Authors: Jo Beverley
Skylark (10 page)
Six years ago he’d tried to rescue Laura Watcombe from folly and made a complete fool of himself. He’d been wrong, as well. He’d thought she was making a mistake, but she’d been happy as Mrs. Hal Gardeyne. Happy as a damn lark.
Now he was going to do it again.
With the same sickening sense of being about to make a fool of himself, and the same awareness that he had to try, he left his room. If Laura’s room was dark, if she’d gone to bed, it could wait until the morning, at least.
But a light shone out from beneath her door.
Chapter 11
He knocked, not expecting the door to open instantly, but it did. Laura was wide-eyed, but when she saw him, fear turned to exasperation. “Is something the matter?”
He was nothing but a bother, but he was here. He might as well go through with it.
“I’m sorry. Did you think it was something to do with your son?” He moved forward and she stepped back. She was still frowning, but at least he didn’t have to fight his way in.
Perhaps because this was not her bedchamber, but her boudoir.
Probably as well, though it whispered of her delicate, sophisticated perfume. Nothing from her girlhood about that. He’d heard that the famous perfumiers, Lascelles and Brun, had created a unique fragrance for Labellelle. The men were geniuses.
“This is an intolerable intrusion,” he said, closing the door behind himself, “but we were friends once, and friends don’t turn their backs on one another in need. Something’s going on, Laura. Something that sent you down to your father-in-law’s study—”
“The road guide.”
He glanced at the desk behind her. “And a letter?”
She seemed frozen, so he moved around her to where the sheet of paper lay open on the desk, bright beneath the candle. “May I?”
She didn’t say yes but she didn’t say no, so he picked it up and read it with increasing astonishment and—yes—interest. He delighted in puzzles.
“Clearly not a normal piece of correspondence.” He turned it and saw no address or sealing wax. “A copy?”
“Yes.” She came to life and gave him a look that reminded him of the Laura of old. “I suppose I do need help, if you promise to keep this confidential.”
“I’m offended.” He spoke lightly but was hurt.
Perhaps she colored. “I’m sorry, but it’s a long time since we were friends.”
He considered how to respond to that and settled on the truth. “I never stopped being your friend.”
“Lady Skylark?”
His heart missed a beat. He hadn’t thought she would know, or care, who had suggested that name.
“That offended?”
She shrugged. “I preferred Labellelle. More intriguing.”
There was more to this than appeared on the surface, but now was not the time to delve into it.
“Then I apologize. But I stand your friend, I assure you. Tell me about this letter.”
After a moment, to his immense relief, she sat down at her desk.
Of course, it would be better if she showed awareness of their being in her boudoir in their nightwear. It would be better, much better, if she weren’t wearing an ugly nightcap over her lovely hair, but at least her robe was a pretty rose. The colors of mourning didn’t suit her at all.
“I spoke to Lord Caldfort this morning,” she said, “as he was dealing with the morning postbag, and he seemed distressed. With everything else that’s happened today, and because I’m leaving tomorrow, I decided to try to find out what had disturbed him.”
She met his eyes, chin set defensively. “Matters of importance to the estate are of importance to Harry.”
“I agree.” He picked up another chair, put it close her hers, and sat. “What do you make of it?”
Being this close by candlelight was a crumb to the starving.
“Thus far, little.” She touched the letter. “Azir Al Farouk is an Arab name, I believe.”
Stephen looked at the letter again, commanding his brain to his lady’s cause. “It sounds like it. The English is good, though. Was it addressed to Lord Caldfort? This only addresses ‘Great Lord.’ ”
She grimaced. “I should have copied both sides, shouldn’t I? But I’m sure it was addressed to the Right Honorable the Viscount Caldfort.”
“An Arab with a nice understanding of English protocol. Most intriguing.”
Like her scent, which made it damn hard to think.
“Let’s be orderly,” he said.
Yes, do let’s.
“HG. We assume that’s your husband, Hal Gardeyne?”
Yes, do let’s.
“HG. We assume that’s your husband, Hal Gardeyne?”
She shook her head. “How could he return to trouble anyone? You may not know, but first sons in this family are always called variants of Henry.”
“Ah. So Lord Caldfort is a Henry, too?”
“No, because he was a second son, so his name is John. He inherited when his older brother, Henry, died. That Lord Caldfort had a son—Henry, of course—who died at sea.”
“Navy?”
“A scholar of some sort. He was traveling to Greece. But poke around the Gardeyne family tree and there are dead Henry Gardeynes by the bushel.”
“But how many alive?” he asked.
Fear flickered in her eyes. “Only the two infants. My Harry, and Jack’s newborn Hal.”
He wanted to take her in his arms, and only to comfort. “HG can’t be them, then, can he?
‘Having been for some years a guest of Oscar Ris . . .’
So it must be something to do with a dead Henry Gardeyne.”
‘Having been for some years a guest of Oscar Ris . . .’
So it must be something to do with a dead Henry Gardeyne.”
He had his reward when she relaxed, even smiled a little. “Old debts? Old scandals?”
“Connected to a woman called Mary Woodside. Could she have been a mistress to any of the dead Henrys? Perhaps turning up with a bastard child in tow?”
Too late he realized that could embarrass. He knew Hal Gardeyne had been a notorious womanizer, but did Laura?
She didn’t even seem conscious of it being a delicate subject. “A bastard wouldn’t shock Lord Caldfort. He regards them as proof of manly virility. Do you know what nationality a man called Oscar Ris might be?”
“Spanish? Portuguese?” He looked at the letter again. “What about Captain Dyer?”
“Lord Caldfort has many military friends, but I’ve never heard the name.”
“With a military man involved, it might be something to do with the war.”
She sat back, shaking her head. “Lord Caldfort retired from the army nine years ago, and even then he’d been behind a desk for a decade. There’ve been no other military men for generations. The Gardeynes like the comforts of England. The only one I know of who’s gone traveling was the old viscount’s son, and see what came of it. A watery grave.”
But then she came alert like a pointer sensing game. “Could it be? His ship went down in the Mediterranean, close to Arab countries. He was on his way to Greece. Could Oscar Ris be a Greek name?”
Suddenly, delightfully, she was the Laura of his youth—quick, bright, and soaring above reality.
“Not obviously,” he said.
As always, she wasn’t daunted. “But his return would certainly be a shock, wouldn’t it? Because then Lord Caldfort wouldn’t be Lord Caldfort anymore.”
As always, her enthusiasm was infectious. “It’s an idea. And this Farouk is offering to remove the inconvenience. Astonishing.”
But then, unlike the Laura of old, she came back to earth. “It is, isn’t it? Astonishing. Unbelievably so. How could anyone come back from the dead?”
“Lord Darius did so.”
“But that was one year, not ten.”
“True.” Stephen looked back at the letter to focus his mind. “What do you know about this Henry Gardeyne?”
“Very little. He died—or whatever—long before I married Hal.”
Her voice was enough to make thought difficult. Voices didn’t change, and it was almost as if they were back in Ancross, working on a puzzle.
“There’s a memorial to him in the Gardeyne plot,” she said. “I think it says he was twenty-one. And a portrait of him hangs in the hall.”
“Ah, I saw that and wondered if it was the vicar as a younger man, but there’s something too dreamy about it.”
“In his eyes, I think.”
He made the mistake of looking up and was caught by
her
eyes. There was nothing dreamy about them, alas, but poets had praised Laura Gardeyne’s brilliant sapphire eyes.
her
eyes. There was nothing dreamy about them, alas, but poets had praised Laura Gardeyne’s brilliant sapphire eyes.
He’d known them all his life, but not like this, by intimate candlelight; she an experienced woman, he a desirous man.
Desirous.
What a pretty word for burning hunger that threatened his sanity, his reason, and his control over this situation. If he tried to move his hand, he feared it would shake. If he tried to speak, he could not possibly make sense.
Desirous.
What a pretty word for burning hunger that threatened his sanity, his reason, and his control over this situation. If he tried to move his hand, he feared it would shake. If he tried to speak, he could not possibly make sense.
“I’ve always thought that picture shows a romantic zest for adventure rather than dreaminess,” she said, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having. “It makes his early death so sad. I’d like him to be alive, but where could he have been all these years?”
He grasped the simple question like a lifeline. “With Oscar Ris, apparently.”
Think. Think
. “But as you say, that makes no sense. Why would he linger abroad when a title awaited him in England?” He sought a suggestion as a courting bird might seek a worm to tempt his mate. “What if Henry sired a son before he died? A legitimate one.”
Think. Think
. “But as you say, that makes no sense. Why would he linger abroad when a title awaited him in England?” He sought a suggestion as a courting bird might seek a worm to tempt his mate. “What if Henry sired a son before he died? A legitimate one.”
Her lips parted in a delighted smile. “And the wicked Farouk is offering to kill the child for money? Brilliant, Stephen!” But then she sobered. “We have to prevent that.”
We.
What towers of hope a man could build on one word.
What towers of hope a man could build on one word.
“Even if it deprives your son of his inheritance?”
Those eyes could spit fire, as he well knew. “You imagine I would blindfold myself to another child’s death in that cause? What sort of monster do you think I am?”
He raised his hands. “I’m sorry. Of course I don’t think that, but I’m a man of law, Laura. I’m accustomed to pointing out the legal consequences of decisions. As long as you understand.”
“I do.” Now she was cold, but it was a passionate cold. Everything she did was passionate. “So, a child, and the object enclosed must have been proof of his legitimacy. I looked, but I didn’t see anything. Certainly not a document.” She fixed him with her gaze, and even cold it burned him. “We have to do something.”
We
again.
If you insist,
he thought, as a worm of an idea uncurled, an idea he knew he should resist.
again.
If you insist,
he thought, as a worm of an idea uncurled, an idea he knew he should resist.
She was looking into nowhere now. “You’re going to think me mad.”
I know I am.
He sucked in the vision of her, the delicate perfume, the movements of her breasts with every breath. He should speak. “Why?”
He sucked in the vision of her, the delicate perfume, the movements of her breasts with every breath. He should speak. “Why?”
“Because, I’m looking with hope at the thought of Harry
not
being the heir to a title.” She turned those eyes on him again. “Stephen, if Henry Gardeyne is alive, or his legitimate son is alive, they are the key to Harry’s safety.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “If Harry isn’t heir to anything, he’s
safe
.”
not
being the heir to a title.” She turned those eyes on him again. “Stephen, if Henry Gardeyne is alive, or his legitimate son is alive, they are the key to Harry’s safety.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “If Harry isn’t heir to anything, he’s
safe
.”
It took the strength of Hercules to keep his hand passive in hers, and his heart was thundering. “Many would think you mad.”
She laughed. “So he won’t have a title and he’ll have to make his own fortune, but he won’t have to grow up at Caldfort, and he will
live
!”
live
!”
He turned her hand then, held it in both of his, longing to raise it, kiss it. “As your legal adviser, no matter how informally, I have to ask you to think before you act on this.”
She snatched her hand back. “What became of Stephen the warrior for justice? How can I possibly permit a murder, even by inaction?”
Words escaped him for a moment, then he managed, “I don’t mean that. This could all be a hoax, however, an attempt at extortion. Do you want to succumb to that for your own advantage?”
Yes, she did, he saw. Her angry frown came of guilt. “With so much evidence?” she demanded.
Now that this had become a legal matter of sorts, he regained some sanity. Her legal adviser. God have mercy.
“How much evidence is there?” he asked. “Someone knows that Henry Gardeyne existed. That could be anyone. He has sent some supposed proof of something, we know not what. Mary Woodside eludes us, as does Oscar Ris and any explanation of a ten-year absence.”
“You’re being coolly analytical again,” she complained with a pout. Yes, definitely a pout that made him want to hug her, it was so part of their youth. Perhaps she recognized it, too, for her expression softened and she suddenly looked away.
Was that the first sign that she saw him as a man?
“My virtue and my flaw,” he agreed. “Shall I attempt to awe you with my brilliance to compensate? I’d be willing to gamble that Mary Woodside is the name of the ship Henry Gardeyne traveled on. The one that sank.”
She looked back at him, eyes bright again. “Oh, brilliant, indeed!”
“That’s public knowledge, too,” he pointed out. “A villain could have discovered it.”
“But a villain would have to have a reason to look it up. Hence,” she declared triumphantly, “contact with Henry.”
He had to smile. This followed the pattern of so many debates of their youth. “A point, I grant you.”
She smiled back, and he’d swear it was unrestrained, a smile she might have given him in the past, before Hal Gardeyne had come into their lives. No, before he had made a mess of everything while a skylark sang.
“I’m glad you happened to come here today, Stephen, and that you invaded this room. I think I’d be going mad without your steadiness.”
Steadiness?
“Do you see that as aging?” she asked. Damn, she’d always been too good at reading him. “We’re both past being wild, I think.”
“Are we?” Quickly he added, “Yes, of course we are. I’m a responsible Member of Parliament, supporter of worthy causes, and you’re a respectable matron and mother. Wearing caps, no less.”
That bloody cap—plain, encompassing, and tied beneath her chin—should be illegal. She touched it as if suddenly conscious of it. And blushed. What the devil about her damn cap made her blush?
She grabbed the letter and read it again, though they’d sucked it dry. Oh, the deuce, he’d as good as said she was an aged antidote.
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