Double Deceit (22 page)

“Goodness! Is that Gloucester? I hadn’t even noticed it.”

“You can see the cathedral tower quite clearly, with its four spires – beautiful example of perpendicular construction, and the east window is superb. We explored it while in town. Edward II is buried there. If you look past it, you’ll see the barge I mentioned.”

She followed his finger, hardly aware that she had released Torwell’s arm. “Yes. Quite heavily laden.”

“The one headed upstream is lighter. I wonder what it carries.”

“At a guess, laces, silks, and French brandy, now that the war is over.”

“Perhaps. Or Cornish tin.”

“That would surely weigh it down. What is in the downstream barge? Grain?”

“Or shoes. Or maybe cheeses – Gloucestershire cheeses occasionally turn up Lincoln,” he said, smiling. “And very good ones, too.”

She laughed. “Perhaps it is loaded with pins, so ladies’ dresses don’t fall off. There is a manufactory of pins somewhere near here.”

“In that case, let us sink that barge without further ado.”

The moment the words were out, he gasped, reddening as if embarrassed. Only then did she realize that he had suppressed his banter in recent days, managing a relaxed friendliness unlike any of his early manifestations. She liked him better that way, and despite Alex’s warnings, she remained unconvinced that it was all an act. His core was good.

Torwell had slipped away.

Changing the subject to something less suggestive, she cursed herself for inattention. Linden’s charm was catching her in a snare she must avoid. Just as she must avoid giving him an opportunity to propose.

“Do you suppose Cook included lemonade in that basket?” she asked when enough time had passed in innocuous conversation that she would not seem to be fleeing. “Your coachman has finished unpacking. And I suspect you need to sit for a few minutes.”

He flushed again – definitely embarrassment this time. She should not have reminded him of yesterday. Gentlemen rarely accepted illness gracefully.

* * * *

Tony smiled at Miss Vale’s enjoyment – like a child celebrating Christmas for the first time.

Unfortunately, he reacted to her as if she really were a child. She could not be more than five feet tall. He had to stoop even to offer his arm. It didn’t help that she was also delicate. Would he crush her trying to make love?

He stifled the image of the glorious Miss Merideth, who fit his arms as if made for them, and who had been as wild as he during yesterday’s encounter. Why hadn’t fate given Miss Vale even a little of her cousin’s feisty wit or explosive passion? Instead, she was colorless.

A raven screeched, distracting him. He studied the bird and the rise upon which it sat, then circled slowly as he fought down excitement. It was more mound than rise. And not natural. In fact, it showed all the characteristics of buried stonework. Was this another Roman site, or an ancient tomb? The earliest tombs had been covered with earth.

Perhaps it was a Druid shrine, like the one beneath Miss Merideth’s temple, or an ancient hill fort. This promontory would have offered security and the sort of view that could warn of approaching danger. What would Miss Merideth think? She knew more about the earliest people of this region than he did.

“Are you joining us?” called Jon, breaking into his thoughts. He blinked, startled to realize that at least an hour had passed. He’d completely forgotten Miss Vale.

“I beg your pardon,” he said when he joined them. “I allowed my mind to wander. That mound is intriguing, but ignoring you was quite rude.”

He concentrated on making conversation during their meal, trying to regain lost ground. And she responded, directing most of her comments toward him. But despite his best efforts, he could see no sign that she truly cared. As she had from the beginning, she turned to him from politeness. The perfect hostess, determined to entertain all her guests.

Cursing himself for digging his hole even deeper by demonstrating that a mound of earth was more interesting than she, he gave up. His father was right. He was a selfish fool, allowing his passions to divert him from duty. He might as well confess and get it over with. Nothing would improve his situation at this point.

He deliberately called up the image of his mother, wretched as she sobbed out her fears against his shoulder. Even her jointure was gone. His father’s will provided for her, of course, but since her quarterly stipend was supposed to come from estate revenues, the provision was worthless.

So it was up to him.

“Shall we see what Painswick has to offer?” he asked, helping her to her feet as the coachman packed away the remains of their meal.

Interest battled uncertainty on her face. “Is Mr. Linden up to extending the day?”

“Quite,” said Jon curtly. He glanced across the top of her head with a look that clearly ordered him to get on with business.

Tony grimaced. Jon was right. He’d procrastinated through breakfast. He’d eagerly trailed after a diversion just now. He was out of time.

Helping her into the carriage, he stared out the window, searching for inspiration. He needed to get rid of Jon for a few minutes.

You need a backbone.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth, then sighed in relief when Painswick appeared. “What a remarkable church. Let’s stop.” It was as good a place as any.

Jon must have agreed. “I will remain here.”

“You are tired,” said Miss Vale. “I knew we should have returned.”

“Nonsense. God might suffer an apoplexy if I turned up in two of His houses in one week.” His eyes warned Tony that it was the last lie.

“Come, Miss Vale,” he said, helping her down before she could turn stubborn. “We will leave him to his rest.”

“Very well.” But the worried glance she cast back at the coach had him gritting his teeth.

Like most of the nearby buildings, the church was constructed of local stone, but it appeared quite large for so small a village. Instead of entering, he led her toward the churchyard, which bristled with elaborate gravestones and chest tombs, some exhibiting superb carving.

“I should not be surprised that you are more interested in graves than architecture,” she said.

“Actually—” His voice froze. He had done it again.
Tell her you’re a fraud!
He opened his mouth, but he could not force the words past his lips. Deciding to work up to the confession, he seized on her assumption. “I am interested in both. But I usually start a church tour with the yard.”

“Why?” She glanced along the row of yews leading back to the road.

“I enjoy looking at gravestones,” he admitted in a moment of candor. “Many of the sentiments are moving.
Devoted wife and mother,
” he read from a brass plate. “Not unusual, though I must wonder how true it might be. In my experience, a woman may be good at one duty, like my own mother, but rarely at both. And many abjure either role.”

“In the upper classes that may be true,” she agreed. “But you must know that churchyards rarely serve the great families. In the working classes, such devotion is common.”

“An astute comment,” he said, wandering among the stones. “Particularly from one who has spent her life in seclusion.”

“Not entirely. I often visit tenants and villagers.”

“When Sir Winton is away?”

She nodded, then paled.

“I would never criticize you for speaking the truth. Nor do I consider it undutiful to your family.” He smiled into her eyes, struck again by how small and fragile she appeared. “You are a lovely girl, who should visit people more often. Of all classes. Perhaps—”

Again his voice froze as his gaze shifted beyond her to the village stocks, unexpectedly mounted just outside the church wall. Shackles. Bonds that tied a man down. That cut him off from his desires. That could turn him bitter if he accepted the wrong ones…

Some of his father’s lectures had stuck, despite his youthful rebellion against everything Linden advocated. One was a deep-seated hatred of infidelity. Choosing a marriage of convenience would not negate that. So marrying Miss Vale would restrict him to bedding only her – forever.

Dropping her arm, he ran his hand over a marvelous chest tomb, the weeping cherub on its end panel so lifelike he expected tears to flow from its stone eyes.

“Do not believe that I never get out,” she replied, wandering to the far side of the tomb to face him across its width. At least she showed no sign that she recognized his turmoil. “Several neighbors call regularly, though I have hesitated to encourage visits in the last fortnight. You will surely understand, since you cited propriety when you went to Gloucester the other day. I’ve ignored the strictest interpretation of proper manners because Al-Merideth is so pleased to have your company.”

Not anymore. The realization sent a sharp pain stabbing through his heart.

Enough!
His conscience sounded exactly like Jon.
Stop thinking and do it!

Drawing himself erect, which only made her seem smaller, he focused on the shrub behind her head. “Miss Vale, I must correct the mis—”

“Heavens!” she exclaimed, her eyes looking past him.

He turned, seeing only another chest tomb.

“Look at that carving.” She giggled as she limped over for a closer look.

“Heavens, indeed.” He laughed. The side panel was carved in lurid relief, depicting a man – identified as Farmer Parrot – being struck down by a flail. “
God’s reward for working on Sunday,
” he quoted the inscription. “I wonder who paid to produce so expensive an object lesson.”

“Undoubtedly the local squire – who was probably a devout Puritan,” she added after squinting to make out the date. “1645. I suspect he was one of Cromwell’s fanatics. I doubt you’ll find a more interesting inscription than that.”

“True. I’ve never seen anything so blatantly moralistic.”

“This side holds more details,” she said, moving around the end. “He plowed, sowed, and harvested on Sundays, as well as threshed,
forsaking obeisance to his heavenly Father
.”

“Appalling.” He was grinning.

“Given such insupportable disdain, the church itself might have commissioned this tomb.” She giggled.

“Perhaps. How could they condone such heresy?” He drew in a breath. “Miss Vale, please allow me to—”

Again she interrupted. “Here is a newer monument.” She ran one hand over an unadorned pyramid.

“John Bryan, stonemason,” he read, even as he cursed his cowardice. The man’s father, Joseph, was buried under an exquisitely sculptured headstone. Other examples by the same hand stood nearby, including an ornate stone honoring fellow mason Thomas Hamlett. “Beautiful. I’ll wager these were John’s work. What an artist. How sad that his successor lacked his talent.”

“I suppose he considered it unlucky to carve his own stone in advance. Death is too final, so contemplating it casts a pall over life that can diminish even our greatest triumphs. Who will care once we are gone?” She shook her head over the pyramid, then headed toward the street. “We should start back. Those clouds will bring rain before much longer. And despite his protestations, you know that Mr. Linden needs his rest.”

The sun had indeed moved behind storm clouds. He toyed for one brief moment with the idea of dragging her inside and forcing her to listen.

Yet his hand remained at his side. The words that might have stopped her froze in his throat.

Again he had failed.

He was a fool. Many times a fool. He deserved every curse his father had ever uttered.

But as he silently handed her into the carriage, a bolt of lightning rent the sky, illuminating the darkest reaches of his heart. His hand trembled, for he was more stupid than he’d thought, dooming them all. Contemplating death was not the only way to tarnish life.

He did not join Miss Vale’s banter with Jon. Instead, he cursed long and hard. And futilely.

Chapter Twelve

Tony turned his tired horse toward Vale House, plodding along the lane at only a fraction of the speed at which he’d left four hours earlier.

His head had been swirling since he’d admitted defeat yesterday. Even before that bolt of lightning cleared the cobwebs from his mind, he’d known he could never wed Miss Vale. He didn’t love her. He could rarely tolerate her company for more than a few minutes before shifting his attention elsewhere. When she’d left the churchyard, relief had buckled his knees.

The ride back to Vale House had been interminable, adding a layer of guilt to his other woes. Jon had clearly overexerted himself, falling into a doze before they’d covered a mile. Miss Vale had given up after failing in her third attempt to draw him into conversation. But his attention was focused inward. The excursion had been a disaster all around.

Jon had stumbled off to bed, with orders to remain there until morning. Miss Merideth had not returned by dinner. Though Miss Vale shrugged, making light of it, she was clearly anxious.

So was he, fearing an accident, an encounter with a highwayman, or some other calamity. Not until she arrived home at nearly midnight had he relaxed. But he’d not spoken to her. First he had to decide what to do.

His first reaction, while returning from Painswick, had been to leave, to abandon his shameful conduct, to abandon Linden Park and everything that went with it. The advantage was that Miss Vale would never know of his deceit. But such a course was cowardly – even more cowardly than hiding his identity to begin with.

His reputation had never seriously bothered him because he knew it was a lie. At heart he was an honorable man who had never harmed anyone but himself.

But turning tail to avoid embarrassment was inexcusable. No gentleman would consider it. So he must face the mess he had created. The question was how.

“Start at the beginning,” he urged himself for at least the hundredth time.

What is the point? You’ve been over every fact.

“True.”

The first rays of dawn illuminated an oak, its burnished leaves blazing like Miss Merideth’s hair. Yesterday’s lightning had awakened him to a truth he’d been trying to ignore since their embrace: She had become the most important person in his life – more vital than Jon, more precious than his mother, more deserving than himself.