Sharon Sobel (11 page)

Gazing upon the scene, and once again wishing for a spyglass, Lark could not see the dead man, but she knew precisely where he lay. A group of men stood in a circle, all looking down at the pebbles and what surely lay upon them. Several horses were tethered nearby, and a small carriage stood poised at an awkward angle. Farther back, a black-draped hearse awaited its burden.

But no one seemed to be in any particular hurry. A gentleman broke through the circle and wiped his hands on a cloth proffered to him by one of the others. Someone else held something up to the light, and the crowd shifted as the men gathered around to study it. Beneath them, momentarily abandoned, a large figure remained sprawled on the beach.

This, then, was the dead man. Lark had never seen a dead
person, but she recalled very vividly the morning she had discovered the lifeless body of a beloved pet dog and knew how strange the experience.

She shifted her position and leaned closer to the balustrade. Snatches of the men’s conversation reached her, but nothing sufficient to draw any inference. They seemed somewhat agitated, though none more so than a tallish gentleman in mustard trousers. Something familiar in the way he turned his head made Lark recognize him at once, though why Gabriel Siddons should be so concerned about the death of a stranger on their beach was something about which she could hardly speculate.

Most likely, he felt responsible for the welfare of his uncle, for the sight would surely distress the old man. Or perhaps he recognized a colleague, for he did seem to have some knowledge of the sea. She then realized she had no idea what Mr. Siddons did other than visit his uncle. Perhaps he might be on the scene in a very official capacity. If so, he would not have been very happy to learn that Mr. Queensman had come upon the dead man first, for there seemed to be no love between them.

Lark did not know why this was so, but some tickling notion of her fancy wished it might have to do with her. How difficult to abandon her old conceits, even in so desolate a place as a sanatorium.

Smiling, and quite forgetting herself, she sat up in her chair and then rose to her feet, leaning on the balustrade. She wore only slippers, the accustomed garb of Mr. Knighton’s invalids, and felt the rough wood beneath her toes. As her toes explored the hard surface, the soft leather caught a nail and ripped.

But rather than be distressed by the thought of the inevitable explanation for such damage, Lark laughed out loud, feeling more mischievous than she had in years.

“I am surprised you could find the misery of another such good sport, my lady,” came a deep voice behind her.

Lark whirled about to face Mr. Queensman and wondered how he had come upon her. She had not heard the door open or close, nor had she heard the sound of footsteps below. But here he was, looking very severe.

“You know I do not, Mr. Queensman. I was merely enjoying the pleasure of a private thought, and the wonder of
a glorious spring day,” she said boldly and reached up to catch her ribbons as they blew around her face. “I am sorry to know of another’s misery. I am sure it was quite unpleasant when you happened upon him.”

As she spoke, Lark noticed his shirt was stained with something dark and, even at a distance, she could smell the salt water on his person.

“I am, unfortunately, too used to it in my profession. Even so, the discovery proved a nasty surprise, particularly when Mr. Warren and I realized nothing could be done.”

“I understand,” Lark said, and believed she did. Even so, it went quite against her spirit to gratify him in any way, and so she added, “It must be very frustrating when you are unable to work a cure on some poor soul. You necessarily know you have failed.”

Mr. Queensman raised his eyebrow but said nothing against her unfair judgment upon him. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, pressing against something of bulk in his pocket, and studied her in silence. Lark returned his gaze, wondering if she should ask him to leave. He was trespassing, after all, and it seemed quite inappropriate he should be standing alone with her.

“My pride insists I can accept blame only if the patient is alive when I come upon him. Likewise, I will accept praise only when my own ministrations restore a subject to good health.” He waited, as if expecting some response. “Of course, sometimes a patient recovers due to no miracle on my part.”

“Perhaps nothing really ailed the patient in those cases,” Lark snapped at him.

“That is precisely what I am thinking. Of course, I guessed it from the beginning.”

Lark opened her mouth, ready to demand an explanation, when the light suddenly intruded on her cloudy brain. She cursed herself for being as simple and easily manipulated as poor Mary. Reaching blindly for the arm of her chair, she leaned heavily—and dramatically—upon it.

“But wait! Can I be mistaken?” Mr. Queensman asked as he came forward. “I thought I saw you standing quite unaided just now, looking as sturdy as an oak in a summer storm.”

Lark sank down onto the chair a little awkwardly as her dress
twisted around her waist. She put a hand to her brow as she closed her eyes.

“It comes and goes, Mr. Queensman. It comes and goes. Suddenly I find myself with a strength I do not expect, and I seize advantage of it. And then, just as suddenly, I am fallen once again. It is a sad business, for I then must pay dearly for my little bout of exercise,” she sighed, blinking away imaginary tears.

“My poor lady,” Mr. Queensman said, without the slightest hint of sympathy. He came up to her chair and sat down beside her before he presumed the intimacy to tuck the wool blanket around her. “It is very noble of you to endure such pain, and all in the name of anxiety for a fellow human being. Did you know him?”

Lark felt herself grow warm where his hands met her flesh through the thin fabric of her gown. Though he did no more than brush his long tanned fingers against her arms and shoulders, it seemed as if he left an imprint upon her, for she could still feel his touch even after his hands moved on to settle innocently on the balustrade.

“Did you know him?” he repeated impatiently.

Lark was so flustered by her body’s betrayal she did not know whom he meant.

“Mr. Moore? I assure you I waste no anxiety on that undeserving wretch! I—”

“I do not refer to your unfortunate choice in a husband, my lady. I mean the even more unfortunate fellow on the beach.”

“The dead man?” Lark stopped short and frowned. “How on earth would I know him? I know no one in Brighton save Miss Tavish and yourself.”

“And Mr. Siddons,” Mr. Queensman reminded her quickly. “Interestingly, Mr. Siddons seems to be acquainted with the victim.”

“Is he indeed?” Lark asked, genuinely curious. “I thought I saw him down with the others upon the beach.”

“What else did you see?” There seemed a note of urgency in his voice.

Lark wondered why it should possibly matter to him, unless it was to get her to admit to spying on him and his friend. And though it should delight her to do so, she was surely enough of a lady to refrain from gloating over anything so
indecent. Someday perhaps, when she was quite finished with him and his tiresome cousin Raeborn, she might enjoy hinting at the forbidden sights she had glimpsed.

“Nothing else I care to discuss, sir. As you have no formal hold on me, I do not see why it could possibly matter to you. My impressions of the sad scene are for my own keeping.”

“It matters to me if the sight of such unpleasantness distresses you unduly.”

Lark remembered she was supposed to be in a relapsive state, and she sank down deeper in her seat.

“You may rest assured that if I never recover it will have nothing to do with the events of this morning.”

“On the contrary, my lady. On the basis of what I see this morning, I have every hope for your recovery.”

He saw altogether too much.

“However, there will be much consternation here if it is discovered that one of the servants brought you out onto the veranda, so I had best bring you inside, lest Mary shoulder the blame.”

Lark brushed his hand away—and was struck with the sense of some spark that flew between them.

“How do you know who brought me here, sir? I will not have you invade my privacy in such a way.”

“I did not intend to do so, my lady. But, in fact, you invaded mine. I sat here on the veranda for more than an hour before your chair burst through the door. I did not require your company, but I do not regret it.

“Even so,” he continued, “I think you had best go within. Miss Tavish may be wondering where you are.”

“I wish to remain outside,” Lark said stubbornly. “Miss Tavish can find me well enough.”

“When you are recovered, my lady, you may make your own decisions about such matters. But for now you must trust my judgment on it.”

Lark refused to dignify his arrogance with a retort, but as he turned her about in her chair, she caught a glimpse of the scene on the beach. Three men lifted the weight of the body between them, and a fourth caught the lolling head. Wet clothing hung wretchedly from the limp frame.

Perhaps Mr. Queensman’s judgment was wiser than Lark could
admit. Even the brief vision she had just had would be sufficient to induce a month of nightmares.

“What do you make of it?”

Matthew Warren ran his fingers over the water-stained particles of wood and paper Ben had just unwrapped from the package hidden in his breast pocket.

“I hardly know,” he admitted, and picked up one of the pieces to hold it closer to the candle. “This could be a section of a map. But why would the man bother to mount it on a board if he needed it for a journey? It seems a cumbersome waste.”

“I am sure it is,” Ben said quietly. “But I do not believe Monsieur Thibeau needed much help in direction. My sources tell me he spends a good deal of time along the southern coast and has been seen in Rye as recently as last week.”

“The body had not been in the water very long,” Matthew reminded him. “Just long enough to damage the contents of his pockets and wash the blood from his wounds.”

“Of course. But whoever did this deed might have intended for him to be adrift a good deal longer, and perhaps never reach shore.”

“I suspect whoever did this also knew nothing of what he carried.”

“Unless anything that mattered was already removed,” Ben said grimly. “And yet this should have aroused suspicion.”

Matthew resumed his study of the refuse on the table.

“It appears as if we have a dissected puzzle, of the sort now being made in London.”

“By Mr. Wallis?” Ben asked eagerly, remembering precisely where he had heard of the businessman and his cunning creations before.

“Of course. I suppose I am not surprised you know of them, for you are ever curious. But they are rather new on the market.” Matthew, so fresh from the London scene, delighted in recounting the marvels of the great metropolis.

“I have never seen one myself,” Ben admitted. “But I did overhear a gentleman promise to bring one to a lady.”

“A charming gift,” Matthew said with a touch of sarcasm. “The
lady must be desperate to prefer it to chocolates or flowers.”

“I believe she is. Lady Larkspur does not enjoy many diversions at Knighton’s.”

Ben continued to study the pieces of the dissected map upon the table, even as he sensed Matthew Warren studying him. He wished he had not mentioned her name, for he surely did so too often.

Matthew, to his credit, did not tax him on it.

“Was Monsieur Thibeau the gentleman who so promised?”

“He was not. Nor is it likely he intended to deliver this as ambassador for the other. But all the same, it is odd to come across a dissected map only days after one has heard talk of it. It is a very strange coincidence.”

“No more so than that your cousin’s promised wife should be residing within a mile of your home,” Matthew teased.

Ben thought perhaps he deserved the pointed jest.

“I told you—it is no coincidence. I promised Raeborn I would look after his lady and return her to him as soon as she recovered.”

“What precisely ails Lady Larkspur?”

Ben hesitated, for what passed for explanation or excuse among the uninitiated would hold no water with a physician as experienced as Matthew Warren. He could not blame a failing heart, for Matthew would recommend some treatment. He could not suggest a general malaise, for Matthew would scoff at such a notion.

In fact, bringing Matthew into the case would almost guarantee the return of Lady Larkspur to her anxious family. It was why he preferred to keep his friend at a comfortable distance.

“I believe she suffers from exhaustion of the spirit,” Ben said carefully. “She has experienced some great disappointments recently, to the displeasure of her family. They, well meaning though they may be, sought to prevail upon her will, to no good end.”

“I see. And is your cousin’s offer the cause or the intended cure for her sad situation?”

Ben fingered the pieces of the map, aligning place names and
lines of latitude. He recognized the formal grid of property corresponding to the geography of Winchelsea, a small town not many miles distant. Of what use might such a picture be for such a one as Thibeau?

“Come, Ben. Will you not answer me? I would not concern myself with your affairs if not for the lady’s possible connection with the dead man.”

“Be assured there is no connection,” Ben said with a touch of anger. “I will remind you her presence in the neighborhood is entirely of my own doing, in an effort to assist my cousin Raeborn in his suit. And he is not a bad fellow at all, though probably not the sort to appear in a young girl’s dreams. But perhaps I speak with the conceit of youth.”

“I shall remind you of it when we are sixty and plagued with the gout.”

“Thank you very much.”

“And when a young thing forty years your junior makes you wish to go out dancing every night.”

“It would prove a fine thing, for I have not the time for such indulgences at thirty,” Ben pointed out.

“Nor do you. But I daresay you might summon the energy for it if you were to find the right lady to inspire you. You managed to attend all the best affairs when you were in London, and seem to have come away with your heart unscathed.”