The Mysterious Heir (13 page)

“Oh, yes,” the Earl said lightly, smiling a little as he noted how firmly she had led the conversation from herself, and perversely persisting in his inquiries. “You must have seen our library. It was all my brother's doing. Do you spend much time at home reading? Bev mentioned that your mother's been in poor health, which prevented your going to London. Surely you must be somewhat familiar with Master Shakespeare to have twigged to the secret of Simon's garden so
quickly? Or is it,” he asked, seeing her bow her head again, “so very shocking to be considered a bluestocking in Tuxford? There are many ladies of Quality in Town who would rather be drawn and quartered than admit to having a passing knowledge of—dare I speak the word again in polite company?—Shakespeare.”

“It's not that.” Elizabeth struggled, thinking of how dearly she would love to have more time to read, were it not for her work and her duties about the house. “Or rather, it is. That is to say,” she went on with more determination, trying to get off the forbidden topic of her life-style to firmer ground, “I do read. But I would dearly love to have been able to travel more.” And having hit upon a subject with which she could converse with perfect truth, she raised her gaze to him once more. “I understand that you have traveled widely. How I envy that.” She sighed.

The Earl had a quizzical look in his eye, but he relented and was soon telling her stories of all the fabled lands she had ever wished to see. And while he sat and told her of Italy and Spain, and of a particular treasure of a museum he had discovered in Greece, she watched his face with fascination.

Though Elizabeth thought it might only be the effect of his superior manners, the Earl seemed definitely pleased to be with her. His strong features were relaxed and free of any lines of pain, his auburn hair shone in the sunlight, and when he glanced toward her, she could see his changeable blue-green eyes alight with humor and interest.

Sitting next to him in the full clear light, she felt the powerful tug of his personality and responded to it like one of his prize blooms turning toward the sunlight. She asked questions, laughed at his wit, and urged him to further reminiscence.

He watched her too as he spoke, and then lightly added, almost as an afterthought, “But then, now that your mother is feeling better, as your cousin said she was, you will have an opportunity for travel yourself. Or is there a particular reason, in the person of some persuasive gentleman from Tuxford, that will prevent you?”

Elizabeth looked downward again. This constant need for
dissembling was making her very weary and heartsick. She had the wildest impulse to be done with the pretense and blurt out, “No, I cannot travel farther than Miss Scott's shop. I cannot afford a twopenny ticket to any place on earth. And even the clothes I stand up in were paid for by selling off all the family's china.” And only by so saying, she thought, could she ever be able to look him fully in the face as an equal. Instead she said meekly, “No. There is no gentleman in Tuxford. It is not,” she essayed weakly, “such a fast place as London.”

“That puts me in my place.” The Earl laughed, while Elizabeth sought to correct her statement. But he rose, and seeing her consternation, told her that it was only that they had talked the morning away and he was sure his guests would be now all awake and looking for their absent host.

“For,” he said as they made their way back to the front of Lyonshall, “it will never do if they discover Simon's garden is my refuge. That shall be our secret,” he assured her. This only served to make Elizabeth feel even worse about her deception, and she walked along with him in silence with her eyes downcast again.

Amazing, the Earl thought. Kitty used to look at me directly with her great dark eyes innocent and wide as she spewed out the most intricate lies. And this chit, he mused, does it the other way round. You have only to ask her a direct question about herself and she will look anywhere but at you and then tell what are probably the most appalling untruths. It is the lies which depress her spirit. For when she is being truthful, she is radiant. She is, he thought, looking down at her shining hair as she trudged beside him with bent head, obviously a very bad liar. But she is a liar. I seem to attract them, he thought on a sigh, both the good and bad ones, with uncanny ease.

Lady Isabel was waiting for them, standing poised prettily beneath her sunshade, as they turned toward the house.

“Oh, fie, Morgan,” she pouted as he drew near. “You've gone for a lovely walk about the grounds, and left me to languish alone.”

“But, Isabel, my dear,” the Earl said, “it would be most
improper of me to roust you from your bed at dawn. Elizabeth here wakes with the sun, and we just happened to meet. But she, no doubt, would be glad of your company for another stroll. Alas, I've just been complaining to her that my poor limb has been acting up. It has been an abominable nuisance today and I must go inside for a brief rest. But,” he said, holding up one hand, “don't let me detain you. We'll all meet again at luncheon.”

He smiled and bowed and gave Elizabeth one last long lingering smile. That, he thought, looking into her surprised eyes, is how one goes about lying, my dear. And vastly amused, he limped painfully up the stairs and left a puzzled Elizabeth and a fuming Isabel to their own devices.

The next few days dawned fair and balmy in a display of ideal spring weather that few had seen so temperate. The Earl's house guests amused themselves publicly and fretted privately about the impression they were making upon their host. Their noble host was subjected to a succession of daily flirts with Lady Isabel, coupled with interminable stories about what clever thing little Owen had lately said to his nurse. Richard Courtney addressed his daily three sentences to his host, and then, relieved, stumbled off to some deserted part of the house where he was thought to be variously brooding, writing, or sleeping. Anthony Courtney adopted a breezy camaraderie with the Earl, but spent the better part of his days with Lord Beverly. And Elizabeth DeLisle occupied herself each morning with a private chat with the Earl, secure and safe with him in his lost brother Simon's Shakespearean garden. Each morning they met as if by accident, and each morning they feigned surprise. And each morning they spoke of many things fluently and with delight. Elizabeth was careful never to mention a word of her existence previous to her appearance at Lyonshall, and the Earl took special care to watch her ill-concealed dismay whenever he attempted to bring the conversation to a more personal level.

But the fair weather could not last, and no one truly expected that it would.

When the rain came that Wednesday morning, the Earl had taken refuge in his study. He was poring over some papers
having to do with a disgruntled tenant's demand for more grazing land when a soft tap came upon his door.

He noted with relief that it was only the butler. Peering past his shoulder, he could see no hovering relative, so he grinned and asked what it was that had caused the fellow to look so grim.

“Luncheon will be late today,” the butler said in tones that signaled the end of the world as he knew it. “Unavoidably, your lordship, we shall have to set the hour back. We shall have to serve at two, rather than at one.”

Looking at his master's puzzled face, the butler went on with distinct unease, “Cook's in a state, your lordship. She's been carrying on and tossing things about. She's in a rare taking and there's none of us can calm her down.”

The Earl rose to his feet and took up his walking stick. “Mrs. Turner? But it must be cataclysmic. She's normally the most benign soul on earth. I'll just go and have a word with her.”

“Oh, no!” the butler forgot himself so much as to cry in an agitated tone. “Never, your lordship. If you were to go down to the kitchens, she'd never forgive herself. Please, do wait here and I'll fetch her to you.”

“Really, Weathering,” the Earl sighed, “I am mobile. I can fetch myself the few steps to the kitchens. No need to summon her when I can just nip down and have a word—”

“No,” the butler insisted, aghast at the sight of his master making his way toward the door. “Really, your lordship. Please, sir. She'll never get over it, your having to come to her. Please, just wait a moment.”

And before the Earl could remonstrate with him again, the butler made his hurried way out.

The Earl sat heavily back into his chair. The way his staff cosseted him and regarded him, as though he were still an invalid, depressed him. So his expression was one of exasperation and grim tolerance when the butler showed an agitated Mrs. Turner into the study.

“Oh, sir…” Mrs. Turner quivered, her hands wrung against her ample chest. “Oh, sir,” she breathed, her wide and shining face set in lines so dolorous she resembled a troubled basset hound. “To think that I've disturbed you. Why, I'd cut off my right arm, I would, before I'd set you at sixes and sevens. To think that you was coming down to the kitchens to see why luncheon was late. I'm that ashamed,” she wept, “and I promise it won't happen again.”

“Mrs. Turner,” the Earl said softly, coming over to her and taking her hands in his, “I wasn't coming to see why luncheon was delayed. That didn't cross my mind at all. I only wondered what it was that had so overset you. Truly.” He smiled at her, the way he had when he was a boy and begged some baked treats. “Now, come, sit and tell me what's untoward. For I won't have you so upset.”

But Mrs. Turner, who had high standards for herself, refused to sit where the Earl had indicated. Instead, she tucked her hands beneath her apron and sniffed and nodded her head till her gray curls bobbed.

“It's only that boy. That lad has disturbed me something fierce, he has. And as I know my place, I can't be rude to him, as he's your guest. And your relative too. But I can't take it much more, your lordship. That I can't. I hold it in till it fair smothers me. And this morning just beat all,” she said with misty eyes.

“Why, Owen, is it?” The Earl laughed. “The boy has a fierce appetite, I know, Mrs. Turner. But if he's in your way, just show him the door. We're not precisely starving him at table, and I'm sure he can somehow contrive to make it from meal to meal without coming down to the kitchens and cutting up your peace.”

“Owen?” Mrs. Turner cried. “That dear little lamb? That sweet little poppet? No, it's not Owen. He's a lovely little fellow, and the way he chats and holds himself, just like a little man, he is.” Mrs. Turner beamed, as the Earl repressed a grimace.

“No, it's not that dear little lamb. It's that Anthony lad. I know he's your cousin, your lordship. But I can't take it much more. That I can't,” she protested.

“Out with it, Mrs. Turner,” the Earl encouraged her, “for you'll feel much better once you've had it off your chest.”

The Earl watched in fascination as Mrs. Turner took a deep
breath, inflating the aforementioned majestic portion of her anatomy, and then she began to unburden herself.

“It's the way he's been lounging about the kitchen, taking a snippet of this and a speck of that. Not 'cause he's hungry, 'cause I see he ain't. But as an excuse to talk me and the girls up. First, he was just asking questions all the time. Having to do with what was none of his business. About how much it cost to run the house. How much went to waste. How dear sugar was, and how pricey chocolate, like he was your lordship. But I put up with it. Then he began to ask about my wages. My wages! As if he paid them. And asking Millie and Jenny how much they gets per quarter.”

Mrs. Turner panted in growing outrage, “Imagine asking that layabout wench Jenny how much her wages is, when she don't stir herself enough to earn the roof over her head. And then today, to top it all, he comes lounging in, all smarmy and friendly, and starts to tell, me—
me
!—about how I'm an exploited female. Me, who has as good a reputation as any female in the Kingdom. ‘Exploited,' he says. And fairly soon he's got a crowd about him, Millie and Jenny and young William, and even Old Tom from the stables in for his tea, and he's going on about feudals and serfs and what-alls. But the way he was talking about you, sir, that I could not stomach.”

“Me?” the Earl asked, an arrested look in his eye.

“Aye. Well, he didn't name you, sir, that he didn't have the gall to do, else he would not be about now to tell the tale, guest or not,” Mrs. Turner said with a militant look. “But the Gentry, he said. He said as to how the whole lot was parasites and worse. I forget the words exactly, your lordship. But between ruining my reputation by calling me an exploited woman and nagging Jenny to unshackle herself, when she isn't even walking out with any fellow, and tossing about unhealthy words like ‘parasite' and, yes, ‘bloodsuckers,' it fair made my blood boil.”

“I see,” the Earl murmured, with a look of unholy amusement in his eyes that he quickly lowered his lashes over when he gazed with sincerity at his cook. “Do not worry, Mrs. Turner. I'll have a word with the fellow. And I promise you
he'll not trouble you again. Now, take a little time to compose yourself, have a cup of tea, and forget the entire matter. Put it out of your mind. I'll have a word with him and he'll not trouble you again. That's a promise,” he said.