by Jo Beverley
She bit her lip, determined not to cry. Now she certainly had lost heaven in all its aspects—both Hawk and Hawkinville. It had probably all been an imaginary heaven, anyway, but for a little while it had felt astonishingly real, as if it could, truly, be for her.
Lord Arden reached over and gently squeezed her hand. He was gloved, but still it was the most human contact she remembered with him. “My instinct is to tear Hawkinville limb from limb, but it’s not so long since I did questionable things. I have some sympathy for him, pressured by the needs of his family and his land.”
“So do I.”
He glanced at her again, clearly expecting more, but she couldn’t speak it. Deep inside she felt raw, where trust had been uprooted from her. Did Hawk want her now that he could have the money regardless? Last night she would have laughed at doubt, but now, swirling in the awareness of deception, it ate at her.
If he protested on his knees that he loved her, would it be pity, or obligation?
And then there was the problem of Lord Deveril. It should be a little thing, but it simply wasn’t.
Deveril!
It was as if a ghoul had risen from the grave to drool all over her.
Lord Arden turned the gig between open gates and into the short drive through lovely gardens to the house. Hartwell was what people called a cottage ornee. It looked like a thatched village cottage, only grown to three times the size. Clarissa couldn’t help comparing its pretty perfection unfavorably with Hawkinville Manor, which was real even to its warped beams and uneven floors.
Beth had joked that Hartwell was a bucolic toy for the wealthy aristrocracy rather like Queen Marie Antoinette’s “farm” at Le Petit Triannon, but Clarissa knew Beth loved it, probably because it was home to her and the man she loved.
She’d told Hawk that she would live with him in love anywhere. And it had been true.
As Lord Arden turned the gig down a side drive toward the stables at the side, she swallowed tears. She was not going to turn into a wailing fool over this. She’d lost her virtue, her beloved, her heavenly home, and her fortune all in one day, but crying wouldn’t bring any of it back.
She went into the house with the marquess somewhat nervously, however. She was not so strong as to ignore what Beth would think of her adventures. They were still more teacher and student, and she had always been awed by Beth’s intelligence and strong will.
When they found that Beth was asleep, she was as relieved as the marquess.
“And thank heavens for that,” Lord Arden muttered. He looked at Clarissa, and she saw that he hadn’t a notion what to do with her. Beneath the gloss and the highly trained ability to be the Heir to the Dukedom under the most trying circumstances, he was, quite simply, exhausted.
She was astonished to feel a need to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to go and have a nice rest. She settled for saying, “I know the house, my lord, so you may feel easy leaving me to my own devices for a while.”
His look was, if anything, kind. “I’m sorry, Clarissa. I can say he’s not worth it, but at this moment you won’t believe that.”
“This certainly isn’t how I want things to be.” But she looked him in the eye. “I wouldn’t give up the past few weeks, Lord Arden, even had I known it would bring me here.”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “I know that feeling. You have friends, Clarissa. You will be happy again soon.”
“I’m ruined, you know,” she said, wondering if he didn’t quite understand.
“No, you’re not,” he said with a smile. “Just a little more experienced. You know Beth wouldn’t disapprove of experience. Ask the servants for anything you need. Amleigh will be here soon, I have no doubt.”
He’d made her laugh, and she watched him go upstairs, astonished by a touch of affection. Truly her experience seemed to have stretched her mind in some way, giving her glimpses of subtleties and, more important, understanding.
What to do?
She should be hungry, but she was sure food would choke her. She probably should ask to borrow a dress of Beth’s. They were, or had been, much of a size.
Perhaps she should write to Miss Hurstman, or even to the duke. Would the duke have to know about this?
In the end, aimlessly, she drifted out into the garden, wandering down to the river, where ducks busily paddled and dipped under the surface for food.
In her mind she was immediately back at another house on another river.
With Hawk in Hawkinville.
She sat down on the grass to think, to try to see what had really happened.
Hawk had gone to Cheltenham to find a criminal. She thought back over that day, tried to see it through his eyes. He must have been telling the truth when he said he changed his mind then. She’d been the most unlikely villain.
He’d drawn her to Brighton so he could dig for more evidence. She remembered wryly the number of times their talk had turned to London and Deveril, and the things she’d let slip.
The knife in the tent.
He was good. Very good.
But had the connection, the friendship, the passion, all been artifice?
What about the wilderness? That she would swear was real.
Ah. She remembered the splintered gate, and was suddenly sure that yes, it had all been real. Hawk would not lose control like that as a stratagem.
And last night. Surely there had been nothing false about last night.
But what did she really know about these things? He’d planned to marry her for her money and so he would have wanted her bound by passion.
And love.
And trust.
She grimaced at the way she’d babbled about perfection and honesty and trust. And told him everything.
She could only pray that he’d told the truth, that he had what he wanted. That Blanche would be safe.
She watched the river, thinking stupidly that it must be much easier to be a duck.
She heard footsteps and turned, thinking it would be the marquess, hoping against hope that it would be Hawk.
It was Lord Amleigh.
“There are suddenly a lot of titled gentlemen in my life,” she said, and it was silly.
He smiled and dropped to the grass by her side, dark-haired, square-chinned, and steady-eyed. “Just me and Arden, isn’t it?”
“And Lord Vandeimen.”
“And, indirectly, Lord Deveril.” He was still smiling, but there was something in his eyes that made demands of her. “Perhaps if you called me Con it would simplify your life.”
“You’re his friend. Have you come to ask me to forget it all?”
“I’m a Rogue, too, remember, and you are the one person who least deserves to suffer. Everything will be exactly as you wish.”
She laughed, hiding her face against her skirt, into the deceptively simple cream muslin gown that she had chosen yesterday morning with such hopes and dreams, and that now held only stains, and memories.
“That does assume that I know my own wishes.”
“You will, but perhaps not now. I know that at the moment it probably seems urgent, but it will all wait.”
She turned her head sideways to look at him, this virtual stranger who was so intimately linked with her affairs. “But will the world wait—before condemning me?”
“The world won’t know. Who’s to tell them?”
Strange to think about that. Not the Rogues. Not Hawk, or Lord Vandeimen or Lord Amleigh. Althea? Hardly. Lord Trevor? Miss Hurstman would cut his nose off.
“The village of Hawk in the Vale?” she asked.
“Hawk will deal with them. He’s gone back there.”
She studied him. “You trust him.”
“With my life and all I hold dear.” After a moment he added, “That doesn’t mean he’s without faults.”
She looked forward at the river. “So I can return to Brighton, and assemblies, and parties. It seems completely impossible, you know.”
“I know. But life goes on.
He sent a letter and asked that you read it.”
She sat up and took the folded paper, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to read it.
“It doesn’t have to be now, if you don’t want. But I think you should, when you’re ready to.”
Clarissa looked at the folded sheet. There was nothing on the outside, not even her name. There’d been no need of name or direction, of course, but it struck her as very Hawkish to be so precise about the necessities.
It was also, she realized, folded in half and then in three with impressive precision. Every angle was exact, every edge in line. How distressing it must be to a man of such discipline and order to be thrown into such discord.
She looked at his friend. “Is he all right?”
“No more than you.”
“I’m in love with him, so even more than I want him, I want to make everything perfect for him. But I’m not sure what that perfect would be, and I am sure that I mustn’t… melt myself into him for his comfort and pleasure.”
“An extraordinary way of putting it, but I know what you mean. I don’t have any wisdom to offer.” After a moment he said, “I’m not even sure there is any wisdom when it comes to the heart, except the old nostrum that time heals. It heals, but healing is not always without scars, or even deformities.”
She stared at him. “I’m certainly not being treated as a silly child, am I?”
“Do you wish to be?”
“Doesn’t everyone wish to be, sometimes?”
“There you have an excellent point.” He opened his arms, and she went into them. It was fatherly, or perhaps brotherly. She, who had never had father or brother interested in holding her.
She remembered that after Deveril’s death, Nicholas Delaney had held her in the same way. But none of these men, even if full to brimming with goodwill, could solve her dilemmas for her.
“I suppose I have to return,” she said. “To Brighton.”
“Certainly Miss Hurstman will want to see you safe.”
“Miss Hurstman is a Rogue.” She said it firmly but without resentment.
“No, she’s not. She’s a Rogue’s aunt. Lord Middlethorpe’s aunt, to be precise. If you think she’s on our side against you, you don’t know her very well. She’s a fierce defender of women in any practical way. There’ll be skin lost over our mismanagement of this.”
She pulled free of his arms to look at him. “She didn’t know any of this?”
“Not unless she’s a fortune-teller. Nicholas asked her to take you on because he thought you needed special help to win your place in society. That’s all.”
“But she wrote to him. Reporting, I assume.”
“Ah, that. She wrote demanding his presence. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of society that exceeds Hawk’s. As soon as he appeared she remembered that his father had been born a Gaspard, and that Gaspard was the Deveril family name. It rang enough of an alarm bell for her to send for him, but not enough of one to take any action. She had no idea—probably still doesn’t—that Hawk’s father has the title now.”
“Then I’d like to go back there.” She stood up and brushed off her hopeless skirt. “Life goes on, but it hardly seems possible.”
Like a claw scratching at the back of her mind, she wondered what she would do if she was with child. All very well for Lord Arden to brush off her ruin, but a swelling belly would be a very obvious sign of experience.
Would that mean that she’d have to marry Hawk?
He’d argued with her about just this. About her changing her mind, being with child.
Had he really tried to resist? Or had that simply been more cunning on his part?
She wanted him too much to make sense. Wanting was not the guide.
A child can want to grasp the fire, an adult want to throw away a fortune on cards.
Something popped up from the jumble of her mind. “You mentioned fortune-telling… It’s tugging at something… oh, Mrs. Rowland!”
He frowned slightly. “The woman in the village with the invalid husband?”
“Yes, I felt as if I knew her, but now I see she reminds me of that fortune-teller in Brighton. Madame Mystique.”
Who had talked about the money not really being hers, and death if she did not tell the truth. She’d told the truth, but she still felt half dead.
“What is it? Are you faint?”
“No.” She couldn’t deal with another stir of the pot. “I think I need to eat something. And probably borrow a clean gown. Con,” she added as a mark of appreciation for his kindness.
He smiled. “Come along, then.” They began to walk back to the peaceful house.
Most people would prefer Hartwell, with its picturesque charms around a thoroughly modern and convenient interior.
But Clarissa knew that Hawkinville still held her heart.
Chapter Twenty-six
Hawk rode south almost by compass, driven by duty alone. It might be pleasant, in fact, to become lost. He’d looked into some cases of people who simply disappeared. Perhaps they too found themselves in a dead spot of life and went away. Went anywhere so long as it was not here.
He might collide with Van by pure accident on this journey, but that encounter could not be avoided. It really didn’t matter when. It mattered whether Van, like Con, could hold on to old bonds in spite of present insanity, but he couldn’t affect that.
He could affect Clarissa’s reputation, and he put his mind to that.
He made Hawk in the Vale without incident, and saw everyone in the village turn to stare.
The Misses Weatherby popped out of their house, agape. Good.
Grimly amused, Hawk touched his hat. “Good evening, ladies.”
They gaped even more, and he waited for them to frame a question.
But Slade marched out between his ridiculous pillars right up to his saddle. “Where’s your impetuous bride, Major? Fled to warmer arms?”
Rage surged. Barely resisting the urge to kick the man’s teeth in, Hawk put his crop beneath Slade’s wattly chin and raised it. “One more word, and I will thrash you. My father’s folly is to blame more than your greed, but you are very unwelcome here, sir. And your comments about a lady can only be attributed to a vulgar mind.”
As if breaking a spell, Slade dashed away the crop and stepped back, puce with choler. “Lady?” he spat, then stopped. “May we know where the charming Miss Greystone is, Major?”
Very well. Slade would do, and the Weatherbys were all ears.
“It’s none of your business, Slade, but she heard that her dear friend the Marchioness of Arden was in childbed and wished to be with her. As you said, she is somewhat impetuous.”
Slade opened, then shut, his mouth. “And the happy event?” he inquired with a disbelieving sneer.
“A son. The heir to Belcraven, born just before dawn.”
He heard the Misses Weatherby twittering, as women always did at these events, and of course at the slight vicarious connection to the birth of such an august child.
The birth was just the kind of incontrovertible fact that could glue together almost any lie.
Slade was certainly believing it.
“And the money?” he asked stiffly.
Hawk permitted himself a disdainful sneer. “Will be yours, sir, before the due date. I must thank you for being so obliging to my family.”
With that, he turned his horse toward the manor, which apparently would survive, along with the heart of Hawk in the Vale. At the moment, he felt no satisfaction. He did not dismiss the value of preserving the village, but he did not dismiss the cost, either.
As he dismounted in the courtyard the scent of roses met him—sickeningly. He left the horse to the groom and strode swiftly inside.
“George? Where’s your bride?”
His father stood in the doorway to the back parlor, leaning on a stick.
“Isn’t it more a case of where’s the money?”
“Definitely, definitely. You have it? If so, we can start p
lanning the celebration.”
“Go to the devil,” Hawk snapped, then quickly reined in his temper before it drove him into something else to be ashamed of. “I have the money to pay off Slade, but there is no extra, my lord.”
“There is always more money, my boy! I thought a fete similar to that one Vandeimen threw for his wedding. But more regal. Full dress. A procession—”
Hawk turned to go up the stairs. “You will, of course, do exactly as you wish, sir. I have no interest in it.”
“Damn your eyes! And where is your bride, eh? Lost her already?”
Hawk paused on the landing. “Precisely, sir.”
He entered his room tempted to sink into the darkness, but he had done this for a cause, and the cause went on. He opened his campaign desk. The familiar paper and pens swept him back to his other life. He thought there might even be a trace of smoke and powder trapped in the wood.
Why had the skills that had carried him through challenging and even torturous tasks in the army failed him here?
He picked up the flattened pistol ball that had been his constant reminder that blind luck played a huge part in fate. Perhaps this time his luck had run out.
But, no, that wasn’t it. In the army he’d usually worked toward a single imperative. He’d had no personal stake, and a good part of his skill had been in blocking out all distractions of fact or sentiment.
In fact, this campaign was a resounding success.
Hawkinville was safe.
He deserved a medal.
He wrote a Spartan letter to Arden thanking him for his assistance and requesting that he arrange for the money to be available at his Brighton bank before the end of the month. Then, with distaste, he wrote a note to Slade requesting the name of the institution where his money should be deposited.
He went downstairs and sent a servant off with it.
And that, pretty well, was that.
All that was left was the rest of his life.
He walked out of the house at the back, and down to the river, but the ducks must have been enjoying some other part of the water, and heavy clouds were drifting between the earth and the sun. It seemed symbolic, but he knew the sun would shine another day and the ducks would return.
