A Gentleman Never Tells

by Juliana Gray

Roland slipped his knife out of his pocket and held it in his hand, balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Somerton. He heard Lilibet scream behind him, but he kept his eyes steady on the earl’s approaching body, tracing his every move, every flick of his eyes. Readiness: the first thing Sir Edward had taught him.

  But at the last instant, Somerton pulled back.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “A knife?” His gaze traveled behind Roland, to rest on some distant object. He nodded and smiled. “Why, I believe Philip can see us. How edifying a spectacle for a young boy. Tell me, where are your principles now, Penhallow?”

  Roland straightened. The earl’s face had lost its fury; he looked merely amused, that faint sarcastic smile lifting the corner of his thin mouth. Everything behind him had gone still. He wanted to look around, to see if Lilibet had gone up to Philip, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Somerton for an instant.

  Behind the earl, his grandfather was rising slowly to his feet, shaking his head, his hair a white shock against the backdrop of brown water and distant shore. He turned to face them, taking in the situation. He met Roland’s eyes and nodded, once.

  Roland felt his shoulders ease with relief. Now he had only to distract Somerton. “You’re right,” he said. He tossed the knife into the grass. “No blood. No fighting. No . . .”

  He hadn’t the chance to say more. Somerton bent down in a fluid motion, picked up the knife, and charged.

  Right past Roland, toward Lilibet and Philip.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  She heard the footsteps behind her in a strange slowed-down rhythm, each noise distinct, thump thump thump on the dry, sun-beaten turf.

  She knew what was happening. She knew she couldn’t stop him. The impact drew near, raising expectant prickles on her skin. She bent, wrapping her arms around her middle, protecting the tiny life inside her.

  A loud thump, a muffled shout. Something blunt, an elbow perhaps, knocked her between her shoulder blades. She staggered forward, just keeping her feet, and turned around.

  The two men rolled around in the grass, Roland and Somerton, wrestling for control of the knife that flashed in and out of her vision, in Somerton’s thick fist. “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!”

  Useless, of course. They rolled down the hill together, pulled by gravity and the inexorable rhythm of the fight, of the shifting balance of power. They fought like boys, she thought wildly. Fingers poked into eyes, knees shoved into groins. She would have rolled her eyes and let them go at it, except for that knife, that slim, deadly knife, clutched in her husband’s hand and wavering like a snake between them.

  “Stop them!” she screamed at the duke, past the dry taste of fear in her mouth, but he only stared, ready and watchful. They were moving too fast, of course. He couldn’t do anything, for fear of hurting the wrong man.

  The combatants reached the flat stone surface of the terrace, and Roland sprang away, landing on his feet in a movement of pure athletic grace. Somerton rose and lunged, knife outstretched toward Roland’s gut, but he dodged the thrust. He backed away in wary movements, each step farther away, closer to the edge of the water. He’s leading Somerton away, she realized. Away from her and Philip.

  “Go!” someone yelled at her. Amid the grunts and shouts of the fighting, she couldn’t tell if it was Roland or the duke or . . . was it someone else? “Run! Take the boy!” She cast about and saw her husband’s secretary, Mr. Markham, standing at the opposite edge of the terrace, hands cupped about his mouth.

  She swayed with indecision, unable to leave Roland, desperate to keep Philip safe, to protect him from the sight of his father fighting with the man he’d grown to love. Motherhood won out. She turned up the hill.

  It took her a second or two to realize that the entrance to the maze stood empty. No sign of Philip, no sign at all.

  “Watch him! Watch him!” someone yelled from behind her, the duke or Markham, and she spun around.

  Her son was pelting down the hill, toward the terrace.

  “Philip! No!” she screamed.

  He went on running, screaming something incoherent, his little legs churning like pistons in the grass. Roland turned, with a father’s instinct, to the sound of the boy’s voice, and Somerton took instant advantage, thrusting forward to his unguarded middle.

  “No!” Philip yelled. He rammed into Somerton full force, pushing him off-balance. The earl took a staggered step sideways, and another. He put his hand out on the crumbling stone balustrade, and it gave way beneath him, sending him tumbling downward with a shout into the swift muddy waters of the Arno.

  * * *

  They hung arrested, all four of them, shock running in a tangible current between their bodies: Lilibet, Roland, the duke, Markham. A bird squawked angrily into the silence, erupting from a nearby tree in an explosion of feathers.

  Philip picked himself up from the terrace, looking dazed, and stared off into the gap in the balustrade. Another piece of stone broke off and fell into the water with a gulping splash. “Father?” he squeaked.

  “Good God,” said Roland. He leapt to the edge of the terrace and glanced down.

  “Is he . . . is he . . .” Lilibet couldn’t get the words out.

  Roland turned to the duke. “My boots,” he said, but Markham moved first, flying to Roland’s feet and tugging at the dusty scuffed leather with expert hands. The right one came off, and the left, and Roland rose, his white shirt blinding in the sun, and dove into the water.

  The clean sound of the splash sent a spark of life through Lilibet’s frozen body. She rushed to the river, gripping the edge of the balustrade with both hands, Markham at her side.

  Somerton’s body had already floated some ten or twenty yards downstream in the brisk current. He was either dead or unconscious; his arms and legs made no movement to keep him afloat, no attempt to direct his progress down the river.

  Roland stroked with mechanical speed, using the current to launch himself toward the earl. He reached him in less than half a minute, thrust out his long arms to enclose Somerton’s chest, just below the arms, and lifted his head from the coursing water.

  Lilibet gasped. Blood rolled down, red and livid, from a wound at his temple. His head slumped to the side, against Roland’s arm.

  A hand settled on her shoulder, and the duke’s voice murmured in her ear. “Don’t fret. A head wound bleeds more than it’s worth.”

  Roland made for shore, swimming on his back as he supported Somerton in his arms, his legs moving powerfully through the water. Markham turned and ran along the terrace, down the steps, on the path by the riverside. Lilibet made as if to follow them, but the duke’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “No,” he said softly. “Let Markham do it. Stay here with the boy.”

  She looked downward, where her son clutched at her legs, his fingers gripping her tightly through the thin wool of her skirt. “Oh, darling,” she whispered, and bent to pick him up.

  His head burrowed into her shoulder, warm and wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” he sniffed. His voice was tiny, lost within the weave of her jacket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. He was hurting Uncle Roland. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, darling, it’s all right. My brave boy.”

  “Is he dead? Is he dead?”

  “No! No, of course not! He’s not dead, darling. Uncle Roland’s got him. Uncle Roland will bring him in. He’ll be just fine.”

  Please, God, let him be fine.

  She craned her neck to see the riverbank, twenty or thirty yards away, where Markham stood knee-deep in the water, no regard at all for his boots, arms outstretched. The end of the balustrade blocked her view of the river. She saw Roland’s wet head appear above the smooth stone, gold muted to brown; saw Markham move forward to meet him; saw them struggle, presumably with Somerton’s bulky body. The two heads moved together, bob
bing and flashing between the pillars of the balustrade, and then all three of them came into view on the riverbank.

  Roland’s arms were still bound around Somerton’s chest; Markham set his feet down with a heavy thump in the beaten path. She pressed Philip’s head into her shoulder. “They’ve got him out now, darling,” she said.

  “Is he dead? Is he dead?” Philip’s face squirmed against her, unable to look for himself.

  She opened her mouth to reply. Somerton’s body hung limply from Roland’s arms. Roland was saying something to Markham, and was thrusting upward with his arms, against Somerton’s chest, again and again. Markham had taken out his handkerchief and was pressing it into Somerton’s white forehead, wiping at the streaming blood. “No, of course not,” she said faintly. Her veins felt as if they were full of air instead of blood. Her legs began to wobble. This couldn’t be real; it couldn’t be happening. “Of course he’s alive. Of course he’s alive. He’s just resting a moment.”

  Please, God, let him be alive.

  The duke started forward to join the men on the riverbank.

  In a sudden movement, Roland heaved Somerton around, face forward, and water gushed from the earl’s mouth in a torrent of coughing and sputtering. His fists clutched, his back heaved. The sound of his groan wavered through the air.

  Alive.

  The relief began at the top of Lilibet’s head and poured through her in a flood, so immense that her legs gave way at last beneath her. She sank to the ground, clutching Philip in her arms, unable to speak.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Philip murmured.

  She forced her voice to work. “No! He’s alive, darling. I see him now. He’s swallowed a bit of water, but he’s alive.” She bent her head and let the tears disappear into Philip’s dark hair. The warmth of the stones seeped through her clothes and into her body, like a comforting hand.

  “Is he all right? Is he bleeding?”

  She peeked upward. Roland and Markham were settling the coughing Somerton on the ground. The duke had reached them, had taken out his handkerchief, was helping Markham with his forehead, loosening Somerton’s jacket and collar as the earl vomited with astonishing gusto into the tall muddy grass by the river.

  “A little,” she said. “But he’s fine, now. He’ll be just fine. We’ll all be just fine.”

  A breeze, the first of the afternoon, fluttered through the loose strands of her hair, mingling with her sigh of bone-deep relief. Behind it came a sheet of white paper, sliding along the terrace stones as if by its own power. Another followed, and another.

  Lilibet shifted Philip onto her right hip and rose. She trapped the papers, one by one, beneath her shaking fingers, and placed one of the broken stones from the balustrade atop the little stack, to secure it against any further threat.

  TWENTY-SIX

  When Lilibet emerged at last from Somerton’s bedroom, the house was quiet, and the sun had already begun to slip behind the western hills.

  “Lady Somerton.” The Duke of Olympia rose from one of a pair of armchairs beneath the hallway window; Markham, in the other, hesitated an instant before rising, too.

  “Your Grace.” She held out her hand, and the duke stepped forward and clasped it with an old-fashioned courtliness. “He’s asleep now; the doctor’s going to watch him a bit longer. It was rather a bad concussion, apparently, but he seems confident of recovery.”

  Markham made a stiff bow. “I shall be happy to watch him tonight, your ladyship. I expect you’re fatigued.”

  She looked at him. Faint circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes; his hair, ordinarily combed back with immaculate sleekness, hung down about his face. “You seem rather tired yourself, Mr. Markham. Are you quite certain?”

  “Yes, madam. I’m used to late hours.”

  She nodded at the door. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

  He nodded and went through the door, with disarming silence.

  “Tell me,” she said, before the duke could open his mouth to speak, “who, exactly, does Mr. Markham work for? I confess I’m at a loss.”

  The duke shrugged. “You have me at a loss, madam.”

  She folded her arms and sent him her sternest glare, designed for Philip at his naughtiest. “I’m beginning to think everyone in the world is an intelligence agent, and they all dance to your tune, Your Grace.”

  A small smile grew at the corner of his mouth. He was not an unhandsome man, really. He must have been nearly seventy, and yet his face and upright figure—the athletic ease with which he moved, the surprising strength in his arms, holding back Somerton with his own walking stick—might have been that of a man twenty or thirty years younger. “My dear girl,” he said, in a soft voice, “you aren’t nearly so gentle as you seem, are you?”

  “I am not,” she replied, “and I beg you to remember it. Do not”—she edged closer and lowered her voice—“involve me, or the members of my family, in any of your schemes again.”

  “Ah. Tell me, this family of yours. Does it perhaps include my grandson?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  He nodded, with gentlemanly discretion, at her middle. “And yet, I suspect we may soon be related, you and I. By ties of blood, if nothing else.”

  She hesitated, but only for an instant. “I won’t deny that, Your Grace. You know it already, I believe. How you learned, I can’t begin to imagine.”

  “I have my sources. And Roland owns it as his? Without reserve?”

  “He does.”

  The duke nodded. “If he didn’t, of course, I’d bring him to his senses without delay. Shan’t allow my great-grandchild to be born in shame.”

  “How good of you to look after my interests so thoroughly,” she said coldly.

  His smile grew. “I gather you dislike me, Lady Somerton. And yet I admire you very much. I have, I hope, your best interests at heart.”

  “If only you’d had them there seven years ago.”

  “Ah.” He put his hands behind his back, like a statesman preparing for oration. “But then you’d not have your son, madam. And Roland . . . well, he’s turned out rather well, all things considered, but I wonder whether he might have done so well for you at twenty-two as at twenty-nine.”

  “All true, perhaps. But Your Grace will forgive me for observing that it was hardly your place to decide.”

  “Lady Somerton.” He held out his hand; she placed hers, reluctantly, atop it. His other hand moved to cover them both, the fingers curling firmly, wrapping her in an unshakable grip. “The past is past, my dear. You have now my unswerving loyalty. You are the mother of my great-grandchild, which by itself entitles you to all the protection I can give you.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “You will not,” she whispered, “entangle him further in your schemes.”

  He gave his head a tiny shake and looked steadily into her eyes. “That, my dear, is for him to decide, though it seems to me he’ll do nothing without your consent. Your power over him is great, madam, and I trust you’ll use it in wisdom.”

  She returned his gaze, searching his bright eyes, saying nothing. She had so much she wanted to ask him; to interrogate him with, really: Roland’s intelligence activities, the duke’s own involvement, Markham’s role, Somerton’s. What had really happened that summer, seven years ago; what had really happened these past months. But could she trust his replies? What sort of game was he playing?

  Did she really want to know?

  The duke nodded again at her belly, and she realized she’d placed her other hand atop her womb. “Go to him,” he said. “He’s in his room, now. Waiting for you, I expect. Go.” He brought her hand, which still lay clasped in his, to his lips, and kissed it again. “You have my blessing.”

  “I don’t need your blessing.”

  “Y
ou have it, in any case.”

  She pulled her hand away and inclined her head. “Good night, Your Grace,” she said, and turned to the staircase.

  * * *

  The knock sounded on his door just after nine o’clock, as twilight cast an indigo glow about the horizon outside the window, and Roland’s eyelids were drifting downward into a much-needed sleep.

  He removed his hands from behind his head and sat up in the bed. “Come in,” he said softly.

  Lilibet slipped through and closed the door behind her with a gentle click, leaning backward against the fine carved wood. In the light of the single candle by the bed, her face was deeply shadowed, drawn with fatigue. She wore a loose dressing gown, a few inches too short, and her hair was coming free from its pins.

  She was beautiful.

  He rose from the bed. “How is he?”

  “Resting comfortably.” Her hands seemed to be fiddling with the knob behind her back. “All stitched up. Markham’s watching him. I’ve just tucked Philip into bed. Miss Yarrow’s with him.” A flush rose in her cheeks; she looked down. “How are you?” she asked the floor.

  “Well enough. A bit rattled, I suppose. But I’ve bathed and shaved. Feeling more human.” He went to her and reached around for her hands. “How are you, darling? A dreadful shock for you. Have you bathed? Eaten?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring at the buttons of his shirt. “Miss Yarrow gave me a few things to wear. I . . .” Her voice cracked.

  “Shh.” He drew her into his chest, as gently as he could. Her breath stirred his shirt in a warm cloud; he could feel the thump of her heart at the bottom of his ribs. “It’s all right. He’ll live, I daresay. Men like that always pull through. And I doubt he’ll be contesting anything. He’d better not, by God, after I took on half the mud in Florence to save his miserable hide.”

  She gave a little choke of laughter into his shirt. “No, he won’t contest. Markham promised me. He . . . well, he’s been rather nice, Markham. I can’t . . . I can’t quite make him out. I saw him with your grandfather, and yet . . .”