Clandestine (17 page)

If Daedalus had truly intended murder, he'd have used different lackeys and Rachel would be dead. Yet who knew if, or when, that might change?

Marie Louise was a pink damask rose.

The paler Queen of Denmark, a recent introduction from France, bloomed with the blush of Sarah Callaway's cheeks during her most agitated moments.

Charles de Mills, a dark scarlet gallica, was a close enough relative of the old velvet roses of the apothecaries, though anyone knowledgeable about flowers could easily tell the difference.

More chillingly, the monk's head and the ruby-lipped cattleya were both orchids: expensive, sensual, exotic orchids.

And the man spoke with a South Devon accent. The most unnerving condemnation of Guy's decisions that Mr. Stainbull could have made.

Falcorne had dirt under his fingernails and had expert knowledge of flowers. Not a gentleman, but a gentleman's gardener, who had been sent up from Dartmoor to carry out the attacks against Rachel, while Daedalus himself remained at home.

And Guy Devoran—gallant cousin to the clever St. Georges—had just sent Sarah Callaway to teach botany to Lady Overbridge's guests at Buckleigh, where the grounds ran right up to the edge of the moor.

T
HOUGH
no one appeared to be watching or following him, Guy waited till full dark to slip into his townhouse from the mews. As soon as he entered the kitchen he ripped off the filthy neckerchief and tossed aside his knife. A basin of water waited. Guy washed his hands, and walked into his study to pour himself a brandy.

A letter waited on his desk. He tore open Jack's dragon seal and unfolded the single sheet. The entire missive was in code.

Guy stared thoughtfully into his glass. He had always known that Rachel couldn't really have been a scullery maid by trade. He just hadn't been sure how long it had been since she had lived as a lady. From Jack's observations, it had not been more than a few days.

So where the hell—and how—had she lived for the five months after she had left Grail Hall, before he first met her at the Three Barrels?

She had fled to Knight's Cottage after that, only to come to him eight months later and allow him to seduce her. They had lived together in the house with the chimneys. Yet Rachel had never trusted him enough to tell him the truth about her identity or her past. Instead she had woven a fabrication of fairy tales, and then she had left.

With that knowledge burrowing like a worm in his soul, Guy rang for his manservant and ordered a hot bath, before taking the stairs two at a time to his bedroom. While he waited for the clang of the cans, he stripped naked and dashed cold water from the pitcher onto his face and head.

Rivulets raced down his body. Rubbing a towel vigorously over his chest, he strode to the dresser to toss clean clothes for the evening onto the bed.

While his man packed what he'd need for a house party in Devon—and commandeered the fastest traveling carriage and horses remaining in the Blackdown House stables—Guy would have a few hours in which to interview the men he had sent to gather any remaining information in London.

He would, of course, do so dressed once again as a gentleman. In that same disguise he would travel night and day down to Buckleigh.

His arrival would result in a great deal of female twittering, though not from Sarah Callaway. She might blush a little, or glance away with that exquisite diffidence, but dignity was as natural to her as breathing.

Meanwhile, tracking down the facts at Grail Hall would have to be delegated. He pulled out a sheet of paper and dashed off another coded note to Jack.

Thumping and banging betrayed the arrival of the servants with hot water for his bath. Guy threw aside the towel and stalked into the attached dressing room.

Though he acknowledged the men's efforts with a smile, eyes black with rage stared back at him from the mirror. A naked man betrayed neither rank nor education. How deeply embroiled in falsehood must such a man be, before he relinquished his right to the title of English gentleman?

Fortunately, no one would doubt his exalted status, or his honor, in Devon, where both Sarah and Rachel were now staying on Daedalus's doorstep.

M
R. D
EVORAN
!” L
ADY
O
VERBRIDGE CRIED, HOLDING OUT
both hands. “We were so afraid that you wouldn't come.”

“Quite! Quite!” His Lordship huffed up to join his wife. “Glad to have you, Devoran! Promises to be a bang-up show if this weather holds, don't you know! Excellent pugilist here from Exeter, a half-decent trainer if you've the mind to try your fives against some of the other gentlemen.”

“Your servant, my lord, my lady! Delighted!” Guy stopped at a safe distance and bowed.

Nevertheless, Her Ladyship walked up to take his arm. Dark brown ringlets emphasized her white neck. With only the slightest hint of affectation, she laughed up at him to show off teeth that were even and small. As if to echo their beauty, she wore pearl drops in her ears and another on a gold chain around her neck.

Annabella Overbridge was very young and very pretty, and her husband was the kind of strapping sportsman who still believed in female innocence.

“You'll allow me to show you to your room myself, Mr. Devoran,” Lady Overbridge said. “The other ladies are all agog to have you join our little party, but of course you must refresh yourself first.” She tossed her ringlets. The pearls danced. “I must know every detail of your journey. I insist!”

His Lordship smiled indulgently and turned to leave. “Hear all your news later, Devoran!”

Guy surrendered with good grace. To look about for Sarah Callaway—to betray impatience for that frank golden gaze, the madness of red hair, and skin as dappled as the shade of a young tree—would be the height of bad manners.

Annabella played idly with the single pearl at her throat as they walked toward the stairs. Dancing brown eyes sparkled. Pearly teeth glistened. She chattered brightly about her house party, the weather, and the latest gossip.

Guy ignored most of it, except to make a mental inventory of the other guests' names: five unmarried girls with their chaperons, four young bachelors, not counting himself, and three married couples, besides his host and hostess.

One of those married ladies, a fragile blonde, stepped around a corner, then pretended surprise. She tittered with delight and threw up both hands.

“Why, Mr. Devoran!” Lady Whitely dropped a provocative curtsy and glanced up beneath her eyelashes. The invitation was impossible to mistake. “We ladies have been laying wagers on your arrival, sir! Only I was so completely sure that you would come to Buckleigh that I risked twenty guineas.”

Guy bowed with chill perfection. “Then I am gratified that you did not lose your gold over me, Lady Whitely.”

She gazed knowingly up at him, then flounced away to gaze up at a portrait. The stance showed off her long neck and elegant carriage. Huge chintz sleeves framed her tiny waist. A pretty woman with a poisonous tongue and a husband who drank too much.

“Well, anyone might have doubted it when you dallied in town for so long, Mr. Devoran,” she said archly. “Though if you had other motives than your interest in orchids for wishing to include that redheaded schoolteacher here at Buckleigh, I am sure I have far too much discretion to even hint at it.”

“Oh, my dear!” Lady Overbridge clutched Guy's arm and giggled. “How can you say so?”

To her credit—perhaps—Lottie Whitely blushed.

“Certainly, anyone would wonder at such a thing when Mrs. Callaway is so very plain, while Mr. Devoran is so very—” She giggled and glanced back at him. “Well, sir! Have you nothing to say?”

Guy allowed the silence to grow like a thunderhead, before he smiled with all the hauteur of a direct descendant of Ambrose de Verrant.

“Allow me to assure you, ma'am, that I barely know the lady. I was merely the humble messenger of the future Duchess of Blackdown, who thought Mrs. Callaway's presence here might amuse.”

Lady Whitely smoothed one hand over her waist, as if to rivet his eyes to her figure.

“Oh, I was only teasing, sir. We all know that you've simply taken pity on a poor hero's widow and asked Annabella to give her a few weeks' employment. All the ladies agree that it's just the kind of thoughtful gesture Mr. Guy Devoran would make.”

“And Mrs. Callaway is so knowledgeable about plants!” Lady Overbridge exclaimed. “So interesting! She's become quite the rage at Buckleigh, sir. Though it's our modest little orchid collection that's really brought you down to Devon, I'm sure.”

“Not at all,” Guy said. “I look forward to spending time with the company.”

“Oh, you don't fool me, sir! We all know that orchids are your secret passion.” Her smile lit up her pretty face. “I certainly intend to show you mine!”

Lady Whitely twirled a wheaten strand of hair in her fingers and pouted. “All of the ladies have been dedicated to painting watercolors of the gardens. You'll find our efforts very silly, no doubt, sir, but we're all quite delighted with Mrs. Callaway.”

A passionate rage had begun to burn beneath his heart. Guy ignored it and bowed his head.

“Alas, I have little knowledge of watercolors, ma'am, though I trust I may enjoy fencing with your husband. Your servant, Lady Whitely.”

He spun away to usher his hostess up the stairs. Lady Whitely flounced off in chintz indignation.

Glowing with excitement, Lady Overbridge showed him into a guest suite, where Guy's valet already waited with a hot bath and his luggage. She walked about for a few moments, touching ornaments, checking the towels, as if trying to make sure of his comfort.

Guy crossed his arms and watched her. The fire might be easier to handle than the frying pan. It was certainly less toxic, so he would try to be a little gentler as he doused it.

“You'll forgive Lady Whitely's indiscretion, I trust, Mr. Devoran?” Annabella Overbridge said with a bright glance from her dark eyes. “She means no harm.”

“It's already forgotten, ma'am.”

She straightened the bed hangings. “We've given Mrs. Callaway a little chamber by the nursery. She and our governess may share meals up there and keep each other company. Will that suit, do you think? I'd so hate there to be any awkwardness.”

“Awkwardness, ma'am?”

She trailed her fingertips over the pillows. “Oh, I am being silly! The very idea that you might have taken such a plain creature in any particular interest! Why, it's laughable!”

Very pretty and very foolish, but perhaps her boredom with her marriage was not entirely her fault. It was not hard to find a little compassion for a young woman who was facing a lifetime of disappointment.

Lady Overbridge whirled about and walked to the door, but she stopped in the doorway, not hiding her reluctance to leave.

“Had I truly thought you wished it, sir, I should have placed Mrs. Callaway in a room closer to yours.” Her eyelashes fluttered as she glanced away with ladylike delicacy. “But this wing is our very best.” She gestured in the general direction of the stairs. “Lord Overbridge occupies that suite at the end of the hall, but my own room is right here”—she blushed scarlet as she pointed—“next door to yours. Lord Overbridge always wishes me to accommodate my guests in every way.”

Guy bit back a sudden urge to laughter. He would not be able to leave his room without passing hers—yet he intended such a desperately celibate stay!

The thought caught him out. Why? Because Sarah would be sleeping under the same roof?

He was about to spend the evening with these prettier ladies in their exaggerated dresses. They would surround him like a mass of overblown roses, while Sarah Callaway—the alien, delicate orchid—was relegated to the nursery to have her dinner on a tray.

“Your husband is most kind, ma'am,” he said.

“The unmarried ladies and gentlemen are all staying in the opposite wing,” Lady Overbridge added, her words tumbling in a rush, “but Lord and Lady Whitely have those two rooms on the other side of the stairs.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “I shouldn't wish to stumble into the wrong bedchamber by mistake.”

His hostess touched one pearl earring and giggled before she walked away down the hallway.

Guy closed the door behind her, strode to the window, and threw it open.

He could not reach the stairs without risking a meeting with either Lady Whitely or Lady Overbridge, should either female decide to lay in wait for him. Fortunately, a stone balcony embraced the window opening. He stepped onto it and looked down. The wall was climbable. Thank God for that!

Breathing in the fresh country air, he surveyed the view for a moment. Glinting like a silver ribbon, a sea inlet led away south to the Channel. The heights of Dartmoor dominated the skyline to the north.

Closer at hand, beyond a set of stone-flagged terraces, to the right of the orangery, swans glided serenely beneath an ornamental bridge.

In the room behind him his valet coughed discreetly into a closed fist.

Guy's bath was ready. His fresh clothes were laid out for dinner.

His desire to dive fully clothed into that lake of cold water would have to wait.

G
UY
heard her voice as he walked into the orchid house the next morning. It sounded cool and restrained, speaking in a quiet undertone, yet his pulse quickened.

He had spent the morning with the other men, obliged to take part in various manly pursuits, while the female guests twittered on the sidelines.

Lord Overbridge, puce with incipient apoplexy, had tried in vain to keep up with the other men in a forced march around the grounds, followed by practice with rapiers.

Lord Whitely, lean and fit and vivid with intensity, had walked and fenced with the passion of a man whose wife did not hesitate to cheer on his opponent, while—as pretty as an apple tree in full bloom—Lady Whitely had regaled her companions with her sparkling wit.

Hadn't Mr. Devoran learned his skills with his cousins at Wyldshay from the best fencing masters in the kingdom? His style was so beautiful, so strong and commanding! His reach was so much longer than her poor husband's! Lady Whitely would wager anyone that Mr. Devoran would flatten her spouse into dust.

For the sake of social harmony, Guy had instead allowed the jealous husband to win. Lottie Whitely had sulked and turned her back, but a little ripple had stirred through the unmarried girls like wind through wheat.

They thought Mr. Devoran's self-sacrifice—for surely that was what it was—noble.

None of them knew the dark impatience that burned in Guy's soul. He wanted only to luxuriate in the presence of Sarah Callaway: sensuous, mysterious, vibrantly colored—and speckled like the petals of a spotted cattleya.

Yet the power of his craving to see her clashed with a dread that he was poised on the threshold of dishonor, that the magic of her voice alone would seduce him from his principles.

“You induced it to bloom like this?” she was saying. “I've never seen one before, not even at Blackdown House. You must be very skilled indeed, Mr. Pearse.”

“Well, to be honest, ma'am, it was mostly luck.” The gardener's voice was solid, with a strong Dartmoor buzz. “But we're very warm and sheltered here, and Her Ladyship hasn't stinted with the glass. Perhaps that accounts for it.”

Guy walked forward, his shoes tapping quietly on the tile floor.

Sarah was bending over two immense purple blooms, her tightly plaited hair a dull orange beneath the wide brim of a straw hat. Long green bonnet ribbons floated over the sleeves of her plain white dress.

Not layered with a frippery of petals like a rose. An orchid. Simply the most sensual woman he had ever met.

She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps, and her color retreated like a tide, making her freckles seem startlingly dark. Yet her eyes shone with light, as if a tiger gazed into the heart of the sun. His entire body quickened.

“Mr. Devoran!”

The man standing beside her tugged at his forelock. “Good day, sir!”

“This is Mr. Pearse,” Sarah said, as if she and Guy were close friends who had been apart for only a few minutes. “Buckleigh's head gardener.” She pointed triumphantly to the flowers. “Look what he's managed to do!”

Guy tore his gaze from hers to glance down at the flowers bursting up from their container. The lavender-red blooms had exploded above a single leaf, the petals flung wide in open invitation. Their opulent throats shimmered. Intense golden shadows led deep into each secret heart.
Cattleya labiata Lindley.

“Cattleya labiata,”
she said. “Blooming now, in July!”

“Commonly known as the ruby-lipped cattleya,” Mr. Pearse said proudly, “begging your pardon, sir!”

His blood knew only his deep visceral reaction to Sarah—just the scent of her, just the simplicity of her presence—yet a buzz began in his brain that threatened to deafen him.