Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  Setting his fork down, Gervase said. "There's something I have to tell you."

  His voice was serious, and Diana glanced up at him, stricken. "You are tired of me and want a new mistress. You brought me here thinking that a public setting would prevent me from making a scene."

  "Good God, of course not!" He clasped her hand under the table reassuringly. "Do you think I would set you aside so casually?"

  She looked away, not able to meet his eyes for fear that her incipient tears would start. "I don't know. I don't understand how men think, either men in general or you in particular."

  His grip tightened. "I don't know how your mind works either, but I promise I wouldn't dismiss you in a public place merely to save myself some discomfort. If it ever comes to that, I'll tell you in private, so you can throw things if you like."

  The hard rat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers announced the start of the display. Flinching at the unexpected noise, Diana smiled tremulously. "I'm afraid that I'm a cryer, not a thrower. You would probably prefer throwing."

  "You're right about that," he agreed with feeling. "But all this is quite apart from what I wanted to tell you." He stopped, as if thinking about how best to phrase it, then said simply, "I'm going away for a while."

  "Like your trip to Ireland?"

  He shook his head. "Not exactly. I'll be gone longer, and... there's a chance I won't come back."

  Her eyes widened as she stared at him. In a hushed voice she asked, "Are you going over to the Continent on some secret business?"

  In the red flash of a skyrocket she saw an approving nod for the shrewdness of her guess, but he said only, "I can't discuss it, Diana. If all goes well, I'll be back in a few weeks."

  "And if all doesn't go well?" Her fingers were clenched hard over his, as if that could prevent him from leaving.

  "You needn't worry. I'm going to send a note to my lawyer in the morning. If I don't come back, you'll be provided for."

  "That isn't what I meant," she said fiercely, fighting tears. "You can't go and get yourself killed! There is too much unsettled between us."

  An unearthly flash of violet light lit up the alcove, and in its coruscating brilliance she could see a subtle shift in the muscles of his face before he said softly, "Then you'll be waiting for me to return?"

  "Of course." Three rockets boomed outside, one after the other, as she swallowed hard, trying to dispel the lump in her throat. "Why did you bring me to Vauxhall?"

  His eyes slanted sideways as he thought. "Perhaps I thought that if tonight was different, you might remember me better."

  "Does that mean you are leaving tomorrow?" He nodded, and she stood abruptly. It was difficult to breathe. He was not a man to mention a trivial danger, and if he was warning her that he might not return, the hazards must be great indeed. "Then why are we wasting time here? Please take me home now. I know a better way to create memories."

  He stood also. The leafy alcove was nearly private, and in the unsteady light he studied her, his face shadowed, before he pulled her into a crushing embrace. "Oh, God, Diana, you are so beautiful, and I want you so much..." he whispered before he lowered his head to claim her lips, rendering words impossible.

  A whole series of fireworks exploded above, shattering the air like cannon fire while the alcove filled with flaring sheets of light in scarlet and green and icy white. As hot and furious as the sky over their heads, desire blazed between them. Outside, people cheered and applauded the fireworks show, while Diana strained against Gervase, her mouth and tongue and hands as demanding as his, her body driving into his, as if the barriers of fabric that separated them could be overcome.

  Finally he pulled away, his breath coming hard, and took out a handkerchief to gently blot the tears on her cheeks. His voice husky with passion, he said, "Come, it's time to go home. I want to make love to you with every minute that is left."

  Closing her eyes for a moment, she nodded, then raised her hand and brushed her hair back as she schooled her features. His fingers lightly touching the back of her waist, Gervase guided her out, seeking the quickest route to his carriage.

  Behind the alcove, hidden from view by the shrubbery but able to hear every word that had been spoken, the Count de Veseul stood quite still, his hands lightly laced on the gold head of his cane, his face impassive except for the trace of satisfaction revealed by the bursting fireworks.

  So St. Aubyn was going to the Continent on some nefarious business. Doubtless he would cross the Channel with smugglers, landing in northern France or the Low Countries. A little thought would reveal which European affairs might require the personal attention of the British spymaster. Then it would be a simple matter to issue descriptions to the guards and patrols that kept Bonaparte's empire secure.

  St. Aubyn was clever, but he would have to be a good deal more than clever to escape the net he would run into. Removing him would simplify Veseul's own work, with the added benefit of making that beautiful, wanton mistress of St. Aubyn's amenable to others who might wish to sample her charms.

  Negligently lifting his cane to push back the brim of his hat, the Frenchman strolled back toward the main rotunda. Amenable or not, he would have her. He was a patient man, but he had waited long enough and grew weary of it.

  He had found no other woman in Britain that he wanted half so much as Diana Lindsay. A pity that flawless beauty was wasted on an Englishman. The French agent in the Lindsay household reported that the whore was quite amazingly faithful to her lover, but such fidelity would hardly outlast his demise.

  As the final pyrotechnics exploded above his head, Veseul stopped and glanced up into the light-slashed darkness. His breath quickened as he watched the fading streaks of fire and thought of Diana Lindsay, of her perfect beauty, and of her disdain.

  With sudden savagery he stabbed the golden serpent's head viciously into his left hand.

  * * *

  It was dawn when Gervase left Diana's, and she had been right: Vauxhall was already half-forgotten, but he would remember the night just past whether his life lasted a week or a century. She came downstairs to say good-bye, her soft arms clinging, her chestnut hair a lilac-scented tangle against his unshaven cheek.

  Then she had resolutely stepped back, her eyes stark but her chin high, refusing to say a word to stop his departure. He admired her for that. If she had begged him to stay, it would have been almost impossible to resist her.

  Since he had had no sleep at all, it was fortunate that his preparations to leave were simple. He gave instructions to his personal secretary and to his assistant at Whitehall. He wrote a note to his lawyer directing him to make a settlement on Diana if he should fail to return. He wasn't sure why he bothered; if something happened to him, she could find another protector in an hour, perhaps even a man who could marry her. Diana wouldn't need the money, but the bequest would be a sign of what she had meant to him, even if he had never been able to say the words she wanted to hear.

  He had an hour free in the afternoon and thought briefly of going to her again, but he couldn't subject either of them to another farewell. Instead, almost against his will and hating himself for what he was doing, he put into effect an idea he had been considering for months.

  Across the street from Diana's house was a small, genteel apothecary's shop, the only business on that block of Charles Street. Gervase had had the owner investigated and knew the man was discreet and knowledgeable, willing to do many things if the price was right. The apothecary put in long hours at his job, and he recognized the viscount as a regular visitor to the house across the street. He never even raised an eyebrow at being paid such a large sum of money to keep note of what gentlemen called on the beautiful Mrs. Lindsay.

  Chapter 16

  Gervase had been gone nearly three weeks and Diana's days were a test of quiet endurance. It didn't help that half of Geoffrey's conversation revolved around Lord St. Aubyn, and riding, and questions about when the viscount would return. At night she would hold the small bra
ss statue of Lakshmi he had given her, rubbing it for luck as she prayed to any god that would listen to bring Gervase back to her.

  Fortunately it was early summer, for it made the loneliness and uncertainty easier to bear. She turned twenty-five on Midsummer Day and her household gave her a party, with melt-in-the-mouth pastries made by Edith and a sweetly singing music box shaped like a nightingale from Madeline. Geoffrey gave her a scarf that was so perfect that it must have been selected by Maddy, and an irregular bouquet of flowers that were clearly chosen by him. She hugged all three of them, not knowing what she would do without her friends and her son.

  The morning after her birthday dawned with the sky a cloudless blue bowl of light, the sort of summer day that came only once or twice a year in the damp islands of Britain. It was a day when it was easy to believe that Gervase would return soon, intact and passionate and as glad to see her as she would be to see him.

  Geoffrey was delighted to accompany her to the market, and they set off together, Diana carrying a basket and a list from Edith. (If you find raspberries, buy several quarts and I'll put up preserves. Be sure the chickens are young.) In spite of their French cook, Edith would not let herself be driven entirely from the kitchen.

  Geoffrey was in high spirits as he wove his way between pedestrians and vehicles with the jauntiness of a natural city dweller. Diana watched him with pleasure. In the last six months he had been having fewer seizures, and some days she even dared dream that he might outgrow them altogether.

  As they walked to the market, Geoffrey laughed and chatted, skipping back and forth so that he covered twice as much ground as she did. As they approached the market, he asked, as he did at least once a week, "Do you think Lord St. Aubyn will be back soon?"

  "I'm sorry, Geoffrey, I just don't know. He could come back tomorrow, or next month, or..."—she inhaled before saying something she had avoided until now—"or perhaps never."

  "Never?" Geoffrey glanced up at her, his deep blue eyes startled. "Why wouldn't he want to come back?"

  "It isn't that he wouldn't want to, but travel is dangerous. Sometimes ships sink, accidents happen. And there is a war going on." She waved her free hand vaguely.

  Her son considered that for a few steps before asking, "Are you going to marry him?"

  "Why do you ask that?" she countered, uncertain how to answer. If he was thinking of her and Gervase in man-and-woman terms, the complications could be just beginning.

  Geoffrey kicked a pebble across the cobblestones. "When we were at Aubynwood, you were together all the time." She glanced at him, wondering if he knew just how much time they had spent together, but he didn't seem to realize how literally accurate his statement was. "You seem to like each other."

  "Liking each other doesn't always lead to marriage." She felt her way carefully, wanting very much to know her son's opinions. "Would you like to have Lord St. Aubyn for a father?"

  His face furrowed in an expression of deep thought before he finally shrugged. "I don't know."

  "You like him, don't you?"

  "Yes, but..." His voice trailed off and he stopped to scratch an undistinguished but friendly dog. The dog gave a soft canine moan and leaned against Geoffrey's leg. Her son looked up hopefully, but Diana said, "No, we do not need another pet. He looks well-fed and must have a home already."

  Geoffrey tousled the floppy hound ears, then walked on while the dog sat and looked after them with regret. Continuing his previous thoughts, he said, "I like Lord St. Aubyn, but when he's around, you pay him too much attention."

  She'd known that jealousy was a possibility, though she had done her best to make sure her son received a fair share of her regard. But having been raised by three adoring women, anything less than total attention was likely to feel like deprivation. She was glad that he was aware of how he felt, and could articulate it rather than just sulking.

  Taking his hand, she stood on the street corner till a heavy dray passed, then crossed, not relinquishing his hand on the other side. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Geoffrey. I am very fond of Lord St. Aubyn, but that is separate and different from the way I feel about you. A thousand Lord St. Aubyns couldn't make me love you any less."

  Deciding that it was appropriate to touch on another issue, she added, "It would be the same if I ever have other children. You are my firstborn, and no other son or daughter could ever take your place." He glanced up, his fingers tight around hers, but didn't reply. It was a lot for a small boy to think about, even a boy wise beyond his years in some ways.

  The market was just ahead, and a sudden burst of voices sounded. Grateful for the distraction, Geoffrey pulled away and scampered up to a small crowd that was forming. Something about the voices and the way her son's body went rigid warned Diana, and she lifted her skirts and hastened to join him.

  In a circle of gaping onlookers, the proprietor of an egg stall was having a seizure. The middle-aged woman writhed on the ground, her body arched back and her tongue protruding as inhuman rasping sounds came from her mouth. Her flailing arms had knocked over baskets of eggs and she lay among smashed shells, bright yellow yolks running across the ground and staining her plain gray gown.

  A man by the egg stall waved people back, saying gruffly, "Her'll be right enough soon." The bystanders watched with varying degrees of curiosity, pity, and revulsion.

  After a quick glance at the woman, Diana turned to her son, seeing his trembling lips and the expression of horror and loathing on his face. Suddenly he turned and bolted away, fleeing blindly down the crowded street.

  She half-expected this, and followed, but it took two long blocks to catch up with him, and only then because his wrenching sobs demanded more breath than he could spare. He slowed to a halt in front of a confectioner's shop, gasping for air, tears running down his face. Dropping her basket, Diana knelt and wrapped her arms around him, as if he were much younger than eight years old.

  Through his gasps for breath, he managed to ask, "Is that... what happens to me?"

  She hesitated a moment, then admitted, "Yes."

  Shaking his head violently, he said into her ear, "It's dreadful, like being an animal. No wonder they stare...." He struggled against his tears, then buried his face against her neck. "It isn't fair! What did I do that God made me like that?"

  She held him tightly, aching that she could do no more. To see a seizure for the first time was shocking; to know that he himself could be so terrifyingly out of control was far worse. Ignoring the people walking around them, she rocked him in her arms, crooning, "It's all right, darling, it isn't that bad."

  The trembling diminished, but his voice was anguished, no longer that of a child. "It is that bad. There's something wrong with me, and I'm different. I'll always be different."

  Diana sank back on her heels, holding his hands as she watched his tear-smudged face. "Yes, you are different. It may seem unfair, but God's reasons are not easy for us to understand. Every person is different, sometimes in good ways, sometimes in hard ways, but it is our differences that make us what we are."

  He dragged a sleeve across his eyes, trying valiantly to master his distress. "I... I'm not sure I understand."

  She thought rapidly, trying to find a way to explain, to help him understand and accept without bitterness. "Your schoolmaster, Mr. Hardy, says that you notice things that most of the other boys don't, and that you are always kind to boys who are new or who aren't good at making friends. Isn't that true?"

  "Y-yes."

  "I am very proud you are like that," she said softly. "Would you be as considerate of others if you had never known what it was like to be different yourself?"

  "I... I don't know." He thought, his attention no longer on his own misery. "Probably not."

  "You see, being different may be difficult sometimes, but hasn't it helped make you a better person?"

  He considered gravely. "I see. Yes, maybe it has. Does that mean I should be glad that I have fits?"

  She smiled, and dug a
handkerchief out for her son. "You don't have to be glad, but it is good to accept it and not be angry. Being angry at God for being unfair doesn't help at all."

  Geoffrey wiped his eyes and blew his nose, then looked at his mother curiously. "Have you ever been angry at God?"

  The question cut too close to the bone. Her voice a bit unsteady, she said, "Yes. And it didn't do any good, either. It didn't make me happier, and it didn't change what was wrong. The only thing that helped was when I changed myself."

  She saw that he was about to ask for clarification, which she would just as soon avoid. Rising, she brushed at her sprigged-muslin dress, decided that it would survive its harsh treatment, then said cheerfully, "Shall we see what the confectioner has this morning? I think we both deserve a treat."

  Geoffrey's face became that of a small boy again, and he gave a whoop before dashing into the confectionery. Diana followed with more restraint. She had always known that someday her son would realize what happened during those moments when his body went out of control and he lost consciousness, and she was grateful he had accepted it so well. On the whole, he was dealing with life's injustices better than she ever had.

  * * *

  When he ran into French troops so soon after landing in the Netherlands, Gervase had thought it was bad luck. He had talked his way out of the first encounter with false papers, officiousness, and an aristocratic French accent, but the next time he had been less fortunate. The guards checked his description against a broadside, agreed that he was surely the Viscount St. Aubyn, notorious British spy, and had arrested him. He managed to escape from the flimsy local jail, acquiring a shallow wound from a bullet along his upper arm in the process.

  After that the hunt was on. He would never have gotten clear if he hadn't found a small band of Gypsies. Gervase had worked with Gypsies before and spoke some of their language. The nomads hated Napoleon because of the barriers he put on their free way of life, and for an only mildly extortionate amount of gold they were happy to take in the Englishman and wend their way north toward Denmark.