A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  His feet knew the way. Courtesy of the years, he moved silently.

  He halted just short of the open archway giving onto the walk; Penny was already there.

  Seated on a stone bench along the far wall, one elbow on the railing, chin propped on that hand, she was staring out at the rain.

  There was very little light. He could just make out the pale oval of her face, the faint gleam of her fair hair, the long elegant lines of her pale blue gown, the darker ripple of her shawl’s knotted fringe. The rain didn’t quite reach her.

  She hadn’t heard him.

  He hesitated, remembering other days and nights they’d been up here, not always but often alone, just the two of them drawn to the view. He remembered she’d asked for time alone to think.

  She turned her head and looked straight at him.

  He didn’t move, but Penny knew he was there. To her eyes he was no more than a denser shadow in the darkness; if he hadn’t been looking at her, she’d never have realized.

  When he didn’t move, when she sensed his hesitation, she looked back at the wet night. “I haven’t yet made up my mind, so don’t ask.”

  She sensed rather than heard his sigh.

  “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  He’d thought her in her chamber; he couldn’t have known otherwise. She returned no comment, unperturbed by his presence; he was too far away for her senses to be affected—she didn’t, otherwise, find him bothersome to be near. And she knew why he’d come there—for much the same reason she had.

  But now he was present, and she was, to o…she tried to predict his next tack, but he surprised her.

  “You weren’t that amazed to learn I’d been a spy. Why?”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I remember when you returned for your father’s funeral. Your mother was…not just happy to see you, but grateful. I suppose I started to wonder then. And she was forever slipping into French when she spoke to you, far more than she usually does, and you were so secretive about which regiment you were in, where you were quartered, which towns you’d been through, which battles…normally, you would have been full of tales. Instead, you avoided talking about yourself. Others put it down to grief.” She paused, then added, “I didn’t. If you’d wanted to hide grief, you would have talked and laughed all the harder.”

  Silence stretched, then he prompted, “So on the basis of that one episode…”

  She laughed. “No, but it did mean I had my eyes open the next time you appeared.”

  “Frederick’s funeral.”

  “Yes.” She let her memories of that time color her tone; Frederick’s death had been a shock to the entire county. “You were late—you arrived just as the vicar was about to start the service. The church door had been left open, there were so many people there, but the center aisle had been left clear so people could see down the nave.

  “The first I or anyone knew of your presence was your shadow. The sun threw it all the way into the church, almost to the coffin. We all turned and there you were, outlined with the sun behind you, a tall, dramatic figure in a long, dark coat.”

  He humphed. “Very romantic.”

  “No, strangely enough you didn’t appear romantic at all.” She glanced at him. He was concealed within the shadows of the archway, leaning back against the arch’s side, looking out; she could discern his profile, but not his expression. She looked back at the rain-washed fields. “You were…intense. Almost frighteningly so. You had eyes for no one but your family. You walked to them, straight down the nave, your boots ringing on the stone.”

  She paused, remembering. “It wasn’t you but them, their reactions that made me…almost certain of my suspicions. Your mother and James hadn’t expected to see you; they were so grateful you were there. They knew. Your sisters had been expecting you, and were simply reassured when you arrived. They didn’t know.

  “Later, you explained you’d been held up, and that you had to rejoin your regiment immediately. You didn’t exactly say, but everyone assumed you meant in London or the southeast; you intended to leave that night. But it had rained on and off for days—it rained heavily that night. The roads were impassable, yet in the morning you were gone.”

  She smiled faintly. “I don’t think many others, other than I presume the Fowey Gallants, realized your appearance and your leaving coincided with the tides.”

  Minutes ticked past in silence, the same restful, undisturbing silence they’d often shared up there, as if they were perched high in a tree on different branches, looking out on their world.

  “You were surprised I didn’t return for James’s funeral.”

  She thought back, realized she’d felt more concern and worry than surprise. “I knew you’d come if it was possible, especially then, with James’s death leaving your mother and sisters alone. Your mother especially—she’d buried her husband and two eldest sons in the space of a few years, something no one could have foreseen. Yet that time even more than the previous one, she didn’t expect you; she wasn’t surprised when you didn’t appear—she was worried, deeply worried, but everyone saw it as distraction due to grief.”

  “Except you.”

  “I know your mother rather well.” After a moment, she dryly added, “And you, too.”

  “Indeed.” She heard him shift, heard the change in his tone. “You do know me well, so why this hesitation over telling me what you know you should?”

  “Because I don’t know you that well, not anymore.”

  “You’ve known me all your life.”

  “No. I knew you until you were twenty. You’re now thirty-three, and you’ve changed.”

  A pause ensued, then he said, “Not in any major way.”

  She glanced at where he stood. After a moment she said, “That’s probably true. Which only proves my point.”

  Silence, then, “I’m only a poor male. Don’t confuse me.”

  Poor male her left eye. Yet revisiting her knowledge of him, talking matters through with him, was helping; she was starting to grapple with the new him. The irony hadn’t escaped her; she’d deliberately avoided thinking of him for the past thirteen years, but now fate and circumstance were forcing her to it. To understand him again, to look and see him clearly.

  She drew breath. “All right—think of this. I saw you with Millie and Julia today. The charm, the smile, the laughter, the teasing, the hedonistic hubris. I recognized all that, but now it’s subtly and significantly different. At twenty, that was you—all of you. You were the epitome of ‘devil-may-care’—there wasn’t anything deeper. Now, however, the larger-than-life hellion is a mask, and there’s someone behind it.” She glanced at him. “The man behind the mask is the one I don’t know.”

  Silence.

  Charles didn’t correct her; he couldn’t. He knew in his bones she was right, but he wasn’t sure how the change had come about, or what to say to reassure her.

  “I think,” she continued, surprising him, “that perhaps the man behind the mask was always there, or at least the potential was always there, and the past thirteen years, what you’ve been doing during that time, made him, you, stronger. More definite. The real you is a rock the years have chiseled and formed, but what smooths your surface is lichen and moss, a social disguise.”

  He shifted. “An interesting thesis.” He couldn’t see how her too-perceptive view would improve his chances of gaining her trust.

  “A useful one, at any rate.” She glanced at him. “I note you’re not arguing.”

  He held his tongue, too wise to respond. She continued to gaze at him, then her lips lightly curved, and she looked out once more. “Actually, it will help. If you must know, I’m not sure I would have trusted the hellion you used to be. I wouldn’t have felt certain of your reaction. Now…”

  He let minutes tick by, hoping…eventually, he sighed and leaned his head back against the arch. “What do you want to know?”

  “More, but I don’t know exactly what I’m searching for, s
o I don’t know what questions to ask. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Why did you leave London to come here? I know your ex-commander asked you to look around, but you’re no longer his to command—you didn’t have to agree. You’ve never willingly run in anyone’s harness—that I’m sure hasn’t changed—but more importantly you knew what hopes and, well, dreams your sisters and sisters-in-law were nurturing when they went to London. You—helping you find a wife, planning your wedding—gave them purpose, invigorated them; they were so excited, so flown with anticipation.”

  She stared out at the rain-drenched vista. “If you’d stayed there, indulged them, teased, laughed, and joked, and then gone your own way regardless, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But you did something I never would have predicted—you left them.”

  Her struggle to comprehend colored her tone. “It’s as I said before—I had it right. You fled.”

  He closed his eyes. She paused, then asked the one question he’d hoped she wouldn’t, “Why?”

  He stifled a sigh. How had he allowed things to develop to this pass? Given the bafflement in her voice, he couldn’t very well not explain.

  “I…” Where to start? “The work I was engaged in, in Toulouse, involved…a great deal of deception. On my part, primarily, although sometimes, through my manipulation, others deceived others, too.”

  “I imagine spywork rather depends on deceit—if you hadn’t lied well, you would have died.”

  His wry smile was spontaneous; he opened his eyes, but didn’t look her way. Talking to her—someone who’d once known him so well—in darkness sufficiently complete that he couldn’t see her expression and knew she couldn’t see his, was strangely comforting, as if the dark gave them a degree of privacy in which they could say almost anything to each other in safety.

  “That’s true, but…” He paused, conscious that telling her the rest would be the first time he’d put his feelings into words. Decided it didn’t matter; it was the truth, his reality. “After spending thirteen years living a deception with lies as my daily bread, to return to the ton, to the artful smiles and glib comments, the sly falsity and insincerity, the glamour, the patent superficiality…” His face and tone hardened. “I couldn’t do it.

  “Those chits they want me to consider as my bride—they’re not so much witless as intentionally blind. They want to marry a hero, a wild and reckless handsome earl who everyone knows cares not a snap for anything.”

  Her laugh was short, incredulous. “You? A care-for-naught?”

  “So they believe.”

  She snorted. “Your brothers may have been the ones trained to the estates, but it was always you who knew this place—loved this place—best. You’re the one who knows every field, every tree, every yard.”

  He hesitated, then said, “Others don’t know that.”

  His deep rapport with the Abbey was why he’d retreated there, irrevocably sure that despite his desperate need for a wife, he couldn’t stomach a marriage of, if not outright deceit, then one built on politely feigned affection. Feigning anything of that ilk was now beyond him, while the thought of his wife being only superficially fond of him, smiling sweetly but in reality thinking of her next new gown…

  He drew in a deep breath. He knew she was watching him, but continued to stare out at the black night. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

  That was the crux of it, the source of the revulsion that had sent him flying from London to the one place he knew he belonged. The one place where he didn’t need to fabricate his emotions, where all was true, clear, and simple. He felt so much cleaner, so much freer, there.

  When he said nothing more, Penny looked away, into the darkness broken by the constant curtain of the rain. She knew without doubt that he’d spoken the truth; he might be able to lie to others, but he’d rarely succeeded with her. Tone, inflection, and a dozen tiny hints of stance and gesture were still there in her mind, still familiar—still real. Looking back, between them there never had been deceit or lies; misunderstanding or lack of perception yes, but those had been unintentional on both sides.

  What he’d revealed in the past minutes, over the past day, had reassured her, made her believe she could trust him. More, his words, his attitudes, had convinced her the man he now was was stronger, more hardheaded and clear-sighted, more committed to the values she valued, more rigid in adherence to the codes she believed important than the hellion of his youth had been.

  But she couldn’t yet speak; she still needed to think about what she knew to tell. That was still not clear in her mind. So she let the silence stretch. They were comfortable in the quiet dark; neither felt any need to speak.

  A light winked, far out in the night.

  “Did you see it?” she asked.

  “Yes. The Gallants are out.”

  She thought of Granville, thought of the nights he must have spent out on the waves. She could imagine him clinging to the side of a boat, a wild and reckless light in his eyes. If ever there had been a care-for-naught, it was he. “At Waterloo, did you hear anything of Granville?”

  “No.” After a moment, he asked, “Why?”

  “We never really heard, just that he’d died. Not how, or in what way.”

  She could almost hear him wondering why she’d asked; on the face of things, she and Granville hadn’t been all that close. She kept her counsel. He eventually asked, “Were you told in which region he was lost?”

  “Around Hougoumont.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you know of it?” It was clear from his tone he knew something.

  “I wasn’t close, but it was the most fiercely contested sector in the whole battle. The French under Reille thought the farmstead an easy gain. They were wrong. The defenders of Hougoumont might well have turned the tide that day. Their defiance pricked the French commanders’ collective pride; they threw wave after wave of troops against it, totally out of proportion to the position’s strategic importance.” He paused, then more quietly added, “If Granville was lost near there, you can be certain he died a hero.”

  She wished—oh, how she wished—she could believe that.

  She asked no more, and he volunteered no more. They remained on the walk, watching the rain, listening to the steady downpour, the constant drum on the lead above, the merry gurgling in the gutters, the splatter as spouts of water hit the flagstones far below. Three more times they spotted flashes out at sea, out beyond the mouth of the estuary.

  At last, she stood; shaking out her skirts, she regarded him across the shadowed space. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He considered her for an instant—an instant in which she had no idea what he was thinking. Then he swept her a bow, all fluid masculine grace.

  “In the morning. Sleep tight.”

  She turned and left him, going through the archway into the west wing.

  At eight o’clock the next morning, she walked into the breakfast parlor, sat in the chair Filchett held for her, smiled her thanks, then looked up the table at Charles. He’d looked up when she’d entered, was watching her still.

  “Granville was involved.”

  Charles’s gaze flicked to Filchett.

  He stepped forward and lifted the coffeepot. “I’ll fetch some fresh coffee, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” The instant Filchett had left the room, closing the door behind him, Charles transferred his gaze to her. “What precisely do you mean?”

  She reached for the toast rack. “It’s Granville I’m protecting.”

  “He’s been dead for nearly a year.”

  “Not him himself, but Elaine and Emma and Holly. And even Constance, for all that she’s married. Myself, too, although the connection is less direct.” Elaine was Granville’s mother, Emma and Holly his younger, still-unmarried sisters. “If it becomes known Granville was a traitor…” Charles had unmarried sisters, too; she was sure she didn’t need to spell it out.

  “So Granville was the
link to the smugglers.” He looked at her, not uncomprehending yet clearly not convinced. “Start at the beginning—why do you think Granville was a traitor?”

  Between bites of toast and jam, and sips of tea, she told him. Filchett didn’t return with the coffeepot, probably just as well.

  The frown remained in Charles’s eyes. “So you never had a chance to tax Granville with this?”

  “I had taxed him over what he was doing with the smuggling gangs—I’d known of his association with them for years, at least since he was fifteen. But of course I never got any answer other than that he was just larking about.” She paused, then added, “I never suspected there might be more to it until last November.”

  “Tell me again—your housekeeper knew of this priest hole?”

  “Yes. I gather Figgs has always known it was there, but that Papa and later Granville had insisted it be left alone, that they kept important things in there they didn’t want the maids disturbing. So Figgs never told the maids, but when it came time to prepare the master bedchamber for Amberly’s first visit—he came in early December—Figgs thought it must be time to clean and dust in there, so she asked me if she should.”

  “When you went to check, did anyone go with you?”

  “No. Figgs told me how to open it—it’s easy enough if you know what to twist.”

  “And you found a large number of pillboxes.”

  She sighed. “ ‘A large number’ doesn’t adequately describe it, Charles. Trust me—Papa was a collector, but I never knew he had boxes like these. They’re…wonderful. Gorgeous. Some jewel-encrusted, others with beautiful miniatures, grisailles, and more. And I’ve never seen any of them before—not the ones on the shelves in the priest hole.”

  Setting down her teacup, she looked at him. “So where did he get them?”

  “Through the trade, collecting. Simply buying.”

  “I kept the estate accounts for all the years Granville was earl, and I checked the ledgers for the years before that. Yes, Papa did occasionally buy pillboxes, but those purchases were relatively few and far between, and, tellingly, those are the boxes in the library display cases. The boxes he bought, he kept openly. Why did he hide these others—so much more beautiful—so completely away? I didn’t know of them, and I’d swear no one else in the household other than Granville has seen them.”