Skylark (11 page)

“I’m sorry. You’re still a young, beautiful woman, Laura. If you return to society, you’ll be a toast again.”

“Toast?” she echoed, still hectic with color. “Thank you, but I can’t leave Harry as long as there’s any hint of danger.”

“Take him with you when you marry.”

Her bright color faded. “Lord Caldfort will never permit that. He says his heir should grow up here, and he’s right.”

“Ah. But only as long as he is the heir. I understand better now.”

“I’m not doing this for selfish reasons.”

“Of course not.” But it was certainly additional motive for him. If Laura needed to find a new heir for Caldfort before she could marry, he was heart and soul for the cause. What’s more, it fit in with his plan.

“What we need is the truth,” he said, “and that can only be found in Draycombe.”

She smiled brilliantly at him. “You would go there and find out for me?”

“No.”

Color rushed beautifully into her cheeks. “Stephen, I’m so sorry! Why should I assume that you have time to do that? You must be very busy—”

He raised a hand and stopped her. “I’m never too busy to help a friend.” He couldn’t help adding, “Especially you, Laura. I can certainly go and uncover some facts, but once we have them there may be decisions to make. Decisions only you can make.”

“What decisions?”

He was telling the truth, he realized, which certainly made this easier. “I don’t know, but I can imagine dilemmas. What if HG is Henry Gardeyne’s son, but an idiot or impossibly corrupt? Do we inflict such an owner on Caldfort?”

“The law . . .”

“. . . must always be tempered by common sense.”

“Stephen, I’m shocked!”

He waited and she added, “I can’t decide that.”

“Who else? Your Harry is too young, and Lord Caldfort’s desires might not be the same as yours. He could well pay Farouk’s price. That’s why you must travel to Draycombe and judge for yourself.”

She stared at him. “How? It’s impossible without explanation, and how could I explain?”

“You’re about to visit your family, which is halfway there.”

“But I can hardly arrive at Merrymead, then immediately leave.”

She was right, but he thought he saw a solution. He needed to tighten and tidy his plans, but he thought they would work. In more ways that one.

“It’s late,” he said, standing, “and our minds are buzzing with tiredness and tangles. Let’s sleep on it. I’ll travel part of the way with you tomorrow, which will give us time to talk far from prying ears.”

She stood, too. “I suppose I’ll have to do something. Perhaps Father or Ned could go to Draycombe.”

“I’ve always thought them rather conventional. Salt of the earth, et cetera, but if matters become . . . irregular?”

She winced. “You’re right. But I don’t like to impose on you, Stephen.”

“Sleep on it,” he said, suppressing all reaction.

But he could not resist taking her hand and kissing it. Lightly, but even that was more than he’d ever done before. Holding her hand, he said, “I stand your friend, Laura, and I will help you sort this out. It will be no imposition.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “Then I think heaven did send you here today.”

“There’s an Eastern philosophy that says that nothing happens by chance. That we are ruled by destiny, which cannot be fought. Good night, Laura.”

He made himself leave, having found less than he longed for but more than he’d hoped. And probably a great deal more than he deserved.

Laura watched the door close, then sank into her chair. Stephen’s last words hung in the air as if they had import, but that must be exhaustion speaking. She needed sleep, but it felt impossible. How could she sleep with her mind and her body in turmoil?

They’d been together in her boudoir in their nightwear!

That awareness had prickled over and through her, so it had been a miracle that she’d spoken a word of sense. It sizzled in her still, making even the movement of her cotton nightgown against her skin scarcely bearable.

She stood and went into her bedroom, stripping off her clothes, then scrubbed with cold water. Disgusting—that’s what it was when carnal lust distracted her from matters of life and death. Life and death for Harry. She clasped a dripping cloth to her breasts and the cold water trickled down, gathering on her thighs.

The first unmarried, virile man to enter her orbit, and she had become a would-be whore.

She tossed the useless cloth back in the bowl, but the madness was cooling. When she was dry and back in her nightgown, it no longer tormented her skin. She looked in the mirror, fearing to see a slack-mouthed slut, but she was Laura Gardeyne, lady.

In her cap. She put her hand to it. Oh, Lord, her cap!

That had almost been her ruin.

Hal had made a game of her nightcaps. He liked taking them off, which was largely why she’d worn them. He’d saunter into her bedchamber saying, “Off with that cap, wench. . . .”

Her body clenched at the memory of the words, at the memory of what always followed. She pressed her hand over her mouth, then bit it. She missed it so much, so
much
.

She could relieve herself and she would, but it wasn’t the same. It was more than a year since a man’s strong body had pleasured hers, and it would be many more before one would again, and her tears marked a tragedy fierce enough for the Greeks.

She climbed into bed but it took a long time to fall asleep, and she woke twice in the night. The second time, unable to settle, she went up to the nursery to reassure herself that Harry was still all right. He was fast asleep and she stood there looking at him, wondering if he’d hate her one day if she managed to free him of a viscountcy.

That, not lust, had stolen sleep, but it wasn’t as if she had any choice. If Henry senior or junior existed, Caldfort must be theirs. She couldn’t try to prevent that.

But she would rejoice if Harry became safe and she became free. No lying about that. She wanted to be free to leave, to live, to love.

She returned to her bedchamber. As she passed Stephen’s room she only allowed herself to think about important matters—the journey and the letter from Azir Al Farouk. Because she was concentrating on that so fiercely, she realized there was something useful she could do. She could sketch a copy of Henry Gardeyne’s portrait.

Her drawing portfolio was already packed in her coach bag, but she dug it out and slipped into the dim corridor again, candlestick in hand. What would be her excuse if she was caught now? She was almost beyond caring. She’d announce that she was as eccentric as Lady Caldfort, but devoted to nighttime portraiture.

She went down to the hall and copied the picture as best she could by the light of one candle. She paid particular attention to the bones of the young man’s face, the line of his nose, and the shape of his one visible ear. Those things didn’t change much over time.

She would have made a more finished job of it, but the clock struck six and she heard a rattle from the kitchen area. The staff was stirring. She hurried back to her room and closed the door with a shudder of relief. She almost felt as if her own life was in danger. Perhaps it was. What would the Gardeynes do if they learned that she knew this secret?

She wouldn’t feel safe until she and Harry drove away. With Stephen as escort. Thank God for that. She could even imagine Jack riding after to kill them both. She wasn’t sure what Lord Caldfort would do about the letter, but she felt certain Jack would not accept the return of his cousin.

After acquiring Hal’s small pistol, she’d not done anything with it. Now she carefully cleaned, checked, and loaded it. She paused, thinking that if Hal was looking down from heaven, he’d approve.

“You’re an unlikely guardian angel, Hal,” she whispered, “but keep our son safe.”

She packed the case in her trunk but put the pistol in her coach bag, feeling considerably more secure.

No chance of getting back to sleep now, but too early to ring for breakfast. She worked a little on the drawing, but then realized it was a mistake. Anything she added now might make a better picture, but would be less like the original. She put it in her portfolio and returned that to her bag.

She read over the letter again, but it gave up no more wisdom. Oscar Ris. They’d come up with possible explanations for everything else, but not that. Perhaps it had a private meaning for Lord Caldfort.

Dear heaven! Could Lord Caldfort have had a hand in his nephew’s disappearance all those years ago? Consigned him to imprisonment with Oscar Ris?

She’d try the suggestion on Stephen, but she could see the main objection. If the then Colonel John Gardeyne had decided to get rid of his nephew, he would have killed him, not locked him away somewhere. And only in fairy tales did hired killers turn softhearted and spare the victim.

The clock struck half past six. The sun was up, so she could be, too. She rang for Catherine, and by seven was taking breakfast with a fidgety, excited Harry. Waiting until eight for the post chaise to arrive was clearly going to be a torment for him. She and Nan occupied him with last-minute packing and with the important choice of toys to take in the coach.

With half an hour still to go, Nan said, “Will I take him down to the stables, ma’am, to wait there? The horses and cats will amuse him.”

It was an excellent idea, but with escape so close Laura didn’t dare let him out of her sight. She felt as if Jack could be lurking, ready to pounce, and she couldn’t warn Nan.

“No, I’ll take him down to my room. You make sure everything goes down to be ready, then wait there to say good-bye.”

Her bedchamber and boudoir did distract Harry a little, especially her mechanical singing bird in a cage—a favorite treat. She thought for a moment of taking it with them, but recognized in time that the winding and playing would weary her long before it wearied a child.

Even now it was making her sad. Hal had given it to her for her twentieth birthday, saying he’d bought it because she was Lady Skylark. Even then, when he could do no wrong, she’d recognized that it didn’t fit. No one caged a skylark. What point, when it sang only when on the wing?

“The coach is here, ma’am!”

“Thank heavens,” she said to Catherine, and they shared a smile. “Come on, Minnow.”

He was already at the door and would have rushed down the stairs if allowed. She had no intention of risking a fall now, and made him go at a decorous pace.

Mrs. Moorside and Rimmer, the butler, were waiting to bid her farewell. She went first with Harry to Lord Caldfort.

If she needed proof that Lord Caldfort was not his usual self, she found it. He seemed paler and weary, as if weighed down by something. Or as if he’d not slept. Hardly surprising if he thought he was about to lose everything.

Or,
she wondered,
is he burdened by the decision? Is he thinking of paying Farouk to remove the problem?

He kissed Harry’s forehead, holding him too close. Harry squirmed as he always did, and Laura didn’t blame him. His grandfather smelled of snuff and camphor at the best of times, and today he smelled worse. Sour.

She did feel sorry for the old man. However he was thinking about it, Azir’s letter must have been a shock, and it laid a terrible burden on him.

“You enjoy a good long holiday,” Lord Caldfort said again to Laura as he let Harry escape. “No need to hurry back. Lad’s too young to be learning estate management yet, you know.”

Just how far would this stretch? “My sister Juliet is at Merrymead at the moment, sir. Perhaps I might travel back to London with her.”

She saw the struggle, but then he said, “Good idea, good idea. Just for a few weeks, though.”

Why had that letter caused this peculiar behavior? If they found Henry Gardeyne’s legitimate son, perhaps it would be a kindness to the old man, as well. His dilemma would be over and it might be possible for him to live out his life here.

She and Harry said farewell to the senior staff, then went outside. Laura sucked in the crisp autumn air as if it were freedom itself and let Harry run down ahead to the horses. He knew not to go too close.

The four horses looked fresh and healthy, jingling the traces as they shifted, ready to be off. The last trunk was being loaded into the boot, and in a moment the lid was slammed shut.

Stephen was already there, but a handsome bay horse was saddled and waiting for him. How were they to talk if he was riding? Mind you, how were they to talk with an excited Harry along?

Laura remembered that he hadn’t met Harry and collected her son. “Come and make your bow to Sir Stephen, Harry. He’s an old friend of mine who’s going to travel with us a little way.”

Stephen came to meet them halfway. Harry did bow and say, “Pleased to meet you, sir,” in proper manner, but then added, “May I ride with you, sir?”

Stephen looked startled and Laura said, “He must remember doing that with Hal. No, Harry, not today. When we get to Merrymead, your grandfather and Uncle Ned will take you riding.”

“May I get in the coach, Mama?”

“Of course. Off you go.”

He raced to the coach as if speed would make the journey start sooner.

“A charming lad,” Stephen said.

“Yes, but the next two days will take fortitude.”

“No nursemaid?”

“I never take her. She’s not needed at Merrymead. How far can you come with us?”

She meant,
When can we talk?

“To Andover.”

About twenty miles and two changes. It would do.

Harry was hanging out of the carriage and calling for her to hurry, so she did. She was as keen to be away as he. Nan took a tearful farewell, Stephen mounted, and they were off.

Laura looked back at Caldfort House as long as she could, but that was only for the relief she felt when it finally slid out of sight with no sign of Jack Gardeyne in hot pursuit. Harry was now safe.