Clandestine (19 page)

“Cook appears to have taken a liking to me,” he said lightly. “As has the second dairymaid—thus the fresh buns and the butter and cream.”

Sarah laughed, though a pang of sympathy for Cook, for the dairymaid—and even for Lady Overbridge and Lady Whitely—pierced her heart. For all the sad females, even herself, who had ever wanted to capture this exquisite man for themselves alone, and never would.

“The lake,” she said dryly, “is filled with broken hearts.”

A shadow flickered in his eyes for a moment, but he gave her a quizzical smile. “We may certainly admire the view of the water as we break our fast. The lake was designed to be as picturesque as possible. As are the antler table and chairs: charming, pretty, and only a little uncomfortable.”

Guy pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.

“Thank you, sir. I'd be very glad for some hot coffee.”

He opened a floury white cloth to reveal hot currant buns, dusted with sugar. “And a bun?”

Sarah nodded and they ate breakfast in a companionable silence.

She tried to ignore the vigorous warmth of his presence, radiating comfort into the chill morning. Yet the shape of his hands—strong and square-boned—seared into her consciousness as if she studied a masterpiece of design.

Her nostrils opened on the scent of leaves and leather and clean linen, enticingly masculine scents, mingling with the aroma of coffee and fresh buns.

When she thought he wasn't looking, she glanced directly at his face. The tip of his tongue licked a trace of coffee from his lips and fired cravings so profound she felt almost faint.

At last he set down his cup and leaned back to look at her.

Sarah glanced away to suck a little sugar from her fingers, knowing that a telltale warmth crept up her cheeks as if her skin reflected the banked fire in his eyes.

“I cannot blame you,” he said quietly. “If it were my cousin, all the demons in hell couldn't stop me from pursuing her. Yet I would still rest a great deal easier if you'd leave your quest to me.”

She set her half-eaten bun back on the cloth. “Because there are many kinds of danger?”

“Yes, if you like.” His tone was guarded.

“I promise that you can trust me to be careful, sir. Besides, if we're looking for a gardener, I can surely be of help? No one will think it odd for a botany teacher to ask questions about orchids.”

His dark gaze fixed on her face. That deep shiver of desire coursed along her bones.

“Then we're in this together, Mrs. Callaway, come hell, come high water. I'll do everything in my power to shield you, but if you remain here I can't guarantee that the consequences won't be profound. Do you accept that?”

“I embrace it,” she said, though her voice sounded strange in her own ears, as if she promised a fairy king her firstborn child, and didn't know it. “Rachel is far more naïve than I am, sir. She's the one we must think of protecting, not me. So, yes, I accept the risks—of every kind—to myself, and I do so willingly. I'm grateful for your help, but the heart of this quest is still mine.”

He pushed away from the table to gaze from the window. The faint light, fey, otherworldly, glimmered along his profile.

Falling in love with a man you could never have was agonizing as well as enthralling.

“Falcorne's description fits half the men in South Devon: brown-haired, blue-eyed, not too tall, the local accent. No particular distinguishing characteristics, except for the dirt beneath his fingernails and his knowledge of roses and orchids. However, he was in London for about three weeks, from around the middle of May through the first week of June, which narrows the field considerably.”

“Then it can't be Mr. Pearse. He hasn't left Buckleigh all summer. That's how he managed to get the cattleya to bloom.”

Guy Devoran glanced back at her. “Are you sure?”

Her heart thumped. She stared down at the table. “Not sure, no. I suppose one of the under-gardeners could have taken over for a few weeks.”

“The truth of that should be easy enough to discover—unless everyone here is part of some conspiracy. Did Pearse say where he acquired his plants?”

“No, but I can find out.”

“You don't need to do it alone,” he said gently. “I've already arranged outings to the neighborhood hothouses. You'll be included, of course.”

Sarah looked up. She could not interpret his mood. It was almost as if he surrendered to something inevitable against his better judgment.

“And there's surely no physical danger,” she said.

He smiled with a dry self-mockery. “If there is, you may rely on my strong right arm and the blood of Ambrose de Verrant to defend your life and your virtue.”

She tried to keep her voice light and knew she would fail. “So you think Daedalus's gardener may be dangerous, after all?”

He glanced back at the lake. A swan was gliding serenely across the gray water.

“Falcorne's probably not a violent man himself. He hired some local thugs to carry out his orders in London. So in this, at least, the risks should be limited.”

“I'll be as discreet in my inquiries as a mouse nibbling behind the wainscot,” she said. “No one will even notice me. But you've already planned outings? Won't it seem odd if you show such a sudden interest in orchids?”

“Not sudden.”

An even faster pulse began in Sarah's blood, as if a new flower opened to reveal unexpected treasures at the heart.

“I don't understand,” she said.

Still staring out over the water, he propped his hip on the windowsill to swing one booted foot from the knee. “It's no secret. I first became interested on behalf of my sister, Lucinda. She loves exotic flowers, as does my aunt. Thus, the orchid room at Blackdown House is mostly my doing.”

She felt stunned. “But you gave no indication of that when we were there!”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Then you really did come to Buckleigh to see the orchids?”

He laughed. “And not Annabella Overbridge…or Lottie Whitely…or to find a wife among the eligible girls?”

“But Lady Overbridge believes you've arranged these outings for her sake?”

“Probably. I don't know. But while you're conversing with the gardeners, I shall enthuse over the latest imports with the master of the house. As delightfully bizarre as it may seem, it would appear that Daedalus is another orchid fancier. Unfortunately, since orchids are the latest craze, so are half of the wealthy gentlemen in Devon.”

“But we're talking about only five or six, aren't we? You said Daedalus must own one of the great houses in the area.”

As if driven by restlessness, he strode to the doorway. The sun was breaking through the trees. A shimmer of gold outlined his lean silhouette.

“And if we're lucky, only one gardener will meet all of our criteria, and we'll have him identified within the week. After which, you may safely leave Daedalus to me.”

“And Rachel?”

He shrugged. “I trust we'll soon discover the key to her whereabouts. In the meantime, you and I will need to meet privately again to exchange information. I'll let you know when and where.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I know that you could still have sent me away, if you'd wished. In spite of the bracelet, you didn't have to allow me to come here.”

“No,” he said. “Perhaps I did.”

Sarah stared up at him in bewilderment.

Cool sunlight traced his dark hair and broad shoulders and traced lovingly over the perfect lines of his face. The soft cooing of doves echoed through the trees. Blackbirds twittered from hundreds of red throats. Seemingly no longer aware of her, Guy Devoran stood encased in silence, his head tipped and his eyes closed, as if he exalted in the sound.

A deep disquiet trickled up her spine, as if the birdsong called up the ancient spirits of the woods, ready to strike stark awe into any mortal heart.

The pain and ecstasy of unrequited love pierced like a rapier. Sarah stood up and swept the crumbs from the table into one palm, then tipped them from the window.

Three swans, their necks arched, now sailed on the quiet water.

“Do you know, Mrs. Callaway,” Guy Devoran said suddenly, “that you are quite simply balm to my soul?”

Her heart lurched as she spun back to face him, though she tried to laugh. “I am? Why?”

He leaned one shoulder against the jamb and crossed his arms over his chest. His dark eyes were watching her with that burning intensity. Awareness of a new kind of hazard started to hammer beneath her corset, robbing her of breath.

“Because, though I keep reminding you of the perils of this venture,” he said, “I detect no flutter of female hysterics.”

She stepped around the table, her hands busy gathering cups. “I assure you that inside I'm feeling every ounce of womanish trepidation that you could wish, Mr. Devoran.”

“Then don't,” he said. “There's no reason for Daedalus to suspect you. I wanted to send you away for my sake, not yours.”

Sarah tied up the cloth and tried to speak lightly. “I can't think why!”

Yet the pulse was pounding, deep in her gut, making her giddy. The Deer Hut was tiny, the floor uneven. As she hurried, her heel caught on a high piece of antler.

She stumbled. The cloth bundle thumped back onto the table.

He caught her by both arms.

Sarah tried to step back. With the grace of easy strength Guy Devoran set her at arm's length, but he did not release her.

She looked up and was instantly consumed by his black fire.

Even though it burned with something of bitterness—

Even though she thought that he despised his own desires—

Even though she believed his ardor to be entirely random—not personal, not for
her
—Sarah knew with every fiber of her being that she wanted him to kiss her.

Hot flames burned over her skin at the certain knowledge that he wanted it, too.

She had never gathered men's attention for her prettiness—that was Rachel's gift, not hers—yet that shameful sensuality had always lurked at the core, like the dark, sticky heart of a monk's head orchid.

For a moment they stood as if locked in mortal combat, then his hands dropped away.

He spun about and seized the tied cloth from the table. His boots struck hard as he strode to the doorway.

He hesitated for only a second on the threshold to glance back at her.

“Yes,” he said. “There are indeed many kinds of danger, Mrs. Callaway.”

I
T RAINED STEADILY FOR MOST OF THE NEXT DAY, A WARM
summer rain that soaked the gardens and streamed over the glass. Sticky air hung oppressively over the orchids. No one felt like taking an outing in a carriage. Since the gentlemen were also trapped inside, the ladies declared themselves bored with painting flowers. No one needed Mrs. Callaway.

So while the guests played cards and games of dice, or read, or strolled up and down the long gallery, Sarah visited Mr. Pearse in his cottage in the grounds.

Mud tracked from her boots as she came back into the house. Feeling damp and disheveled, she dropped the hood of her cloak and brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her forehead. Frizzy curls always sprang annoyingly about her face whenever the weather was wet.

She turned to go up to her room and stopped dead.

Guy Devoran was lounging against a statue of Minerva. His dark eyes bored into hers for a moment, then his gaze settled on her lips.

As if he held a cool flame to her skin, heat brushed her mouth.

Sarah gathered her wits and glanced away. He stepped back to allow her to pass, but as she did so he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Tonight. An hour after midnight. The box room at the north end of the corridor that leads to the schoolroom.”

Her pulse raced, with alarm, with awareness of every kind of danger, as she glanced up at him.

The dark fire burned, leading into unfathomable depths.

Without waiting for her answer, he spun about and strode away.

G
UY
climbed hand over hand up the wall above his bedroom balcony, swung onto a ledge, then up the slightly more difficult facade above that. Ornamental stonework was useful as well as decorative!

He climbed easily over the roof to the nursery wing. The slates were slippery with moss, but it had stopped raining several hours before, and bright moonlight was shredding the clouds.

As he had ascertained earlier, the latch on the window was broken.

He slipped silently over the sill into the dark box room.

“Good heavens,” Sarah Callaway said. “You came over the rooftops? I'm impressed.”

She was sitting on top of what appeared to be a seaman's chest from the previous century. Her plain, dark gown disappeared into shadows, but her hair was combed back from her forehead to be confined severely beneath a white lace cap.

The lace glimmered a little in the moonlight. For a moment a vision intruded of the nimbus of copper hair that had encircled her face like a halo when she'd come in from the garden—though his visceral reaction to that had been anything but saintly.

Guy closed the window and propped his hips against the sill, keeping the safety of several feet between himself and Sarah Callaway.

“When I arrange clandestine meetings after midnight,” he said, “I owe it to melodrama not to simply walk along corridors and open doors.”

“You also owe it to discretion,” she replied. “If you were seen in any of those corridors, each lady would only assume that you were visiting the bedroom of her rival. Then everyone would be cross.”

“Except me.”

Her little chuckle floated softly on the night air. “Yet it would still create unfortunate social tensions.”

Guy breathed in the scent of green apples. “No doubt. Especially since tomorrow promises to be fine. We shall take five carriages to visit Mr. Barry Norris, whose orchid collection may be interesting. Meanwhile, I managed to find out from my chambermaid that Lord Uxhampton's gardener is a doddering old fellow with white hair, and that Uxhampton hates anything exotic. Molly's not a particularly garrulous girl, but Uxhampton's man is her grandfather. He grows neither roses, nor orchids. Thus he may be dismissed from our search.”

“And Mr. Norris?”

“I don't know. Did you discover anything from Mr. Pearse?”

His eyes were adjusting to the dim light. Faintly tawny against her pale skin, her brows drew together in a small frown.

“Not really. He'll talk freely about how he grows his flowers, but there's an odd wall of reluctance should one venture into any other topic.”

“A reluctance that seems general,” he said. “None of the servants is eager to talk about anything that goes on in this part of Devon.”

“Mr. Pearse even seemed annoyed when his wife let slip that he'd not left Buckleigh all year, though I'm certain that's the truth. All I learned in the end is that his new orchids came from Conrad Loddiges and Sons in Hackney.”

“Loddiges is a major importer, so there's no surprise there. Pearse wouldn't say who fetched them?”

Sarah's fingers stroked idly along the iron bands on the trunk, as if she were embarrassed not to be able to offer him more, then she looked up. Desire rose in his blood like a tidal wave. God! For what? To seduce the cousin of his latest mistress?

“When I asked him directly, he changed the subject as if I were asking for the secret of the Gordian knot. I didn't dare press him, so I had to let it go.”

“That's all right,” he said. “I never thought Pearse was Falcorne, because I'm damned certain that Overbridge isn't Daedalus. Why would he persecute your cousin for her favors, when he's besotted with his wife?”

“I agree,” she said. “That seems impossible.”

Guy paced to the fireplace. “That is who we're looking for, isn't it? Either an unmarried man, or a man who'd go mad over another woman?”

“If Rachel's letters are to be believed,” she said. “But you're the one who proved how untrustworthy she can be.”

He laughed then, because for all the intensity of his desire, he also took the simplest of pleasures in her quick mind.

“Of course. We've no real idea of anyone's motives in all this.”

“Could this Mr. Norris be Daedalus?”

“Barry Norris is certainly an odd fish. All bluff manner and heartiness, but there's a shrewdly calculating brain behind it.”

“And he collects orchids?”

“Yes, but not seriously. Norris buys a few plants because they're the fashion and he can afford it. Now we've eliminated Uxhampton, our only other real suspects are Lord Moorefield and Lord Whiddon. No one else in the area has the necessary resources, though Moorefield's a pretty minor collector.”

“And Lord Whiddon?”

“Is quite manic for orchids. He's also a bachelor and a recluse. It won't be easy to get an invitation to visit him.”

“So you think he might be our main suspect?”

“Except that he doesn't seem the type to persecute a woman.”

“Does he ever send his gardener to London to buy his plants for him?”

Guy turned from his desperate contemplation of the cold grate to stare at the scudding clouds outside. “Of course, though that doesn't mean it's the same man.”

Sarah slipped from the chest and stood up. Moonlight cast her in shades of silver and gray. Her skin gleamed like the surface of a pearl.

“Can't you simply ask Lady Overbridge who brought her orchids back to Buckleigh?”

“I already have. But Annabella has no more idea of how her gardens and hothouses are maintained than she does of the little girls who embroider her ball gowns, or how her meals appear on the table.”

“You sound as if you don't quite approve,” she said.

Guy stalked to the window. “Of a lady who takes no care for the conditions of the people who sustain her pretty lifestyle? No, I don't.”

“Good heavens,” she said. “You're a radical, Mr. Devoran?”

He laughed. “Why the mockery, Mrs. Callaway? I suspect you share my opinions in this.”

“Yes, but I've been forced to earn my living—”

“Whereas I'm merely idle and useless? I've not forgotten.”

Even in the shifting light, he knew that hot color raced over her face. Yet she bit her lip as if to prevent herself from laughing aloud.

“I was a little rude in the bookstore, wasn't I?”

“Very,” he replied. “But we were strangers.”

“Which only makes it all the worse,” she said. “I behaved very badly.”

“Then we should not remain strangers.”

She plunked herself back onto the seaman's chest and tipped her head as she gazed at him. “Is this revenge?”

“No,” he said. “Simple justice—though you're under no obligation to oblige. I'm just curious.”

“I don't have any secrets, sir. What do you wish to know?”

Guy tried to keep his manner casual, though a battle waged in his heart. His determination to remain detached fought valiantly with his burning desire to learn all about her—and lost.

“How did you come to marry Captain Callaway?” he asked. “You said he was some years older than you?”

“Fifteen, to be exact. He courted me and I accepted him. He owned a little house near Yarmouth, where he maintained warehouses. Everyone thought it a very good match.”

“You didn't love him?”

She smoothed a fold of her skirt with one hand. “Not at first. But in the end, yes, very much.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I have no right to pry. I didn't mean to distress you.”

The curve of her shoulder and neck glimmered in the moonlight. She gazed down at her moving fingers.

“No. I'd rather like to be able to tell someone. If no one ever speaks of him, it's as if he never existed. But I didn't marry him for love. I married for security.”

Guy sank onto his haunches and leaned both shoulders against the wall. He had asked, because he desperately wanted to understand her. Yet it was as if he had carelessly lifted the lid of an ornamental box expecting to find the usual contents—scissors or sealing wax—and instead found himself staring into the depths of a profoundly painful honesty.

“Tell me whatever you wish,” he said quietly. “Nothing you say will ever go beyond these four walls.”

Sarah Callaway dropped the pleat of fabric and stood up. Her skirts rustled softly as she walked back and forth.

“I had no other real prospects and I wanted a home of my own. So when John—Captain Callaway—offered for me, I said yes. But we'd been married for only a few weeks when he went to Norwich on business, and was brought home in a cart. He'd collapsed suddenly on Elm Street.”

“He couldn't walk?”

She shook her head. “He never walked again. He'd carried some fragments of metal in his spine ever since Waterloo. The doctors said there was nothing they could do.”

“So you nursed him?”

“Yes, for three months. I knew he was in excruciating pain, but he was kind and funny and clever, and he never complained. I'd never imagined that anyone could be so brave. That's when I fell in love with him.”

“Then he was a lucky man,” Guy said.

“Lucky to die so painfully?” Her voice cut harshly across the cool air.

“No. Lucky to have won your love honestly and die knowing that.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I wasn't honest.”

Guy carefully studied his boots. “Why do you say that?”

Her skirts rustled as she moved restlessly in the dark. “Because while John lay ill a fire swept through our warehouses, and I didn't tell him. People innocent of any wrongdoing lost everything they had stored there, and they had to be compensated right away. Meanwhile, the bill for the insurance lay lost among piles of other papers, because I had neglected to pay it.”

“You cannot blame yourself for that.”

“No? When John had worked so hard? In spite of his pain, he tried to teach me how to run the business. Yet a lifetime of work had already turned into debts, because of my mistake, and everything was already lost!”

“There are times when kindness must outweigh honesty,” he said.

Silence breathed quietly for a moment. Moonlight dappled her rigid back. A softer light gleamed on her cheek, where a few strands of hair had escaped from her cap.

“Was that my excuse? I suppose so. I was forced to sell the house a few weeks before John died, and it was only luck that enabled me to keep that a secret. The buyers didn't need to take possession until after the funeral.”

“Yet he died knowing that you loved him.”

“Was that enough?” she asked.

“God, yes!”

Her shoes rapped as she stalked across the room. “I don't know, Mr. Devoran. You see, John knew that I was hiding something, and it worried him. One day he tried to ask me what was wrong. Yet the moment he saw my distress, he made a joke and changed the subject: out of kindness to me, his silly wife, who'd allowed his life's work to go up in flames.”

“Because she was nursing him and had grown to love him,” Guy said. “And knew where her highest priorities lay—as he did.”