The Summer of You (25 page)

Than to fall hopelessly.

But he shook off that melancholy thought and instead concentrated on the conversation at hand.

“Speak for yourself—I, on the other hand, fully intended to work toward our goal of ensnaring the highwayman.”

“You did?” she asked, her eyes brightening.

In answer, Byrne produced from his breast pocket the pages Victoria had copied so diligently. “Yes, I was going to come up here, and retrace our highwayman’s steps, this time with our new information. That is, until you distracted me with such temptations as wine and jam.”

“Oh well, my distractions and I apologize,” she replied pertly, dusting off her skirts and beginning to gather up the detritus of the picnic. “We’ll go if you need solitude for your thoughts.”

He looked at her, then down at the half-empty basket—and gave a deep, labored sigh. “Well,” he said, pulling her back down beside him on the blanket, “since you’re already here, the two of you might as well stay.”

She landed with a satisfying thump, falling back into his arms. “You just want the scones and jams to stay.” She smiled at him.

“Speaking of . . .” Byrne said, and he levered up and kissed the corner of her mouth, catching the small bit of jam that had been resting there, tempting him for the last minute. She eagerly latched on to him, deepened the kiss. He could taste the wine on her breath, mixed with the jam, the summer breeze, and the cinnamon scent that was all Jane. But before he could get too lost in the sense that life was as sweet as what he tasted, Jane broke away, nicked the pages from his hand, and made a show of studying them while strenuously ignoring him.

“So—what do we know now that we didn’t know before?” she asked, holding back a wicked smile.

That you tempt me like the devil.

“That what was stolen was far less than rumor has described,” Byrne said.

“But we suspected that,” Jane argued, turning over the pages in her hand.

“Monetarily. In terms of quantity it was far more,” Byrne countered.

“Where did you discern that?” she asked, scanning the pages furiously.

He pointed to one of the pages. “Here—no, wait . . . here. Where it notes that a whole trunk was taken.”

His finger hit the paragraph he sought. It was an annoyingly short entry, as were all the entries regarding the highwayman.

Jane read the paragraph with a scrunched nose. “Don’t highwaymen usually take the trunks and things?”

“No, actually—they usually take what they can carry on their horse and make a quick getaway. Hence jewels and pocket change. If they are stealing whole trunks, it means two things—they are novices who don’t know what they are looking for, and they live close enough to town to hide their goods. Else the trunk would have been found, scattered after being ransacked.”

“You keep saying ‘they,’” Jane noted. “You believe there to be more than one person?”

“We know that from overhearing the conversation at the assembly.” Byrne narrowed his eyes, sat up straight, and looked into the distance, to the road leading into Reston.

“Do you know, I am amazed that these fellows haven’t yet been caught. Their actions are reckless and sloppy. Taking the mail in the dead of winter? And no one followed their horses’ tracks in the snow? And what about when the attack started moving closer to town? Post a few watchmen on the main roads in and out of town and voilà!” He slammed his fist into his hand. “They’re caught.”

Jane glanced at him from under her lashes. “Voilà?” she asked.

“It’s French,” he replied defensively.

“I know. I just never expected the word ‘voilà’ to drop from your lips.”

“I can do lots of unexpected things with my lips.” He grinned at her and was rewarded with watching her turn the most uncommon shade of pink.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Jane replied primly.

“Do what?” he asked innocently, as she turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Try to . . . unsettle me.”

“And yet,” he leaned down and kissed her, reverently, “unsettling the unflappable Lady Jane is one of life’s little joys.”

“Well,” she replied, a little breathless, “you shouldn’t change the subject.”

“True. What were we talking about again?”

“Why the thieves haven’t been caught yet,” she said, sitting up, forcing him to do the same. She shuffled the pages in her hands.

“I suppose that they have benefited from Sir Wilton’s lack of organization,” she said, looking over the papers. “I expected there to be more information here. He didn’t write down anything about what the victims saw . . .”

“True. I received more structured information from Dobbs, who was merely collecting off rumor. Sir Wilton has no record of witness statements. Or descriptions of the attackers,” he agreed.

“I’m sure he took them; after all, I watched Mr. Cutler interview Mr. Hale and Mr. Thorndike, and Charles and Nevill, when they sobered up a bit. But you should see his book room,” Jane added. “Sir Wilton’s—not Charles and Nevill’s. It’s completely piled with evidence and notes from old and unresolved cases. I was surprised Victoria and I managed to find this ledger.”

“So, if he has more notes anywhere, it’s doubtful even he could find them?” Byrne surmised, as Jane nodded. “Do you realize that this highwayman escapade has been bungled from the very beginning? Instead of investigating the attacks, it seems like the town is simply waiting for the next one and hoping they get lucky enough to catch someone—me, hopefully—in the act.”

Jane regarded him then, as she asked, “What would you do? If you were the magistrate in charge?”

Byrne looked out over the vista and pointed to the mouth of the town. “Post men at checkpoints—here, and then about a mile farther up, and another two miles beyond that. I’d ask Windermere to do the same, maybe the town on Coniston Water. Then I’d take an inventory of the stolen goods—down to every last boot, not just the jewels and money, and send men out to Manchester and York—and maybe even Edinburgh—and search the local pawnbrokers for the goods.

“I’d then take a good hard look at the men in town—which ones are living beyond their means? Which ones have a sweetheart who has a new locket or bonnet that she shouldn’t be able to afford?” He started talking with his hands now, as he didn’t have his cane to roll back and forth between his palms—it was beside him on the ground. “And then I would cross-reference the dates of the robberies with where those men were—which shouldn’t be too difficult to discern, as Sir Wilton’s wife is the biggest gossip in the village. Were these men in or out of town? Do they have people who can account for their whereabouts?”

He stopped then, the visions he had—the checkpoints posted along the main roads—he could see them there, in the distant valley, in the fading afternoon sun. As real as day.

“And if we hadn’t caught the highwaymen then”—Byrne shrugged—“or at the very least deterred them from practicing their arts in this area of the county, then I’ll be hanged myself.”

Byrne looked up to find that Jane was smiling bemusedly at him. “That seems to be a great deal of work.”

“It’s the work that should have been done. The steps that should have been taken before this escalated out of control. I’ve thought about ...”

He paused, vaguely embarrassed by his own notion.

“Thought about what?” Jane asked, after a moment.

“Thought about offering Sir Wilton my services. As an assistant to the magistrate, or officer, or whatnot.”

“After you catch the highwayman, of course.”

He grinned wryly. “Doubt he’d be open to it before.”

“I think it a fine idea,” Jane replied. “I think Reston could use you.”

It was funny, but it had been a very long time since Byrne had felt himself needed. That he was proud of what he could contribute.

That he felt the call of purpose, not duty.

“You do?” he asked, unsure.

“Of course. I would vote for you.” Jane wrinkled her nose. “That is—if I were permitted, which I don’t think I would be. Nevertheless,” she said with a smile, “I would force Jason to vote for you.”

“I don’t think that is necessary, as I doubt a vote would be involved.” Byrne laughed, and brushed an errant strand of red hair back behind her ear. “But I thank you for your support.”

He kissed her then and felt the want course from her into him. The delicious heat of the delicate skin of her throat, the way she fell into him . . .

It was some minutes later when Jane broke away, breathless.

“What time is it?” she asked, soft and befuddled.

“Ah.” Truth be told, they were both a little breathless. “Five minutes to tea,” he replied, checking his pocket watch.

“I have to go!” she cried, her mouth an open circle of shock. “How did it get so late?” she grumbled, as she began to throw tin cups and napkins into the basket. “I cannot miss tea.”

“Why?” he asked, indicating the remains of a scone. “After all, you’ve already eaten.”

She stopped, caught his gaze, and opened her mouth a few times, as if deciding what to say. Then she looked down, resumed her gathering. “I have guests,” she replied. “And they’re expecting me.”

“Let your brother entertain them for an afternoon,” Byrne suggested, taking her hand and tugging her away from her furious cleaning.

“It’s not just that,” Jane said, growing vulnerability in her voice.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, and her eyes flashed up to his face, shocked at the endearment.

She held herself still, willing herself to speak. But she held herself back. Whatever it was that she was hiding, she kept it in.

“I’m needed at home, is all,” she said finally.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, Let me take you home. Let me call on you in your home. Don’t keep me secret from your brother, from your father, from your friends. But that would mean . . .

That would mean they were more to each other than a summer idyll.

And they could not have that.

When the time came, he would let her go. He would give her back. But not yet.

He held her close, let his hand snake up her back. “There are still five minutes till tea,” he whispered, kissing the freckle at the corner of her mouth, feeling her whole body relax into a delightful little shudder.

“Five minutes?” she asked, her voice small, hopeful.

“Five minutes . . .” he agreed.

JANE made it to tea that day, but just barely. The next day she was not so fortunate, coming in ten minutes late with a twig in her hair. Luckily, when her father pointed it out, she thought quickly and said it was from a tree that grazed her on her daily walk. It was an inept fib, but he seemed to believe it. Nurse Nancy, however, gave her a pointed look.

Jason was not in attendance to pass judgment, and Jane hoped that Mr. Hale and Mr. Thorndike had finally wrestled him into the library and to his books. But at dinner, while she was being besieged by Charles and Nevill’s ideas for seating arrangements (they favored a few dozen smaller tables as opposed to one very large one) for the ball, Jason told them he had spent the day with Mr. Hale fishing on the Broadmill River.

“But we talked a great deal about the castle. Apparently there are a number of tenant cottages that could use some repair,” Jason said as he shoveled food into his mouth. Jane looked over to Mr. Hale, who, after a confused moment, nodded vigorously. It occurred to Jane that Hale and Thorndike were enjoying this excursion more than they were meant to, taking rides and going fishing at length with her brother.

It also occurred to her that he was spending less and less time with his guests, Charles and Nevill—and they had been left to her to entertain.

But what to make of it, she wasn’t quite sure.

She also didn’t know what to make of planning a ball. There were so many more details than she expected! How many people the Cottage could accommodate, who to invite, who to exclude, how to decorate the hall versus the entryway, what crystal to use, should a band be called up from London if the York octet proved unworthy? Even what to serve evoked controversy among herself, Victoria, Charles, and Nevill.

“Roast beef? And French asparagus?” Jane cried, looking at the sample menu Charles and Cook had drawn up.

“Where on earth are we going to get French asparagus?” Victoria asked.

“France,” Charles replied offhandedly, as he bit into a scone.

And so it went. Planning the ball. Spending time with her father, making sure she was there for him. Being heartbroken by Jason. And running, running, running to Byrne whenever she could.

Those moments. Those stolen moments were her salvation. She could forget herself then. Forget that her brother was willfully being useless, that her entire house was being turned upside down by Victoria, Charles, and Nevill in the search for the perfect spot to hang draperies, and just be herself.

In fact, she felt as if she were more than herself. She was flying high, a refined, pure version of Jane unseen before. Not the little girl with scraped knees who loved to dance, not the polished debutante with her nose in the air and a penchant for trouble, not the lost daughter—but some new Jane, who discovered the ability to be bold and vulnerable at once, and admit to herself that yes, indeed, she did have freckles . . . and someone who adored them.

Is it any wonder then, that some things began to be missed?

Victoria was remarkably helpful to Jane. Thinking they were on the verge of capturing the highwayman, the girl would wink and nod when Jane told the room she had to go speak with the head gardener about lighting paper lanterns in the trees during the festivities. (Which she did go and do—Jane was not a terribly great liar, but perhaps she exaggerated the time it would take.)

Charles and Nevill would marvel at how that was a wonderful idea, and then write out a note for a messenger to run to Manchester, and not come back until he had purchased several dozen paper lanterns in varying shades, that they could choose from.

Indeed, the committee was making such progress that the ball would likely turn out to be a great success . . . but as the day moved closer, it demanded more and more attention. Jane still managed to find moments to herself, fewer and farther between, but she seemed to make them stretch longer and longer.

She could be missing for another ten minutes, surely. Just enough time to enjoy a quick kiss, an embrace, a ramble in the woods. A hike past the creek, Byrne pointing out a particular species of swan . . . surely another half hour wouldn’t hurt.

She missed luncheon once.

She and Byrne played chess. She lost every game.

She missed the tasting of the sample menu for the ball.

She missed Nurse Nancy bemoaning to Dr. Berridge, who had dropped by ostensibly to assist Victoria, that the Duke was not eating as well as he ought.

She missed her brother’s attempt to get a fourth at whist after dinner (Hale and Thorndike being too worn out from that day’s outdoor activities to join in, instead following the Duke up to bed after supper . . . as Jane was not there to play her evening game of chess).

Until one day, she was too missed to go unnoticed anymore.

They were in Byrne’s sitting room when it happened. The small space with a few pieces of widow Lowe’s embroidery still gracing the side tables was now covered in papers and drawings. Jane, whose limited artistic talent was marginally better than Byrne’s, had drawn a crude map of the area—Merrymere, Reston, the Broadmill River, the fells and roads labeled quickly but legibly.

These past few days had been both the headiest and most frustrating of Byrne’s memory. Headiest, because Jane was there, her cinnamon and honeysuckle smell filling the air as effortlessly as her bright energy . . . and most frustrating for exactly the same reason.

“But what I don’t understand is how anyone who is in the town can then ride out and attack someone on the road without attracting notice,” Jane was saying, looking down at the sketched-out map on the table. She tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, her face a delightful mix of confusion and concentration. And Byrne could not stop looking at her. The way she bit her lip, the way her shoulder worked under the crisp linen of her day dress . . .

“Maybe they ride around Merrymere,” Byrne suggested, popping out of his reverie as he came beside Jane and ran his finger along the charcoal coastline. “On the eastern side,” he ventured, looking down at her, standing far too close to Jane for either of their comfort.

“But they’d have to cut across the Cottage’s lands and come up over the fells,” she argued, glancing up to meet his eyes and making him catch his breath.

“Doable when it’s necessary,” he replied, taking a pencil and tracing a path through the valley between the fells.

“Yes, but annoying to the family whose land he’s using as a means of escape.” She crossed her arms over her chest in the perfect imitation of a proper schoolteacher who has caught a child cheating.

Byrne smiled but kept his eyes on the map. “One man takes the goods to a secured location, likely south of Reston; the other comes back around the eastern side of the lake, then down the western, and coming into the village from the opposite side, no one’s the wiser. Hell, if he’s quick, and he’s unsettled the victims of his latest attack properly, he might beat them into the town.”

He stopped and put a small X on a spot between the fells on the eastern side of the lake. “Here. The valley between the fells. If he comes around this way, then he would have to come through this pass. There’s no other option.”

“Then that’s where we can catch him!” Jane replied, the excitement evident in her voice.

“Where I can catch him,” Byrne admonished, too pleased by the discovery to truly chastise her. “You promised you wouldn’t endanger yourself, remember?”

“Oh all right, where you can catch him.” Jane rolled her eyes. “But when?”

“Your ball,” Byrne answered immediately. “People will be arriving dressed to the nines. It’s too much temptation for any highwayman worth his salt to resist.”

“You’d have to miss my ball?” Jane asked, her voice surprisingly small.

Byrne took in her disappointment, blushed with it. “It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. And if I went to the ball, all I would be doing is thinking about how I missed catching the man and how much I wished I could dance with you.”

Jane nodded, stifling a sniffle. “No, you’re absolutely right. It’s too perfect a chance.” She squared her shoulders and smiled at him. “Byrne, this is wonderful! This will finally have the town believing you!”

She threw her arms around him then, enveloped him in honeysuckle and warmth, and really, what else could he do but twirl her and drink in her liveliness?

She laughed as he lifted her off her toes, and spun her around the room, stopping only when he bumped into a table.

“Would you look at that,” she breathed, her face mere inches from his.

“What?”

“We’re dancing.” Jane smiled as she slid down his body, landing lightly on her toes.

He could feel every inch of her, and he knew she could feel every hardened inch of him. But she wasn’t frightened this time. She invited him against her, pressed ever so slightly closer . . . and that was the permission he needed.

He swooped down, took her mouth.

It was unbearable, this want, and the need to give in to it. Fearful as he was of igniting her caution, he could not keep his hands off her. Nor could she him. He couldn’t help but allow himself to sink into her body, to let his hands graze her breasts, to glory in her hand dropping to his flanks, pulling her into him, and . . .

“Well, I see you two are making progress,” Dobbs’s voice came from the doorway. Byrne broke away from Jane with a growl, unable to stop her as she skittered to the farthest corner of the room.

Dobbs, willfully oblivious, merely nodded to the maps and papers spread out over the small table, as he dropped his load of firewood by the stove.

“Yes,” Byrne said, his voice clipped to the barest edge. “How do you feel about a little reconnaissance work?”

“Eh?” Dobbs brightened. He was always one for an adventure. “When and where?”

“Night after next,” Byrne replied, his gaze never leaving Jane’s, backed as she was to the other side of the room, her cheeks utterly flushed, her eyes dark and sparkling.

Dobbs came over and began to study the map, his nimble fingers running over the lines of the fells.

“The eastern side, eh?” he mumbled. “This spot here, between the fells?”

“Precisely,” Byrne said, never once looking away from Jane.

“Huh.” Dobbs shrugged as he grabbed a pail and ambled out the back and headed toward the barn.

“. . . I take it he’s agreeable to the plan?” Jane asked, her husky voice barely above a whisper.

Byrne nodded, barely. His eyes still locked with hers, each of them unable to move backward or forward. Locked in their current pattern.

“We can’t do this anymore, Jane,” Byrne said.

“What?” Her face fell in total shock.

“We cannot dance around it. What’s between us,” he took the barest step forward. She made no move, just stayed where she was, watching his approach with the thrill of a hunted animal. “Does what we share . . . suffice, any longer for you?”

Slowly, steadily, she shook her head. Just once.

“That is because there is more,” he breathed. “I want more.”

More. He could see the wheels turning in her head. More meant upstairs, in the loft. The softness of his bed. No clothes, no interruptions, no moments stolen from a day busy with planning and projects and a highwayman to catch. Just the two of them together.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice the only sound in the air. No birds chirped outside the windows, no Dobbs singing to the horses beyond. They were the only two people in the world.

And he saw the moment, watched her eyes go dark with desire, heard her breath hitch, when she realized . . . she wanted more, too.

The smallest squeak from the front door broke their cocoon. Then a soft, hurried knock.

“Hello?” Victoria Wilton’s voice came, small and scared as she pushed open the door. “Oh thank goodness!” she cried and ran to Jane.

The tears in the girl’s eyes and the pure relief in her face upon finally finding Jane shook Byrne out of his reverie.

“Victoria, what is it?” Jane asked, worried.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” the words came in a rush, “I know you are working very hard—but your father . . . Jason just got home and saw you weren’t there, and your father . . . We didn’t know what to do. The Nurse sent me out to find you.”

“It’s all right, Victoria,” Jane soothed the girl briskly. “Byrne, I apologize, I must go.”

Jane did not stop as she headed with Victoria to the door. Byrne had to scramble to catch her.

“Jane, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Jane covered.

“She said something happened with your father?” he asked. “Is he hurt? Injured?”

“No,” Jane replied immediately. Then her forehead creased, and her chin wobbled dangerously. But whatever it was, it lasted only a moment, and soon enough she smiled at him. Polite, strained, but still a smile. “Thank you for your concern. I must be going.”

And with that, she was out the door, leaving Byrne asking a single question: What had just happened?

“Victoria, would you be so kind as to go for the doctor?” Jane said, wiping the tears away from her eyes as they beat a hurried path through the woods back to the Cottage.

“They are there already,” Victoria said, trotting to keep up with Jane’s desperately long strides. “Dr. Berridge had been close by and thought I might like an escort home, when it happened. He sent immediately for Dr. Lawford.”