by Juliana Gray
But the cool breeze blowing off the lake had invigorated her. Philip, holding her hand, had dragged her along the shore at a smart pace; they had scrambled over the damp pebbles, laughing, the wicker picnic basket bumping against the curve of her calf, and settled at last near the spot of yesterday’s outing. She’d rested against the very same tree and watched as Philip played about on the shore; she’d pictured Roland’s long body reclined on the red-checked picnic cloth, just as it had yesterday, and her nerves had danced with an electric awareness. Sleep had been the furthest thought from her mind.
Until she’d opened her eyes some unknown time later, her back rough and aching from the bark of the tree, and Philip nowhere in sight.
She scrambled to her feet. “Philip!” she called out.
Ripples fanned out across the water before her, and an instant later the breeze lifted the hair from her forehead. A friendly white cloud passed overhead, casting a moment’s darkness over the landscape.
“Philip!” she called again, more loudly, willing her voice to remain calm.
Behind her, a pair of birds took up a frantic argument, cracking the silence. She heard the rustle of leaves as they jostled for position, the flutter of feathers.
She ran to the edge of the lake. “Philip! Philip!”
Her voice echoed back to her, faint and ghostlike, from the rock outcropping on the opposite shore.
Her heart thumped in her ears in a hard, rapid rhythm, like the pounding of feet in the grass. The water looked so still, so innocent, shedding tiny tranquil ripples that couldn’t possibly defeat a five-year-old boy.
She whirled around and scanned the shoreline: the short pebbled beach, the scattering of olive trees, the glimpse of the vineyards and terraces between the dark-leaved branches.
“Philip!” she called, with all her strength.
The warm spring air returned no answer.
* * *
From the guilt settled deep into the lines of Phineas Burke’s face, Roland hadn’t arrived a moment too soon.
He strode through the doorway of the square stone building with decisive strides, giving Burke no chance to refuse him entry, and looked about. No immediate signs of connubial activity. No discarded corsets, no abandoned shoes. No other occupant visible at all, in fact.
Not yet, at least.
Better and better, if the lady were hiding. Cabinet on the wall, hulking great shell of an automobile on blocks in the center of the room. Any number of likely spots. Roland nearly rubbed his hands with anticipation. Aside from appreciating the usefulness of discovering Burke’s secrets, he was terribly fond of intrigue.
He started things off briskly. “What the devil sort of hovel is this? And why have you got it all locked up?”
“Security,” said Burke. “A competitive lot, we motor enthusiasts.”
“Ha-ha. And rather useful for keeping seductive marchionesses at bay, eh what?” Roland came to a stop in the center of the room. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two teacups sitting on the worn worktable off to the side. A hint of steam drifted upward from the white porcelain.
“That, too, of course.” Burke’s voice was decidedly grim.
Roland grinned and turned around. “What do you think Wallingford was on about last night? I hardly recognized the man. All that business about goose down.”
Burke’s face relaxed. “I suspect, old boy, that your brother’s got troubles of his own in that quarter,” he said, with a condescending smile, looking for an instant as if he might even venture a wink.
Roland whistled and made his eyes go round with surprise. “You don’t say! Wallingford and Lady Morley! I suppose it’s a natural match, both of them high-tempered schemers and whatnot. And it explains last night’s doings, all those accusations about her seducing you. Jealousy, from my brother! Ha-ha. Very good.”
He watched with satisfaction as the color rose in Burke’s cheeks. Ginger-haired chaps never could disguise their choler.
“I don’t mean Lady Morley,” Mr. Burke said.
“What’s that? But who—good God, you can’t mean Lilib . . . you can’t mean Lady Somerton! Damn you for a slandering . . .” He took a menacing step forward, for good measure.
Burke forced out a laugh and maneuvered his way to the worktable. “Pax, old man! Not her ladyship. Good God, no.”
Now thunderstruck. “What, then? Not Miss Harewood! You can’t be serious.”
“Mere speculation.” Burke leaned against the table, blocking the teacups from view. His eyes slipped past Roland for an instant, down to the ground.
Roland wanted to shake his friend’s shoulders and teach him a thing or two about clandestine activity. As it was, he was rather disappointed. Shooting a sitting duck was no sport at all.
He liked Phineas Burke a great deal, quite aside from the private fact of their family relationship, which came—rather awkwardly—on the wrong side of the blanket, through Roland’s maternal grandfather, the Duke of Olympia. For one thing, Burke was the only man he considered his intellectual superior. For another, he managed to remain a decent fellow, despite his genius.
Not so decent, however, that Roland couldn’t have a bit of fun.
He cleared his throat. “Hmm. Miss Harewood. Any port in a storm, I suppose. But what has goose down to do with it all?”
“Haven’t the slightest,” said Burke. He made a show of taking out his watch and glaring at the face. His hair caught the light in a ferocious orange explosion. “Look, have you got a genuine purpose to your visit, or have you only come to harass me? I’ve got rather a lot of work to do.”
Ha-ha. No doubt, you dog. Work indeed.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” Roland turned about with slow deliberation, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. “So. This is it. The workshop of a genius, where mere mortals fear to tread. All sorts of . . . of doings . . . and . . . I say, what’s that?” he said, making his voice crack like a whip.
A muffled noise came from beneath the automobile.
Burke stepped hastily forward. “A few spare parts. Look here, Penhallow . . .”
Lord Roland turned with ceremony to the enormous machine in the center of the room, and took a few appreciative steps backward, as if trying to encompass its grandeur. Yes, there it was: a tiny splash of blue beneath the chassis. Good old Lady Morley. What a sport she was. Though, truth be told, he was rather disappointed to find her fully clothed. “And this! The machine itself! Absolutely marvelous! Really, old chap. I’m floored. Er . . . is that the engine?”
“Yes, I’m almost certain.”
“Ha-ha. The old sense of humor, eh? What a card you are.” He inhaled a deep gust of air. “Do I smell lilies?”
“Penhallow, for God’s sake. Leave me in peace. Save it all for the dinner table.”
“Burke, you ass. I’ve come for a friendly visit, to buck up your spirits . . .”
“My spirits don’t need bucking,” snapped Burke. “Out.”
Roland knew he should leave. Masculine courtesy demanded it, if nothing else. And he’d gotten the information he wanted: Burke (or Lady Morley, or both) were technically in violation of the wager, which might prove useful later on. But outside that door waited the unpleasant decision about Sir Edward, whereas inside . . . well, baiting Burke was too jolly amusing. Besides, he rather liked the idea of keeping the elegant Lady Morley pinned under an automobile in fear for her reputation and her life, no doubt in that order.
“Damn it all, Burke,” he said, letting his voice break almost to a sob. “It’s the most confounded coil. Last night . . . all that nonsense about raising the stakes . . . oh, you must know I’m most frightfully in love with her.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“I know you can’t possibly understand, you with your cold scientific heart and all tha
t, but . . . well, damn it all, I had to confess to someone! And you’re such a brick, Burke. You’d never tell my brother, or the ladies. My secret is perfectly safe with you.” Roland considered putting his hand to his heart but decided against it. Sir Edward had often cautioned him on the perils of overacting his part.
“Perfectly. Now if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
A faint strangled noise issued from the direction of the automobile, like an asphyxiated mouse: the sort of sound that would have gone unnoticed by any other ears, except for the well-trained pair owned by Roland Penhallow.
Dear me. Dust. How unfortunate for Lady Morley. And spiders, perhaps? The space under the automobile looked a perfect heaven for spiders.
He concealed his smile behind a doleful shake of his head and carried on, without a pause. “That damned beast of a husband of hers, I know he’s treated her badly, but the dear soul’s so loyal and honorable . . .”
“Penhallow, another time perhaps. I’m really quite busy.”
“But now that Wallingford’s taken this notion into his head, anything I say or do might cause her to be tossed out entirely. And that shrew”—he said it just a trifle more loudly, with just a trifle of emphasis—“that shrew Lady Morley, taking Wallingford up on his wager! I should have rebuked her. I meant to, but Lilibet . . . but Lady Somerton gave me such a look.”
Burke’s color deepened to an unholy shade of crimson. “Lady Morley is not a shrew.”
“Well, that’s charitable of you, old fellow, considering how she’s done her best to lure you in, ha-ha. A handsome woman, of course, but one can’t imagine sitting across from her at the breakfast table.” Roland threw in a chuckle for good measure.
Burke gritted his teeth. Fairly bared them, in fact. “Penhallow, I’m deeply sorry for your troubles, but you really must see me another time. The battery . . .”
A muffled choking cough.
Roland started and whirled about. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. Hydraulics,” Burke said swiftly. “As I was saying . . .”
Another cough. Poor dear Lady Morley. Really, he was beginning to feel rather sorry for her, though not nearly enough to stop.
“There it is again!” Roland cried. “What the devil sort of hydraulics have you got in there? It don’t sound at all healthy.”
Mr. Burke cleared his throat and pulled at his collar. “A mere . . . simply to do with . . . the braking system. A new design I’m trying out. Quite trying, involving the most immense concentration, and rather dangerous at that. I shall really have to ask you to leave.” He began walking in the direction of the door.
“But see here, Burke. That’s exactly what I came to speak with you about. I was thinking . . .” Roland paused, mind racing. “I was thinking that perhaps you might take me on as your assistant. To keep me busy, to keep me out of her way, you see. It’s the most honorable course.”
“My assistant?” Burke’s tone conveyed such an immense amount of skepticism, it nearly sank under its own weight.
“Yes. Don’t you need another pair of hands to . . . well, to help sort out . . . all this . . . this whatnot you’ve got here?”
Burke released a vast sigh. “Penhallow, old man. Do you have the slightest idea how an electric battery works?”
“Well, no. That is, I have some notion that . . . the sparks rather . . . well . . . no. No, I haven’t.” Roland hung his head.
“Can you even distinguish one end of my motor-car from another?”
Roland turned toward the automobile, just in time to see a piece of blue-swathed elbow disappear from view. “I daresay . . . one would think that . . . well, if I should hazard a guess . . .”
“Precisely,” said Burke. “Now if you’ll be so good as to return to the library and resume your quest for knowledge. Perhaps compose a verse or two, cataloging the anguish of doomed love. And if the delights of that endeavor should pall, you might consult with Giacomo regarding the cheeses in the stables, as a more practical matter.”
“The cheeses?” This time, Roland was genuinely puzzled.
“He’ll tell you all about them. But for God’s sake, Penhallow, whatever you do, leave . . . me . . . alone!” Burke jerked open the door, green eyes blazing.
“I say, Burke. That’s hardly sporting.”
“Really? How ungentlemanly of me.”
Roland picked at his sleeve. “In any case, old Giacomo sent me down here to begin with. Said you needed help. It’s what gave me the idea.”
“Did he, the old bugger?” Burke folded his arms, straightened to his full six-and-a-half feet, and pierced Roland with a narrow-eyed glare. “Now that’s hardly sporting.”
“Very well. I take your point. But just remember, Burke . . .” Roland walked through the door, straight into the determined prow of his brother, sailing into the workshop under full steam. “Oh, hullo there, Wallingford! Out for a stroll?”
“No, by God. That damned groundskeeper sent me,” Wallingford growled. “Told me Burke was in desperate need of assistance.”
“Well, that’s the devil of a coincidence!” Lord Roland said brightly. “He told me the same thing, about Burke wanting help in his workshop, and I thought to myself, Penhallow, old man, that’s just the ticket . . .”
Burke broke through in a furious voice. “Giacomo was entirely mistaken. I’m in no need of assistance. Quite the opposite.”
Roland had to admire his spirited defense of Lady Morley. He supposed he ought to relent: Burke could certainly handle Wallingford on his own.
He was, after all, the brothers’ natural uncle.
Roland smiled and tipped his cap. “Yes, yes. You’ve made yourself quite clear on the subject. I’m taking my-self off directly, and I’d advise my dear brother to do the same.”
Once clear of the workshop, he paused. Up the verdant hillside stood the castle, its gray yellow stones reflecting the sunlight in a comfortable glow; inside that building lay his codebook and his writing desk, ready for use.
To the right lay the clear waters of the lake, and Lilibet picnicking with her son.
He took off his peaked cap and ran his hand through his hair. A dainty breeze tumbled from the trees by the lake, cool against his temple.
England expects, old boy.
He replaced his cap and began walking, with heavy steps, toward the Castel sant’Agata.
* * *
Lilibet slipped along the pebbled shoreline, scanning the trees, her breath scraping against her throat.
How long had she been asleep? Not long, surely. Only a few moments. She stopped and reached in her pocket for her watch. Eleven thirty-three. When had they left the castle? Well after breakfast, well after morning lessons. He couldn’t have gone far.
“Philip!” Her voice was hoarse, painful, desperate. “Philip!”
She glanced again to the lake. Philip knew he wasn’t allowed in. He would not have disobeyed her so directly. He’d no swimming costume, no towel. He was a remarkably self-possessed five years old, quite sensible enough not to frolic in a bitterly cold lake.
Wasn’t he?
Her veins went light with panic.
No. Be reasonable. She drew a long breath and forced her brain to calm. He wouldn’t have gone in. No sign of shoes and stockings on the shore: Even in the full throes of reckless enthusiasm, he’d never have tried to swim with his shoes on.
Would he?
Oh God. Search the water now, and waste precious time while Philip lost himself further in the trees and the valley?
But if he was in the lake, had stumbled somehow, had climbed on the rocks and fallen in . . .
“Philip!” she screamed with all her might. Surely he must hear her. The wind carried from the lake. If he heard her, he would come toward her. If he were in the trees, and not in the lake.
> The old boathouse loomed a hundred yards away, its rust-colored paint peeling in the sun. She broke into a run, pebbles digging through the leather of her sturdy shoes, breath coming hard and fast in her aching lungs. Her muscles had flooded with energy; she flew down the shoreline, pumped her legs, lost her hat.
She threw open the boathouse door. “Philip!”
A starling flew into the rafters with a shocked rattle of feathers. Dust motes drifted in lazy circles among the piles of old wood, the coils of rope, glittering in the unexpected sunlight.
Every muscle in her body sagged with despair. She turned away and ran to the edge of the water. To her left, a pile of boulders stretched a broad short toe into the lake.
Philip loved climbing rocks.
She scrambled up without thinking. The soles of her shoes slipped against the speckled stone; her fingers bruised, digging for purchase. With inhuman strength she hoisted herself atop the highest boulder and staggered out to the edge.
A perfect diving spot. A perfect place for a curious boy to lose his footing and slip into the water.
She peered over the side, scanning the water, horror and desperation shooting through her blood, shaking her fingers. Unreasonable, she was being unreasonable, she ought to be looking in the woods, this was absurd. But something drew her out, begged her to look. Premonition? Fear? Morbid imagination?
The water lapped below her, clear and empty, mottled rocks shifting under the ripples. A school of tiny fish flickered past, catching the sun for a sparkling instant.
“I see you’ve found my favorite swimming hole.”
Lilibet spun about, nearly falling from her boulder.
Lord Roland Penhallow gazed up at her from the base of the rocks, his warm, familiar smile lighting his face. From atop his lordship’s broad tweedy shoulders, Philip stretched his arms toward her and shouted with delight.
“Mama!”
THIRTEEN
She slid down the rock, she dropped to her knees in the pebbles, she held out her arms, sobbing and crying into his hair.
