A Gentleman Never Tells (11 page)

“I say, where the devil do you hear such things?” demanded Alexandra.

“Novels. And we’ll all come bounding in, shouting
Aha!
just like a play.” She clapped her hands. “Perfect!”

“But I can’t!” said Lilibet. Her pulse pounded in her temples; she dropped back into her chair with a defeated thump. “I can’t possibly!”

Abigail reached out to pat her hand. “Oh, we shan’t let it go too far, of course. You and your impregnable virtue.”

“It’s out of the question.” Lilibet jerked her hand back and knotted it with the other one in her lap. She took in a deep breath, letting the kitchen scents of rosemary and baking bread spread through her mind, warm and comforting.

“Just a
tiny
tear, Lilibet. I’ll mend it myself. Lord Somerton need never know.”

“Well, he
will
know, won’t he?” Lilibet said, picking at her dress. “When he reads the advertisement in the
Times
.”

Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll tell the men the advertisement is unnecessary.”

“They’ll tell everybody, when they return to town.”

“Not if we ask them to remain silent.” Abigail smiled. “Wallingford’s a bounder, but he’s an honorable bounder. More or less.”

Alexandra, who had been sitting quietly throughout, eyes fixed to the table, now cleared her throat. “You know, I really don’t see that any of this is necessary. The men usually keep to their wing of the castle, and we to ours. What’s the difference?” Her voice was oddly soft.

“Because it’s such good fun, of course. Come now,” Abigail said, turning to Lilibet. Her brown eyes glittered. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have the place to ourselves? To be free of them, once and for all?”

A meditative sound came from the direction of Signorina Morini’s throat. Lilibet looked over just in time to catch a small shake of the housekeeper’s head, her shiny dark hair escaping her kerchief to curl about her forehead and the nape of her neck. Behind her, the immense hearth glowed with the remains of the fire, hissing and popping in a comforting rhythm; the white beeswax candles in the sconces flickered in warm yellow circles against the plaster walls.

Lilibet put her hands atop the table and drew a circle into the worn wood, acutely conscious of the tiny unknown speck, low in her belly, fighting for survival. In a few months she would be unable to conceal its existence. What would Roland say, what would he do, if he suspected?

She knew the answer. He’d never let a child of his be raised with Somerton’s name. He’d confront her husband, force a divorce; she’d lose her son, lose her friends, lose her good name. She’d be left with only this new life growing within her, this new baby, and Roland’s fleeting attention, before his passion cooled and his attention wandered. Ostracism, shame, exile, heartbreak: She could taste them in her mouth already, bitter and pungent, a slow poison of the soul.

She looked back up at Abigail’s eager elfin face. “So, my dear. How exactly do you propose to arrange this meeting?”

*  *  *

T
he tiny creak of a floorboard outside the library warned Roland of an intruder.

He went still in his chair, absorbing every detail of the space around him. The musty smells of old leather and damp wood and warm plaster wound through his nostrils; the heavy air hung motionless next to his ears, holding the towering shelves of books in place. Outside the open doorway, a shadow moved against the wall, slight and hesitant.

Roland smiled.

“Come on in, old fellow,” he said, placing his thumb inside the crease of his book and closing the pages from view. “It’s the man’s side of the house, after all.”

A small head peered around the doorframe. “Sir?”

“Come in, come in.” Roland set the book aside and stood. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

Philip took a step forward. “No, sir. Not exactly. I’m meant to be taking my bath just now.”

“Oh yes. I quite understand. Baths not at all the thing for a spirited chap like yourself. Glass of . . . er . . .” He glanced at the tray of decanters on the lamp table. “Water?”

“No, thank you, sir.” Philip took a few more steps and stopped, straightening his shoulders, fingers plucking at his sleeves. His white sailor’s jacket had been removed, as well as his shoes and stockings, but he’d apparently made good his escape before shirt and shorts could be addressed.

“Yes. Well, then.” Roland put his hands behind his back. “What seems to be the matter, young man?”

“Well, sir.” Philip’s throat worked. He put his own hands behind his back, looking stiff and rather touchingly brave. He took a deep breath that seemed to envelop his entire body, and then said, in a rush: “You’re the matter, sir.”

“
I’m
the matter?”

“Yes, sir. You . . . in the orchard today . . . you made my mother cry.”

The floor seemed to fall away beneath Roland’s feet. He put out one hand to catch himself on the leather back of the chair from which he’d just risen. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I
what
?”

Philip’s young voice gained strength with the force of righteous conviction. “After she talked to you. I gave her the flowers, and she . . . she had tears, sir. She tried to hide it, like she always does, but I can tell. Sir.”

Like she always does.

“I . . . well, I’m awfully sorry.” His voice sounded distant in his own ears. His thoughts scrambled about, trying to gain a foothold somewhere, trying to right themselves. “I’d no idea. She seemed all right, at the time.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Well, about . . .”
For God’s sake, Penhallow. You’re a grown man. A damned intelligence agent. Get your wits about you
. “Look here, young man. Perhaps you’d like to sit down a bit.” He patted the back of the chair. “Right here, next to the fire. Still a bit chilly, inside these stone walls.”

The boy hesitated, tracing a wary glance from the chair to Roland and back. The fire made a loud pop, cracking through the silence, and as if the sound were a signal, Philip drew forward and crept into the chair.

Roland smiled and went to the decanter tray. Among Wallingford’s first actions had been the removal of all spirits from the house, though wine had been tacitly saved from this edict and, after some debate, fortified wine as well. One couldn’t live in decency without one’s sherry, after all. But the library decanter contained only water, fresh and virtuous, drawn from the kitchen well every morning and evening and tasting sweetly of nothing at all. He found a glass and poured off a stiff bumper for Philip.

“Here you are, old chap,” he said, handing the glass to the boy. “Thirsty work, wandering about castles at bedtime.”

“Thank you, sir.” Philip took a cautious sip.

Roland sat down on the nearby sofa and leaned forward, settling his forearms on his thighs, trapping the fine wool of his trousers in place. “Now then. I expect you know, or perhaps you don’t, that I knew your mother a long time ago, in London. Before she met your father.”

Philip nodded. “Were you friends?”

“Very good friends. I thought your mother a charming person. I hope . . . I hope I shall always consider her my friend, and she mine.”

Philip nodded again and took another drink. “Then why did you make her cry?”

Roland knotted his fingers together, digging the nails into his skin. His gaze fell to the rug before him, old and worn, its colors and pattern long lost to the soles of booted feet. “I didn’t mean to. We were talking about the old days, you see, and perhaps she was a bit nostalgic.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, it’s when you remember the old days, when you were younger. The good times you had. And things are different now, not better or worse, just different. But sometimes you miss the old times.” Roland looked up. “Does that make any sense?”

Philip’s round, childlike face wore an expression of startlingly ferocious concentration. “I don’t know. Was that why she was crying?”

“I expect so. I hope I didn’t say anything to make her unhappy. I’d hate to make your mother unhappy.”

“You’d better not,” said Philip. “I’d punch your lights out.”

Roland blinked. “Yes. Well. We can’t have that.”

“My father would find out. He’d punch your lights out, too.”

Blood tingled in the tip of Roland’s nose and across his cheekbones. “Would he, now?”

Philip sighed. “Yes.”

Roland chose his words carefully. “Does he do that sort of thing often?”

A shrug. “Father’s always cross. When I was three, or four, four and seven months, I think, I found one of Mama’s dolls under the bed and we went riding on the horse together . . .”

“The horse?”

“In the
nursery
. The horse in the
nursery
.” Philip’s small voice dripped with scorn for slow-witted grown-ups.

“Oh. Oh yes. The rocking horse?”

“Yes! And we rode all across the fields and the roads and Father came up and he shouted . . .” Philip stopped. His eyes went round, and he gave Roland a beseeching look. “You can’t tell Mama.”

“No. No, of course not. What . . .” Roland swallowed. “What else did your papa do?”

Philip slithered off the leather chair. “Is that a horse book?”

Roland snatched the volume away just in time. “No. No, a dull old grown-up book, not at all interesting.” He sprang from the sofa. “Horse books, eh? You like horses?”

“So much. I want to ride in the Derby when I grow up, except Mama probably won’t let me. She never lets me do anything amusing.” Philip’s eyes meandered around Roland’s back, trying to glimpse the hidden book.

Roland reached high and shoved the book haphazardly between two treatises on Roman architecture. “Ah, well. Mothers are like that. Anyway, I daresay you’ll be far too large to ride the Derby. You’ve got a solid, broad-shouldered look to you. Ah, here we are. Horses.” He pulled down an ancient volume and swiped at the mildew with his sleeve.

“Oh, ripping!” Philip exclaimed. He tore the book from Roland’s hands and plopped directly onto the worn carpet. “Warhorses!”

Roland sat down before him, legs crossed, and cocked his head to examine the cover. “
Equus Belli
. So it is.”

Philip was already flipping the pages with a fanatic’s fascination. “Look at this one! Blimey! What’s this mean?” He proffered the page in Roland’s direction.

Roland read the Latin caption. “‘Here gallops Bucephalus, steed of Alexander the Great.’ A legend, that one. Great black beast of a horse.”

“Who was Alexander the Great?”

“Only the greatest general who ever lived, old fellow. Ruled from Macedonia to Asia Minor. Do you know who tutored him?”

“No.”

“Aristotle, my boy. Aristotle himself.”

Philip squinted his eyes. “The Greek fellow?”

“Clever lad. They say”—Roland pointed to the engraving—“Alexander tamed the beast when he was ten years old. No one else could do it.”

“I should like to try it!” Philip’s hand passed reverently over the drawing. He turned the page, his head bowed in concentration, his tousled dark hair glinting in the light from the nearby lamp. The bones of his shoulders poked with determination against the white linen of his shirt.

The fire whispered nearby, growing feeble; Roland rose and added coal from the old iron scuttle. He sat down again exactly as he had before, legs crossed, his knees hovering near the enormous leather binding of
EQUUS BELLI
and Philip’s bowed head.

Somerton’s boy. Except that, somehow, in the past several hours, he had ceased being Somerton’s boy and became Lilibet’s boy. The curve of his cheek, the soft nape of his neck, those sturdy bones straining against his shirt: They were all a part of her. He had grown inside her, nursed at her breast, tucked his body into hers for comfort. She loved him.

Philip looked up with hopeful black eyes, and this time Roland didn’t see Somerton in them at all. “Will you read this to me, please?” the boy asked.

Roland cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes. More Latin, you see. Wretched stuff, Latin. Do you know what my brother and I used to say, when we were boys?”

“You mean the duke?”

“Yes. We used to say,
Latin’s a dead language, as dead as it can be. First it killed the Romans, and now it’s killing me
.”

Philip giggled.

“Used to chant it to our tutor all the time, poor chap.”

“What did he do? Did he strop you?” Philip’s voice rose with bloodthirsty glee.

“No, more’s the pity. He tried to scold us, but we ran off. Eventually my grandfather had to set us straight.”

“Your grandfather?”

Roland smiled and chucked Philip under the chin. “The Duke of Olympia. Terrifying fellow.”

Philip smiled back and looked down at the page before him. “The Duke of Olympia. I daresay he owns a great many horses, doesn’t he?”

“A great many.” Roland shifted his body, peered over the page, and began to translate, rapidly and without flaw, Plutarch’s account of the taming of Bucephalus.

So deeply engrossed they were, Roland never noticed the rapid drum of footsteps outside the door until it was too late.

*  *  *

R
oland
.

The word died on Lilibet’s lips. She stared, back and forth, between the startled faces of Lord Roland Penhallow and her son, sitting cross-legged on the library floor on either side of a massive book.

Philip recovered first. “Mama!” he cried, and hurled himself across the floor and into her arms.

“Darling, there you are! You had us all worried to death!” She pressed his small lithe body into hers so fiercely, she nearly tattooed him into her ribs.

“Awfully sorry.” Roland’s voice reached out across the room, lyric and genial. “Should have realized he’d be reported absent without leave.”

“You ought to have told me!” she snapped. Her eyes were still closed, buried with the rest of her face in the soft cloud of Philip’s hair. She inhaled his scent, sunshine and green things, laced with the warm bakery smell of the kitchen.

“It’s not his fault!” Philip’s words muffled against her chest. “I asked him to read to me about Bruce . . . Buce . . .”

“Bucephalus,” Roland said, still distant. “But your mother’s quite right. I ought to have taken you back at once.”