Mistress by Midnight (24 page)

But it would be disaster for Beatrix to learn she was a bastard. It would be disaster for James to know his “aunt” was his father’s long-lost lover, the reason his mother never stood a chance despite her thousands and chocolate-box beauty. The reason Con had deserted his own child and wandered aimlessly around the world.

For a twenty-nine year old woman of average looks, Laurette had caused a lot of disaster, she thought ruefully.

But the past was behind her. She’d make the best of the future, starting right now. The day was absurdly perfect, golden and clement, the air fresh, the birdsong and ribbon of stream musical. She relished the feel of grass underfoot. It had been a long while since she had run outside barefoot, half-dressed, her hair a hopeless tangle down her back.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
Once a hoyden, always a hoyden. She hoped she could set herself to rights before anyone saw her.

Luck was with her. She entered the house by the open front door and flew up the stairs. Someone had tidied her room. She’d left in a hurry this morning to inspect the sheep. If she were to pass inspection herself, she needed to do something about her wild, knotted hair. Her hairpins had fallen from her pocket somewhere along her tromp back to the house.

The contents of Con’s pocket had been a revelation. It gave her a warm thrill to know her humble offerings had traveled the globe, pieces of home.

Pieces of her heart.

But Con was welcome to them, silly, sentimental man. Surely he would realize now how impossible a reunion would be, despite their undeniable lust for each other. That would end. That
had
ended. There could be no repeat of this afternoon.

Laurette removed her wet dress, donned a dressing gown and began the arduous process of brushing out her hair. She heard the slam of doors and voices below, the scampering of feet upstairs as the children returned from their swim. She was glad she closed the door as she listened to Sadie cheerfully bully Beatrix to change for lunch. Bea was far more obedient than Laurette had ever been.

Con was keeping country hours, with a big lunch in the middle of the day. They would join the children tonight for a nursery tea with all the trimmings. The awkward formal dinner of last night was not to be repeated, for which Laurette was supremely grateful.

She braided up her hair again and put on a fresh dress. Aside from the pink sunburn on her cheeks and nose, there was no trace of her earlier escapade. She was determined to spend a placid afternoon reading, or playing a board game with Beatrix, avoiding Con and his black eyes.

There was a tap. Bea’s face peeked around the door. “I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“Excellent. I’m starved. Did you enjoy the lake?”

“It’s quite cold, but once you move around a bit, you don’t feel it as much. Are you sure we have to leave?”

“Quite. We’ll dunk you in the Piddle now that you are a swimmer. Your mama and papa will not recognize you for the scales and fins once you go home.”

Beatrix shifted around Laurette’s expensive jars of paint and bottles of scent on the dressing table. “I’m not allowed to swim in the ocean, you know.”

“Hold still.” Laurette dabbed a drop of rose oil behind Bea’s ears. “Oceans are vastly different from lakes and rivers, to be sure. I remember when I first visited Penzance, the ocean terrified me. It was so vast. And rough. Your parents are very wise not to permit you to go bathing.” She pinned her mother’s watch to Bea’s collar, wondering if her mother would have loved her granddaughter or seen her as evidence of Laurette’s sin.

How simple it would have been for Laurette to lose herself in the ocean all those years ago when she had been banished from Dorset. There had been one bleak winter day when the temptation had been strong. But the child in front of her had kicked in protest and the cowardly notion disappeared. Laurette had proved she was strong enough to live without her daughter, and now she had to be strong enough to live without Con.

She kissed the top of Bea’s head. “Let’s go downstairs, love.”

The following days passed in a haze of sunshine. The children picnicked, swam, rode sturdy ponies, and fished. They explored the nearby caves under the supervision of Nico and Tomas, who were rather like big boys themselves. They marched up the hills with the sheep and cloud-gazed. Laurette made herself useful in the kitchens and the garden, while Con rode out with Mr. Carter to meet his neighbors, and arrange for the road to be repaired.

On Sunday the entire household rose early and, avoiding the rutted road, walked across the hillocks to the village and its humble church. Con, Laurette, the children, and their exotic servants weathered the curious stares of the small congregation as they filled the Stanbury pew up front and the row behind. If the homily referring to the Prodigal Son had been planned or was spontaneous, Con neither knew nor cared. He was beyond insult, or saving. In two days’ time, Laurette, Bea, Sadie and Nico would be leaving Yorkshire.

He had done his damnedest to make Laurette change her mind. Never had he exuded so much charm and bonhomie. He was rewarded with Laurette’s vague smiles and hasty departures as he entered a room. She chattered to the children at mealtimes but was pointedly reserved toward him. Con was sure she locked her bedroom door at night, not that he had the courage to breach her defenses at this point.

At least James was thawing. There were fewer silences in their conversation. He had taken Laurette’s advice and proposed a trip abroad if James had a successful school year. The boy’s eyes lit up. Con was still not beyond bribery.

When they exited the church, it seemed everyone had abandoned the thought of Sunday dinner and was milling about the churchyard, the better to see the fronts of the Conover party in addition to their backs. The cleric, a sturdy older man, vigorously shook Con’s hand in welcome.

“We are delighted to see you and your family up north, my lord. I knew your great-uncle a little. He, alas, was not one of my success stories.”

Con tried to picture this bluff, honest-faced man and his devious uncle Ryland in comity and failed. “I expect not. My Uncle Ryland was a bit of a sinner.”

“As are we all, my lord, as are we all. Terrible business, his wandering off like that. I wrote to you in care of your good wife. You were, I believe, traveling at the time. Lady Conover, may I say how delighted I am to meet you at last? We
thank you for your help with the bell tower and all the many other gifts to the parish. We are in your debt.”

The vicar may have been informed of Con’s absence, but he was not completely up to speed. Laurette looked stricken at the mix-up.

It was James who saved the day. “Father Andrews, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. My mama passed away more than a year ago. This is Miss Vincent, a very good friend of the family. She and her cousin have been our guests at Stanbury Hill.”

The vicar raised his bushy gray eyebrows in surprise. “Do forgive me, my lord. I had no idea. Please accept my condolences. I should have made a visit once we heard of your arrival and then I wouldn’t have put my foot in it.” He glanced at an elderly woman hovering near a particularly elaborate headstone a few feet away. Con squinted and was not surprised to see the name Stanbury etched into the marble. His mother was buried at All Saints along with his father, but he supposed it was past time to acquaint himself with his mother’s late relatives.

“You brought your own servants, I know, but old Mrs. Hardwick over there was housekeeper at Stanbury Hill Farm for many years. I think she’d like to talk to you about your mother. And your uncle, too, of course. It was she who reported him missing. I’ll introduce you, if you can spare a moment.”

Con had no interest in his uncle’s final days, but he could barely remember his mother. She had grown up here, the squire’s only living daughter, making a grand marriage to the younger son of a marquess. She had never expected to become a marchioness, and in fact, had not. She and her husband had drowned on the Dorset coast in a summer squall, orphaning Con when he was still in short pants. A few years later his entire family had been reduced to his great-uncle and himself. He’d love to hear a tale or two about his mother as a girl.

Father Andrews motioned the woman to come forward. Her face was wreathed in smiles, showing strong teeth despite her advanced age. Con thought she must be well past seventy. She must not have had an easy time of it looking after his uncle. Marianna had pensioned her off most generously according to the neat business records his wife had kept of his properties.

“How do you do, my lord?” Mrs. Hardwick dropped to a graceful curtsey. She turned to Beatrix. “I’d know your daughter anywhere. She’s the image of your mother, she is. The same red hair. The same eyes. Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

Time stood still. This time James did not step up to correct the woman, but cast Beatrix a puzzled glance. Con’s tongue felt swollen in his mouth. He couldn’t look at Laurette, who would be beyond horrified.

Beatrix blushed. “My cousin Laurette says everyone has a twin, Mrs. Hardwick. My parents live in Cornwall.”

A wave of uncertainty washed across the old woman’s face. “But—I could swear you are Miss Katie come to life. The hair—the eyes—”

“There, there, Nell. None of us have the eyesight we used to.” The vicar squeezed her hand. “Perhaps now is not the time to discuss old times. Lord Conover is a busy man.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord. I worked for the Stanburys when your mother was a girl. This little one—.” She shook her head, fluffy tufts of white hair escaping around her ears and gave an apologetic grin. “As she says, twins. God saw fit to make two such little angels. Your mama was a lovely young lady, full of spirit but always thoughtful. When she married your da, it was a happy day for us all. Got married right in this church. Before your time, Father Andrews.”

She nattered on. Con wanted the woman to shut up now. Laurette stood tense at his side, worrying her gloves. The children were inching back in boredom. When the housekeeper finally got around to talking about his uncle, he laid a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Hardwick, I’m sure you did every
thing possible for my uncle. You must know we were estranged. I’m sorry about the nature of his death, but I can’t say I miss him.”

The vicar blanched. Well, Con had no plans to settle here permanently, so hang his good reputation and the possibility of heaven. A few more weeks and he’d be back in London, James would be getting ready for school, and Jacob Carter would be king of his little sheep kingdom. Con doubted he’d ever come up here again. It was the site of one more spectacular failure.

James tugged at his sleeve. “May Bea and I start back, Papa? Nico and Tom will come with us.”

Con saw his small staff, standing patiently under the shade of a giant beech tree. “Yes, yes, go on ahead. Tell the others they can leave us, too. Miss Vincent and I need no chaperone.”

It was more than a quarter of an hour before they could make their escape, dodging the greetings and questions of a local populace with far too much time on their hands on this day of rest. He had no doubt his household would be the top topic around their dining tables. Mrs. Hardwick was not the only old soul who noticed Bea’s resemblance to Katie Stanbury.

“I had no idea,” Con began without preamble as they finally tore away from the churchyard. “Truly, I didn’t, Laurie. I mean, I saw similarities, but I was so young when she died.”

Laurette said nothing but walked at a pace even Con was having difficulty keeping up with.

“Bea didn’t seem to take it amiss, though. Perhaps she’ll forget about the whole thing.”

“Oh, yes. That’s just what children do when someone questions their parentage,” Laurette said sarcastically. “There is a painting in the attic. We’ve got to destroy it.”

“A painting? Of my mother?”

Laurette nodded curtly. “Mr. Carter mentioned it.”

“We can’t just throw it away. I have nothing of my mother’s, not even the scrap of a letter.”

“We’ll have to hide it then.” She stopped in her tracks. “You don’t suppose they’ve run right home to look for it?”

“Don’t be silly. Who’d want to play in a dusty attic on such a beautiful day? The lads will take them swimming while luncheon is being prepared, I’m certain of it.”

“Oh, what do you know? You dragged us here thinking you knew what was best and look how it’s turned out!”

She broke then, her careful composure shattering. He put his arms around her as she stifled a sob. “Laurie, Laurie. I’m so sorry.”

How many times had he said this childish rhyme to her? She usually bashed him once and laughed. She was not laughing now.

“Look. Would it be so awful if Bea learned I am her father? I’ve met the joyless man who raised her, and I daresay I’m an improvement.”

“You haven’t listened to one word I’ve said, have you?” She
was
bashing him now, but he held her fast.

“Yes, I’ve listened to you. I’ve never agreed, but I’ve listened. She wouldn’t need to find out about
you.
You could keep your secret.”

“How would you explain the coincidence she was raised by
my
cousins? She’s a smart little girl. Too smart. Damn it, Con! We’ve got to get back. Let me go!”

He dropped his arms and she flew away from him as if he were the very Devil. In her eyes, he was. He wished they’d come by carriage, but he hadn’t wanted any of them to be subjected to the stomach-churning ride. A cobbled-together road crew was scheduled for the end of the week, after the Vincents left. Con planned to work right in the thick of them to ward off the misery he was already feeling.

He had read about forced military marches. Hell, he had even been in one or two, despite his unofficial capacity as a
civilian aide to Wellington in the Peninsula. He was on one now, trailing in Laurette’s wake. Perspiration dripped down his collar, unstarching the cravat Aram had taken such pride in.

And then he stopped. Froze his footsteps on the road, wondering if she’d look for him over her shoulder. She did not.

And then he knew. It was over. Everything he’d worked and wheedled so hard for this past year had come to nothing, like the dry road dust on his tongue. A dozen years of a dream that he should have awakened from long ago.