Three Heroes (52 page)

Had he really tried to resist? Or had that simply been more cunning on his part?

She wanted him too much to make sense. Wanting was not the guide.

A child can want to grasp the fire, an adult want to throw away a fortune on cards.

Something popped up from the jumble of her mind. “You mentioned fortune-telling… It’s tugging at something… oh, Mrs. Rowland!”

He frowned slightly. “The woman in the village with the invalid husband?”

“Yes, I felt as if I knew her, but now I see she reminds me of that fortune-teller in Brighton. Madame Mystique.”

Who had talked about the money not really being hers, and death if she did not tell the truth. She’d told the truth, but she still felt half dead.

“What is it? Are you faint?”

“No.” She couldn’t deal with another stir of the pot. “I think I need to eat something. And probably borrow a clean gown. Con,” she added as a mark of appreciation for his kindness.

He smiled. “Come along, then.” They began to walk back to the peaceful house.

Most people would prefer Hartwell, with its picturesque charms around a thoroughly modern and convenient interior.

But Clarissa knew that Hawkinville still held her heart.

Hawk rode south almost by compass, driven by duty alone. It might be pleasant, in fact, to become lost.

He’d looked into some cases of people who simply disappeared. Perhaps they too found themselves in a dead spot of life and went away. Went anywhere so long as it was not here.

He might collide with Van by pure accident on this journey, but that encounter could not be avoided. It really didn’t matter when. It mattered whether Van, like Con, could hold on to old bonds in spite of present insanity, but he couldn’t affect that.

He could affect Clarissa’s reputation, and he put his mind to that.

He made Hawk in the Vale without incident, and saw everyone in the village turn to stare.

The Misses Weatherby popped out of their house, agape. Good.

Grimly amused, Hawk touched his hat. “Good evening, ladies.”

They gaped even more, and he waited for them to frame a question.

But Slade marched out between his ridiculous pillars right up to his saddle. “Where’s your impetuous bride, Major? Fled to warmer arms?”

Rage surged. Barely resisting the urge to kick the man’s teeth in, Hawk put his crop beneath Slade’s wattly chin and raised it. “One more word, and I will thrash you. My father’s folly is to blame more than your greed, but you are very unwelcome here, sir. And your comments about a lady can only be attributed to a vulgar mind.”

As if breaking a spell, Slade dashed away the crop and stepped back, puce with choler. “Lady?” he spat, then stopped. “May we know where the charming Miss Greystone is, Major?”

Very well. Slade would do, and the Weatherbys were all ears.

“It’s none of your business, Slade, but she heard that her dear friend the Marchioness of Arden was in childbed and wished to be with her. As you said, she is somewhat impetuous.”

Slade opened, then shut, his mouth. “And the happy event?” he inquired with a disbelieving sneer.

“A son. The heir to Belcraven, born just before dawn.”

He heard the Misses Weatherby twittering, as women always did at these events, and of course at the slight vicarious connection to the birth of such an august child.

The birth was just the kind of incontrovertible fact that could glue together almost any lie.

Slade was certainly believing it.

“And the money?” he asked stiffly.

Hawk permitted himself a disdainful sneer. “Will be yours, sir, before the due date. I must thank you for being so obliging to my family.”

With that, he turned his horse toward the manor, which apparently would survive, along with the heart of Hawk in the Vale. At the moment, he felt no satisfaction. He did not dismiss the value of preserving the village, but he did not dismiss the cost, either.

As he dismounted in the courtyard the scent of roses met him—sickeningly. He left the horse to the groom and strode swiftly inside.

“George? Where’s your bride?”

His father stood in the doorway to the back parlor, leaning on a stick.

“Isn’t it more a case of where’s the money?”

“Definitely, definitely. You have it? If so, we can start planning the celebration.”

“Go to the devil,” Hawk snapped, then quickly reined in his temper before it drove him into something else to be ashamed of. “I have the money to pay off Slade, but there is no extra, my lord.”

“There is always more money, my boy! I thought a fete similar to that one Vandeimen threw for his wedding. But more regal. Full dress. A procession—”

Hawk turned to go up the stairs. “You will, of course, do exactly as you wish, sir. I have no interest in it.”

“Damn your eyes! And where is your bride, eh? Lost her already?”

Hawk paused on the landing. “Precisely, sir.”

He entered his room tempted to sink into the darkness, but he had done this for a cause, and the cause went on. He opened his campaign desk. The familiar paper and pens swept him back to his other life. He thought there might even be a trace of smoke and powder trapped in the wood.

Why had the skills that had carried him through challenging and even torturous tasks in the army failed him here?

He picked up the flattened pistol ball that had been his constant reminder that blind luck played a huge part in fate. Perhaps this time his luck had run out.

But, no, that wasn’t it. In the army he’d usually worked toward a single imperative. He’d had no personal stake, and a good part of his skill had been in blocking out all distractions of fact or sentiment.

In fact, this campaign was a resounding success.

Hawkinville was safe.

He deserved a medal.

He wrote a Spartan letter to Arden thanking him for his assistance and requesting that he arrange for the money to be available at his Brighton bank before the end of the month. Then, with distaste, he wrote a note to Slade requesting the name of the institution where his money should be deposited.

He went downstairs and sent a servant off with it.

And that, pretty well, was that.

All that was left was the rest of his life.

He walked out of the house at the back, and down to the river, but the ducks must have been enjoying some other part of the water, and heavy clouds were drifting between the earth and the sun. It seemed symbolic, but he knew the sun would shine another day and the ducks would return.

Only Clarissa would be perpetually absent.

Was there any chance that she would relent once the shock wore off? He couldn’t bear to hope. If he did, he thought he would be frozen in time, waiting.

He heard a footstep and turned.

Van’s fist caught him hard on the jaw and flung him backward into the river.

He sat up spluttering, hand to his throbbing jaw, tasting blood from the inside of his cheek. Van waited, icy.

“If you hit me again,” Hawk said, “I’ll have to fight back.”

“You think you can win?”

“Would anyone win?”

Van glared at him, but the ice was cracking a little. “What’s this claptrap about Clarissa going to Lady Arden’s lying-in?”

Hawk decided he could probably stand up without having to kill Van and did so. “As a story it can hold if not challenged too strongly.”

That was a hint, and he saw Van take it.

“What did happen?”

His boots were full of water. “I tried to elope. I evaded pursuit, but made the mistake of staying the night in Arden’s home village.”

A crack of laughter escaped Van. “Wellington would have your guts!”

“The thought has occurred to me. I forgot, I assume, that I was at war.”

The ducks chose that moment to scoot quacking along the river, perhaps drawn by the splash. One duckling scuttled over to peck at his boots.

Hawk looked down contemplatively. “It seems to be my day for being attacked by animals.”

“Are you referring to me?”

Hawk smiled slightly. “Is a demon an animal?”

With a shake of his head, Van stuck out his hand. Hawk took it and climbed out of the river to drip on the bank.

“What happened?” Van demanded. “The whole truth.”

“I’m not going to add pneumonia to my other follies. Come inside and I’ll tell you as I change.”

Hawk discarded his boots by the back door and left wet prints as he padded along the flagstoned corridor and up the stairs. “Mind your head,” he said as he went into his room.

Van ducked just in time, then flung himself into the big leather chair with old familiarity. The three of them had rarely chosen the manor over Steynings or the Court, but they had spent some time here, mostly in this room.

“You gave me your word that you wouldn’t ruin Clarissa.”

Hawk stripped, piling his sodden clothes in his washbasin to spare the wooden floors. “I said, if I remember, that I would not ruin her that day.” He kept a careful eye on Van’s fists. “I did not mean to be specious, but as it happens, I kept to the letter of my promise.”

“And yesterday?”

“And yesterday, I did not.” He toweled himself dry. “We were, however, on our way to our wedding.

Except that we were stopped.”

“By Arden. You don’t seem to have been bruised before now.”

“My golden tongue.”

“Against Arden, when he found you bedding a woman he has to regard as being within his protection?”

“We weren’t bedding at that moment,” Hawk pointed out, pulling clean clothes out of drawers. “And,”

he added, “Con was there. And Clarissa.”

“Didn’t want to create a fuss in front of her?”

“Couldn’t get through her would be more exact. This was before she realized the truth, of course.” He pulled on his breeches, fastened them, and sat down. “She had no idea the will was a forgery, Van. No idea at all.”

Van looked at him for a moment, unusually thoughtful. “What now?”

“Now I pay off Slade with Arden’s money. It must be pleasant to be able to afford such lordly gestures, and it seems the Rogues wish to arrange to cover it.” He explained the arrangements.

“But what of your father? He accosted me in the hall, chortling about outranking me. And going on about a grand fete to beat my wedding celebration.”

Hawk sighed. “I deserve a penance, and I certainly have one.”

After a moment, Van said, “At least you’re free of that Mrs. Rowland. She packed her household into Old Matt’s cart yesterday and headed away.”

The part of him that was still the Hawk stirred at that. “Do we know why?”

“Not that I know. The general feeling is, good riddance.”

“I agree, but I meant to visit her poor husband in case something could be done for him.”

“I tried a few weeks back. I forced it as far as a glimpse into his room. I think he’s done for. Haggard and frail. I gather there was a dreadful blow to the head.”

“Poor man.” But at the moment Hawk couldn’t feel strongly about it. He couldn’t feel very much of anything except loss and pain.

“Do you love her?” Van asked.

Instinctive defense almost had him denying it. “Yes, but it’s completely impossible. Apart from my behavior, can you imagine her here with my father insisting on being Lord Deveriled at every turn, and complaining endlessly of not enjoying his true splendor at Gaspard Hall?”

“But her money… ?”

“The clear impression is that she would rather eat glass than take a penny of stolen money, and knowing Clarissa, I’m sure she’ll stick to her guns.”

Hawk couldn’t speak of her without becoming maudlin. He surged to his feet and put on his shirt. He couldn’t be bothered to go further than that. “Convey my apologies to Maria. What of Miss Trist?”

“Maria and Lord Trevor returned her to Brighton, I understand. Doubtless not looking forward to explaining the situation to Miss Hurstman.” Van rose too. “Nicholas Delaney is here, by the way. Staying at the Court with his wife and child. I suspect he’ll want a word with you, too.”

“So Con said. I’m sure I have enough unmarked skin to go around. Are you off for Brighton, since Maria

’s there?”

“Yes. Will you be coming in?”

“What for?”

Van grimaced, gripped his arm for a moment, then left.

Hawk went to his window to contemplate ducklings.

Clarissa, dressed in one of Beth’s simpler gowns, was attempting to consume a bowl of soup in a spare bedroom while waiting for Con to return with a carriage. She’d suggested that they use the gig, but he’d insisted that she have something better for the journey to Brighton.

The soup was a tasty mix of chicken broth and vegetables, and doubtless nourishing, but she was having trouble finishing it. Tears prickled around her eyes almost constantly, and Hawk’s letter was a sharp-edged presence in her pocket.

After a rap, the door opened and Beth came in.

Clarissa leaped to her feet. “Beth, you shouldn’t be up!”

“Don’t you start pestering me,” Beth said, sitting at the table. “Sit down. Eat.”

“You look very well,” Clarissa said, and Beth did. She was in a loose dressing gown with her hair in one long plait, but she looked much the same as always.

“I am well. It went easily, and I have done considerable research. There is no reason for women to lie around for days or even weeks after a healthy birth. Such a practice quite likely encourages debility. That and lack of fresh air and exercise during pregnancy. I walked at least a mile every day.”

Clarissa chuckled, and some of the sodden sadness lifted. “And the baby?”

Beth’s face lit up. “Perfect, of course. You must come and see him when you’re finished.”

Clarissa had no reluctance about abandoning the soup. “I’m finished. I can’t wait.”

Beth beamed and led the way down the corridor to the nursery. “This is next door to our bedchamber,”

she said softly, as a maid rose from a chair by the cradle to curtsy.

She led the way over to the grand gilded cradle swathed in blue satin. Inside, a tiny swaddled baby slept.

To Clarissa he looked rather grumpy, but she whispered that he was beautiful.

Beth picked him up, and the tiny mouth opened and shut a few times, but then the baby stilled again. She carried him into the bedroom and shut the door. “It’s ridiculous, but I feel as if I am stealing him,” she said to Clarissa. “He has a staff of three, and that was only after a battle royal. Lucien can’t imagine why he shouldn’t have his own liveried footman! I have had to be very firm to have time to myself with him.”