“I did not meet the young lady until the day of the wedding. She was quite young, very fresh and very scared, but young George diddled her as well as any of the other young scoundrels I’ve ever dealt with. He soothed her and kissed her nose and told her that it was the best thing for them to do, the only thing for them to do. Did she not love him? Did she not want to be with him? Truly, my lord, young Carrington was quite good at it.” McNally paused a moment and poured himself a hefty brandy. “Gentlemen?”
Both nodded. Rohan said, “Continue.” He thought his heart would both break and be torn asunder. His youngest brother George, so serious, such a scholar—such a damnable rotter.
“Well, as I was saying,” McNally went on after he’d given each of them a glass of brandy, “the young lady was scared, but she was excited too. What never ceases to amaze me is the ignorance, the stupidity of these young women. But this one had at least the beginnings of some wit. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old, scarce out of the schoolroom. And she was indeed a lady, not some flight o’ fancy a young man could pay for. No, this one was a lady, no coy protestations from her, and that is why I remember the whole thing so well. Because of her. She had no notion of what was really entailed in getting married, but still, she asked me about having bans read. Wasn’t that required? I gave her all sorts of nonsense answers that I’d developed over the years, quite fluent arguments, actually. She appeared satisfied. But then, just before the brief ceremony, she asked if it was legal, since neither she nor young Carrington had parental consent. Neither was of age.
“This is a more difficult question, as you can imagine. But between us, young Carrington and I soothed her fears. I remember that he lied extremely well. I do believe, upon reflection, that I might have felt a brief stab of remorse for that young lovely.”
Then he shrugged and poured himself more brandy. “Actually, I lost remorse many years ago. A man has to live, perhaps with just a bit of pleasure occasionally. I am not greedy. Ah, but she was a sweet young creature. Perhaps, my lord, you will tell me what happened to her? I know that your younger brother—her supposed husband—drowned nearly a year ago. A very unfortunate accident that. I proffer my condolences. What became of her? Or did he simply leave her once he’d had his fill of her? Many young men do that, you know. She did come to you, did she not? She did want something, didn’t she?”
“I have already told you that is none of your affair. Now, what I want to know is about the men who accompanied my brother that day.” It was a stab in the dark, but he was right. McNally was nodding.
“Men,” McNally repeated, then tossed down the rest of his brandy. “I remember that they weren’t as youthful as young Carrington. No, they were perhaps five or so years older. They were dressed properly enough, but young George dismissed them before the young lady appeared. I remember I wondered about them at the time, who they were, and all that. Obviously they were friends of his.”
“What were their names?”
“Surely, my lord, you can’t expect me to—”
McNally moaned when Rohan twisted his arm behind his back again. “Their names,” Rohan said softly into McNally’s ear. “I really don’t want to have to ask you again.”
“Oh, my God, how am I to remember their names?” He groaned, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He looked toward Viscount Derencourt, but that damned gentleman was sitting back on the settee, sipping his brandy, swinging his leg, as indolent as a snake sleeping in the sun. “All right.” His voice was breathless. He hated it, but he knew when a man was serious. “I would prefer not to tell you anything about them because they are dangerous men. They would kill without hesitation if it gained them what they wanted. I swear that I had no idea why they were with young Carrington.”
“Their names.”
“They were Lambie Lambert and Theodore Micah, strange names, both of them. Into all sorts of foul activities, they were. One saw them wherever there was wickedness afoot. They seemed on the best of terms with your brother. I will tell you this, though—if your brother had dealings with them, then it wasn’t good. They are scoundrels, as I said. Young George didn’t have their years of wickedness under his belt. No, he wouldn’t have had a chance with those men.”
“And you’re not a scoundrel?”
“No, not in the same way. Either of them could slip a stiletto into a man’s heart before he could draw a breath. A man who could do that is not a man I ever wish to deal with.”
“Yes, you’re a regular saint, aren’t you, McNally? You ruin young ladies.”
“She did write you, didn’t she? But that’s odd. It’s been nearly a year. Why did she wait so long?”
“She didn’t write to me.” Rohan released the man’s arm. McNally took a step back, rubbed his shoulder, shook his arms, slugged down the rest of his brandy. Finally, his wits more gathered together than not, he said, “Then why are you here? How do you know of all this? Why do you care about these men?”
“That,” Phillip Mercerault said, as he rose, stretching lazily and slowly, like a man who’s just made love to a woman, “is none of your business. Rohan, are you satisfied?”
“Not just yet. Were there any other men you ever saw with my brother? Not fellow students—men.” As he spoke, he looked lovingly at McNally’s arm.
“No. Well, perhaps there was one other. I swear to you, my lord, at first I did not know this one. He was standing in the shadows.”
“You said you didn’t at first recognize him. But you did at some point. Well, who was he?”
McNally frowned, appearing to be deep in thought. He poured more brandy, but he didn’t drink it. “It was some time after I’d married young Carrington to the girl. I was in one of the bookstores on High Street—you know the sort, my lords—all the students frequent them. The sort that carries very old manuscripts, some even original editions from the sixteenth century. I remember seeing young Carrington saunter into one of those old bookstores. I was meeting a friend at the same store and followed him in, without guile, you understand. Well, he met this man, this shadowy man I couldn’t begin to describe to you. He was in a recess of the shop, well hidden. They spoke quietly together, at least ten minutes.
“I was finished with my business, but something about the two of them, well, it quite held my attention. There was a whiff of no good in the air. Then this man buffeted young Carrington on the shoulder, then he left, head down, hat pulled low, but I recognized him.”
“Come,” Rohan said, his patience shredded now. “Stop this game of yours. Who was this man? What did he look like, this shadow man you saw clearly?”
“Very well, my lord. He looked very much like young Carrington,” McNally said finally, and there was sadness in his voice and a great weariness. “You have another brother, don’t you, my lord?”
Rohan didn’t move. Everything in him froze. He had no ready words, no thought, nothing, save this vast emptiness that held nothing alive, just this voice and darkness.
“Yes, he does, as you very well know, McNally,” Phillip Mercerault said, rising. He strode quickly to them. “Who was he, dammit?”
“He was Tibolt Carrington,” McNally said. “But who cares, my lord? Two brothers meet each other. What mystery is this? There is surely no mystery. They are brothers. They meet. They talk together, then one of them leaves.”
“Now you dissemble. I dislike your attempts at irony. You heard nothing they said?”
“No, my lord. More brandy? It was smuggled in from Calais just last Tuesday.”
Rohan said very slowly, “You know that my other brother is a vicar? A man of God? A devout young man whose future just might include becoming the Archbishop of Canterbury? A brilliant young man who is Bishop Roundtree’s acolyte, his protégé? Of course their meeting was just that, a meeting between two brothers. They were always close as boys. Why are you intimating that it was something else?”
“It’s very possible it wasn’t anything at all. But I ask you—why would a man
meet his own brother in the shadowy recesses of an old bookshop? There was something going on between them, I would swear to it. They didn’t want to be seen. By Lambert or Micah? I don’t know, but it quite set me to wondering for several days. I never saw young Carrington with his brother again. I am sorry, my lord.”
“No, Rohan, there’s no reason to kill the villain.” Phillip Mercerault was holding Rohan’s arm, tugging him back, away from McNally. “We’ve heard enough, at least for now. McNally can’t leave Oxford without either of us knowing of it.” He turned to the man then, saying, “If you remember more, you will send a message to Dinwitty Manor.”
McNally was many things, Rohan knew, but he wasn’t stupid. He had never in his life been stupid. Besides, all of them knew that it couldn’t harm his health to have aided two noblemen. “Yes, my lord. I do my best thinking in the twilight hours.”
“See that you stretch your brain,” Phillip said. “Come, Rohan, we will leave him be until tomorrow. If we think of more questions, I’m certain the dear man will be here and willing to assist us.”
“Certainly, my lord,” McNally said, rubbing his sore arm.
“Yes,” Rohan said slowly, “until tomorrow.”
23
“I SHALL KILL YOU! CURSE YOUR BEAUTIFUL EYES, YOU left me here to do nothing but eat Cook’s biscuits, tarts, scones, and those incredible apricot cakes. I nearly collapsed from all that wonderful food. I will begin to waddle. I will have to wear a corset. It’s all your fault for leaving me to wallow in this den of food iniquity. And what did you do? Whom did you see? Ah, it was unfair of you, Rohan, to leave me whilst I still slept. I will get you for this.”
He lightly laid his hand across her mouth, then pulled her against him. He kissed her hair. “You really think I have beautiful eyes?”
Phillip Mercerault was shaking his head. “All that, Susannah, and he heard only your compliment, which was surely unintentional in the first place. Hmmm. Or was it?”
She pulled back in the circle of his arms. “It was completely accidental. Phillip is right. Why did you batten onto that? I am angry, Rohan, outraged, really maddened. Your eyes are beautiful, but that’s nothing to the point. Now, what did you do?”
“I will tell you if you will kiss me first.”
“Sir, this is a gentleman’s residence. You are a gentleman visitor. I am a gentleman’s wife visitor. That isn’t proper, it isn’t—”
He kissed her very lightly, then tapped the end of her nose with his fingertip.
“I suggest, Rohan, that you fill her ears with our adventures. They weren’t adventures you would have enjoyed, Susannah. I promise you. Now, I beg of you, walk through my gardens and discuss Rohan’s eyes, what we did today. You know, Susannah, that Rohan—”
“Enough, Phillip. Enough. I will take Susannah for a nice long walk. We will see you at dinner.”
Phillip Mercerault gave them a mock bow. “As your host, I am gratified for any meager attention whatsoever that you choose to toss in my path.”
“Pay him no heed, Susannah. He will spend his time most happily making drawings of his crenellated tower.”
“Exactly.” Phillip Mercerault gave them a salute and took himself off.
“He is an interesting man,” she said, staring after him. “He is handsome, I thought that yesterday—not as handsome as you are, of course, but he is also fascinating. Why is he not yet married?”
“Phillip is a rake, a lascivious satyr, a . . . help me, I seem to have run out of the words that describe a man of his reputation.”
“Stop laughing at me. I want to hear everything. You want to walk in the gardens? Very well, I have already walked extensively in them and met Phillip’s three gardeners, but I will do it again. His gardens are quite lovely. Not as lovely as those at Mountvale House, but quite acceptable. None of the gardeners has a racing cat, though. Come along, my lord.”
He would have preferred to take her to bed, but it was not to be. She was being womanly, had been for the past three days, and it was killing him.
“Do you, uh, like the garden?”
“I just told you it is quite lovely—the way it is designed, there is so much color, so many gradations of color, and all the small paths are delightful. Why do you care? To a man of your reputation, a garden is just a garden, a place to walk, a place perhaps where you sniff now and again.”
“You don’t know everything, Susannah.”
She looked at him a moment, a tiny frown furrowing her forehead. “No, I never really expected that I did. Only a bit of you is on the surface, Rohan, and sometimes I wonder if that little bit is even you at all.”
He kissed her mouth again, then smiled. “Let’s go for a walk. I do have some rather startling news that has shaken me to the core. I hope you will have some ideas about all this. You see, my brother Tibolt is now involved.”
“The vicar?”
“Yes, the vicar.”
Two mornings later, Baron and Baroness Mountvale left Dinwitty Manor, their host waving to them as they disappeared around the final curve of the graveled drive.
“When will Phillip’s crenellated tower be finished, do you think?”
“The only reason Phillip was here this time of year was that he wanted to get it started. We will visit him again in the fall. It will be done by then. Phillip never lets moss grow when he wants to move a rock.”
“That was a very strange metaphor.”
He nodded, distracted. The morning was foggy, the air chill and heavy, with rain threatening soon.
“It’s a pity we didn’t discover anything more yesterday,” she said. He nodded, taking her gloved hand in his and flattening it palm down on his thigh. He covered her hand with his own.
“The inn we visited yesterday where I was with George and those two men—it brought back so many memories. It was nearly five years ago, Rohan. I was so young and naive. So stupid, really.”
“No, you weren’t stupid. You were just taken in by a young man who knew quite well what he was about and how to get what he wanted. You were seventeen years old, for God’s sake. You did very well, Susannah, given your circumstances.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry no one could tell us about Lambert or Theodore Micah. Is his name really Lambie Lambert?”
“Evidently so. I think that Micah went into hiding when Lambert didn’t come back. If he has a scintilla of a brain he buried himself deep in a cave somewhere. Maybe that cave near the cliffs at Beachy Head that George could have told him about, the one the three of us played in as boys.”
She was thoughtful a moment, then said, “You know what, Rohan? We must think of a way to make him come to us. If we put our brains together, I wager we’ll come up with a good plan.”
He stared at her. She was wearing a delightful bonnet of cream-colored straw trimmed with small silk daisies, a pale yellow ribbon tied in a bow beneath her chin. She looked elegant and intensely feminine, and yet this had just come out of her soft mouth. Surely a female wasn’t to come up with such strategies—strategies that belonged only to the male mind, or at least should.
“You will think of nothing at all. I don’t want the bastard to come anywhere near you.”
She turned her hand up and squeezed his. “There will be a difference this time. We will be ready for him. We will play him like a fish on a line. We will reel him in. We will then cosh him—after, naturally, we find out what is going on here.” She paused a moment, looking at the window when the rain began coming down, a miserable cold, gray drizzle. She shivered, and he pulled her a bit closer to him. He spread the soft wool carriage blanket over her legs.
“There will be no reeling unless I am the reeler and you are safely stashed away to keep you safe. I cannot undergo another crisis like the last one you placed me in.”
She gave him a siren’s smile, and he knew he was in trouble. But, dammit, she was his wife. It was her duty to obey him. What sort of woman had he married? “I would very much like to make love to you,” he said, and si
ghed, knowing that he couldn’t, not just yet. “Tomorrow? Please tell me tomorrow is the day. I’m in dire straits, Susannah.”
“Are you certain a husband should discuss such things with his wife? Aren’t there rules about such things? It’s awfully personal, Rohan. It embarrasses me. Don’t you remember? You promised you wouldn’t embarrass me, but you’ve done it again.”
“As I recall, I was quite right about your first bout of embarrassment. It lasted only a minute, no more.”
“But this is different. I won’t moan this time.”
It was Rohan who made a deep moan in his throat, leaning his head back against the squabs. He closed his eyes. “I won’t look at you. That should help. That mouth of yours drives me to distraction. And then there are your ears—thank God your bonnet is covering those ears of yours.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “Perhaps tomorrow is just fine,” she said. He turned his head slightly away from her so she wouldn’t see the satisfied grin on his mouth. The smile fell away quickly enough.
Tibolt. He remembered how proud his parents had been of their second son until he had locked himself in Mr. Byam’s vicarage and shouted that he wouldn’t come out until his father promised he wouldn’t make him trod the path of sinful pleasure. No, his father must allow him to become a man of the cloth. His parents were flabbergasted, baffled. They told him that he would follow in their footsteps, then in those of his wonderful older brother—namely, Rohan. Finally they agreed, still hoping, doubtless, that Tibolt would change his mind, for he was young yet and hadn’t really experienced the lust of youth. But the years had passed and he hadn’t changed his mind.
At least, they’d said to each other, and in the hearing of their eldest son, namely, Rohan, at least they had him, and he would follow in their footsteps, he would be all things to them, he would carry on after they were gone, they counted on him. Did he not already swagger just like his papa? Did the girls not already look soulfully at him whenever he passed?
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