Jo Goodman (21 page)

Suddenly chilled, Mercedes sat up.
You. You. You.
She could hear Colin's voice again and came to realize it had never been completely silenced. At what price, she wondered, would she be allowed to remain at Weybourne Park? And in the same vein, what was she willing to do?

The second question frightened her more than the first.

Mercedes went to her armoire and removed her robe and kid slippers. When putting them on did not arrest the chill, she was forced to recognize that her present state had nothing to do with the temperature of her room.

Mercedes set a lighted candle stub in a pewter holder and carried it with her to the library. Her attempt to find something to read was half-hearted at best. In the end she had to admit that there was nothing in the library that would capture her interest this evening.

In the hallway she paused again, torn between returning to her room and wrestling sleep into submission unaided, or arming herself for the bout with a cup of warm milk. The decision did not take long to make. She turned in the direction of the kitchen.

Mercedes thought later that perhaps it was because she had no real liking for milk, warm or cold, that made her pass by the stairs to the kitchen. She could think of no other reason that she was drawn further down the hallway. The manor was almost eerily quiet, so there was no sound that attracted her attention, and except for the passing of her own shadow on the wall, there was no movement. It didn't make sense to her that she would be compelled to seek out the sanctuary of the gardens, yet a compulsion was exactly what she felt. She tried to justify it as a purging of sorts, an opportunity to be done with the humiliation of her experience under the arbor.

The last person she expected to see when she stepped out onto the portico was Colin Thorne.

He was sitting on the wide granite balustrade, one knee drawn toward his chest, the other stretched out along the length of the gray stone. His right arm rested casually on his knee cap, the left was crooked behind his head, supporting it as he studied the night sky.

His hair, touched by starshine, was a pale beacon. The strong lines of his profile were clearly defined against the darker sky. Mercedes was struck by his quiet pose, the almost unnatural stillness of his posture, and was reluctant to intrude. It occurred to her that Colin Thorne was not a man who found peace easily, yet by design or accident, it had come upon him now.

Mercedes meant to step back into the house, but she found herself lingering instead, her eyes drawn to the heavens as his were. Softly blowing out her candle, she allowed her vision to adjust. Pinpoints of light sharpened in the blue-black curve of the sky and the dusting of stars in the Milky Way became visible. On the horizon she could make out Sagittarius and overhead, the brighter lights of Cassiopeia.

"Do you know the stars?"

His voice came to her as if from a distance but still calm and clear like the passage of sound over water. She lowered her eyes to look at him and realized he hadn't moved, had never turned in her direction. It had been her candle, she thought, that had given her away. The brief flash of light when she stepped onto the portico would have disturbed his night vision. She didn't know if she would have been so charitable with a breech of her privacy.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean—"

He didn't let her finish. "I asked if you knew the stars."

"A few."

Still looking up, he nodded. "Polaris," he said. "The north star. That's one worth knowing."

"I can rarely find it."

He made a casual beckoning motion with his right hand. "Come here. I'll show you."

Mercedes looked down at herself. The voluminous cotton nightshift she wore, as well as her robe, covered her modestly from neck to ankle, yet she could not deny that she was bothered by the impropriety of being in his company dressed as she was. It did not seem incongruous in the least that the previous evening she had been less troubled at finding herself half-naked in his bed. That, at least, had had some purpose attached to it. She knew that it was all in aid of carrying out her uncle's orders, and while it was not much comfort, it did help distance her from her actions.

There was nothing to protect her now except her own sense of what was right and proper. More troubling to Mercedes was that in the presence of Colin Thorne she seemed willing to redefine those notions.

Her wavering stance had physical expression as she swayed slightly on her feet, but it was only when he turned and his dark eyes rested on her face, that she finally stepped forward.

Mercedes cinched the belt of her robe tighter as she came to stand beside him. The protective, almost panicked gesture was not lost on Colin, but he raised his face just in time to hide his smile. Pointing out the Big Dipper, he showed her how to use the two stars in the ladle to locate Polaris. "It's the tip of the handle of the Little Dipper," he told her.

"I suppose I always expect it to be brighter," she said, sighing. "The way I hear it talked about, it seems it should outshine every other star in the sky."

"It's not valuable for its magnitude," Colin said, "but for its steadiness. That's why it's critical for navigation."

Mercedes thought it was an apt description of her. At Weybourne Park she was hardly a shining star, but everyone depended on her to provide guidance. Sometimes, as now, she felt the burden keenly. "I wonder where it finds its center?"

Colin looked at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her profile. Her eyes were still raised skyward and he doubted she even knew she had spoken aloud. The troubled journey of her thoughts was only hinted at by the slight downward turn of her mouth. As he watched, a small shiver ran through her. He did not mistake its source as outside her. He knew something about the demons that arrested one's sleep and chilled one's bones; it wasn't difficult to recognize when they were visiting someone else.

"That's Draco," he said, drawing her attention to his hand as he lowered it a fraction. "The Dragon. Its tail lies between the Dippers."

She nodded. "I see it." It was quite natural to move closer to him to take in the same vision as he, as though she might view the sky more clearly if she could see through his eyes.

Colin took the candle from her and set it aside. "Over there's Gemini. The brightest stars are Castor and Pollux."

"The twin sons of Zeus."

"That's right."

"Which is the brighter one?"

"Pollux."

She made a soft sound, something between awe and contentment. "My father used to watch the sky," she said after a moment. "He'd come out here on nights like this with his telescope and stay for hours. Sometimes I'd sit with him but usually I was shooed off to bed. Later, from my window, I could see that my mother had joined him. I think I was a little jealous of her for that." The admission surprised Mercedes. She ducked her head and stared at her feet a moment, wishing she might laugh the comment away. "I haven't thought of that for years," she said softly.

It was exactly the sort of night, Colin reflected, for thinking on things that were normally pushed to the back of one's mind. Something about the vastness of the blue-black sky and the singular clarity of the stars prompted the mind to wander as the eyes drifted from point to point.

"You must have been young when your parents died," he said.

The comment helped Mercedes focus. "Four."

It was as Colin suspected. Mercedes and Decker were of an age. He often found it difficult to think of his brother in any way other than as the child he'd been when he was led away from the workhouse. Looking at Mercedes now, it helped him imagine that Decker had grown up, too. "Are your memories of them very clear?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember the way they looked? How they acted? Things you might have done together?"

The questions were not the ones she had come to expect, but then their deaths were rarely mentioned any longer. If it came up in conversation, it was usually behind her back in the guise of explaining how she had come to be the poor relation. "It's hard to say if I remember how they look," she told him. "I've always had the portraits in the gallery to remind me when my own vision became less distinct." She had been adamant that her uncle not sell them off. Mercedes always believed he gave in because it would have been too embarrassing to haggle over family portraits with outsiders, not because he couldn't get a great deal of money for them. "Next year I'll be as old as my mother was when she died, and I don't think I've ever appreciated how young that was."

"What about your father?"

"Twenty-nine."

"My own age," he said quietly. "It does shift one's perspective, doesn't it."

She nodded. "I don't know that I can tell you more. I've already mentioned about the star gazing, and I hadn't even remembered that before tonight... or that I wished my father hadn't sent me away." She paused, trying to draw on other thoughts. "I know my parents were a popular couple among their set. Aunt Georgia told me that. But I also know they spent more time here at Weybourne Park than in London, even during the Season."

"And you? Did they take you to London?"

"No, I don't think so. At least not that I recall. My only memories of them are here. My father put me on a pony on my third birthday. I can see my mother standing by the paddock, her hands over her eyes, watching us through splayed fingers." Mercedes chuckled softly. "Poor Mama. It must have been torture for her, wondering if I'd be dropped on my head. Papa was adamant that I should learn to ride."

"Did you?"

"I must have. I can't imagine that I would have disappointed my father. But I don't ride any longer."

"Why not?"

"I'm terrified of horses," she said simply. "Oh, don't think my father was some ogre who insisted I get on a pony regardless of my fear. I'm quite certain I wasn't afraid back then."

"What happened?"

She glanced at him sideways and shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know. There are times I even imagine I miss it. I screw up my courage and get as far as the entrance to the stable, then I bid good day to the groom and pretend I only meant to go walking. My riding skirt gives away my real intentions, but Ben is polite enough not to mention it."

For all that she made her explanation lightly, Colin suspected the reality was more troubling for her. The fact that she made the admission at all impressed him. In his brief acquaintance with Mercedes Leyden the one thing he knew with certainty was that she was not given to vapors. If she could say she was terrified of horses, then her fear must have approached near paralysis.

"How did your parents die?" he asked.

Mercedes had been anticipating the question. There were any number of ways she could answer it, and each answer evoked a slightly different response. She chose the one that elicited the greatest reaction and left people stammering apologies. "They were murdered."

Colin merely tilted his head to one side and studied her gravely. After a moment he said, "Was their murderer found?"

She might have known he wouldn't think anything of pursuing the topic. Far from having put a period to his line of inquiry, she seemed to have piqued his interest. "There were two men charged and hanged," she said.

"Were they guilty?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"A reasonable one, I think. Or have I mistaken where Severn's accusations might lead? Doesn't he hope there's a noose waiting for me at Tyburn tree?"

Mercedes was caught off guard by this reasoning, but she understood where it was heading. "My parents' murderers were two highwaymen who were found wenching and drinking in a tavern not five miles from where they committed their crime. Besides my parents, the driver was also killed. They had items of jewelry that belonged to my mother in their possession. It was enough to convict them."

"They didn't confess?"

"My parents were the last in a string of robberies and murders along the same stretch of road. Only six months earlier another couple met the same fate. They had the misfortune to have had their three children with them."

"What happened to the children?"

Mercedes frowned slightly, thinking. "I don't know if I was ever told," she said finally. "I haven't thought of it for a long time. As for the murderers, Mrs. Hennepin says highwaymen don't confess to their crimes."

"That's probably true," Colin said. He leaned his head back against the marble post behind him and studied the sky again.

Mercedes turned a little so she could see him better. His silence was telling. "You don't believe it," she accused.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. You have a way of not saying anything that says everything anyway."

He slanted her a look. "How's that again?"

Mercedes's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I don't think I can repeat it," she said. "But you knew what I meant."

"Yes, I did."

When this admission didn't lead to further explanation, only more silence, Mercedes didn't press. She had noted before that he had a suspicious nature and this was simply further confirmation. "What about your family?" she asked.

He had known, given the direction of his own questions, that a similar interest would be turned on him. It didn't mean he welcomed it. "What about them?"