Skylark (7 page)

“And that dress is likely older, ma’am! I only chose it because I thought you might need to do more sick-room duty.”

Laura looked down and saw that she was indeed in one of her oldest, simplest dresses. It had been a favorite once and that was probably why she’d kept it, but only for the messiest household tasks.

Not one she’d have chosen for greeting any guests, let alone Stephen.

She spread the skirt. “You’d never know, but it was lovely once. A leaf-green stripe on white.” And now the stripes were faded like tired leaves, the white yellowed. “I do believe this dates from before my marriage.”

Before her marriage, indeed.

She’d been wearing this gown—the green fresh, the white pure—when Stephen had proposed.

Had he recognized it? What had he thought?

“Come along, do, ma’am, or you’ll be late!”

Laura went into her bedchamber but she couldn’t stop memories breaking through the barriers she’d erected around them.

A June picnic at Ancross, hosted by Stephen’s parents up on the hill that was crowned by the ruin of ancient Ancross Castle. Her whole family there and most of Stephen’s, along with Hal and his hosts, the Oxholmes, and some other local families.

Most of the party had still been eating in a sheltered, sunny spot, but she, Charlotte, and Stephen had taken Hal on a tour of the ruins.

Charlotte had teased Hal to help her climb the crumbling stone steps to the tower. Had Charlotte been jealous that such an eligible gentleman had asked for Laura’s hand? Laura had never considered that before, but it was probably the case.

She and Stephen had dallied on the ground. The ruins were familiar and held no great interest anymore, and perhaps she’d been thinking that she didn’t want to risk her lovely new gown in the climb.

But they’d stopped while the other two had gone on.

Why . . . ?

Because they’d been caught by the song of a skylark.

It was as if she could hear the beautiful tune now. They were not so common around lush Caldfort, so it was a sound she associated with her home.

The bird had shot up not far from their feet, perhaps because they’d come too close to its nest. As skylarks do, it had soared up, singing to distract them, climbing and climbing. There was only one way to watch a skylark, so they’d sunk to the ground and lain back, eyes on the pristine blue sky as the bird became a dot too small to distinguish.

As presented by her memory, it had been one of those perfect moments when nature seems heavenly, with no hint of predators, blight, or storms.

Once a skylark was out of sight, the only thing to do was to wait for it to descend in the mad plunge that always seemed suicidal but never was.

She had never seen the bird return.

Stephen had sat up, then pulled her up to sitting. Then he’d asked her to change her mind, to marry him, not Hal. To wait a few years until he finished his legal studies . . .

Catherine began to undo buttons, pulling Laura out of the past. She swallowed and managed not to shudder.

Stephen could not possibly think she’d worn this dress to torment him. Coincidence again, which meant his arrival here was the same, and there was no particular significance to it. She had only to survive dinner. Tomorrow he would leave.

She washed, then put on her one silk mourning dress. A dull weave, as was appropriate, and an equally dull lilac color. She was suddenly desperately tired of these mourning shades. Even the bilious old dress was preferable.

For a moment she considered her wardrobe of rich colors, but then put that aside. She would give Hal his full twelve-month due, and she certainly could not feed Lady Caldfort’s twisted mind by appearing for dinner in fine feathers. Heaven knows what she would say.

She could wear pearls instead of jet and steel, however, and so she did so. That raised her spirits a little, but the lilac-trimmed cap that matched the gown made them plummet. Purple shades had never suited her, but she’d given the matter no thought before tonight.

She glanced at the clock. She must go down to make sure all was in order for a guest. Not too soon, however. She always calculated her arrival in Lord Caldfort’s study so that she would have to spend as little time as possible there before dinner was announced.

On the other hand, she suddenly thought being early might provide an opportunity to look for the cause of Lord Caldfort’s distress. He always made the laborious journey across to his bedchamber to change, and he’d take especial care for a guest. If she hurried down now, the room might be empty and she could . . .

What?

Poke around in the desk? Read Lord Caldfort’s correspondence? The very idea appalled her, but she steeled herself. She’d break into the Tower of London if it was necessary to protect Harry.

She glanced at the clock and hurried downstairs. The study door was open, as it always was from the time Lord Caldfort went to his bedchamber until they went in to dinner. She braced herself, feeling as if her wicked intent must be obvious, and walked in. Her struggle was for nothing. Lord Caldfort was there, in his chair by the fire.

He scowled at her. “Isn’t it time for you to be in colors? That tired old thing you had on earlier was more cheerful than that.”

How very peculiar that he was echoing her own earlier thoughts. It was hardly sympathy, however. He was complaining as usual, which was why she always avoided these moments.

“It is not yet a year, sir.”

“Damn near enough. If I don’t care, why should you?”

She met his pouched eyes. “I will give Hal his due.” Before he could jab at her anymore she asked, “How are you, sir? I hope the day’s alarms haven’t weakened you.”

“Alarms?” He stiffened as if he’d try to rise from his chair. “There’s been more than one? And I haven’t been told?”

“An exaggeration,” she said quickly. “Sir Stephen’s arrival was not an alarm, but it was unexpected.”

He sank back down. “That it was. Pack of trouble, guests are, but he’s a sensible man, for a youngster. Old friend of your family, I gather.”

She was surprised Stephen had mentioned it. “His family estate lies three miles from Merrymead, yes. And, of course, he’s member for our local town, Barham.”

They talked of her home area without much interest on either side until Stephen and Lady Caldfort came in together. Not arm in arm, Laura noted, though she was sure Stephen had offered.

Lady Caldfort halted near the door to wait in her usual impatient silence, but at least she seemed willing to wait. Stephen shrugged slightly and came forward to converse with Lord Caldfort.

Since they spoke of military pensions, Laura seized the chance to stroll about the modest, book-lined room. She looked for letters, though she didn’t expect to find any lying out in the open. More to the point, she studied the desk. Though shocked at herself, she faced the fact that she was going to try to search it in order to read the letters that had arrived today.

The inlaid, walnut, bowfront desk had seven drawers, three in each pedestal and one in the center. All had brass lock plates, and none had a key sitting in it. She assumed the desk would follow the normal pattern and one key would fit all the locks, but without that one key she would be at a loss. She could hardly force open the drawers. It would leave marks.

She looked casually over the top of the desk. No key was obvious. There were two small boxes—one of inlaid wood and another carved from onyx—but she couldn’t poke around in them. Not now, at least.

Later tonight, when the house was quiet, she was going to have to return here and do just that.

It was possible that Lord Caldfort kept the key on him, but he frequently complained that getting anything out of his pockets with his swollen hands was a “plaguey nuisance.” She strolled back to his side and confirmed at a glance that he didn’t wear a watch chain or any fobs where a key could be hung.

He might give the key to his valet for safekeeping, but why? She didn’t think he kept anything of value in the desk, and having to send for King to lock and unlock would amount to another plaguey nuisance. So where would it be . . . ?

“Laura?”

She started and found Lord Caldfort standing, braced by a hand on his chair and another on his cane.

“We are summoned to table,” Stephen said, extending his arm.

She blushed as she took it, and they followed Lord and Lady Caldfort. For once, Lady Caldfort was keeping pace with her husband’s slow progress.

Laura’s blush wasn’t just embarrassment at her distraction. There had been a question in Stephen’s eye and she didn’t want him alerted to mysteries. To distract him, she said, “I’ve been trying to remember when we last met. Some social occasion in London. A glittering one.”

“The Arden wedding ball.”

“Oh, yes!” She in red; he looking splendid in dark evening clothes. “The social event of last year.”

“And a successful one. The Ardens are now blessed with a son.”

“It was in all the papers. I gather the christening was magnificent, too.”

“But of course. The next heir to Belcraven. Though Beth Arden seems determined to raise the child in as normal a manner as possible for a future duke.”

She glanced at him, surprised that he seemed intimate with such an aristocratic family when his circle was more that of the political reformers. But then she remembered.

“The Rogues,” she said. “Arden is one of the Company of Rogues, your group of friends at Harrow. You’re all still close?”

Too late, she recognized danger. Talking of youthful matters, of more intimate days, felt like stepping near the edge of an unreliable cliff.

“Did I really bore you with stories of them that much?” he asked wryly. “But yes, Arden is a Rogue, and we keep in touch.”

“Lord Darius Debenham was one, too, wasn’t he? I thought of that when I read the news of his miraculous return. You must all be delighted.”

They had reached the table and he merely said, “Yes,” as he seated her, then went around to his place opposite.

“How is Lord Darius?” She glanced to either side. “We are speaking of the Duke of Yeovil’s younger son, who was thought lost at Waterloo, but who was discovered recently, still suffering from his wounds.”

“Fishy business,” Lord Caldfort muttered. “Gone a year?”

“A head wound, sir,” Stephen said. “That plus the effect of opium for the pain.”

“Mad, is he?”

“No, sir.”

Stephen’s face and tone were equable, but Laura could tell he was angry. Before Lord Caldfort could speak again, he said, “The treatment of soldiers maddened by war is one of the matters under discussion. . . .”

The conversation became safely impersonal.

Deft, but that didn’t surprise Laura. Even when young, Stephen had been tactful and skilled at manipulating people. Which was why his awkward proposal had been particularly shocking . . .

She blocked that.

The conversation was now firmly political, however, which meant that Lord Caldfort was acting as if the women at the table didn’t exist. Stephen glanced at Laura, and she sent him a reassuring smile.

Lady Caldfort was frowning, but at least she wasn’t beating her spoon on the table or screaming for the meal. There was no need, anyway. Thomas entered with the soup. As it was served, Laura allowed herself to study Stephen.

The Political Dandy. When she’d first heard him called that, it had amused her, for he’d given no thought to clothes when young. But then she’d realized that he’d always made the simplest garments look their best.

When she’d next seen him in London she’d noted that his clothes were elegant in the subtle way made fashionable by Brummell. He wasn’t precisely a dandy, even so, but it had become the thing to designate men who dressed well that way. The Racing Dandy. The Hunting Dandy. The Golden Dandy.

She chose stewed eels and surveyed Stephen’s current style.

He was all muted colors, but there was no suggestion of mourning. His coat and pantaloons were plain black, his waistcoat a beautiful damask of beige, black, and silver. His cravat was tied in one of the complicated knots men prided themselves on and held in place with one touch of color, a swirling jeweled pin. Emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds, alive in the candlelight.

She suddenly remembered that pin. He’d been wearing it at the Arden ball. Wasn’t something grand enough for that occasion out of place here?

As she ate, ignoring the conversation as easily as it ignored her, Laura considered that event.

Hal had been cock-a-hoop at being invited. He and Arden were hunting-field acquaintances, but no more than that. He’d wanted to show her off and urged her to order a new gown.

She’d chosen a gown of daring red, wide on the shoulders and low on her back, which was veiled only by a lattice of ribbons. Hal had given her rubies to wear with it. The gown had been a huge success, and she’d enjoyed the event until they’d encountered Stephen.

Hal had called him over, mentioning something about Melton. She’d been surprised that Stephen stole time from politics for sport.

Stephen, she remembered, had been perfectly polite. But he’d given them the courtesy a gentleman reserved for strangers or for those he did not like. She’d thought it was directed at her, but then she’d become aware that Hal had forgotten that he was in a ballroom in London rather than in the Old Club in Melton.

She’d steered him away from Stephen and guided him through the evening so that there’d been no disaster. But she remembered wishing that she’d not attended, even when Hal had crowned the event later with particularly vigorous lovemaking. That had been the first time that she’d felt ashamed of Hal, and she’d known then that it was because of that encounter with Stephen.

She’d not returned to London again that year, and in November, Hal had died.