Skylark (23 page)

“You’d think so,” said Stephen, “but it’s proving tricky for law-abiding citizens.”

Kerslake laughed. “I’m no dab hand at breaking and entering, but if you can’t manage it legally, I’ll have someone help you. Shame old Elsie Musbury’s dead. She owned this place before Topham and had been hand in glove with smugglers all her life. Topham’s a new man from Exmouth way. He knows what’s what, but I can’t trust him as I would Elsie.”

Stephen nodded. “What if Farouk has supporters standing by? Would you know of unexplained bullyboys in the area?”

“Certainly, but would they be that? As you said, they could masquerade as a family or as other orderly visitors.”

“You mean they could be anyone?” Laura asked, thinking of the various people they’d met today.

“Not anyone. Most people here now are local or long-term visitors, but sensible villains announce their identity no more than smuggling masters do. In fact, it seems strange to me that this Farouk is creating such a stir.”

“He could never pass for an English gentleman,” Stephen said.

“True, but from what I hear, he’s almost making a point of being peculiar.”

“That bears thinking on. But who in this area could be called suspicious?”

“No one,” Kerslake said. “It’s my business to know of possible preventive men.”

“Do the forces of law and order sometimes prowl around in disguise?” Laura asked.

“They do anything they can to catch us.”

“I saw two military men as we arrived,” Laura said. “One army, one navy.”

“Captain Sillitoe, RN, cousin of a local family. Captain Trainor of the Buffs, attending his grandmother. We’re keeping an eye on both just in case, but neither has acted out of character.”

“I’m impressed,” Stephen said.

“I told you, knowing these things is my business. I keep the trade going because it’s the main means of support for many along the coast, especially this year, with the poor harvest and the economy going to hell with the peace. My main intent, however, is to avoid violence and keep my people out of jail.”

Laura was beginning to have considerable respect for young Captain Drake.

Kerslake rose. “I need to be off. I’ll find out about children and other unexplained strangers, but I suspect the action is all here. Do you have a plan? If you want to break the prisoner out now, I can arrange it.”

Stephen smiled. “Not yet. You see, we don’t know what we should do. Even if Dyer is Henry Gardeyne, we have an unexplained decade of absence. We also have a cripple. In body only, or in mind? He might not be the sort of man who should be given control of an English estate and all the people dependent on it.”

“Ah.”

Laura studied the man. “You don’t seem shocked, Mr. Kerslake.”

He turned to her. “My predecessor as Earl of Wyvern was insane, Mrs. Gardeyne, but not enough to be confined, which was unfortunate. He did considerable damage. If someone had prevented his reign, it would have been a blessing.”

“Then you understand why we have to try to find out more before taking any action. Because . . .”

“Because when you liberate him, you might wish to cage him elsewhere. I’d offer Crag Wyvern except that it might tip a delicate mind into madness all by itself. I do know some safe places, however.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Stephen murmured.

Kerslake’s lips twitched. “There’s a farm not far inland from here where the people are completely trustworthy. If you liberate Gardeyne but don’t want him on the loose, take him to Stonewell Farm. I’ll draw a map.”

He took out a tablet of paper and drew roads and signs. On the back he scribbled a note of introduction. “I’ll stop by Stonewell on my way home and warn the Huddlers. No details, just that they might need to keep a man confined for a day or two.”

Laura found herself again feeling that she’d landed in an unreal world where these shocking things were taken as normal.

He passed the paper to Stephen. “They’ll be happy it’s not smuggling business. That’s getting risky. That’s one problem about the end of the war,” he said, putting away his tablet and picking up his riding cloak. “Too many ex-officers willing to become preventive men, and the navy with not enough to do, creating trouble all over the place. That’s the only reason the slaves of Algiers were liberated, you know. A fighting navy with nothing else to do.”

“And that expedition cost a shocking number of lives for little direct value to Britain.”

“Freedom,” Laura protested. “Thousands of Christian slaves were freed, and one was from Berkshire.”

“A handful were English, yes. But only a handful.”

“So we should care less about foreigners?”

“Resources are never infinite, Laura, so they must be used with discrimination.”

Kerslake swung on his cloak. “I’ll leave you to the ethical debate and pursue the practical.” But he added to Stephen, “The key to ending smuggling is to lower taxes to reasonable levels. I intend to apply myself to that when I’m in the House of Lords. Will I have your support in the Commons?”

“Certainly.” The two men shook hands. “And now you’re associated with the Rogues, there’ll be others.”

“So I gather. Life takes strange turns, doesn’t it? Less than a year ago I was an estate manager with no weightier responsibility than that.”

He turned to bow to Laura, and she thought of one more thing.

“Could you alert us if the Reverend Jack Gardeyne arrives in the area? Lord Caldfort will probably send him here at some point.”

“Of course.”

He left, and Laura said, “A very impressive man.”

“I certainly look forward to working with him in London. So, what do we do now?”

“I’m puzzling over something,” she said. “Something about Kerslake . . .”

“What?”

But she’d realized what, and it wasn’t something she wished to speak about. The oddness was that the young man had never once looked at her with the interest, or just the acknowledgement of beauty, that she’d come to accept as her due. How terrible that she was so accustomed to it. Perhaps this time in disguise would be good for her. Like a penitential fast.

She moved on to other matters. “So we have only Farouk and Dyer to deal with, and our hypothesis, that Dyer is Henry Gardeyne. I was thinking about that during the sermon.”

“Tut-tut.”

She grinned at him. “I was thinking that if Henry is alive, he must have changed. I’m going to reproduce my copy of his portrait and try to age him.”

“An excellent idea.”

Did he seem surprised?

She went to get her drawing portfolio and returned to find Stephen gone. He reappeared from his room. “Just checking the wall, but I think that’s hopeless. They’d have to bellow for us to hear what they’re saying.”

“We might hear more through the doors.”

“I thought of that, but didn’t you notice how the boards in the corridor squeak? Embarrassing to be caught out there. More to the point, it might make them suspicious. We don’t want them to make a run for it before we’ve sorted it all out.”

She sighed and sat in a chair that caught the light. “It seems such a simple problem, doesn’t it? But it has us stumped.” She took out a clean sheet of paper and set to work. “When I’ve done this, we still have to find a way to compare it to Dyer. Perhaps when Farouk goes out . . .”

“Locked doors,” he reminded her.

“They could be locked from the inside.”

“Why?”

“Ah-ha! So you do think he’s a prisoner. Thus, he’s Henry Gardeyne!”

He laughed. “Checkmate. But I’m not willing to make any assumptions.”

“Nor am I . . .” An idea occurred. “I think what I need to do is ‘accidentally’ leave the altered picture where people can see it. Mrs. Grantleigh, Topham, the servants.”

“An excellent idea!” He leaned closer to look at her work. “What would ten years do to a man? Surely they can’t have been comfortable ones. Adventuring. Imprisonment?”

Laura looked up from the light outline she’d drawn.

“Didn’t the maid say Captain Dyer is pale? Some English people were imprisoned in France.”

“But they were all released in 1814.”

“Perhaps he was badly injured and has only just made it home.”

“With an Egyptian servant? That is damned peculiar.”

“It all is,” she complained. “But I won’t give up hope. Sit for me, Stephen. I need to see how a man’s face changes.”

He obliged, moving a chair opposite, but said, “I must point out that I’m not Gardeyne’s age. I’m only twenty-six.”

She smiled as she studied him. “I promise you, I do not see you as aged. Or,” she added, “stuffy.”

Their eyes met in wary acknowledgement of that kiss, but they weren’t ready to talk about it yet.

Laura seized the excuse to make a quick sketch of Stephen, capturing the elegant lines that his body seemed to fall into so naturally, his long hands, and his high, intelligent forehead. She conveyed his features with a few strokes, unwilling to linger there. Long, straight nose, high cheekbones, flared brows, and clever lips.

She wasn’t sure why that word came to mind, but it did. He’d always had expressive lips. When he saw her studying him, they turned up slightly in a guarded question.

“How do you see me, then?” he asked.

That thought startled her with its brutal honesty, but Stephen—any man—deserved better than to be used to slake a widow’s hunger. She returned to the drawing of Gardeyne and chose a safe response. “As a very good friend.”

When she looked up again it seemed to her that Stephen’s lips had hardened. Did he want to be more? Would a quiet life with Stephen not be so dull after all?

Later. There would be time enough later to work through all of this. She blinkered her mind on the task of creating a picture of an older Henry Gardeyne. That youthful roundness would have gone. Would he be as lean as Stephen? Frail, someone had said. She thinned the face close to the bone, hinted at sunken eyes, then turned the happy smile bitter. The hair?

Men wore their hair shorter now, so she removed most of the poetical locks. She fiddled with it, then passed it to Stephen. “I think he looks too old now. It’s all guesswork.”

“Older, but perhaps not too much so if he’s had a hard time of it. He’s even slightly familiar. More of a resemblance to Reverend Gardeyne, perhaps.”

Laura moved the drawing so they could both see it. “I don’t see that except in the general Gardeyne features. Jack is fleshy. A bit more like Hal, perhaps.” But then she pulled a face. “It feels lifeless to me. I’ve never tried to do an imaginary portrait before. I don’t know how.”

“It’ll do. We know what we’re looking for now, and perhaps a glimpse in a window will be enough. Let’s get you out for another dose of sea air, spyglass in hand. Sooner or later the man must obligingly sit at his window.”

“It will be more difficult to study the inn during daylight.”

He rose and rang the bell. “Heroes relish a challenge.”

“Heroes?” she queried.

“We are equal in this enterprise, I think.”

That warmed her, a warmth that lingered as she put on her outer clothing. Equals. For much of her life she’d not even considered that. She’d accepted that women, for all their qualities and abilities, were not the equals of men.

When had that changed? Perhaps some time in the past year when she’d had no husband, and when his substitute, Lord Caldfort, had been so obviously frail in mind and body. But perhaps the final straw had been Jack.

Jack was the sort of man who expected to command women by right, but she’d never felt any inclination to bow down. Once she’d suspected that he wanted to harm Harry, he’d become her enemy. One could not feel subservient to an enemy.

When they left the inn, Stephen kept his mind fixed on their purpose, but it was an effort. Moment by moment, Laura was shredding his sanity. He was even beginning to read wicked interest in her friendly glances.

“Let’s move behind that wooden rig,” he said. “We can probably study the Compass from there without being too obvious.”

She agreed and they ambled down onto the beach in that direction.

“What is this?” she asked as they moved into position.

He looked at the tall timbers. “Perhaps something to support a boat in the building?”

From within the ugly, concealing bonnet, framed by faded curls and dark circles, her blue eyes sparkled. “Does it hurt to admit to ignorance about something?”

He smiled back. “Of course not. There are vast fields of human knowledge that have escaped me.”

“Really? I’ve always been in awe of your knowledge.”

A rational man would appreciate being admired for his mind.

He turned toward the Compass and focused the lens. “The curtains are up, but I see no one.” He turned the telescope back out to sea. “Plenty of ships.”

He passed the glass to her and she scanned the waves. After a while, she swung the spyglass around, pausing on one building after another until she could settle on the inn.

“You’re right. Nothing to see.” She lowered the glass and gave it to him. “We can’t stay here doing this for long without being thought peculiar.”

“Let’s do one brisk walk along the front,” he said, putting away the telescope. “That will be expected.”

“Not too brisk,” she reminded him as they walked back up to the road. “I’m frail.”

“Perhaps I should hire a chair. I could wheel you up and down.”

She grinned at him. “That might be fun.”

“Cousin Priscilla,” he said with a quelling look, “does not enjoy fun.”

“Yes, she does. She finds her fun in gossip and nosiness.”

Laura found it was hard to be Cousin Priscilla while strolling in the autumn sunshine arm in arm with Stephen, especially when the rustle of the waves seemed to whisper of wickedness.