Gail Eastwood (13 page)

Lady Norbridge could not see her, for Venetia was careful to keep Cranford’s tall form between them until the last moment. She guessed that little would have distracted the countess from gazing at the viscount anyway—Lady Norbridge’s attraction to him was obvious. She only hoped that he was paying similar attention to the countess. Finally she was able to turn and make a run for the door.

“Damnation! There she goes,” cried Cranford, quite forgetting himself.

“Forgot to warn you that I cheat,” Venetia called back over her shoulder. If he chose to pursue her she would be in a worse coil than before.
Lady Norbridge, I am counting on you,
she prayed silently.

She needn’t have worried. Lady Norbridge latched on to Cranford’s arm as fast as a trout leaping for bait. “Let her go,” she heard the countess purr just as the door was closing. “Let someone else catch her. Now
we
can have a moment alone, instead.”

***

Later, after the game was over and Gilbey had managed to part from Lady Norbridge, he wandered out into the garden to think. He wondered which of the twins would appear at four o’clock, or if either of them would come at all. He had said nothing more about the meeting when both twins had appeared at the end of the game.

He, had known that the Lady “Vivian” he’d caught was really Venetia as soon as he had gotten a good look at her. It had occurred to him then that he had not seen the twins together since they had fled the stableyard that morning, although he had caught separate glimpses of what he had assumed was both twins all through the hours of the game.

Had Venetia been playing both twins all that time? He did not know. Certainly she had tried to fool him at the end. She had also pretended to be her sister on Monday on Sandler’s Hill. Had there been other times?

He tried looking at the questions from another angle. Did Vivian ever try to play Venetia? Had they switched places any time when both were present? He needed to consider that, but he did not think so. Why did they do it? He did not believe that it was purely mischief—the look in Venetia’s eyes was enough to tell him that. Was it one of their tests? Did Nicholas know? Surely he must be aware of these masquerades.

Gilbey pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.
Half an hour still to pass.
If either of the twins kept their appointment, how was he going to handle the meeting? With chagrin he admitted that everything depended upon who came.

Slowly he strolled through the gravel paths and paved terraces of the gardens, making his way toward the walkway that led to the walled garden. He had discovered this walk on an earlier exploration, and thought it somehow ironically fitting that his confrontation with the twins should take place here, in the one magical spot he most admired and enjoyed.

The spot Venetia had chosen held everything that he liked about Rivington—the history that engaged the scholar in him and the beauty that appealed to his artist’s eye. The stone wall that served as the west wall of the garden was an ancient relic left from the abbey or priory that had once stood in Rivington’s valley and its heavy stone arch and wooden door served as the garden entrance. The walkway ran parallel to this wall, under a pergola made from six pairs of stone columns. The entire frame of the pergola and much of the ancient wall beside it were covered with a profusion of the most delightfully exotic plant he had ever seen, with gracefully twisting, woody branches, feathery leaves, and long plumes of mauve and lavender blossoms.

It was the kind of spot that might inspire a man to love—if such a thing could be permitted. After this day, he might never feel the same about it again. He might not ever be here again. He walked slowly through the pergola, staring up into the canopy over his head, studying the interplay of blossom, leaf, and sunlight.

Absorbed in the patterns, he almost forgot why he was there and felt some surprise when he arrived at the end next to the arched doorway in the wall. He looked about, but saw no one as yet.

By the entrance of the walled garden,
she had said. Well, he was here. Now it remained to be seen if anyone else would be. He settled himself against the stone arch, where he could continue to study the flowering vines while he kept a watch on the walkway.

At what must have been precisely four o’clock, one of the twins came down the walk. She looked beautiful and fragile, a golden-haired vision in white, framed by flowers as delicate as she was. Was it Venetia, Venetia pretending to be Vivian, or Vivian herself? He studied her as she approached.

“I have been admiring your flowers,” he began cordially, removing his hat. “I have never seen anything like them.”

She smiled, stopping a few feet from him. “They are a particular pet of my father’s, sent by a friend in America. I was very small when the gardeners first put them in and were trying to coax them to grow. We were absolutely forbidden to touch them.”

“They seem to grow in great profusion, now.”

She sighed. “I wish my mother could see how they’ve begun to take over everything in these recent years. She loved them. We called them Chinese teahouse flowers, although I don’t know where she got that name. Since last year they have been named wisteria, after the American who had been cultivating them. I do think they are pretty.”

She reached up and broke off a single tendril of blossoms, holding it gently in her fingers.

“You are very knowledgeable, Lady Venetia. And I see you are not afraid to touch them now.”

She looked startled. “Why do you call me Venetia? I thought you and I were the ones with a discussion to finish.”

“Ah, refresh my memory. What was it we were discussing?”

“My sister.”

Ah,
he thought,
she has done her homework.
At some time she must have spoken with Vivian to find out what this was about.

“Almost correct,” he said “Your sister and I were discussing you.”

She looked chagrined. “No, you and I . . .”

“You and I have been playing games, and it is time to stop. You don’t fool me, Venetia. I have kept your little secrets, but now you owe me an explanation.”

“I am not Venetia—Lady Venetia, to you. I am Lady Vivian, and I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about, Lord Cranford.”

He had moved out from the doorway and now he circled around her. “I kept silent on Sandler’s Hill when you were parading around pretending to be your sister. I said nothing today, either.”
Let her wonder how much I have noticed,
he thought. “Are you planning to continue to do this all the rest of the time your guests are here? Do you enjoy making fools of everyone? Does it entertain you at our expense? A week and a half is a long time to expect me to continue to keep quiet about your masquerades.”

He thought if he upset her she might give in. He was wrong.

“What makes you think any of what you are saying is true?”

“I told you the first day I arrived that I could tell you and your sister apart, Venetia. With every day that passes, I learn more ways to distinguish you. You two may look alike, but in truth you are every bit as different as my twin sister and I. You toss your head like a wild stallion. Your sister tends to keep her eyes on her toes. When your sister looks up, she has an innocent, wide-eyed look of surprise about her. You always look as if you were born knowing all the answers. You have a way of turning your head to the side and looking down your nose at the same time that speaks volumes for your arrogance.” He did not add that the way this exposed her neck set his blood on fire.

“Stop! That all means nothing. Any actress can learn to imitate those things.”

“At least you admit that you have been acting.”

“No . . .”

This was not going at all the way he meant it to. He had meant to be gentle and offer his help. Instead they were arguing, the last thing he wanted.

“Venetia.” He spoke her name softly and reached for her hand. “I can prove that you are not Vivian.”

She might have been going to ask how, but he did not give her that much time. Slipping off his spectacles, he pulled her toward him, and taking advantage of her surprise, claimed her lips.

Dear God, she smelled of jasmine and tasted like honey. He could not get enough of her sweetness. He did not wish to frighten her, but he wanted—needed—more, and his kiss began to demand it. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, his loins, everywhere. He could feel her responding, and he brought her closer against him, as if he could make her warm softness one with him. His lips left hers and trailed down across her small jaw to her neck, where he nuzzled her soft skin. She moaned and he nearly lost the last shreds of his control.

“Venetia.” He whispered her name, resting his cheek against hers. “I could no more mistake you for someone else than I could my own self.” He knew he had to stop, to let her go. With the greatest reluctance, he drew back.

She was looking up at him, her clear blue-violet eyes now brimming with moisture. Damnation! He had not meant to make her cry. He tried to keep his voice gentle. “Don’t you know that you can trust me? Even Nicholas would tell you so. You are a fraud, Lady Venetia St. Aldwyn, and never more so than at this moment. I am asking you to be honest with me. Please, let me help you.”

Would she turn and walk away? The words had come out all wrong. But she just shook her head.

“I cannot.”

“Why?” He felt so close to reaching her. “Just tell me why.”

Chapter Thirteen

“You truly do not know, do you?”

If Venetia had harbored any lingering, secret doubts about Cranford, in that instant they were gone. Perhaps they had disappeared long before, even before the first time he had kissed her, but now she could no longer fool herself. She had tasted caring in his kiss, and total honesty. She practiced honesty so little now, she wondered that she could even recognize it.

He was waiting for her to say something more, holding out his handkerchief to her for the tears that had spilled over. She took it and mopped her eyes.

She did trust him, and trusting him restored her faith in Nicholas, too, that he would have such a friend. But her response to Cranford’s kisses had showed her that she felt more than trust—dangerously more. To have him help would be foolish, possibly disastrous. She could not trust herself.

No, she could not let him help. Above all, she could not tell him why. She needed to keep him at a safe distance—as far away as possible. Perhaps there was still a chance that she was not already in love with him. No matter what she felt, she had to put Vivian’s needs first.

Vivian trusts him,
came a wicked little voice. Vivian had liked and trusted him long before now. And they did need help. They were no closer now to finding out the blackmailer than when they had started—perhaps even less close. At least when they’d started she had been half sure the villain was him. Now she did not know what to think.

A man can investigate in ways Vivian and I cannot, simply because we are women,
she told herself. They had not dared to go to Nicholas for help; they feared he might expose their secret in his rush to do something heroic. Lord Cranford might be far better-suited to help them, with his quiet, unassuming manner and studious ways.

She looked at him. He was still waiting, his sea-colored eyes roaming her face as if he would read her thoughts flowing across it. She could not deny the attraction she felt to him. Even if she closed her eyes, she would still see the handsome angles of his long face, the silver highlights in his pale hair, those remarkable eyes behind their spectacles.

Was she wrong to refuse his help? Was she putting her own needs ahead of Vivian’s by doing so? In a week and a half he would be gone, she and Vivian would each be betrothed, and life would move on. Gould she not barricade her heart for that little while? Was she not strong enough to resist him? If she confessed the reason for her deceptions to him, he would have less reason to watch her or approach her. He could investigate other people instead. If she confided Vivian’s secret and the blackmail attempt, she need never divulge the rest of the truth, if she had not revealed it already in her kiss. Would he be horrified by what she told him? Was telling him what Vivian would want?

Someday you’ll have to trust someone,
Vivian had said—Vivian, who had suffered more and had even more to risk than Venetia did. She closed her eyes.

“My sister is an epileptic.”

There! She had told him. She tossed her head and looked away. Then, fearfully, she looked back, for she had to know his reaction.

His eyes were on hers. He was not smiling, but slowly he reached out for her hand and took it. He brushed it with his lips and then enclosed it between his own hands as if it were something precious and infinitely fragile.

“By God,” he said softly, exhaling as if he had been holding his breath, “that is a heavy burden indeed. It explains much.”

“You are not appalled?”

“I am surprised. She seems so perfectly normal.”

“She
is
perfectly normal,” Venetia answered vehemently. “She just happens to have occasional seizures. There is no harm to her or to anyone else, no matter what you may think you know or have heard. The problem is having to hide it because people do not understand, and not being able to predict when or how often the seizures occur.”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come, let us walk a bit. You can tell me about it, and we can make certain we are not overheard.”

They headed away from the walled garden entrance, following the walkway down to the end and turning onto a gravel path. Cranford steered them into open parts of the gardens where they could see that there was no one nearby. Venetia was grateful for this small sign of his understanding and sensitivity. She began to talk, unburdening herself more freely than she had ever done.

“Vivi was not born this way. Six years ago we were in a terrible accident. Vivian, my mother, and I were in our carriage, driving home from a visit to some friends. Father and Nicholas were riding behind us. We left much later than we had intended, and the road was very dark. Something happened—we hit a deep rut, or a wheel came off—I never knew, really. Our carriage overturned. It was terrifying! The horses were screaming, we were screaming, everything was falling around us, the cushions, the doors, big splinters of broken wood, but then suddenly I didn’t hear my mother or Vivian anymore. That frightened me more than anything.”

She closed her eyes, remembering. How many times that scene had been repeated in her nightmares! She felt Cranford’s hand cover her own at his elbow, and realized suddenly that she was trembling. She swallowed, trying to clear the tightness in her throat.

“I crawled out of the wreckage and saw my father cradling my mother against him. She was dead. I thought then that Vivian was, too. I don’t remember how we got home, or anything else at all about that night.

“All I remember of the next few days is the doctor coming and going, over and over again. Vivian was alive, but she had a head injury, and no one knew how it might affect her, or if she would die. A thousand times I wished I could trade places with her then—too late! Too late. I promised God I would take care of her if he would only let her live.”

Cranford had stopped, and now he took her into his arms. Tears were streaming down her face, and she could not stop them. “When she recovered, we thought everything would be fine. But my father could not get over the loss of our mother. And then Vivian’s seizures started. He would not—and still will not—accept them. He makes up any excuse—that she has delicate nerves, or that she is just overtired—anything to escape the truth. To have him react that way was bewildering, as if he had abandoned us when we needed him most. He refuses to accept that there is something besides death that he cannot control. Epilepsy is not allowed to exist in his world, in his family.

“Then there is Aunt Alice.” Venetia laughed bitterly. “She knows very well that my sister has fits. She believes that Vivian can control them and simply refuses—oh, it is so illogical! Sometimes I just want to shake her. She thinks Vivian does it to get our sympathy and attention, a way of dealing with the loss of our mother. Aunt Alice lives in fear that someone will find out about it.”

“And what of Nicholas?”

“He knows, of course. He tried to help, but as you must know, he is not here that much of the time. I think he often feels at a loss to know what to do—he is caught between Father and us.”

“Yes, I can see that.” His handkerchief was out again, but this time he kept it and very gently dried her tears himself. “You must feel very much alone at times.”

The comment was so perceptive and so unexpected, she left off staring at his waistcoat and looked up at him.

“You have tried to shoulder the burden all yourself.” His handsome face was full of sympathy and concern.
Who could not fall in love with such a man?

She stepped back from him and turned away, shaking her head as much to clear the thought as to deny his words. “Vivian has the greatest burden, having to live her life so carefully, always in doubt, always wondering when the next attack will come, never knowing for certain. She has to tolerate Father’s denial and Aunt Alice’s insensitivity, and the looks of the servants. Some of them are afraid of her, I know. The seizures are frightening, and she is always mortified afterward, as if she were at fault! It should have been my burden. I must do everything I can to help her.”

“Do most of your servants know?”

“Yes, most do. They are well paid, and there are not many positions like theirs in this area. A few would not stay when we first learned of the epilepsy, because they were afraid. But we have managed well enough in the years since then, until now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, this party. This insistence that Vivian and I should both marry. Our father’s decision that he will wait no longer.”

She had moved away as she talked, and now in just two easy, long strides, he made up the distance. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, he turned her to face him again.

“The tests, the schemes, the capriciousness for which you have become infamous—they have all been because of your sister’s affliction?”

She nodded, closing her eyes again. It was easier to talk if she did not face him. “They have all been because of my father, who will not see the danger in marriage for Vivian. It matters so much who she marries! She would be so much safer if she just stayed with me or with Nicholas.”

She opened her eyes and looked out past him, at the tree-fringed hills and the sky beyond Rivington. “Her husband will have absolute power over her. The wrong man could destroy her, even if he did not abuse her or commit her to a house for the insane. Yet, if we could find the right man, if such a man exists, she could have a chance for a life of happiness, even with the epilepsy. I would sacrifice anything to make that happen.”

“Even your own future?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“And just what would this paragon have to be like? Just in case I should happen across one,” he said.

She turned her gaze back to him and found him smiling. “He would have to be patient, and kind, and understanding . . .”
He would have to be like you,
she thought with dawning amazement. She felt as if a thunderbolt had struck her, but of course he did not notice.

“Willing to live with a secret?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Are those qualities indeed so difficult to find?”

“They seem to be. We have been looking for two years.”

She smiled.
But now we have found you!
Why had she not thought of him before now?
Because you were too busy falling in love with him yourself,
said the voice in her head.
Because he was only Nicholas’s friend, or maybe the blackmailer, or witless and boring—whatever other image you tried to put in the way.
She had only tried to protect herself; she knew she would never have been allowed to marry him. But perhaps there was a chance for Vivian. There might just be a way.

“I had always hoped that we would be successful,” she said, realizing that he expected some further comment. “But now my father forces us to choose from among the guests that he has gathered here. And there is also another who wishes to force our hands.”

He looked surprised. “Your aunt?”

She sighed. “She will be well pleased to see us married off, but it is not she. Someone among the guests knows our secret, and has threatened to expose us.”

She was astonished to see how quickly his expression changed. Color flooded into his cheeks and his brows drew down in anger. His eyes darkened. Suddenly he looked very much like a dangerous man.

“That is blackmail!”

She nodded and began to walk again. He fell into step beside her.

“To what end?”

“To force me into marriage with him.” A small stone had trespassed on the gravel path and she gave it a vicious kick. Cranford was curiously silent. Finally she said, “I must confess that for some time I thought it might be you.”

“Me?” He was clearly dumbfounded. She found that reassuring.

“I could not conceive that anyone else had a motive.”

“What was mine supposed to be?”

She glanced sideways at him. “Oh dear. This
is
awkward. Why did I have to mention it?”

He grasped her elbow and brought her to a stop. “Half a confession will not serve. Finish it.”

Her elbow was burning from his gentle touch. This would never do—she must go through with the rest of this, so there would be no more glances, no more touches between them.

“All right. I learned from Nicholas that you were in need of funds, to build back your estates. He—he said that your uncle had swindled you a few years ago.”

“That’s true,” he said, and then he laughed. Laughed! She thought most men would have been angry. “And when did you decide that I might not be the blackmailer?”

“When I realized that money might not be the only motive, and I could see that you were genuinely puzzled by what was happening here.” She could not admit that it had only been this morning.

“So, have you other suspects now?”

“Well, perhaps one.”

“What does Nicholas say about all this? Did he know you suspected me? What is he doing to help?”

“He does not know.”

***

To that point the conversation had made Gilbey feel as if all his emotions had been set off inside him like rockets in a box, bouncing and ricocheting in a dozen directions. But at that particular moment, the uppermost one was definitely anger.

“He-does-not-know? Anything? Do you mean to tell me that neither you nor Vivian has told him about this blackmail attempt?” He snatched his hand away from Venetia’s arm, for he realized that he had an overwhelming urge to shake her.

Making an effort to calm his voice, he said, “Please tell me if I understand this correctly. You have been trying to protect your sister’s secret, find her a husband, find yourself a husband, please your father, entertain these guests, and secretly thwart a blackmailer, all without any help?”

In the meekest of voices she said, “And unmask a bad poet.”

Gilbey threw up his arms to dispel the explosion inside him. “Who do you think you are, Boadicea?” he roared. In the heat of the moment he could not think of a better example. “Even she had the help of her troops!”

Truly, he had not meant to yell. Venetia stirred all kinds of passions in him that were best left alone. It only proved to him what he had already known—that a marriage based on love would be a disaster for the likes of him. Parting from her at the end of this visit was inevitable, and he knew it was for the best. He thought he could survive the pain if he knew she was betrothed to a decent man. The blackmailer had to be stopped.