Sharon Sobel (13 page)

“My friend, Miss Tavish, enjoys an understanding with a certain Mr. Banlowe, of our acquaintance,” Lark said, thinking it could do no harm to remind Janet of the fact.

Janet shrugged her soft shoulders. “It is nothing to prevent me from looking elsewhere. As well you know, my lady, I have not received a single missive from the gentleman since our arrival in Brighton. Nor do I expect one.”

“Ah, then it is settled.” Miss Hathawae hummed with pleasure. “But Lady Larkspur must endeavor to get well so Miss Tavish is no longer obliged to attend on her. Only then can she happily proceed with her relationship with the young man.”

As Lark attempted to fashion a suitable retort, Mary came skipping into the room.

“Mr. Queensman is here, my lady,” she said excitedly. Undoubtedly the sight of the absurd cabriolet had sent her into raptures.

“Do show him in, Mary,” Janet said graciously, and gathered her shawl from a nearby chair.

Their visitor entered at once, proving Janet’s point about his modesty by appearing in a well-cut dark jacket and gray trousers. His dark hair looked somewhat windblown, as if he rode without a hat, but it fell cunningly on his brow. His eyes, possibly brightened by the exercise, looked as brilliant as the sea as he glanced about the room, greeting the other guests before he settled upon Lark.

His smile vanished at once, and the habit of vanity made her wonder if her weeks of enforced misery had taken their toll. She winced, wishing it did not matter. Or that the notion of his favoring Janet could give her any sort of pleasure.

He continued to study her, without his usual intrusive arrogance, but as one who seemed as much in doubt as she. A mirroring of such feelings could not be possible, she told herself, and it was even less likely that her own good opinion of him should matter. He wished only to see her defeated in her ruse, exposed for the fraud she was, and returned in all triumph to his cousin Raeborn.

“You need not look so concerned, Mr. Queensman,” Janet said gently. He turned to look at her as if he had quite forgotten her there. “Lady Larkspur is well dressed against the elements and is prepared for a lovely outing. I am grateful you were able to find the time to indulge us.”

“The gratitude is mine, Miss Tavish,” he said chivalrously. “It is not every day I can find such an excellent excuse to abandon my practice.”

“Do you leave your patients quite alone?” Janet asked, on a note of concern.

“Not at all. There are several other physicians who work with me. My new partner arrived from London almost at the same time you did yourself. His name is Matthew Warren. I should enjoy the privilege of introducing him to you.”

Miss Hathawae, who sat quietly all this while, suddenly clapped her hands with glee. “If he is the son of Gerald Warren, I know his family well. His mother is the daughter of the
Earl of Allston, is she not? Wonderful! Perhaps, Mr. Queensman, you might consider sending young Warren here one day in your stead, so I also may greet him.”

“I am sure he would be delighted, Miss Hathawae. We shall therefore contrive to bring you together,” Mr. Queensman said politely, and then looked again at Lark. “But I am under very strict instructions from the lady’s family to have the care of her myself when Mr. Knighton is not in attendance.”

Lark bit down on her lip, wondering what it could mean. If he brought in a colleague, the man might well find nothing wrong and suspect her artifice. Would that not strengthen Mr. Queensman’s case against her?

Or did he intend to blackmail her into some sort of defeat, and thereby accept all the credit when he triumphantly returned her to her family and his?

She did not doubt he played with some plan in mind, but as either seemed to contrive to keep her longer in Brighton, she needed to hold her cards carefully.

Miss Hathawae nodded thoughtfully, looking as if she quite understood what continued to elude Lark.

“You take your responsibility very seriously, sir, and it is an admirable trait. You would not have the ear of the king if you were not so respected.”

From the corner of the room, where he seemed to be soundly sleeping, Colonel Wayland suddenly sputtered to life.

“The king is on his way here, you know,” he said grandly. “I believe he plans to make several stops along the coast before his triumphant entrance into the Royal Pavilion.”

Mr. Queensman laughed humorlessly. “I believe it can be said his majesty’s entrance is somewhat less triumphant precisely because of the same pavilion.”

“Do you mean because he beggared his colonies in America to finance it?” Lark asked, interested. The eyes of the others turned on her, and she silently scolded herself. “You need not look so surprised, sir. My life at Knighton’s provides me with ample opportunity to read every scrap of paper that comes my way.”

“What you read, my lady, sounds treasonous.” Colonel Wayland
blustered from his corner. “To impute the rebellion of the Americans to the construction of a masterpiece—”

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Queensman interrupted, “I believe the king himself is somewhat regretful of the folly of it all.”

“Treason!” the colonel repeated. “The king will not meet with such disrespect in Rye, or Dover, or Winchelsea.”

“Winchelsea?” Mr. Queensman asked softly. Lark could see that something particularly interested him, but he bit back additional comment.

“It is a town not far from here,” Miss Hathawae volunteered. “I am surprised a native such as yourself does not know of it. The king considered it as a site for his palace before he settled upon Brighton.”

“I am familiar with it, Miss Hathawae. It is only that someone brought the very place to my attention recently.”

No one said anything for several minutes, and Lark wondered how such a lame excuse for conversation could go unassaulted. It should be obvious to the others that Mr. Queensman found something intriguing about Winchelsea, for if he did not admit it in his words, it revealed itself by the stiffening of his broad shoulders and the way in which he narrowed his eyes. She could not be the only one to notice the betrayal of his body.

“Do you know anything about the identity of the drowned man, sir?” Colonel Wayland asked, and Lark felt grateful for the change of subject.

“He is a Mr. Thibeau of Calais,” Mr. Queensman answered promptly. Lark realized, however, that the subject did not seem to be changed at all. Mr. Queensman still waited cautiously for something, looking ready to jump at the slightest provocation.

“A stranger to our shores,” Miss Hathawae murmured.

“Apparently not, for there are many in the area who seem to know him,” Mr. Queensman corrected. “But we English may no longer look forward to his company.”

“A pity,” Miss Hathawae pronounced.

“I wish it were so, madam. But I fear Mr. Thibeau did not come as our friend.”

“Explain yourself, sir,” Lark demanded, genuinely curious.

Mr. Queensman returned her gaze, and whatever matter had held him loosened its grasp.

“It is not for your delicate ears, my lady. I come here today to lighten the burden of your ailment, not add to it. And so I suggest we depart this place while the sun is still high on the sky and the winds calm. Miss Hathawae and Colonel Wayland will certainly excuse us.”

“Oh, yes. Please do not remain on our account!” Miss Hathawae urged happily.

Colonel Wayland conspicuously said nothing.

“Shall I wheel Lady Larkspur to the foyer?” Janet asked as she tied her bonnet.

“Do not bother. We shall abandon this clumsy chair here, and I will carry the lady to the carriage.”

Without asking her advice on the matter, Mr. Queensman came to Lark’s side and gathered her up in his arms. As he had once before, he drew one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back and balanced her body against his chest. It ought to have been an awkward business, and yet the only clumsiness seemed to be Lark’s own inability to settle herself comfortably.

Too easily she felt his bone and muscle embrace and subdue her. The subtle scent of soap and something indefinably his lulled her into a sense of security, though she would no sooner rest against him than lean on a splintery plank. And yet how she felt tempted to put up a finger and trace the contours of his nose and lips, and make herself free with his body as he did with hers. It would put him in his place. And surely wipe the look of arrogance off his face.

He shifted his hold, and she gasped, thinking she would fall.

“Fear not, my lady,” he said, as he whisked her through the wide doorway. “I will keep you safe, for I have certain things in mind that would require it.”

Lark had never felt so helpless in her life. The assault on her determination seemed as keen as the one on her body and mind, and for the first time since her orchestrated collapse in London, she was tempted to abandon the ridiculous scheme. How lovely it would be to bask in masculine admiration again, to enjoy the pleasures of an outing without any
of the pain of subterfuge, to engage in lively conversation without being warned of the damage it might do her frail nerves. What joy to dance again, with someone rather taller than Janet as partner. And what of all the other missed purposes and wasted energies of her current existence, wherein she accomplished nothing but persuading others of her helplessness?

And so, though she ought to have vigorously protested Mr. Queensman’s impudence in carrying her away like an eloped bride, she did not. Instead, she gave herself up to sensation, closing her eyes and savoring the impressions of sound and scent assailing her.

She heard Janet gushing, “Your cabriolet is quite marvelous, Mr. Queensman.” They stopped suddenly, and Lark knew they must be just before it. “I must confess, you always seem to be so full of common sense and practicality, I am surprised you would own so frivolous a vehicle.”

Lark heard the laughter rumble from deep within his chest, a tentative sound at first, but finally strong enough to lend its tone to his voice.

“My sisters would be delighted to hear you say it. They have something of the same opinion of my character, and they insisted I buy a beachworthy carriage for those times I escort them around Brighton. None of them still live here, so the town is no longer their home, but rather an opportunity for adventure.”

“Do you have many sisters? And do they quite overpower you?” Janet giggled.

“I fear they would if they did not have their own husbands and children to occupy their energies. The care of a bachelor brother, especially one who prefers work in a hospital to assembly balls, could prove a tedious task. They share responsibilities, however, as there are five of them.”

“Five sisters!” Janet cried. “Just as in Lark’s family! And you the only brother?”

“My sisters tell me they are grateful for it.”

“Poor man,” Janet said, and sounded like she meant it.

“Not at all. I live very comfortably,” Mr. Queensman said teasingly as he hoisted Lark’s unyielding body into the seat. Though she felt soft cushions beneath her, he still held her, and her head fell against his shoulder. “I was prepared to treat my sisters very generously, but they all managed to do
quite well for themselves. They lack nothing but seeing me settled.”

“Then you must not disappoint them, Mr. Queensman,” Janet said artlessly.

“It is a subject I avoided for a good many years. But recently I seem to be of a mind to gratify them at last.”

Lark opened her eyes and regretted it at once. His eyes, so close to her own, looked down on her, their lids masking their natural brilliance. His arms shifted, and though she could not have dropped more than a few inches, she felt as if she were falling, quite free of any limitations. Instinctively, she reached up to grasp his collar.

“Fear not, Lady Larkspur. The cabriolet looks frivolous but is, in fact, a very sturdy vehicle. No harm will come to you here,” he said, but he did not remove her hand.

“I have driven them myself at the park,” she answered, a little unsteadily. “But I have rarely seen one so well turned out. The salt air is reputed to damage the leather and wood.”

Benedict Queensman’s eyes opened wider, and as he turned to Janet, Lark’s hand fell on the throbbing pulse at his neck. His skin, warm to her touch, was roughened by the shaved hairs of his beard.

“Miss Tavish, I believe your friend is of a practical frame of mind similar to my own. I do not recall any other lady of my acquaintance likely to discourse on matters of rot and corrosion. If it were not for her frail sensibilities, she really would be a very useful person to have about.”

He pulled away to assist Janet as she stepped up to her own seat. The carriage shifted and shuddered even under her slight weight. She settled herself beside Lark and tucked the soft blanket about the invalid before she answered.

“Indeed she is, sir. We often attend on the poor in our own neighborhood and bring things that may comfort them. As you already know, Lady Leicester is very knowledgeable about greenery and grows many varieties of plants. Lady Larkspur has been permitted entry into the herbiary since childhood and creates her own medicinal potions, following ancient recipes. She is reputed to have the remedy for most ailments.”

“A very impressive lady, though in another age she might have
been reviled as a witch. But it is a pity there is nothing in her text she might use upon herself, for I am certain I know of no modern cure,” Mr. Queensman said, continuing as if Lark were not in their company. “I am surprised, for my professional ancestors were more likely to address matters of broken hearts and unrequited love rather than dog bites and running sores. Lady Larkspur’s herbiary must be a storehouse of such remedies.”

Lark straightened in her seat so she would lean on neither of her companions. Even Janet did not appear as reliable as she had the day before.

“For a provincial gentleman, you seem the worst snob, Mr. Queensman. You belittle my efforts if you imagine my potions produce nothing more useful than aphrodisiacs or other bits of artifice. Such concoctions went out with the Renaissance poets, I believe,” she retorted.

“So long ago as that, my lady?” Mr. Queensman sighed as he picked up the bright braided reins and urged the horses on. “A gentleman—a particular friend of mine—is perplexed by the contempt heaped upon him by a lady he hopes to admire. Shall I tell him you can offer him no hope?”