear to you, my Emily?’ ”
“Dense dolt. Well might she demand, ‘Is it necessary that I should tell you so?’ And then she says, ‘These are the first moments of joy I have experienced since your departure. . . .’ ”
Though there were no similarities between the dire tale of Emily and her Valancourt, those words drew special meaning from the air.
“And then,” he said softly, taking her hand, “we kissed, as I remember.”
“As tentatively as if our lips were flame to gun-powder.”
He drew her closer. “We could do better now.”
She saw all the dangers, but said, “I would hope so,” and cooperated as he lowered his lips to hers.
It was as chaste a kiss as that they’d dared all those years ago, on a stage in front of their families and a few guests, but it was not tentative. They both knew kisses now, and their lips brushed and played with delicate experience.
The effect rippled down through Laura like warm wine, pooling as desire, then flaring into intoxicating fever. Though it took all the strength she possessed, she did not press closer, did not tighten her hand on his arm, did not open her mouth to taste him fully. But her heart pounded and her legs began to tremble . . .
He broke the kiss and stepped back. “Ah, youth. Ah, drama.”
His lids were lowered, concealing his expression, but color had risen in his cheeks. She thought to check what else might have risen, but he turned away to look out at the restless sea. “Astonishing what lurks in our memories.”
“Yes.” She tried for a light tone to match his, but how could she manage that when aware of his body as if he wore no clothes at all? Her hand itched to explore his long back and taut buttocks, his chest, his muscled abdomen, and more. . . .
“I might as well go out again,” he said, “being healthy and restless. I should check at the King’s Arms to see if they know anything there. I can use the excuse of considering a move from this heathen enclave.”
Sanity was returning and his absence would make self-control easier. “What do I do? I tell you, I’m tempted to break down HG’s door.”