by Julia Ross
“That’s my son,” he said proudly. “Damned smart little lad! Never cries! Never makes a fuss! Not even when a stranger surprised the governess in the garden last month.”
“A stranger, sir?”
“Just some vagabond fellow! Frightened the life out of the nurse, so she ran back to the house. Yet my little boy never set up so much as a wail, for all he’s still in skirts, though of course I’ve given orders she’s not to go so far from the house ever again.”
“Very prudent, sir,” Sarah said. “The countryside contains far too many poor souls looking for work, or a little bread.”
“Nonsense, ma’am! Wastrels the lot of them! No patience with that!”
Barry Norris hurried off across the grass to join his wife and child. The toddler saw his father and reached out with both arms. Mr. Norris plucked him from the nurse and swung him, until the toddler screamed with laughter.
Sarah’s heart constricted at the sight of them. A child was the one gift she had hoped for when she’d first married John and what she had longed for as she grew to love him, but thanks to her own choices, she had been left bereft.
Determined not to succumb to self-indulgent melancholy, she walked back to Guy Devoran. He was watching her carefully, the glint of mirth in his eyes now shadowed by concern.
Her heart skipped a beat, sending another ripple of mad awareness through her blood. With the dappled sunlight caressing his dark hair and highlighting the pure lines of his face, he seemed both brilliant and a little feral, like the King of Faerie. Yet that wild heart also seemed infinitely open to compassion.
She immediately reached for levity, for a return to uncontaminated, uncomplicated laughter. “You see, sir, that I am indeed invisible to Mr. Norris. Since I don’t really exist, sights that would ordinarily shock a lady may safely be shown to me.”
“Ah,” he said, grinning. “You refer to Mrs. Norris’s concerns? But surely flowers are among the most innocent of God’s creations, so how can any of them be improper?”
Sarah walked back to look again at the orchids: Eria rosea, so lovely and delicate, and so perilously erotic.
“No, Mrs. Norris is right,” she said. “These flowers are most unsuitable for the eyes of unmarried young ladies.”
“So why aren’t they considered dangerous for the eyes of young men?” He glanced down at his boots. “Such indiscreet blooms might certainly inflame improper male desires.”
“Only for a male insect,” Sarah said. “And a Chinese one at that.”
He smiled as he glanced up at her beneath his lashes. “Ah! In that case, I must banish all thoughts of wantonness, though I’m still left with the image of moths pollinating orchids.”
She turned away, giddy. With this man, even laughter was dangerous.
“Which brings us back to gardeners,” she said. “You already knew that Lord Moorefield had hired a man named Croft?”
The humor disappeared from his face. “Yes, Molly told me this morning. After all, it’s hardly a secret. But now we also know that Croft went to Loddiges in May with Whiddon’s man, Hawk, so we have two names.”
“And you think one of them is Falcorne?”
“I think it highly likely.”
A tremor of apprehension slid down her spine. “Which would confirm that either Lord Moorefield, Lord Whiddon, or Mr. Norris is Daedalus?”
“Exactly.”
“But if it’s Mr. Norris, why did he tell you anything at all just now?”
“Because it would have been more suspicious if he’d been too cagey. He told me nothing that wasn’t easily discovered.”
“Yet you think he’s hiding something.”
He strode to the doorway, keeping his back to her. “Norris is a vain man and a dangerous one, but somehow I can’t imagine his sending his gardener to London to order those accidents.”
Sarah hugged herself, trying to dispel her shivers. “Yet he’s a man who could be intimidating, I think.”
Guy Devoran gazed across the lawn at the group now entering the house. “Norris married his wife for love, they say. She wasn’t especially wealthy or well-placed, and he’s obviously besotted with his little son.”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “I do think that’s real. He was drawn to the child as if a moth were beckoned by a flower.”
“And one with an exclusive hold on his attention, like the comet orchid for the one insect that pollinates it.”
“Angraecum sesquipedale?”
He turned to smile at her. “Have you ever seen one?”
“Only in prints, though I’ve read that the nectar spur at the back of the flower is almost a foot long. You think there’s a unique insect to match every orchid?”
“In the case of the comet orchid there must be, and something with a twelve-inch proboscis specifically designed for that uniquely strange and fabulous flower.”
She gazed at the seven Eria rosea flowers, and found herself—absurdly—blushing as she tried to imagine the moth or fly that might pollinate them.
In spite of her fears for Rachel and her hot awareness of this one man, a warm bubble of laughter rose in her throat. Something in his dry voice and wicked wit reached out to surround her in a cocoon of safety, as if he could rescue her from all anxieties.
“But we don’t usually associate faithfulness with flora,” she said. “English plants and insects are nearly always promiscuous.”
“Then the reproductive habits of flowers are indeed very shocking,” he said. “In which case, botany truly is a most unsuitable subject of study for young ladies.”
She laughed aloud then, her blood resounding with a newfound confidence, and spun about to face him.
Tall and lean, Guy Devoran lounged casually in the doorway, the sun at his back, watching her. And Sarah knew that if she took one step toward him, she would fly into his arms to press her mouth onto his.
Ardor roared in her ears. She felt faint.
“We must go,” she said blindly. “The others will wonder—”
“No, they won’t.”
He spun about and strode outside. Common sense returned as if a cloud had darkened the sun.
Had she really thought she had fallen in love with a nephew to the Duke of Blackdown? If so, it was only because he possessed a charisma that drew every female as a lamp drew every moth. Always fatal and always indiscriminate.
Surely Sarah Callaway, who had nursed a man as solid and real and kindhearted as her John, was—if she looked into her heart—immune to that glamour?
Yet the lure was still powerful: the shining, dancing flame, always moving, always dazzling, whatever flower each moth had originally been designed for.
Sarah walked out onto the grass.
“The gardeners, Mr. Croft and Mr. Hawk?” she asked. “When can we talk to them?”
Guy Devoran stared away into the far distance, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
“We’re all to attend a picnic at Moorefield Hall tomorrow. There will be gaggles of children. It shouldn’t be hard to get away to talk to Croft.”
“Children?”
“Lord Moorefield, also, is sickeningly proud of his son and heir. And Annabella has decided that she’ll appear to best advantage as a domestic goddess, the model of maternal devotion.”
“Best advantage to whom?”
His mouth quirked. “To me, I’m afraid.”
“Lady Overbridge believes that the sight of her with her children will help win your affections? I don’t understand. Won’t such a reminder of her marriage vows have the opposite effect?”
He glanced down to smile at her with renewed humor.
“Not at all. She both demonstrates that she is safely available, and hopes to tug at my heartstrings.”
Calling on every reserve of courage, Sarah tried to make her voice tease, as a sensible widow might do with any friend.
“Is that difficult to do?”
He gazed up at the sky. Sunshine poured over his dark hair and broad shoulder
s. The impeccable tailoring. The spotless linen. The body beneath the gentleman’s clothes, supple and powerful and remorseless in its masculinity.
Desire for him, frank and hot and carnal—for his touch, for his exclusive attention—burned in her blood.
“Not difficult enough, alas,” he said lightly. “So—if I’m not to be embroiled in a lethally unethical entanglement—it would seem I must learn to harden my heart.”
CHAPTER TEN
MOOREFIELD HALL LAY IN A GRACEFULLY LANDSCAPED park. Blessedly alone for a moment, Sarah walked into a little private garden surrounded by dense yew hedges. A life-size stone lion slept on a plinth at the center. She sat down on a bench and watched some sparrows hopping about in the hedge.
The picnic was over. The ladies and gentlemen were now strolling about the grounds in pairs or small groups, exclaiming over the perfection of a vista, or the delight of a folly.
Guy Devoran was no doubt keeping company with Lady Whitely or Lady Overbridge, two beautiful ladies with dresses and manners designed to captivate any impressionable male.
Meanwhile, Sarah Callaway in her plain schoolmistress frock was extraneous to the celebrations, like a poor relative who was barely tolerated.
She tipped her face to the sun and swallowed her ignoble impulse to self-pity—it was, really, quite absurd! She would enjoy the rest of this beautiful day and be grateful for help in finding her cousin. No more. No less.
Something crunched on the gravel, then thudded down with a little cry. Sarah glanced around in alarm. A toddler had stumbled into the hedged enclosure, tripped on the edge of the path, and thumped heavily onto the grass. Round blue eyes scrunched shut in preparation for a wail.
Sarah immediately forgot all of her troubles and leaped to her feet, but a pretty young nursemaid dashed through the yew archway. Hefting the child in both arms, she bobbed a curtsy, her face red.
“I’m very sorry indeed if he disturbed you, ma’am! I’ll take him straight in.”
“No, please don’t! I’m glad of the company. Is he all right?”
The nurse nodded, pushed soft gilt hair from the baby’s round forehead, and kissed him. His pink mouth trembled, but he caught sight of Sarah and gave her a wobbly smile, before he held out one hand.
“Hallo,” Sarah said. “All better now?”
“He’s a brave little lad, ma’am.” The nursemaid glanced nervously back at the archway. “Though once he’s been shown off to the company, he’s not allowed to bother the guests.”
“Good heavens, I’m not a real guest!” Sarah sat down again on her stone bench. “Yes, I came here this morning with the visitors from Buckleigh, but only in the governess cart. Thus, I ate my lunch by myself and didn’t already meet your little charge. Now, as you can see, I’m hiding here quite alone.” She smiled at the little boy. “May I know his name?”
“Lord Berrisham, ma’am, Lord Moorefield’s son. I’ve been with him since he was two months old.” The nursemaid shifted the child to brace his weight against one shoulder and curtsied again. “My name is Betsy Davy, ma’am.”
“For a moment I thought he was Mrs. Norris’s little boy,” Sarah said, “but Lord Berrisham’s hair is a much paler gold, I think. Yet they must be about the same age?”
“Yes, ma’am, though I believe Tommy Norris is a few weeks older. He’ll be seventeen months old this coming Monday, or so I believe.”
“Then when they’re older, perhaps they can play together?”
Betsy Davy looked puzzled. “Well, I don’t know about that, ma’am. Lord Moorefield and Mr. Norris—Well!”
Lord Berrisham wrapped two chubby arms about his nurse’s neck and chortled. “Behssy!”
“What a clever boy!” Sarah said.
Betsy smiled proudly. “My name was his first word, ma’am, but he can say several other things, too. Tell the lady, Berry!” She nodded toward the lion on its blocky granite plinth. “What’s that?”
The little boy pointed a stubby finger. “Dog!”
“No, it’s a lion. Can you say lion?”
“Line.”
“That’s right! Lion.” Betsy turned to nod at Sarah. “And can you say lady, lambkin? This is a lady.”
Lord Berrisham pointed at the lion again. “Dog!”
Sarah laughed.
The nurse set her charge down on the grass and bent to rub the muddy stains from his dress. His ringlets shone in the sunshine like the petals of primroses. The stone lion reclined lazily.
As his nurse straightened, the toddler held up both arms. “Berry up!”
“What’s the matter with the boy?” hissed a man’s voice. “Can’t he stand on his own two feet?”
Betsy glanced around, turned bright red, and dropped a deep obeisance. The child ducked behind her to hide his face in her skirts, his little mouth frozen in a tight line.
The Earl of Moorefield stood beneath the yew arch. Sarah had met him briefly when she had arrived earlier that morning, though he had barely acknowledged her existence. There was something in his eyes that seemed arctic, as if he always stared through other people to see nothing but infinite wastes of snow.
Fragile, watery, the countess had followed her husband. Sleeves the size of pillowcases emphasized her tiny waist. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent beneath wheat-gilt hair and ivory silk parasol.
Lord and Lady Moorefield now blocked the only exit.
Sarah curtsied respectfully, but they both ignored her.
The earl marched forward and bellowed at the nurse. “Take the boy into the house! Why is he still out here in the gardens when I have guests?”
Betsy tried to turn around to pick up the child, but two tiny fists had locked onto her apron.
“And he has stains on his dress.” Her Ladyship’s pale blue eyes dampened further, as if she suffered a personal affront to her delicate nerves and could only whisper her indignation. “Lord Berrisham is not to soil his clothes, Betsy. He shall go without his supper.”
“Devil take it! He’s not to hide behind his nurse’s skirts!” Lord Moorefield towered over his baby son. “He shall step out and make his bow to his father like a man.”
Betsy leaned down to whisper in the toddler’s ear and tried to push him forward. His chin quivered. His baby boots dug into the grass.
The earl’s lip curled in clear exasperation. “God! If he cries, he’s to have a whipping.”
Sarah stepped forward, horrified. “If I might be so bold, my lord?”
Lord Moorefield whirled about to face her. His eyes held nothing but ice, as if he would freeze her where she stood.
Sarah fluttered both hands like a simpleton. “Lord Berrisham is very clever for so young a child, my lord. Such a credit to you! He knows how to say dog and lion, and he’s such a handsome boy and so very brave. I believe he resembles you, my lord, above anything—”
As if a glacier had just cracked beneath his boots to spread chaos to the horizon, the earl spun on his heel. Taking his wife by the arm, he stalked out of the yew enclosure, snapping one last command over his shoulder.
“You’ll do as I say, Betsy, or you may look for another post.”
Unable to contain his white terror, the toddler collapsed to sit on the grass in round-eyed silence. His blue eyes filled with tears. His nurse crouched down and hugged him to her breast.
“There, there, Berry! It’s all right, my lamb, but you must be quiet now. Don’t cry! Please, now! For your Betsy! See, there’s a bird!”
A sparrow hopped along the lion’s back, then perched on its stone mane. The child gulped down his sobs and turned to look at it.
Betsy glanced up. “I’d best be taking him in, ma’am, before we get into any more trouble,” she whispered.
“But he will get his supper, won’t he?”
“Not his own supper, ma’am, no. The kitchen would know about that and tell Her Ladyship.” The nurse gave Sarah a conspiratorial wink. “But Berry can have what he likes of mine.”
Betsy Davy swoop
ed the little boy into her arms and hurried away.
Her heart filled with rage and desolation, Sarah sat down. The bright day blurred behind a sudden rush of tears. With angry fingers she tore apart the ribbons beneath her chin and tossed her straw hat onto the bench, so she could lift her naked face to the sun.
If the angels were supposed to match each child’s soul to the right parents, they had been interrupted this time by demons from Hell.
“It’s only me,” a voice said softly. “Your harmless coconspirator.”
She blinked away the moisture and looked up. Guy Devoran stood beside the lion. Sunlight shimmered in his dark hair. His coat gaped, deliberately left unbuttoned to reveal a snowy cravat and white silk waistcoat, the skirts caressing the backs of his long legs.
He must have walked past her, his boots silent on the grass.
The idea that such a tall, athletic man could move so quietly, could observe her without her bonnet—while she had been oblivious to his presence—sent a wave of panic through her blood. Hot, uneasy feelings, as if she were prey and had just caught sight of a faraway eagle.
“Harmless?” she said a little bitterly. “I hope not—or at least, not to our enemies.”
He smoothed his palm along the lion’s spine. Sunlight glanced off the fine bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones.
“Something has happened to distress you, Mrs. Callaway?”
She shook her head. “You were able to speak with Mr. Croft?”
The lion’s mane harbored mosses. Guy Devoran’s long fingers traced the spreading shapes of some lichen. “I was. A difficult character, not given to idle chatter.”
Sarah looked away to hide her distress—in case he thought it was only for this—and tried to make her voice light. “Yes, but he’s also brown-haired, blue-eyed, and a local man.”
Concern lurked in the black depths of his eyes, but it was instantly masked, as if he drew a curtain over any deeper emotions.
“And so fits our description of Falcorne. You also spoke with him, I understand?”
“I did try, but he was almost rude.”