Authors: Jo Beverley
Skylark (18 page)
“As do I. Especially as I wasn’t around to help or even support.” He put the horses into motion again.
She could use that as an opening to ask about his grievance with the Rogues, to discuss the allure of adventure and the wisdom of avoiding it, but she was wound too tight for a serious topic.
“Tell me more tales of the Rogues, Stephen. I assumed it all ended with school days.”
He amused her with stories, though she suspected most of them were carefully edited. A horse race at Melton seemed innocuous enough, but clearly some espionage in 1814 had not been. Even when there was no need for action, the Company of Rogues seemed to have regular gatherings, mostly in London or Melton, but apparently marriage and progeny were making such meetings more difficult.
“It’s doubtless time for me to marry,” Stephen said, eyes on the road, for they’d passed the one-mile marker to Draycombe and the way was now rough and narrow.
His words caught at her heart in a way that was a warning. She watched him as she said, “I hope this business of mine isn’t interfering with your plans.”
“Plans?”
“To marry.”
Was that a smile? “How could it?” he asked.
They might as well be talking of the weather. “You could be courting someone,” she pointed out, “instead of squiring a quiz of a relative to a watering place.”
He seemed to find that amusing. “Don’t concern yourself. This doesn’t interfere with my plans.”
“What if we end up in a scandal? That might cause difficulties.”
“Hold on.” He slowed the horses for the descent down a long, steep hill into the small town strung along a bay. “If we end up in a scandal, we can always marry.”
She could read nothing at all from tone or expression. “All the more reason to be quick and careful.”
“As you say.”
Aware of something that might be annoyance, Laura welcomed their first glimpse of the sea and of their target, Draycombe.
It looked to be more of a large village strung along a bay and hemmed in on both sides by headlands. It had probably been a simple fishing village before seaside visits became fashionable. Boats were still drawn up on the pebbly beach and whitewashed fishermen’s cottages clustered where this steep road met the sea.
Newer buildings had spread in both directions. To the left, Laura saw a church spire, and to the right, the tiled roofs of modern houses mingled with the thatched ones of the past.
When they reached the cottages, the road split. Stephen halted and asked directions to the Compass Inn. He was pointed to the right and they turned that way, past a row of shops that must mostly serve the visitors, and a square, modern inn, the King’s Arms.
Laura took it all in, searching for an obvious foreigner, a military man, or a stray child with Gardeyne features. “There seem to be many invalids, even this late in the year,” she said, seeing two blanket-swathed elderly people being pushed along the seafront in long wheeled chairs.
“Draycombe’s noted for its sheltered climate and healthy air.” Stephen flicked her a look. “Yes, I read up about it. My fatal flaw.”
“It’s not a flaw. Look. Two military men—one navy, one army. We don’t know which Captain Dyer is, do we?”
“We know nothing but his name. No turbans?”
“Do you really think Farouk will be so obvious?”
“From his name, I doubt he can pass as an Englishman, and foreign servants, especially from India, are not unheard of.”
“In Draycombe?”
He grinned at her. “It does seem to be a sleepy backwater, doesn’t it? Speaking of which, the Compass looks ancient. But decent.”
The inn’s long and wavering two-story front held only small windows, but they were plentiful and clean, and one on the ground floor was bowed.
Stephen steered his team through open gates into a large coach yard. Stables and other such buildings formed three sides of the square, and there were few windows on the back of the inn. Laura deduced that the Compass had a single line of rooms on the upper story, all facing the front.
No sign of a military uniform or anyone who looked foreign in the coach yard. So tempting to immediately ask about their quarry, but they must seem merely guests. In such a small inn, however, they should soon encounter Dyer and Farouk.
Chapter 21
As Stephen helped her down, he murmured, “Frail antidote,” and Laura remembered to move like a woman of uncertain health with no high opinion of herself.
They entered the inn and were greeted by the innkeeper, Mr. Topham, who immediately produced a letter for Stephen. “From Mr. Kerslake-Somerford of Crag Wyvern, sir. A gentleman very much in the public eye these days.”
He was clearly bursting to tell the extraordinary story, but Stephen quelled him. “Yes, we know of his situation.”
The innkeeper deflated and led them up to three adjoining rooms. They were pleasant and already warmed by fires, though this being an old building, the rooms were small, with only one modest window in each. Those windows looked out at the bay, however. Laura chose the bedchamber on the left of the central parlor, thinking that she might enjoy a visit here if so much wasn’t at stake.
Laura had tried to count doors, but as their rooms were close to the stairs she couldn’t be certain of the number of rooms up here. Eight, she thought, so if Farouk, Dyer, and a child were here, they must be close.
The innkeeper was about to leave so she asked, in the manner of a perpetual worrier, “What other guests are there here, sir? My nerves cannot take disturbances.”
“Only one, ma’am,” the innkeeper assured her. “A military gentleman and his servant. Both very quiet.”
As soon as the door closed, Laura turned to Stephen. “They’re here!”
“It would seem so, but we can hardly pelt anyone with questions immediately. Not without raising suspicions.”
She sighed. “You’re right, and there was no mention of a child. But it should be simple enough to stage an encounter, and then nosy Mrs. Penfold can quiz the servants to her heart’s content. What’s in the letter? When can we meet the smuggler?”
Stephen had already broken the seal and was reading. “He’ll call tomorrow, for lunch.”
“Tomorrow!”
“A smuggler-earl must be a busy man.”
“But now we’re here, I want to
do
something.” Then she laughed. “I’m flapping, aren’t I?”
do
something.” Then she laughed. “I’m flapping, aren’t I?”
“Like a skylark.”
It was said with dry humor so she really couldn’t take offense, but it made her resolve to be calmer.
“As for doing something,” he said, “I suggest a stroll to learn more about this place and stretch our legs.”
Laura had been thinking more of knocking on doors in order to meet their fellow guests, but she knew he was right. “Very well, but we should delay long enough to unpack. Dashing straight out might look strange.”
He smiled at her. “I should have known you’d be an effective criminal colleague.”
Laura returned to her room better pleased with that response. Skylark, indeed. Was that how he saw her, even now? It stung particularly sharply when she was beginning to feel differently about him.
Was this fluttering inside her the same excitement she’d felt when she’d first met Hal? Or was it solely because of this risky adventure? Or was it because she’d been stuck at Caldfort like a nun in a convent and was giddy at being with any handsome man again?
Had she felt anything for Nicholas Delaney? She didn’t think so, but she’d always had a disciplined nature. She didn’t think she’d allow herself to feel anything for another woman’s husband.
“Oh, perish it,” she muttered, and tugged on the bellpull.
A sharp-faced but smiling young woman arrived with washing water. She curtsied, gave her name as Jean, then quickly set to deal with Laura’s valise. Laura gave occasional instructions and decided she could safely ask some general questions.
“Such a pretty place,” she fluttered. “I hear the air is healthy here.”
“Very bracing, ma’am. We’ve had invalids come here and leave again dancing.”
“Remarkable. I don’t suppose there are many here so late in the year, however.”
The maid hung Laura’s dull gowns on hooks in the armoire. “Oh, not so bad, ma’am. We get mild winters here, you see, so some stay all year round.”
“Really? Do you have any notable visitors?”
But the maid pulled a face. “Not to speak of, ma’am. I reckon they all go to Lyme Regis, see, it having a royal connection.”
Laura thanked the maid and gave her a tip, though she hadn’t revealed anything useful.
Laura hadn’t taken off her outdoor clothing, so she had only to pull on gloves over her tiresome net ones before being ready to go out. A habitual last glance in the mirror almost made her yelp. She’d forgotten what an antidote she looked. No fear of anything amorous happening as long as she looked like this.
When she joined Stephen, he instantly asked, “What’s the matter?”
She must remember that he was ferociously observant.
All the same, his question sparked a laugh. “What’s the matter? Until a few days ago, my main complaint was boredom. I was afraid for Harry, but I thought it was probably in my imagination. I was mainly in the doldrums because Caldfort House did not present an exciting future.
“Now I seem to be teetering on the edge of danger and disaster. Even the Delaneys turn out to be not just allies but a lesson in the vulnerability of children. And here I am, pretending to be someone else—an ugly someone else—and if I’m recognized, my reputation will be in shreds, my access to Harry might be threatened—”
“Laura.” He reached for her.
“And soon I’m going to be lunching with a smuggler!”
The absurdity struck her as it did him, and she collapsed into a chair, laughing. He was grinning at her, looking so much like the Stephen of the past. She held out her hands to him and he pulled her up.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For laughing? Certainly not in character for Cousin Priscilla . . .”
Did he remember at exactly the same moment as she did?
It had to be spoken of. “I’m sorry for laughing all those years ago—when you asked me to marry you.”
His laughter died, but perhaps it lingered a little in his eyes. “It was all those years ago, Laura, and we were both very young.”
“I was old enough to marry.”
“And I wasn’t.”
But Juliet had waited for her Robert.
“I suppose you weren’t, but truly, I never meant to hurt you. I never . . .”—she sought the right words—“I never thought your offer ridiculous. I want you to know that.”
They were still holding hands, and looking into each other’s eyes.
“I won’t say it was pleasant,” he said. “I was young, every emotion raw. But I knew you hadn’t meant to be cruel. I knew, even when ‘screwing my courage to the sticking point’ that it was an idiotic thing to do. . . .”
“Not idiotic.”
He let go of her hands and stepped back. “Yes, it was. I thought you didn’t know your mind, but Gardeyne was exactly what you wanted.”
Laura shocked herself by almost denying it. She fussed with her gloves. “If we’re going, we should go.”
“Yes.”
He extended his arm. She was tempted to continue the conversation, but she knew it would be unwise. They left the room and descended the stairs with no sight of any other guest and walked out of the inn into the damp, sea-tanged air. The sky was overcast now, however, and the wind cut.
“Bracing, the maid called it,” Laura said with a shiver.
“Blows the cobwebs away.”
“I am not inhabited by spiders. Do let’s walk, and briskly.”
“You forget. You’re frail Mrs. Penfold.”
“Oh, a plague on it.”
He chuckled. “Tut-tut.”
“Don’t make me laugh. I’m sure it’s not in character.”
They walked back as far as the steep road into the village and then retraced their way. No one in a turban, and both military men had disappeared. Everyone was probably heading home for their evening meal.
They dawdled past the windows of the shops, for Laura hadn’t seen any even as minor as these for months. There was a promising bookshop and an apothecary advertising ALL MODERN CONVENIENCES FOR THE FRAIL AND INVALID.
“I’m sure I should be interested in that establishment,” she said, “but this is much more to my taste.” She stopped to study the dressed dolls in the window of a mantua maker. “Are skirts really being worn shorter in London?”
“To the gentlemen’s delight, yes.”
She gave him a look. “There have always been ways to display an ankle, and it’s more effective when they’re normally veiled.”
To demonstrate, she eased up her skirt slightly as she raised a foot onto a step.
He looked down and smiled. “I see—but not perhaps the behavior of my sickly Cousin Priscilla?”
She pulled a face at him but dropped her skirt. “Do you have a cousin called Priscilla Penfold?”
“No, but then your name would have been different before marriage. You must have married into the Pen-folds of Warwickshire. A sober, studious bunch.”
Where she would have once thought he fit perfectly, but now she was too aware of the ready laughter in his eyes, not to mention his remarkably fine looks and what she was coming to see was a strong, athletic body. A few days ago she would have said she knew Stephen very well. Now she was not so sure.
“I’m not sure I can play that part,” she said. “Sober and studious.”
“Look absentminded and mutter something about empiricism and Hume.”
He clearly thought she wouldn’t understand, so as they walked on toward the inn, she said, “Oh, that I can do. I’ve read Hume’s essays.”
His look of surprise was not unexpected, but it stung. She didn’t confess that boredom had led her to read nearly everything in the limited Caldfort library except the sporting almanacs. “I have interests beyond the length of skirts, you know.”
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