THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  Tea! Wild laughter threatened. Would Con demand to know where the tea and brandy he drank came from? Most of England used smuggled goods if they could get them, but there were always those who stuck on principle.

  Perhaps Con would follow the pattern of past generations and come to a gentleman’s agreement with the Horde, but it didn’t seem likely. He was a soldier, used to obeying orders and enforcing the law. He wouldn’t find smuggling romantic anymore.

  If he insisted, she’d buy everything, taxes paid, at ten times the price. She’d be the laughingstock of south Devon, though.

  But most people couldn’t afford those prices. Why wouldn’t the government come to its senses and accept that there’d be more money in taxes if taxes were lower?

  Of course if they did, that’d be the end of smuggling, and then where would the south coast be?

  It was coming to a point where she didn’t know what to pray for.

  Maisie was moving burning coals under the big water kettle, and adding fresh so they crackled and flared.

  “When you’ve finished there, Maisie, put together a soup of some sort.”

  Susan gathered herself, feeling slightly breathless, as if the world were whirling around her.

  What now? What should she do now?

  Go down to get Ellen and Jane, or change? She should go down first, but what if Con decided to pursue her here? She wanted to be safe in her severe housekeeper clothes when she had to face him again.

  She hurried into her rooms, a bedchamber and small parlor that the previous housekeeper, bless her, had fitted out in a cozy modern style with pale green painted walls. Susan had added some of her framed insect drawings and a lot of books. Unexpectedly, she’d come to love these rooms, the only private space she’d ever owned.

  She’d been raised at Kerslake Manor with love and kindness, but love and kindness couldn’t produce enough rooms for everyone to have their own. That was why she’d spent so much time outdoors.

  That was why she’d met Con. Why they’d—

  A glance in the mirror showed her a pale face streaked with black, her hair simply tied back. Oh, Lord. This was not how she would have chosen to meet Con again.

  The earl!

  The Earl of Wyvern, who was no longer any personal business of hers.

  She tore off her jacket, then shed the rest of her clothes. She washed off the soot, then slipped into a fresh shift, a light corset, and one of her plain gray dresses. She pinned a crisp white apron on top.

  This wasn’t how she wanted to look for Con either, but it was better. Much better. It was armor.

  She twisted her brown hair up on top of her head and pinned it in place, then covered it with a cap, tying the strings under her chin. Not quite armored enough, she added a fichu of starched cotton around her shoulders.

  Deep inside, like a tolling alarm bell, pounded the need to escape, to run before she had to see Con again. Counterpoint to it beat the desperate rhythm of need.

  To see him, to hear him, the man the youth had become ...

  She swallowed, and as ready as she was likely to be, went out again into the kitchen. On the big hearth, steam was already rising from three pots, and Maisie was finely chopping vegetables. Susan praised her, picked up the lamp, and plunged down into the chilly depths of Crag Wyvern to summon the other maids.

  It was only a temporary escape, however.

  Above, the dragon still waited to be faced.

  Con wondered if an earl in his noble home was supposed to stay in his grand chambers until service arrived. He wasn’t in the earl’s grand chambers, however—the Wyvern rooms, he remembered they were called—and the service was likely to be snail-slow.

  The bed tempted him like a siren song. He’d been on horseback since early morning, pushing on as the light faded because of a need to get here, to get the first part over.

  Or the need to escape.

  Despite the call of duty, he probably wouldn’t have left Somerford Court to come here if one of his oldest friends had not returned to his neighboring estate. Instead of riding across the valley to meet Van for the first time in a year, however, he’d lurked at home. When work had started on Steynings, indicating that Van might be returning for good, he’d discovered an urgent need to inspect this property in Devon and set off with no preparation at all.

  He rubbed his hands over his weary face. Mad. Perhaps he was as mad as the Demented Devonish Somerfords.

  Van had lost all his immediate family in recent years. And yet, knowing he probably needed a friend, Con had fled like a coward fleeing a battle.

  Because Van might want to help him—

  God! Con grabbed the candle and plunged back out into the corridor. Dammit. Which way did he go in this crazy place? It was full of staircases, he remembered. Circular ones at the corners. A straight one down into the hall. Servants’ narrow stairs.

  Right or left, he’d come to a circular one. Left, why not? He was left-handed.

  He found the arch and headed down, remembering that his left-handedness gave him an advantage here.

  In castles, these staircases always curled counterclockwise so that defenders from above would have their right arm—their sword arm—free, while attackers from below would be cramped by the inner wall. The Crag Wyvern stairs curled clockwise because left-handedness ran in the blood of the Devonish Somerfords.

  The old earl had been left-handed, and apparently so had most before him. Con was left-handed. Was that a bad omen? He could feel the pressure of madness in the very walls of this place.

  He certainly wished he had a lamp or lantern rather than the candle he was holding in his right hand, instinctively leaving his left hand free, even though he carried no weapon. He wished he had a weapon, but the greatest danger he faced was that the wildly flaring candle might blow out, leaving him to feel his way down the stairs in the pitch dark.

  He stepped out into a corner of the huge medieval-style hall with relief, pausing to let his hammering heart settle. The room was as peculiar as the rest of the place, the walls encrusted with weaponry, but it contained two relatively sane human beings.

  “Ah, a human!” declared Racecombe de Vere, lounging on an oaken settle with deceptive languor, golden curls framing a fine-boned face, smoky-blue eyes cynically amused at the world.

  “If an Earl of Wyvern is ever human,” Con replied.

  “No? At least they seem to have been warlike.” Race gestured at the walls.

  “Not a bit of it. This stuff must have been bought by the yard.”

  “Alas. I was hoping some of the muskets and pistols might work. There’s a distinct feeling here of imminent battle.”

  Race would know. He was an army man, but he’d missed Waterloo. He’d been part of the men rushed back from Canada who’d arrived too late. At which point he’d sold his commission in disgust.

  Con put his candle with a stand of three others on the massive dark oak refectory table in the middle of the room. “The only likely battle would be against ghosts.”

  “Then why did you disappear for a solitary midnight stroll?”

  Con met Race’s mischievous eyes. “To stretch my legs. Servants are being roused.”

  “Roused from sleep on the heathy headland?”

  Con merely gave him a look.

  Race had been his subaltern for a while in Spain, and they’d met again in Melton Mowbray in February. Con had just heard of his mad relative’s death. Race had decided he needed a secretary and appointed himself.

  At the time it had seemed rather farcical, but Con hadn’t cared enough to object. Race, however, had turned out to have a gift for administration. He still could be an imp from hell at times.

  “You are tired, my lord.” The soft, Spanish-inflected voice snapped his eyes open. He’d almost gone to sleep on his feet.

  He shuddered and turned to Diego, a weather-beaten man nearly twice Con’s age. He had dark Spanish eyes, but light brown hair touched with gray. Con knew Diego was here only to look a
fter him. Once Diego was sure he was all right, he would return to his beloved, sunny Spain.

  “We’re all tired,” Con said, rubbing scratchy eyes. “I can tell you where to bed down now if you want, but there should be food soon, and a bath.”

  There’d only be hot water enough for one bath at a time. It was a fact of being an earl that he would enjoy it first, a fact of life that Race and then Diego would use it after him if they wanted to. A tub of water could go through ten before it was cold and exhausted. Tenth in line for a tub had often been a dreamed-of luxury during the war....

  “I would be happy to oversee the servants and encourage them to greater speed, sir,” said Diego.

  The notion of Diego hounding Susan was vaguely alarming—vaguely because of invading sleep. “No.” Con battled fatigue. “No need. The housekeeper has the matter in hand.”

  “The Mrs. Kerslake? What is she like, sir?”

  “Young,” he said, walking about to keep the blood flowing to limbs and brain. “And despite the Mrs., unmarried,”

  “Pretty?” asked Race, sitting up.

  “Depending on taste.” Con suppressed an urge to growl a warning. “If you’re interested, treat her as a lady, because she is one. She’s niece to the local squire.”

  No need now to get into the more complicated matters of Susan’s parentage.

  To both of the men, he added, “If she asks any questions about me, don’t tell her anything.”

  Diego’s brows quirked, and Con saw mischievous curiosity flit across Race’s face.

  Damnation. But there was no point hiding all of it. “I knew her years ago and she might be nosy. The important fact is that everyone here is involved in smuggling, and for the moment we’re going to pretend that it isn’t happening.”

  “Which it is, of course,” Race said, coming to full alert. “Hence the lack of servants in the house or horses in the stables. Fascinating.”

  “Remember, Race, we are for the moment blind, deaf, and very, very stupid.”

  Race subsided, giving Con a very ironic salute. “Sir!”

  “My lord.”

  Con turned sharply to see Susan walking toward him. He couldn’t help but stare. He’d not been surprised to see her in men’s clothing, even though he’d never seen her dressed like that before. He was shocked to see her in dull housekeeper’s garb.

  Affronted even. He wanted to tear off the ugly cap and starched fichu. To command her not to wear dark gray that stole the color from her face. The outfit almost did the impossible and made her ugly.

  He recovered and performed the introductions. He noted Race attempting to flirt and being frostily discouraged.

  Good.

  Zeus, could he sink so low as jealousy?

  She turned back to him. “We have simple food ready for you all, my lord. Where do you want everyone to eat?”

  Diego would normally eat with the servants, but Con didn’t want him where he might see smuggling activity. Smugglers tended to keep their secrets with a knife. “In the breakfast room on this occasion, if you please.”

  She nodded. “If you remember the way, my lord, perhaps you could take your party there and I will have the food served within moments.”

  She disappeared again, and that was the last Con saw of her for the night. Two maids brought soup, bread, cheese, and a currant pie into the breakfast room. On request they returned with tankards of ale to go with it. One was past first youth and plain, the other young, thin, and bucktoothed. Con wondered whether Susan saw him and his men as a bunch of seducers and had chosen the plainest servants.

  When they’d finished, he led Race and Diego upstairs, and found a steaming bath ready for him. By then he was almost too tired to care, but since coming home from Waterloo, he had tried never again to go filthy to sleep. He stripped, sat in the wooden tub, scrubbed briskly, and staggered off to fall into bed, asleep almost as soon as he was horizontal.

  Chapter Four

  Daylight awoke him. He’d neglected to draw the curtains.

  Daybreak and birdsong—a very English awakening that he still savored every single day. He loved England with a passion built through all the days when loss of life and loss of England had rushed upon him. Perhaps if he could get enough of the true England he could heal.

  The England he loved, however, was the England of the gentle Sussex downs, of tranquil Somerford Court and pastoral Hawk in the Vale. It wasn’t this aberrant house on a heathy headland, haunted by madmen and criminals.

  He climbed out of bed, snarled back at the dragons, and walked naked to the small-paned window to look into the garden. At Somerford his room looked out into the garden, but beyond that lay the valley and a view for miles. Here, the garden was enclosed by dark stone walls. At least the walls were covered with ivy and other growing plants, and the courtyard even contained two trees. They were stunted, however, and a sense of enclosure, of limits, pressed on him.

  Such enclosure had doubtless been deliberate in a monastery or convent, but he had not renounced the world. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps riding away from Hawk in the Vale and his friend had been a renunciation of the deepest kind.

  At least there were birds. He’d not imagined the bird-song, and he saw a sparrow fly across from tree to ivy, and swifts swooping up near the roof. He could pick out a thrush’s trill and a robin’s happy song. Maybe the birds were singing that there was a lot to be said for an artificial garden surrounded by high walls.

  He began to see a pattern in the courtyard paths. Pentangles. An occult symbol. He shook his head. In the center stood a statue fountain that had not been here eleven years ago. There seemed to be a woman and a dragon. He assumed it was bizarre.

  A torture chamber, too.

  Deeply, truly, he wanted no part of this place, safe or not.

  A movement caught his eye, and he saw Susan come out of one side of the house and walk briskly across a diagonal of the courtyard. She was still in the dull gray and white that offended him, with that cap covering almost all her hair, but her walk was free and graceful.

  Her clothes eleven years ago had been schoolroom wear, but more lively and becoming than this. Come to think of it, they’d been almost entirely pale colors, and she’d always been grimacing about mud, sand, and grass stains from their adventures.

  What was his free spirit doing in gray playing housekeeper here?

  Clearly not seeking to seduce him. She’d dress more becomingly for that.

  She paused to study some tall, plumy flowers. He suspected that there was some interesting insect on them.

  She had always loved insects.

  What do you mean, always? You knew her for two weeks.

  But it hadn’t simply been a fortnight. It had been a lifetime in fourteen days. She’d loved to watch insects, often lying down on the ground or in the sand to study and wonder, to analyze their quirks of behavior. She’d carried a sketching pad and drawn them, showing real talent. That had been her key to freedom, the fact that she went out to study and draw insects, but it hadn’t been pretense.

  He watched her watch. Then she straightened, stretching her head back to take a deep, relished breath.

  He inhaled with her, and carefully, quietly, opened the casement window to let in the same perfumed air that she was breathing.

  Not quietly enough. With the window only half open, she started and looked up at him.

  He conquered the urge to step back. The sill hit him at hip level, so he was essentially decent, though naked.

  Their eyes held for what seemed to be far too long. He saw her lips part, as if she might speak, or perhaps just to catch air.

  Then she broke the contact and turned to walk briskly, more briskly, across the courtyard and away.

  He stayed there, arms braced on the sill, breathing as if breathing were difficult. For so long he’d told himself that their time here had been a minor thing, a passing moment, that her agonizing dismissal of him had wiped away any warm feelings and—paradoxically—hadn’t hurt
a bit.

  He’d always known it was a lie.

  Fifteen. He’d been fifteen, bedazzled, scared, eager....

  It had been a strange progression from sitting on the headland talking about everyday things, to lying side by side on their bellies talking about personal matters, to holding hands as they walked along the beach, to sitting in one another’s arms sharing dreams and fears.

  The moon had become full during that second week, and twice they’d sneaked out at night to sit on the beach surrounded by the magic music of the sea, to talk of anything and everything. He’d wanted to build a fire but she’d told him it was illegal. It could be a signal fire for smugglers, so it was illegal.

  She’d known a lot about smugglers and shared it all, and he’d been romantically thrilled by stories of the Freetraders. Then she’d admitted her personal connection—that she wasn’t a daughter of Sir Nathaniel and Lady Kerslake at the manor, but of Sir Nathaniel’s sister Isabelle and the keeper of the George and Dragon tavern in the village of Dragon’s Cove.

  And then that her father, Melchisedeck Clyst, was Captain Drake, leader of the local smuggling gang.

  She clearly didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of her parentage. Though “Lady Belle” lived openly with Melchisedeck Clyst in Dragon’s Cove, they’d never married.

  Con was delightfully scandalized by this blatant sinfulness—things like that never happened in Hawk in the Vale. Overall, however, he thought it a grand connection, and it made Susan even more exceptional in his eyes.

  He and his brother Fred spent time in Dragon’s Cove, and he started to look out for Captain Drake. He didn’t see him, and had no reason to go into the George and Dragon.

  They had a grand time in the village anyway. The fishermen were mostly willing to talk as they cleaned their catch or mended nets. They picked up fishing lore and tall stories as they tried to spot which were smugglers and which weren’t.

  The truth was, of course, that they all were.