“I’ve been at sea, Madame… I was found in a longboat, badly sunburned, nearly dead from thirst.”
She made a sound of distress and Graham realized that, for the sake of her well-being, he would not be able to tell his entire story. It would have to be carefully edited. Her face had paled at his words and she appeared to grow even smaller, sinking in upon herself.
“I was rescued by a kindly sea captain and his crew. I could not tell them more than my first name… Graham was all that I could recall. I had been struck on the head,” he added. “Possibly when the first ship went down. They kept me on board, made me cabin boy. I was taught a trade, how to sail, and that is what I have done since.”
“Were you never able to see the news sheets or announcements that we made about your disappearance?” Lady Agatha asked. “We searched for you, my darling! To the ends of the earth, I had thought.”
“No, my lady, I did not see them,” he answered, being as honest as he could without upsetting her further. “The ship I was on sailed to the Indies. I was there for some time, going from port to port. Then we sailed to the Americas, to Canada even. When we did return to England… well, men who have been at sea for some time have little interest in news sheets.”
She ducked her head. “They would not. Of course. But they were good to you? Kind? Please tell me that you did not suffer more?”
“They were good to me and kind,” he lied. “I was given all that I needed to survive.” That much was at least true. He’d been fed and sheltered. He’d learned to fight for what he needed and to defend his life if need be. He’d learned how to take a beating and not let it break him. But there was no need to share such with her when she clearly did not have the strength to hear it.
“Lady Agatha,” Beatrice said, “I know you’re tired. And I’m sure that Lord Graham is very tired, as well, from his journey. Let us show him to a room to be settled for the night and then get you to bed.”
Graham noted the gentleness of her tone, the way she was so very caring toward the woman. It baffled him that people should be so good to one another when it was not something he had anything more than a passing familiarity with himself.
“I am tired, but also filled with joy you cannot possibly understand, Beatrice. I would sit here with him all night. I must know everything about your life, how you’ve fared without your family to care for you,” she insisted.
Graham studied her carefully. Her skin was pale to the point of translucency. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes and she was desperately thin. While her eyes shone brightly with her joy, her appearance otherwise betrayed the weaknesses of her body. “There would be little to tell of interest, Madam, and most of it unfit for the ears of ladies,” he replied. “The crew I sailed with, though they took me in, was a rough lot. And I grew to be as rough as they were. I would not say more to you than that.”
“If you will not go to bed for your own sake, Lady Agatha,” Beatrice said, “Let us do so for poor Graham. This must be terribly overwhelming to return here and have us all descend upon him with our questions and, sadly, our accusations.”
It wasn’t so exhausting but, at the young woman’s imploring look, he knew precisely what she wanted. If he claimed fatigue, Lady Agatha would relent. And given the woman’s state, as she was clearly unwell, it would be selfish of him to not go along.
“I am quite tired from the journey, but you may rest easy, Lady Agatha, that I have no intention of leaving Castle Black. We will have all the time needed to share our stories,” he assured her.
“But the master’s chamber is not ready!” Lady Agatha cried. “What a poor welcome you’ve had!”
“On the contrary,” he disagreed. “I feel very welcomed, indeed. And any room will do… I daresay even your basest room will be far beyond any luxury that I can recall.”
“That will change,” Lady Agatha vowed. “You shall be restored to your rightful place as the Lord of Castle Black. I promise you, my son. It will all be right. I promise.”
Graham said nothing more. He simply offered her his arm and helped her to rise. Beatrice led the way, taking them from the drawing room, up the stairs and into the family wing of the castle. She paused, finally, outside a heavy, oaken door.
“This is the blue room which is typically reserved for guests… but it was used only recently and will be the easiest to see made ready for you. No doubt, the maids have already taken care of it,” she explained, ducking her head so that the candlelight from the wall sconces set her dark hair aglow.
“I’m sure it will be fine. Thank you.”
Graham opened the door and stepped inside. A panel on the far wall closed and he heard the giggling of maids as they made their escape. His bag, made of heavy waxed cloth and looking remarkably out of place, had been set upon the trunk at the end of his bed.
Warm water had been placed in a basin near the hearth. Eager to be done with the hardships of the journey and the strange ache that had blossomed in his chest under Lady Agatha’s obvious distress, he stripped off his clothes and moved to the washstand. After scrubbing his face and removing as much filth from the road as possible, he turned toward the big bed that occupied the center of the room.
Ornately carved, the bed alone bigger than any room he’d ever stayed in, it was draped in heavy, blue velvet. A portrait of a lovely woman in a blue gown with roses tucked in her hair hung to the right of it. She reminded him of Beatrice. Stepping closer to it, he noted that the painting was somewhat scandalous. The woman’s gown was remarkably low cut, revealing the upper swells of her breasts. There, peeking through the lace trim of her gown, were the faint rose-colored shadows of her nipples.
Graham smiled, his lips twisting upward into an unfamiliar expression. Rich or poor, all men were motivated by the drive to possess a woman. Was that the source of Edmund’s and Beatrice’s animosity to one another? Who, he wondered, was the spurned lover?
*
With Lady Agatha settled for the night, under the efficient care of her maid, Beatrice returned to her own chamber. Her knees trembled. Indeed, there was no part of her body that did not shake violently from the shock.
She had thought him dead. In truth, they had all thought him dead save for Lady Agatha. All of her protestations had been believed to be nothing more than a mother’s need to believe her child still lived. There were things she had seen in the man that reminded her of the boy she’d known. The dark sweep of his hair, the icy blue eyes that seemed to pierce through her—all of that was familiar. Lady Agatha’s assertion that he looked the very image of the late Lord Nicholas could not be denied, either.
Letting herself into her chamber, Beatrice moved to her dressing table and sank down heavily upon the chair there. Her legs would simply no longer support her. He looked like Graham. And yet she did not believe, not truly. Because he’d been kind. The concern he’d felt for Lady Agatha had been genuine and real. She’d sensed how carefully he’d edited the story of his long absence to withhold anything that might be upsetting to her. Then there’d been the subtle shift of his position when Edmund had been at his most belligerent and threatening. He’d clearly meant to put himself between the two of them, to protect her if need be.
He looked like Graham, but he did not possess the same character. As a boy, Graham had been cruel. He’d reveled in tormenting her about her orphaned status, pulling her hair, pinching and shoving her, hiding disgusting creatures in her bed just to hear her scream. And she’d not been his only victim. He’d done the same to many of the servants and to Edmund when he’d come visiting. There was no cruelty in the man she’d just met, and it was hard for her to fathom that a more difficult life had produced a kinder version of the boy she’d once known.
Betsy let herself in, her eyes agog and her mouth forming an “o” of surprise. “Is it really him, Miss? Is it his lordship returned?”
Beatrice looked up at her maid, in truth, her friend. Only Betsy knew of the way she had to hide from Edmund, of the strangeness
of Christopher and the frailty of Lady Agatha. Betsy was her confidante. But if it was true, and he was Graham, Lord Blakemore, returned to them, he was also Betsy’s employer. So Beatrice opted for caution.
“He looks like him. He could be him… Lady Agatha believes it with her whole heart,” she said.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but Lady Agatha wants it to be him. I suppose we all do for her sake… but you have doubts.”
“Of course, I have doubts. He was a boy when he disappeared. Who can say what that boy would look like now? Or what manner of man he might have become?” Beatrice mused.
“I’m going to get you a sleeping draught,” Betsy declared decisively.
“No. Lady Agatha might need me,” Beatrice protested.
“Lady Agatha has that dragon of hers, Crenshaw, to see to her during the night,” Betsy replied, referring to Lady Agatha’s maid. “You’re worried, Miss. I can see it in your eyes and I know you. You’ll not sleep a wink without it. And tomorrow, when decisions are made and hard questions asked, you’ll need to have your wits about you.”
There was no refuting that logic. Beatrice nodded her assent and Betsy left to fetch the tonic. While she was gone, Beatrice began tugging the pins from her hair and dropping them into the small box on her dressing table. Her life had altered irrevocably upon Graham’s entrance to Castle Black. For better or worse remained to be seen.
Chapter Three
Beatrice was most decidedly not well rested. Even with the sleeping draught, she’d tossed and turned throughout the night, plagued with strange dreams and nightmares. Betsy had taken one look at the hollows under her mistress’ eyes, clucked her tongue and sighed, as if Beatrice had somehow intentionally made her job more difficult.
Entering the breakfast room, she paused mid-stride. He was there. They were alone in the room. Of course, one was never truly alone at Castle Black. There were servants hovering around every corner and behind every hidden panel or in every passageway. But still, there was no buffer between them, no Edmund to bluster or Lady Agatha to stare at him adoringly.
He rose after a heartbeat, as if just recalling that he was supposed to. “Good morning.” The greeting was stiff, his voice still gruff from sleep. Based on the dark circles beneath his eyes, he’d slept no better than she had.
“Good morning,” she answered softly as she crossed to the sideboard and began filling a plate for herself. She had no appetite, but it gave her a moment to collect her thoughts and figure how best to proceed.
When she seated herself at the table, the silence stretched taut and awkward between them. Unable to tolerate it any longer, she began, “Lord Graham—”
“Miss Beatrice—”
They’d spoken in unison, their words tripping over one another. She stopped, looked down at her plate in embarrassment, and then finally uttered, “You should go first. I’m certain you have many questions.”
“As do you,” he said. “As you should. I am a stranger here after all.”
“We shall take turns then, if you are amenable,” Beatrice offered.
He nodded his agreement. “Ladies first, then.”
“You said that you could not remember much. But how is it that your memory of Castle Black returned?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but paused to take a sip of coffee. She recognized the scent of it and recalled that Lord Nicholas had favored it above tea.
“It has not. Not fully at any rate… nearly a year back, I was on a ship, caught in a storm not unlike that which apparently sank the ship we sailed on when I was lost. I was struck by a falling beam. After lying senseless in a bed for days, I finally awoke. The missing piece, my surname and my title, had simply returned to me. There are other things I recall and more things yet that are familiar, but not everything.”
It was a more forthcoming answer than she had anticipated. “I see. I suppose it is your turn then to ask a question.”
He leveled an assessing glance at her. “What is Edmund’s place in this household and why do you fear him?”
Beatrice sipped her tea. It was a stalling tactic and no more. Finally, having fabricated a reasonable answer, she replied, “I am not afraid him. But Edmund, who is your first cousin, by the way—his father is Lord Nicholas’ younger brother—has a very forceful personality. He is quite determined to have his way in things, and I have learned that sometimes it is best to avoid being in his way.” As if realizing that she needed to offer more information, she added, “Sir Godfrey, your uncle, has been ill for some time. Gout. He has relocated to Bath where he takes the waters to ease his suffering.” And to entertain his mistresses and gamble like the profligate wastrel that he was. But that she would keep to herself.
He raised one eyebrow at her, the dark peak of it arcing up in an expression so familiar that it sent her stomach spiraling to her toes. He didn’t simply look like Graham. He used his expressions, some of his mannerisms even from childhood, had carried over into this stranger before her.
“That is a very carefully worded answer, Miss Beatrice.”
“Please, call me Beatrice. We are a very informal household,” she urged.
“Why is that?” he asked with a frown. It was an odd thing to him to have those living in a castle behaving with such laxity. “I cannot imagine that living in such grandeur would promote such a loose and free interpretation of etiquette.”
“It is not your turn to ask a question, my lord,” she said.
He conceded the point with a nod. “Very well. We will hold that one in account. Ask what you will, Beatrice.”
“I would ask for your promise that you do not mean any harm toward Lady Agatha,” she uttered, her voice trembling with emotion. “She is my family… not by blood or even by my marriage, but by virtue of the care she has shown me since I came here to live as an orphaned ward. I would not see her harmed, not for anything in this world.”
He grew so quiet that Beatrice was certain she had offended him. But when he did finally speak, his tone revealed no anger or affront. It was as kind as it had been yesterday when he spoke to Lady Agatha. “I mean her no harm, as I mean you no harm… I am here because I believe, as much as I can believe anything when my own mind has failed me, that I am Lord Blakemore. I am not here for monetary gain, but because I need to know who I am and where I belong.”
“And if your beliefs are wrong?” she asked. “What then?”
“That is two questions, Beatrice. And you owe me an answer to mine first… why are the occupants of this house so informal?”
“Because this is not simply our house. It is our world, if you will. Since Lord Nicholas’ death, we have not left the estate other than short jaunts to the village. There is no entertainment, no guests or parties. We live in a constant state of limbo, waiting for your return. Now answer me, my lord. What if you are wrong?”
“Then I will leave, as unobtrusively and with as little disruption as possible.”
Beatrice wondered if he had any inkling of just how disturbing his presence was. Not because of who he claimed to be, but simply because of all that he was. His very presence filled the room, sucking all the air out of it and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Whether it was the breadth of his shoulders or the primal way he moved and held himself, as if ready to fend off attack at any second, he was overwhelming to her.
Shoving her plate away, she rose abruptly. He did as well. “I should go and check on Lady Agatha. The events of yesterday have been shocking for her and she is somewhat frail these last months.”
“Has a doctor been fetched to care for her?” he asked.
“Yes. Her physician has seen her. He says it is her age, or simply the inherent weakness of the female form,” she sneered. She despised the man and wished fervently that Lady Agatha would seek a second opinion. Any such suggestions had been immediately vetoed by Edmund who called her the typical hysterical female. Lady Agatha had declined them as well, putting her trust in the physician who had cared for her for decades. “
But alas, he has been competent enough in his care of her over the years. Perhaps your return will be good for her. It will lift her spirits and that cannot but help her physical well-being.”
Exiting the breakfast room, Beatrice reasoned that she was not running from him. It was not a retreat. It was a detente, a careful reduction in the strange tension between them that she could not—would not—name.
Perhaps, it was the distraction of the situation or, perhaps, it was the distraction of the man whose very presence seemed to disturb her on a primal level, but Beatrice failed to practice her usual caution. Normally aware of Edmund’s presence and his location in the house at all times, she’d failed to check with the maid to see if he was still abed or had gone out for the morning. As she reached the landing on the second floor, a hand snaked around her wrist and pulled her to the side. She knew she’d made a dreadful error.
“What did he say?” Edmund demanded.
“He said nothing that is of any more import than what he said last night,” she replied. “Let go of me, Edmund. You’re hurting me!”
“I’ll let go of you when I’m ready,” he snarled. “What are you plotting in that devious female mind of yours? Set him as the lost heir and take your place as the new Lady Blakemore? I never took you for a social climbing whore, Beatrice. I’m appalled.”
“As you’ve done nothing but offer to make me your whore from the very day of Lord Nicholas’ burial, it can hardly be shocking,” she snapped back. “Let me go!”
He smiled, but it was a humorless expression. It was dark and twisted. His grip on her arm tightened, twisting the tender flesh just above her elbow with a viciousness that could only be intentional. “You like his ruffian ways, don’t you? Better to be a light-skirted doxy for a dockworker than the mistress of a gentleman? Do his rough hands excite you, Beatrice?”
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 74