Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8

by Lynne Connolly

  When he came back to hold me, he was still in no state to make love to me, but apart from aching for him, wishing I could do to him what he did to me, I was glad. By that action he’d accepted me, by showing me his current inability to remain hard, he’d let me in, decided to share his weakness with me instead of pretending he was all strength. It would bring us closer. It would make us stronger, I was sure of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Richard’s problem was not a single incident. On the next night and the night following, the same thing happened. But I retained my belief that this was a temporary state of affairs while remaining cheerful in his presence and worrying in private. We made love in other ways, rediscovered how to please each other by touching and kissing, and I truly believed it could help to bring us closer. Another storm to weather together, something else we would deal with as a couple.

  Left to himself, Richard would have gone away and brooded in private. It wasn’t a problem he could turn to anyone else with, nothing he could ask anyone else about, so we would cope with it ourselves.

  It always happened when he was about to enter me. I could imagine how debilitating it was, and I was almost relieved when my courses came on me after the third day and we could abandon attempts to make love but still spend the night together.

  The fifth day after Richard’s first attempt to make love to me had failed, not that I was counting, I asked him to join me in the music room. The previous day I had tested the beautiful harpsichord and found it adequate for my needs. As I had suspected, while the workmanship on the carcase was of the highest order, it decorated an instrument that was mundane at best, but I would not mention that to either Lizzie or her husband, neither of whom were particularly musical and were proud of the item. As a piece of furniture, it worked extremely well, but I’d have far rather had something much plainer but better constructed.

  Richard closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the top edge of the sofa where he’d chosen to sit, a place he could watch me play and we could exchange glances and smiles. When I looked at his face, I saw exhaustion there. He’d taken everything on himself in the last few months, and our recent problem would not have helped him to regain anything like his usual demeanour of confident strength. That he still exuded it spoke for his force of will. But I was pleased to bring him this solace, and should he wish it, I’d play for him all afternoon and make this mediocre instrument work for him. I’d make it sing and dance if it would take the worry from his shoulders. Too much trouble piled up had brought him to this pass, and I’d ease his burden somehow.

  I continued to play, choosing pieces I knew well and alternating them with new ones that I’d have to pause for when I turned the pages. I didn’t want him moving, and when he tried, I shook my head. I’d spent a lot of my time as a girl turning pages for myself, and I could almost make it part of the music. “Oh, Rose is practicing again,” meant I didn’t have to make polite conversation with people I had little in common with, or try to embroider neatly, or any of the other pastimes considered suitable for a respectable unmarried lady. Which I mostly hated.

  If, in those days, anyone had told me that I’d find a man as essential to my wellbeing as breathing, that he’d be a leader of society, heir to one of the richest estates in the country, I’d have scoffed. For one thing, where would I meet such a scion of the superb, and secondly, why would he look at me when he must have women falling at his feet? Well he did, and here we were. And I still had difficulty believing it sometimes. Like now, seeing the perfect being, dressed relatively casually today, but in clothes some of my Devonshire neighbours would have donned for a dinner with the squire, sitting listening to what I could make for him.

  I ended with a quieter piece, deliberately easing off as I reached the end, although I could do that better on a pianoforte. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest told me he’d settled into a restful state, if he wasn’t actually asleep. When I lifted my hands from the keys, I realised he was deep in slumber. He’d slept restlessly last night, so I was glad to see him in that state today.

  But not, unfortunately, for long. The door opened on a knock with a decisive click, and the rap of shoes against the parquet made Richard open his eyes. He snapped from sleep into wakefulness with hardly a movement, only his head coming forwards, alert once more. He sent me a regretful smile. “Thank you.”

  Then he turned to confront our intruder. Carier. He must have something urgent to say since he hadn’t waited for my summons to enter. Startled, he made to back out, but Richard held up a restraining hand. “Please, come in. Close the door.”

  I saw the figure of one of our burly footmen outside before Carier closed the door a lot quieter than he’d opened it. Still guarded, then. I knew what a precious jewel felt like, and it wasn’t a good feeling, not all of it. Good to know people cared, of course, but not so good to know that someone knew my every moment, probably knew the number of times I used the close-stool and which pot I preferred. That part I didn’t like at all. But I could tolerate it. Better than being dead.

  And I had to face it, there was a real possibility, however remote, of someone deciding that I needed to stop breathing. As long as I was married to Richard I remained a prime target for some people.

  “My lord, I have news on two counts. Both are relevant, but they point us in different directions.”

  “Unfortunate.” Richard waved a hand. “Take a seat, if you wish.” A sign that Richard recognised Carier was on company business. Thompson’s business. He never sat when he was acting as Richard’s valet, but he was a partner in Thompson’s and occupied a subtly different position in the hierarchy at those times.

  Carier bowed. “I thank you, but no, sir.” He lifted a sheet of paper, one side marked with smudges, scribbles and seals, all the marks of travel. “I have heard from Mrs. Thompson. She wrote to us while we were at sea, not in response to our recent query. She tells us that John Kneller escaped the press gang. She came upon the information from her more unusual sources.”

  Richard growled. “So that itch on the back of my neck meant something after all.” I exchanged a glance with Carier. “How did Kneller do it?”

  “His usual technique. Deception and charm. They took him in London and he said he was willing, but he wanted a last drink before he went aboard. He had a good head for alcohol, if you recall, my lord, could drink many men twice his size under the table. And that was what he did. But those men had taken our money, so they owed us something. They pressed another unfortunate, took him instead, and later assured us the work had been done.”

  Richard struck his open palm with a clenched fist. “I knew I should have attended to the matter myself. So when we thought ourselves safe, he was still in London, no doubt planning his revenge?”

  Carier scratched his head. “We stripped him of his fortune and his name in society, so he started again. But on his own terms. Since the fastest ways to make money are illegal, I assume he reacquainted himself with his old contacts.” John Kneller had been adept at smuggling. He knew people, and he knew the most valuable cargoes to buy and where to sell them.

  “His persistence is admirable,” I said. “Or it would be, under different circumstances. Did he contact his sister?”

  Richard started. “I wrote to Gervase when we became suspicious. I doubt the letter has reached him yet.”

  “It has probably not, my lord, but there is a letter for you from Mr. Kerre. It was enclosed in Mrs. Thompson’s missive. She sent it by private courier.” He handed over the missive, and Richard glanced at the seal, then broke it and unfolded the sheet.

  He skimmed it. “He hopes we arrived in one piece and he makes some jokes about the yacht.” Since Richard had once owned a similar vessel that had exploded a few years before, I could guess at some of the jokes. “Ah yes. I’ll read this part out, if I may. He writes, Something of import occurred that I think you should be aware of. For some years now I’ve done business with a man called Barber. Good, solid, middle ran
king, a man capable of good judgment. A few nights ago his housekeeper discovered him dead in his bedroom. Strangled. Barber was a single man. He had several young friends and liked to sponsor them in the professions of their choices, and his housekeeper said he’d made a new friendship recently.”

  Delicately put, but I think we all got the meaning.

  “There is no sign of the youth, but several items were missing. Some of value, small, portable pieces of jewellery and gold, and a letter I once wrote recommending Barber to another merchant. That was when he took a trip overseas and I could introduce him to a businessman there. Barber kept that letter locked up with his jewellery, and it was inventoried.” Such letters could be valuable. This one had proved so.

  “Gervase thinks I should know because of the housekeeper’s description of the young man. Slight, probably blond, although he wore a wig most of the time, but his skin was very fair and his brows pale, so she guessed his colouring from that. His eyes were grey. He spoke well, and once, in her hearing, he spoke of the Kerres and his acquaintance with them.” He put down the letter. “He put the matter in the hands of Mrs. Thompson. The Fieldings and Smith, the Bow Street Runner, are also investigating the crime.”

  My heart missed a beat as I gasped for breath, trying, as had become natural to me, to appear normal. But surely it would be right to show some distress in these circumstances.

  “I can add to that account, my lord,” Carier said. He picked up his own letter, the seal clinging to the edge of the sheet. “She immediately began investigations and will continue to do so. The young man used the name of a dead sailor. She has discovered little at the time of writing, but found out that the youth had hired his lodgings but two weeks before he made the acquaintance of Barber. He met him at a coffee house known for assignations of a certain kind. The youth had new clothes, a new lodging and to all intents and purposes seems to have sprung from nowhere.”

  Richard swore, long and fluently. My ability to curse had been better than average, as I grew up in the country, but I had nowhere near his ability to string all the words together. Finally he snatched up the letter again. “Gervase increased his vigilance over Susan, suspecting that if her brother was back, he’d try to get in touch with her. Susan had no desire to see him.” Susan was John Kneller’s twin sister, but had taken a completely different path in life and was now under Gervase’s guardianship. “Their suspicions were confirmed, that John Kneller was back in London. He tried to get in touch with his sister. He sent her a letter and gave her an address where she could reply. He said he’d obtained honest work and he was doing his best to start again. He’d been corrupted by Julia Drury, he said.”

  I made a sound of derision. “He didn’t need Julia to show him the way.”

  “True enough,” Richard agreed dryly.

  Carier nodded his agreement. “He may have been seeking an excuse. But Miss Kerre had had enough.”

  I quirked a brow. Carier explained, “Mrs. Thompson writes that she has recently decided to adopt the family name as a sign that she wishes to put her past behind her.” She had a good chance of that. Her previous career had included a stint as a courtesan, but she’d had only a handful of clients, the last of whom had wished to marry her. Her chance at respectability was snatched away when the man withdrew his offer after the scandal about her brother hit the press.

  “I would have expected Gervase to consult me about the use of the family name. Did he speak to our father?” Richard sounded mildly surprised rather than shocked or unhappy about the decision. I would have wagered my favourite fan that his mother felt very different about the situation.

  Carier almost smiled, the grim lines around his mouth relaxing slightly. “He informed them, my lord. With all due respect, there is little Lord and Lady Southwood can do about the decision. Mr. Kerre is independently wealthy, and does not depend on their goodwill for his wellbeing.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” Richard said. “My father has a great deal of influence. But while he lives, Gervase is safe, and when he is gone, I will ensure my brother’s wellbeing in society. Our mother will not be happy, however.” He grinned. “I wish I’d seen her face.”

  He didn’t say it, but I could hear it in the air. Lady Southwood would have to accept it, that one of her sons lived with another man and took his brother’s bastard into his home as his own. A cosy household, Gervase with his lover, my brother Ian, and Richard’s bastard daughter, Susan.

  Of course, the fortune Gervase had made while he was in exile in India helped to reconcile society’s hurt feelings. Gervase had taken to flirting with young ladies recently while making it clear they could hope for nothing from him but amusing conversation and the occasional escort. My brother was too serious minded to follow his example, but it wouldn’t hurt Ian to take life with a little less gravity.

  I picked up the music I’d been using and tidied it, ready to return it to the rack, but held the sheets in my hands, more to have something to do with them than for any other reason. I was pleased to note that my hands shook only a little.

  “So Gervase is on his guard. Good,” said Richard. “What else do you have, Carier? Gervase breaks off there, tells me that he will send more when he has it. He says he is glad we are out of town and out of reach.” He put the letter aside, and gazed at us, eyes grave. “I’m not so sure of that. What we’ve done is give Kneller more familiarity with maritime affairs, if he needed them. After all, he began his chequered career by smuggling in the north.”

  Carier sighed. “He is being very careful and we don’t have his whereabouts. However his sister received another letter, despite not replying to the first one. She gave it to Mr. Kerre. He gave it to Mrs. Thompson, who has copied it out for us, with Mr. Kerre’s permission.”

  Richard glanced down and scanned the letter. “It says very little. Just repeats that he wants to see her and would she contact him.” He looked up. “But it is dated after we left for Lisbon.”

  “We travelled at leisure, and we stopped and went ashore for a while when the crew fell ill,” I pointed out. “He could easily have reached Lisbon before us. Or even left the letter to be delivered later, with a deliberately misleading date.”

  “I don’t believe for a minute that he considered apprenticeship or any other form of respectable employment,” Richard said. “He’d have tried for another fortune, marriage, smuggling, forgery or just plain theft. Not an apprenticeship. That lasts seven years and leads to a situation as an honest working man. He wouldn’t do that. Too impatient, too greedy. He wants the wealth and power without the responsibility.”

  That was his flaw. John Kneller considered himself a simulacrum of his father, but he was far from that. Only half of Richard, the public flamboyance without the underlying earthy power and the rock of dependability and hard work few people ever saw.

  “I don’t believe it either.” The last time we’d seen him, he’d defied Richard, shown no desire to change. But I couldn’t think why he’d send his sister such a letter. She’d be an idiot to accept his invitation, and she was far from that. “Even if Susan went to the meeting, she’d have taken ample protection with her. She has no reason to love her brother, save that of filial affection. And he killed most of that.”

  He sighed. “So Kneller murdered Barber and stole the letter of introduction. I had hoped I knew my own brother’s handwriting. That letter went a long way towards persuading me to trust the man masquerading as Barber even as far as we did, since I knew that Gervase did not write those letters indiscriminately. We must hope that the unfortunate fake Barber is still in good health.”

  “So we can find him and get the truth out of him.” The chances were that he wouldn’t be in good health after that.

  Carier nodded. “I thought it would be unwise to discount every other possibility, so I explored those too. I’ve made some good friends in the kitchen here,” he said, not without a touch of smugness. “The news that I served in the military helped foster relations. Sev
eral of the footmen here once served in the Portuguese army, and ladies always have an eye for a soldier.” He cleared his throat and glanced at me. More than an eye, I guessed. “It didn’t take much to evoke reminiscences, especially since the news isn’t a great secret in this household. My lord, Joaquin is actually the older brother.”

  I blinked. “How can that be, if Paul is the marquês?”

  Carier glanced at the paper he held, as if to refresh his memory. “His mother’s marriage to his father was declared invalid by the courts at the request of his father, who wanted to be free to marry the present marquês’s mother.”

  “They have different mothers?” I felt like my head was stuffed with padding. “I had no idea. I even spoke with him about mothers the other day, just telling him that my father had been married three times. He said nothing, although that would have been the perfect opening for him to mention the matter.”

  “He didn’t want you to know,” Richard said grimly. “For some reason he wanted to conceal it. You gave him the perfect opening, my love, but he failed to take it.”

  “Which means he didn’t want to draw the matter to your attention, ma’am,” Carier finished for us. “Perhaps he doesn’t wish us to know that he resents his brother, if indeed he does.”

  “If matters were reversed between Gervase and me, I wouldn’t resent him.” From what he’d told me in the past, he’d have welcomed it. Richard hadn’t wanted the responsibilities of the older son.

  “But not all brothers feel that way,” I said gently.

  A smile flickered across his mouth. “No indeed.”

  “But to be replaced, and by the son of a foreigner, wouldn’t he think he had cause?” I asked. Paul’s English mother lived in her home country these days. Paul had spoken more than once of the affection his parents held for each other, so it had puzzled me that she hadn’t spoken of Joaquin before. But a different mother, and a respectably born one, might give her pause. She was a pleasant woman, though not an overpoweringly intellectual one or one given to much independence of thought. She would have accepted the status quo, if her husband had demanded it.