Sharon Sobel (22 page)

“On the morrow. She rises quite early to study the scenery and should be ready to receive you by late morning.”

Lark put down her twice-read letter from Del and gazed out towards the stormy sea. A strong wind had blown up in the late hours of the evening, bringing a good deal of rain with it and playing havoc with the furnishings at Knighton’s.

It seemed a pretty apt reflection of her own feelings, and though she searched through her sister’s letter to find some scrap
of sunlight to alleviate the darkness of her mood, there was little save her family’s concern about her uncertain health. She was a fool to perpetuate this myth and cause them such dismay when there was every reason for the Leicesters to otherwise rejoice. In other letters, she heard that Del was in excellent health, and Rose and Columbine thought they might be increasing as well. Lily expected to travel to Rome in the fall, and their mother hoped to have her paintings exhibited at the Royal Academy. Her father sought to purchase an estate in Scotland and intended to fish a good deal. They all seemed very settled.

But Lark was as tempest-tossed as the sea. In the morning, when she would have preferred to see Matthew Warren and Benedict Queensman taking their daily swim, she saw instead workmen pulling the bathing machines up onto higher ground and folding up their bright-colored hoods. The machines, only days before promising unfettered freedom in the sea, now seemed a sad reminder of the injury done to Martha Gunn. She would recover, they all were reassured by Mr. Queensman, for the bullet had delivered only a glancing blow.

But why there should have been a bullet fired, or for whom it was intended, was never answered. Lark recalled the small sailboat on the waves that moved past them at least twice. And she thought of the remarkable coincidence that Matthew Warren and Ben Queensman happened to be nearby when they should have been with their patients. What were they doing on the beach?

Lark shifted restlessly in her seat and told herself it was only because she was bored and shuttered in for the day that such things bothered her so. It was not because she had sent Janet off to visit Matthew Warren at the hospital. And surely it was not because her rescuer had neglected, even with four days’ time, to send over so much as a note to inquire after her health.

Rather, she felt anxious and edgy because she knew Lord Raeborn had already arrived in Brighton and had been closeted away with his cousin all the while. If only she had not left off so badly with Mr. Queensman or had had the discretion to remain fixed in her guise as an ailing patient. But she now understood, belatedly, how she had trusted him with
too much and how such trust was likely to be abused. His loyalty to Raeborn was familial—and might even have been bought—and he had undoubtedly already exposed her for the hopeless fraud she was.

“What time do you expect the gentlemen?” Miss Hathawae’s soft voice was comforting and warm.

“I know not, Miss Hathawae. But I am growing ill in anticipation.”

“There now, you need not fret. I remember Raeborn well, as we traveled in the same circles. He is a good man and a kind one. His young cousin has something of the look of him, with his dark hair and blue eyes. I remember when all the girls would swoon in his company.”

Lark tried to keep her lips straight. “It sounds as if you may not have seen the gentleman in some years. Time has taken some toll, and you may not recognize him.”

Miss Hathawae smiled. “I may not look the same as I did forty years ago either, but I surely will recognize him. As he will me.”

“Let us hope your reunion is joyous, dear Miss Hathawae.”

The good woman’s smile promptly faded, but the glint in her eyes remained. When she answered, it was to do so quietly, so no one else could hear. “Indeed, I have the impression I am a good deal more happy to see him than you are yourself, my dear. Is it possible the company of your fiancé will not give you pleasure?”

“No, it is not possible, Miss Hathawae,” Lark began, with an effort at indignation. But it sounded frail, even to herself. “I am honored Lord Raeborn found the time to wait on me here in Brighton. It is so far out of his accustomed circle.”

“But his circle necessarily must be wherever you are, Lady Larkspur. Your two worlds must meet as one. It is the very definition of love.”

Lark said nothing, wondering how this apparently innocent speech could weigh so heavily upon her soul. Miss Hathawae seemed to understand her plight better than her own mother and sisters, perhaps even better than Janet. How tempted she felt to confide all to this dear lady, to cry out her confusion, her longing, her absurd hopes. But she bit down upon her lip and said nothing.

“You do love your fiancé, do you not, Lady Larkspur?”

Lark shook her head, trying to hold back tears.

Miss Hathawae tactfully averted her eyes and studied a sapphire ring upon her third finger.

“And yet you show the unmistakable signs of a woman in love. If it is not Raeborn who has put the glint in your eye and the bloom upon your cheek, you are surely about to marry the wrong man.”

“I have little choice, Miss Hathawae. My marriage to Raeborn is all arranged, and the man I … the other gentleman is entirely inappropriate. It is impossible to marry him.”

“Oh, dear. Is he a laborer, perhaps? Or a foreigner? Might he be the king himself?”

Lark giggled and wiped away some of her tears. “Oh, nothing so dreadful as that,” she laughed, and was surprised when Miss Hathawae did not join her. “It is only that he does not want me. Indeed, he has endeavored to show me how very much he despises me. He is the last man to wish to marry me.”

Miss Hathawae slipped the ring off her finger and studied the elegantly cut stone by candlelight.

“My dear, I believe you are only partially right. He is surely the last man who would dishonor himself and you by advancing an unwelcome suit. But I believe he would desire nothing so much as to be your husband.”

“You speak with conviction, Miss Hathawae. Is it possible you enjoy the confidences of the man I will not name?”

“I enjoy only the role of observer. I consider myself quite an expert at it. But I would have to be blind not to see the fire burning between you and Mr.—”

“Hush! I beg you not to speak of it, for it can only give me pain. I am quite resigned to marry Lord Raeborn, and you yourself confirm he is a good man. The rest must come to naught.”

“Do not allow yourself to be sacrificed in such a way, dear girl. I know something of it myself, for I have endured a lifetime of deprivation in the name of honor. But there is a great difference in your situation and my own: The man I once loved, the father of my only child, could not marry me under any circumstances. I know the definition of impossible, and
your situation could not be so wretched. I pray you will not allow it to become so.”

“I beg your forgiveness, Miss Hathawae, for I did not know—”

“No one knows but he and I. I did not speak so forth-rightly to beg your sympathies. I would only have you saved from heartache and forever yearning for what your pride prevented you from having.”

“Just now, my pride is even more bruised than my heart,” Lark confessed.

Miss Hathawae stood back and appraised her, as if she were an artist coping with a difficult subject.

“It looks perfectly healthy to me, Lady Larkspur. In fact, you look—” Her voice broke off and she looked over Lark’s head to the door beyond them. “How would you say Lady Larkspur looked, Colonel Wayland?”

Lark sighed at the approach of the heavy footsteps. The bubble of confidences broke, and the moment of intimacy was lost. When the man spoke, Lark felt the weight of his pomposity was even more apparent than usual.

“She looks entirely too robust to remain an invalid. Her heroism in the cold sea, while distinctly unladylike, was something I have not seen since my days in America. There, Indian women work the fields, carrying one or two children on their backs, and manage it without complaint. Add this to their daily cooking and organizing the camp, and you have a fairly good view of their hardships.”

“And I should only desire to walk again, Colonel,” Lark said dryly.

“A modest expectation, but a good one. In America I once—”

“Do you know any news of Martha Gunn, Colonel Wayland?” Miss Hathawae interrupted, winking at a grateful Lark.

“Why, I have only just left the woman and am happy to say her recovery will be swift. Mr. Warren has changed her bandage, and there is very little bleeding. Of course, she speaks of nothing but her gratitude to you, Lady Larkspur, for your excellent rescue and suggests you might consider a profession as a dipper yourself.”

Miss Hathawae’s already rigid back stiffened perceptibly.

“Lady Larkspur
is a lady, sir. What Mrs. Gunn suggests is impossible.”

“No offense meant, miss. It was said in good fun.”

“Lord Raeborn will not find it so funny, sir. And his arrival is expected this very day.”

Colonel Wayland gave the illusion of surprise, but Lark could see he somehow knew of Raeborn’s presence in town. Well, it could not be very surprising, for Raeborn had been received at Seagate some days before.

Though it was surely irrational, Lark despaired of the fact she had not already been a visitor to Mr. Queensman’s estate by the sea. And if Raeborn scooped her up—figuratively, at least—and carried her home to London, she might never see it at all.

“Then we shall have a pleasant little party,” the colonel said at last. “My nephew, Gabriel, will be joining me here this afternoon.”

Miss Hathawae looked down at Lark and smiled, making Lark wonder if the good woman somehow thought it was Mr. Siddons who captured her heart. The thought made her shudder, though truthfully, she knew no ill of the young man.

“We have missed him here, Colonel, and the cheerful little diversions he brings us.”

“He has been in France. He has very important business there, you realize.”

Miss Hathawae raised her eyebrows. “You must watch what you say, Colonel. It is not well regarded these days to have either business or friends in France. Of course, your nephew could not possibly be causing any mischief,” she said artlessly.

For a moment Colonel Wayland looked panicked and glanced quickly at Lark. It was only an instant, but enough for Lark to wonder at her own connection to this and to begin to share Miss Hathawae’s apparent belief that, indeed, Gabriel Siddons was involved in some mischief.

“My nephew is a distinguished negotiator, a man trusted in the highest circles of diplomacy. His many travels to America were all in the name of peace.”

“How very noble a profession, Colonel Wayland,” Miss Hathawae said sweetly. “But, pray, whose side did he support?”

The poor man opened and closed his mouth several times, and Lark feared he was having an attack of some sort. But Miss Hathawae, whose own mischief clearly prompted this response, had no such concerns. Instead, she raised her brow and smiled knowingly at Lark.

Before the colonel could seize upon a convenient answer, the door behind them opened once again, and a woman cleared her throat.

“Lord Raeborn,” came the solemn announcement, as if they sat in a formal drawing room and not the common hall of a sanatorium. “And Mr. Queensman.”

Lark knew precisely what she would see if she turned around, and she wished to delay the pleasure as long as possible. Instead, she studied the faces of her two companions.

Miss Hathawae sighed and smiled as if her face endured great strain to do so. Her bright eyes darted from one man to the other, and by the look in them Lark guessed where Lord Raeborn stood in relation to Mr. Queensman.

Colonel Wayland also studied the two men, and his smile of greeting seemed equally strained. If Lark had to guess, she might have said just the slightest bit of fear cast a shadow across his features. But she could not guess why it might be so.

“My dearest lady, my own love. I have endured much anxiety while worrying about your condition,” exclaimed the wavery, refined voice above her.

Lark pressed her eyes closed and held her breath, and then looked up to face the inevitable. But she miscalculated, and instead of gazing into the eyes of her fiancé, she confronted Benedict Queensman. He seemed somewhat chastened and utterly serious, and looked as dispassionate as he had when he first came to her in her father’s home, obliged to do a job somewhat distasteful to him. But they had shared much since that day, and Lark felt she knew him a thousand times better. Which was why his expression pained her so much; she knew what he was about to do and why he would do it. Miss Hathawae’s well-meaning advice could only prove false currency in circumstances such as this.

“I … I bring you your cousin and mine, Lady Larkspur,” Ben Queensman said quietly. Something flickered in his blue
eyes. “Though he has been very anxious to see you, there were matters of business we needed to discuss at Seagate, where Lord Raeborn has been my guest.”

“Enough, boy!” interrupted an impatient voice. “A lady knows nothing of business and certainly could care little about our arrangements.”

“Even if it concerns her, my lord?” Ben Queensman asked somewhat aggressively.

“What concerns my lady is of no concern to you. That is, until after I am dead,” came the rejoinder. Suddenly small hands were on the arms of Lark’s wheeled chair, abruptly turning its direction. “And I will greet my lady properly.”

Lark finally looked directly at Raeborn, wondering if he meant he would kiss her. But, oddly enough, he stepped back when he saw her, as if he expected someone else. Had she changed so very much since her carefree days in London?

“My lord,” she said politely and bowed her head slightly. “I am appreciative of the honor you do me.”

“It was not an easy trip. My stomach was not as it should be, and we stopped at every posting house,” Raeborn reported, as if his bodily functions were of paramount concern to her. Well, perhaps they ought to be.

“You must remember to eat in small quantities, my lord. Did I not mention it in London?” Mr. Queensman said sternly, in the voice of Raeborn’s doctor.

“I am not about to start to change my habits just now, my boy, whatever you say.” Raeborn patted his stomach contentedly. He looked around the small circle, and his expression changed to one of unexpected pleasure. “I declare, it cannot be Betsey Hathawae, now can it?”