by Jo Beverley
She pressed the device to the wall and applied her ear to the spout. “I can hear them!”
He came close, though not, she noticed, too close. “What are they saying?”
“They’re not orating. Hush.”
She and Stephen were both whispering, even though the men next door could not possibly hear what they said.
“Nine?” she guessed. “Or mine? There’s so much silence.”
“Only natural.” He did come closer then to speak in her ear. “It’s unlikely, anyway, that they’ll neatly lay out their history and their plans for us. They must both know them well.”
She swallowed against the effect of his voice and his breath, almost on her skin. “Except that if Dyer is Henry, he doesn’t know Farouk wants to slit his throat for money.”
She made herself be noble and passed the device to him. As they exchanged places, their bodies brushed together for a brief moment. He seemed not to notice.
“Anything?” she asked.
“A rattle.”
“A death rattle?”
He grinned. “Of course not. Like dice. No, chess. He bought a set, remember. Farouk has given Dyer his choice of colors, and he has chosen white. Conversation has ceased. . . .”
Laura allowed the situation to give her permission to lean against him, one hand on his shoulder. He was so beautiful in his concentration, his features still as a classical statue, perfectly made.
In London his hair had always been carefully arranged. Now it was windblown, and not in the elaborate artificial manner of that fashionable style. She longed to comb it with her fingers, to brush a wave from his temple.
To run her hands through his hair.
To cradle his face.
To kiss. To kiss with all the passion burning inside her.
Stephen kept his eyes closed, as if that might aid hearing, but in truth he could not let Laura glimpse his emotions. A moment ago, she’d even leant against him, her whole body brushing down his side, her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder.
Through shirt and jacket, he shouldn’t have been able to even feel that light hand, but it had burned. She’d moved now. Inches, at least, separated them and the world was colder. The temptation to turn and drag her into his arms almost broke him.
He moved away from the wall, put the Auricular Enhancer on the chest of drawers, and gestured her back into the parlor.
“I don’t think they’re likely to say much at the moment,” he said. “They have all the feel of long familiars, with no need to talk. I confess to disappointment. Despite what I said before, I did hope they would immediately reveal something to make the situation clear.”
“We have to keep listening.”
“I suppose so.” He couldn’t bear it. “Perhaps I should put your plan into action, as well.” When she looked puzzled, he added, “A visit to the vicar.”
“Oh. It seemed so clever at the time, but is it necessary now?”
It was necessary to escape again. At this rate, he would be rushing out every half hour.
“Do you mind keeping vigil for a while?” he asked.
“No, of course not. Dividing our forces.”
“Right.” He grabbed his hat and gloves. “But remember, no matter what you hear, don’t do anything rash.”
“Stephen.”
He turned at the door, alerted by her tone. Her severe tone.
“Stephen, I’m not a girl anymore. I know that sometimes these past days I’ve acted it, but it was . . . a sliding into what we were, I suppose. No more than a game.” After a moment, she added, “I don’t want you to treat me like a girl.”
What did that mean?
“I’m sorry if I have offended you,” he said.
“Of course not. We’re friends beyond trivial offense.”
Friends.
“I’m merely pointing out that I must do what I think best. I’m a woman full grown, which I believe to be in all practical ways the equal of a man.”
“You denied being a bluestocking. You didn’t tell me you were a radical.”
“I’m not sure I was aware of it myself. But here I am, shaping my fate and my son’s, and unwilling to give that over to anyone else. Even you.”
He had never expected this. Never expected to discover in Laura a woman like this. He hadn’t thought he could love her more, but it threatened to shatter him.
He felt he should say something eloquent, but he simply escaped.
Chapter 32
Laura bit her lip. She’d probably just destroyed any hope of happiness with Stephen, but without warning she’d come to a point of truth, a point of choice. She’d recognized herself for the first time and had to speak. And she had meant every word.
She felt as if the world had changed, but of course, it hadn’t. Nothing had except her. It was as if she was settling into a new home and must make it comfortable. Whether Stephen was part of it remained to be seen. They would get nowhere useful in this hothouse of emotions, however. They needed to solve the mystery and return to normal life—ideally a life where Harry was no longer heir to Caldfort.
She headed for Stephen’s room, but then thought of something. She found paper and pencil to record what was said, then went to the wall.
She paused at the end of his bed, but more in thoughtful contemplation than in rash passion. She knew now what she was, and she knew what she wanted. As a woman full grown and responsible for her actions, she must be careful.
She put a chair by the wall, grateful that it fit in the space, then settled herself as comfortably as possible. The irritating men still said nothing except for the casual comments on the game.
She began to record the conversation anyway, though it was awkward with one hand required for the listening device. She hoped she could decipher her scribbles later.
Dyer: Check!
Farouk: I should have seen that.
Thank heavens the two voices were distinctive. Farouk’s was deeper and stronger, not in volume but in character. HG’s was higher and less certain. Did that fit Henry Gardeyne?
Silence settled, so she marked it with a line. She wished there was a clock here. She would note the time and length of the silences. Pointless, but it would feel as if she were doing something.
Dyer: You devil!
Said admiringly, warmly. If Dyer was Henry Gardeyne, he had no suspicion that his head was on the block.
She didn’t like calling him Dyer. She wanted him to be Henry Gardeyne, key to Harry’s safety, but she compromised on HG, who according to the letter had sailed on the Mary Woodside and been the guest of Oscar Ris.
Scarred mouth rice, she thought with a twist of the lips. She feared she was clinging to cobwebs. What could explain Cousin Henry staying away for ten years?
Do you sometimes miss it?
Laura started out of her thoughts. Miss what? She grabbed the pencil and tried to nudge her paper straight. That had been HG.
F: Strangely, I do, but freedom is better.
Freedom! Laura felt as if her heart was bruised. They had been convicts?
HG: Yes, but I miss the sun.
F: I believe the sun does shine in England.
HG: Laughs. I think I remember that. Faintly.
Sun. New South Wales, the penal colony, had a hot climate, didn’t it?
The men settled back to their game and Laura ignored their occasional comments. She was reading over those few, hope-destroying words.
HG had lived in England once, but was now more used to a hot climate, which was linked with imprisonment. It seemed that they’d been imprisoned together. She’d thought only British people were sent to New South Wales, but perhaps they had only to break British law.
She realized something then. Farouk had spoken perfect English, not accented at all. He must have been educated under British rule, probably in India, and Stephen had mentioned men in the Indian army committing crimes in order to be sent to New South Wales.
She pressed her hand to her head. It seemed
horribly clear that the two men next door were criminals intent on extortion, but how did this link at all to Henry Gardeyne? He could not have ended up a convict, and he’d been nowhere near India!
She stilled, listening. Had that been a clink in the parlor? Their parlor!
She rose in shock. Had Farouk somehow realized what she was doing and crept around to attack? And—stupid!—she’d left her pistol in her bedchamber.
She put down the hearing device and crept, heart hammering, to the door. Eased it open . . .
To find only Jean, filling the log bin. The maid saw her, however, and her eyes went wide.
Oh, Lord! Here she was, emerging from her male cousin’s bedchamber.
“Sir Stephen is out,” she said, fluttering. “I . . . I saw a tear in his handkerchief and thought I would repair it while he was gone.”
The maid didn’t look impressed, but she didn’t seem much interested, either. She probably assumed that nosy Mrs. Penfold had been poking around in her cousin’s belongings.
Merely to stay in character, Laura asked, “Do you take wood to Captain Dyer?”
“No, ma’am. That Farouk collects it himself, which is a blessing, for they use a lot.”
“Because they come from a hot climate, I assume.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of brisk English weather. As I hear it, those hot places breed diseases.”
“It seems they do.”
“And it’s wrong that the captain stays in his stuffy room all the time, ma’am. Sea air is good for you. Everyone says so. I hope their letter comes soon.”
“Letter?” Laura inquired, merely to keep the conversation going.
“Captain Dyer expects a letter, ma’am. Farouk asks about it every day. Says he’s to be told as soon as it arrives.”
“From family, I suppose.” From Caldfort, in fact. It was good to have confirmation that Lord Caldfort had not yet responded, though if Dyer and Farouk were the villains they appeared to be, she was inclined to let Jack murder them!
The maid shrugged, indicating ignorance. “Likely they’re awaiting news before traveling on. Always wise, that, ma’am. My auntie went all the way to Nottingham to visit her sister, and when she arrived her sister’d gone off to Wales!”
“What a confusion. Yes, very wise to wait.”
The maid left and Laura returned to her listening post, praying to have her earlier conclusions proved wrong. She caught Farouk saying a clear, “Yes.”
She hissed with annoyance. If only she’d heard the question. But they were talking again. She grabbed her paper.
HG: I’m so tired of this, Fellow.
Fellow? It sounded like a name. She put a question mark against it. Perhaps she’d heard it wrong.
F: Not much longer.
HG: Then Paris?
F: It’s no warmer there, you know.
HG: Greece, then, or Italy. Do you want to stay here? You said it was too dangerous.
F: Yes, you’re right, Des. South Carolina, perhaps. Or even Florida. I hear the Spanish are welcoming.
HG: Farther away from British influence?
Voices dropped and she couldn’t catch words.
Des? Laura underlined that. Desmond? An Irish name? She didn’t think HG had an Irish accent. Despard, Desford, Desalles. Certainly not short for Henry or Gardeyne. It was like the last nail in a coffin, especially with that mention of wanting to be away from British influence. She hadn’t thought convicts escaped from New South Wales, but anything was possible.
HG: I’m frightened, Fellow. This isn’t going to work.
F: It will, nuranee. Trust me.
Nuranee. An Arabic term—or what language did they speak in Egypt? She couldn’t care. These men were clearly not what she had hoped. She made herself read the words as the conversation of two petty criminals intent on a swindle. They fit all too well. Get some money from Lord Caldfort—though HG was afraid the plan wouldn’t work—and then flee the country because it would be too dangerous to stay.
She tried to make the conversation fit HG being Henry, but shook her head. Close to tears, she put aside the paper. Whatever these men were up to, Henry Gardeyne was long dead and so Harry’s destiny would not change. If she didn’t do something, her son would soon be dead, too!
She rose, hands gripped together. She’d do anything, but she couldn’t imagine what. She knew Stephen would help, but as she’d said, all his intelligence, influence, and legal knowledge couldn’t keep a small child safe.
He would bring the Rogues with him. Her brief time with Nicholas Delaney told her that he would support her cause, but there were stronger forces. Lord Arden, heir to a dukedom, and some other titled gentleman.
Even they couldn’t help, however, as long as Harry was in Jack’s power.
She drew in a breath.
She had to remove Harry from Jack’s power, and the only way to do that was by marriage, marriage to a man powerful enough to override Lord Caldfort’s will, whether it be his purpose now or his testament when he was dead. Why hadn’t she seen it before? The right stepfather for Harry was his best protection, and now she understood Stephen’s reputation, the choice was clear.
How could Lord Caldfort argue that Harry would learn less by living with Stephen than by living at Caldfort? And when Lord Caldfort died, Stephen would know how to work with Harry’s trustees to remove Jack from the local living. Find him a better one, but far, far away. In the north, near Emma’s family. She deserved some blessings.
Then Harry would be able to visit his property without much danger. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it might work especially with the Rogues brought into play. Surely Jack would understand that once Harry was surrounded by powerful protectors Jack would never survive murder.
All she had to do was marry Stephen.
She stirred and fidgeted about his bedroom, trembling with hopes and doubts. Once, so recently, she’d thought marriage impossible. Now it looked like a necessity, but it was also wrong—wrong to be planning to snare a man whether he wanted to wed her or not.
She could seduce him. She knew she could, and she knew that once he’d compromised her, Stephen would feel honor bound to offer her marriage. It would be easy. Whatever he felt for her, he was not immune to lust.
But she still wasn’t sure that she could make a good wife for him. She wanted to. She would try. But trying was not always enough.
She’d enjoyed a political discussion with him, but she knew herself. Lady Skylark still fluttered inside her, longing to be free. She wouldn’t be happy in a cage of propriety, but could he cope with her soaring flights? She thought of another political man, William Lamb, constantly embarrassed by his half-mad wife, Caroline. She wouldn’t be as bad as that, but she might be a burden to Stephen. When he’d christened her Skylark, he had not meant it to be complimentary.
She considered their brief time here. At times he’d seemed loverlike, but at others only the old friend. Occasionally he’d been distant and even disapproving. She’d been hoping to explore this more when they left, to find the truth of what lay between them, but with Harry’s life at stake, she could not allow Stephen any chance to escape.
She’d never had to hunt a man, and she’d never had to seduce one except in play with Hal. It was the last thing she wanted to do, especially with Stephen, because . . .
Because he was a friend, and friendship required trust. She’d come here without a thought that she might be putting herself at risk because she and Stephen were friends. She didn’t think men worried about being seduced or raped, but perhaps they should.
She leaned against a bedpost and considered Stephen’s bed in an entirely new way.
Chapter 33
Laura returned to the parlor and closed the door temporarily on temptation. Now that she accepted that Henry Gardeyne was dead, she saw no point in further listening at the wall. She tried to distract herself with Guy Mannering, but such dramas lacked weight now. When a letter arrived from Kerslake, she didn’t open it. It w
as addressed to Stephen, but she might have read it if she thought it carried news of importance.
She put wood on the fire from time to time, and as the light faded, lit two candles, wandering constantly from window to fireplace, trying to avoid her thoughts. Night was approaching, however, the classic time for lusty wickedness.
Stephen came in. “I’m sorry for being gone so long. Reverend Lawgood wanted to talk about the Speenhamland system.” But then he asked, “What’s the matter?”
Was her mood so obvious? She hoped her thoughts and plans weren’t.
At the very sight of him, she’d jolted inside. She wasn’t sure if it was from guilt, lust, or both, but it shook her. She did lust, but that made her plan more wicked rather than less. She’d rather be planning a noble sacrifice to a man she did not want.
She found a slight smile and gestured to her notes on the table. “They talked somewhat. It’s clear they’re in this together, and both have been convicts, probably in New South Wales. Dyer can’t be Henry Gardeyne.”
She watched him read, praying even now that he’d find some other interpretation. But he looked soberly at her. “It does sound like that. I’m sorry, Laura.” He came over and took her hand. “Don’t be afraid. We can find other ways to keep Harry safe.”
She knew he wasn’t referring to her plan, but it felt as if he was reading her mind. “Yes, I know.”
Tonight? It might be my last night here. What excuse do I have to stay?
She gently pulled her hands free and tried for a light tone. “I do hope that one day I will know the whole story, though. It’s exasperating. Why have that unlikely pair come up with this plot? And why, as Nicholas Delaney asked, now?”