by Jo Beverley
Since he seemed an admirably down-to-earth man, Con asked, “What’s the correct procedure for a skull, Rufflestowe?”
“Procedure, my lord?”
“There are two human skulls in the earl’s rooms, and they look to me as if they were disinterred in the not-too-distant past. Have there been any disturbed graves?”
“Good heavens. Not as far as I know, my lord. But there are some ancient burial sites around here. Most interesting ...” He caught himself up. “A little interest of mine, my lord. Perhaps it would be best to leave the matter of the skulls until I can inspect them. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
Another enthusiastic worker, thought Con. “By all means, sir.”
He found Jonny sitting at a desk in the schoolroom, working his way carefully through the words on a hornbook. The lad had been a London orphan before taking the king’s shilling just before Waterloo. He’d doubtless had little education. Con made a mental note to arrange reading lessons for him, but dragged him off on the rest of the circuit of the estate.
As the Church Wyvern clock struck four, he turned his horse back toward Crag Wyvern, as reluctant to return to the house as he had been to enter it the day before. The feeling reminded him of Waterloo. He hadn’t wanted to go there either, but duty had left him no choice. Then, however, he’d known he was riding into hell. Now, he only felt like it.
He left the horses and Jonny at the stables in the village and walked up to the house. At the great arch into Crag Wyvern, he hesitated, tempted to linger outside.
He could walk across the headland....
With a bitter laugh, he realized that he was dreaming of encountering a friend there, of exploring rock pools and caves, of lying in the sun talking, talking, talking....
He squared his shoulders and walked through the gargoyle-crested arch into the shadows of Crag Wyvern.
He crossed the echoing great hall, heading toward the office, aware of being on the alert for Susan, both warily and eagerly. She didn’t appear, but she might still be with Race.
When he opened the door to the office, however, he found someone else in the room with Race—a young man rising from an extra chair at the desk.
It could only be Susan’s brother. The resemblance was remarkable, though no one would ever mistake one for the other. She might look like a Renaissance angel, but her brother, despite sensible country clothes, was all Renaissance warrior.
“Mr. Kerslake,” Con said.
The man bowed. “My lord.”
He was tall and strong, with an aura the officer in Con recognized. Things fell into place. This was Captain Drake. Of course he was. He was Mel Clyst’s son. It was hard not to grin. Susan was certainly not the mistress of the new local leader. On the other hand, he thought, sobering, she was certainly neck-deep in smuggling.
“So,” he asked Race, “how has the estate done in recent times?”
“Very well, my lord. Of course, it’s suffering as everywhere with the end of the war and the fall in prices....”
Con picked up a chair from by the wall and sat at the desk so the others could sit as they went through an efficient review.
Kerslake might be carrying two jobs, but he seemed to be doing this one well. If Race hadn’t found any problems in the estate records, there weren’t any to be found. Con asked a few questions and received sensible answers. When Kerslake had to look up some figures he seemed to know exactly where to find them.
After a while, Con held up his hand. “Enough. Everything seems to be in order, and de Vere will filter this all down to simplicity for me. Will you stay to dinner, Kerslake?”
There was a hesitation. “With pleasure, my lord. But you do know that my sister is your housekeeper?”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Some might think it would create awkwardness.”
Con realized that the young man disapproved of Susan’s being here, and was sending a subtle warning. It reminded him sharply of Mel Clyst’s all those years ago.
That warning in the past had sparked trouble. What would this one ignite?
A touch of mischief.
“Then I invite her to dine with us, Kerslake,” Con said. “She is hardly the common run of housekeeper, and she assures me that her duties don’t include actually cooking.” He was sure that Susan wouldn’t like this move. And of course, it meant she couldn’t hide from him, if that was what she planned. “Why don’t you carry the message to her?”
Kerslake rose, but his eyes were steady. “Is this an invitation, my lord, or a command?”
“I’m an army man, Kerslake. If I give a command, you will be in no doubt about it.”
When David Kerslake left, Con turned to Race and raised a brow.
“Honest, competent, thorough, and severely underemployed,” Race said. “I’m not sure why he’s still at the job.”
Con sighed. “Smuggling, Race. Smuggling.”
“It’s that attractive to a man of such ability?”
“The best of games, and he’s captain of the team. I’m sure of it. He is the old one’s son, after all.”
“What?”
Con realized that Race didn’t know. “Both Susan Kerslake and her brother are the bastard children of Melchisedeck Clyst, tavernkeeper and the former Captain Drake—”
“Captain Drake?”
“The name taken by the smuggling master in these parts.”
Race’s brows rose. “But the manor?”
“Their mother is Miss Isabelle Kerslake of Kerslake Manor.”
“The deuce you say. And they never even married?”
“It seemed unimportant to them. Their children were raised by the mother’s relatives at the manor. Having the Kerslake name is useful, since everyone will look for Captain Drake to be a Clyst. I gather the Preventive officer is new. He might not even realize yet that David Kerslake is not a true son of the manor.”
“What happened to the old Preventive officer?”
Con smiled. “You’re beginning to get the feel of the place. Fell down a cliff one night. I gather the general belief is that he was pushed, and by one of the rival smuggling gangs hoping to make life difficult for the new Captain Drake.”
“I’d think it would make life difficult for all of them, unless the old one was sharp and the new one blunt.”
“Ah, but the key word there, Race, is think. Many smugglers don’t often think. And no, Lieutenant Perch was middle-aged and obliging. Lieutenant Gifford is apparently young, clever, and ambitious.”
“Idiots.” He glanced at Con. “Kerslake doesn’t like his sister being your housekeeper, does he? Strange that he permitted it.”
“Do you think she is a woman who is allowed or not allowed?”
“I see you’ve found more amusement for me.” Race tidied his papers and closed the ledgers. “First the anticipation. Will the lady attend the dinner or not? If she does, will she still hide in gray? Then the thrill of watching the byplay between you all ... Does the formidable brother know about the past?”
“What past?” Con asked, but it was useless.
Race grinned. “Does the lady still desire? Does the lord? Will they speak their hearts? Will they be forbidden? It’ll be as good as Drury Lane!”
Con swiped at him, and Race ducked, laughing like an imp from hell.
Susan was checking the preparations for the evening meal and preparing wines. As the Crag lacked a butler, the old earl’s valet had done that job, and as she’d often dined with her employer she’d learned something about his cellars. She hoped the wines she’d chosen would be suitable. They were all French. All smuggled, of course, but she didn’t think Con would raise the subject.
When arms snared her from behind, she almost dropped a bottle. For a startled, insane moment, she thought, Con! But then she turned to glare at her brother. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Scaring you.”
She put down the bottle. “You do that all the time. Well, did you pass muster?”
&nb
sp; “Of course. I’m a very good estate manager, and there isn’t a great deal to do. For an earldom the property’s quite small.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“Playing messenger. You’re commanded to dine with the lord and master.”
Alarm shot through her. “Alone?”
His brows went up. “Of course not. Is he bothering you?”
“No.” She tried to make it believable, which should be easy because he wasn’t. Yet still she was bothered.
“I’m to eat with the earl and Mr. de Vere?” she asked, wondering what was behind the order.
“And me. Sorry if you don’t like it, love. I probably caused it by saying it might be awkward to eat at the earl’s table while my sister acted the servant. Come on. You used to dine with the old earl and me sometimes.”
“I know, but I wore ordinary clothes when I was secretary....” She gestured at her plain clothes.
“You must have something suitable up here.”
Dress in a pretty gown for Con? A shiver of alarm collided with a stab of eagerness. The invitation was as good as a command. Or perhaps even a challenge.
So she would take it up boldly. Con had only seen her in schoolroom dresses, in men’s clothing, and in housekeeper gray. Perhaps it was time to remind him that she was a lady.
“I do have a couple of finer dresses here,” she said, adding with a smile, “mainly to stop Amelia from borrowing them.”
“She’s six inches shorter.”
“But the same size around. She stitches up the hems but the gowns are never quite the same afterward.”
“Can’t you stop her?”
“Not when I’m up here and the gowns are down there. I brought my favorites to preserve them.” She smiled. “She’s welcome to borrow the rest.”
She looked at the wine. “Would you help out by decanting the wine and spirits and taking them to the dining room?”
“Get him to hire a butler,” he said rather haughtily, and she reflected again on how comfortable he was in his role as gentleman. Why couldn’t she be the same?
He set to work, however, and Susan hurried off to her rooms, calling for Ada to help her.
She needed the maid’s assistance with her fashionable corset. She could get into her working ones on her own, but the one she needed for her best dresses required back lacing. Once the corset was snug and supporting her breasts at a fashionable height, she had Ada help her on with her ivory muslin dress.
It had been through a number of changes over the years, but it was still her favorite. The upper layer, embroidered with white and just a touch of golden brown, veiled an underskirt which she had recently retrimmed with deep, pointed Vandyke lace—smuggled, of course. Since she’d cut eight inches off the underskirt to allow for the lace, it had created a delightful veiled effect around her ankles.
Was it too risqué? Too suggestive? Her only alternative other than her working clothes was a deep pink silk, which was much too grand, and a blue day dress with long sleeves and a high neck. Was there time to send down to the manor for her peach cambric? It was an altogether better choice for an informal dinner....
But no, there wasn’t time.
She plucked anxiously at the low front. It revealed a considerable amount of her breasts, which were thrust up by the corset. She’d worn the retrimmed dress a few months ago without a quiver of alarm—but then she hadn’t been about to face Con.
As Ada worked on the pearl buttons Susan fought panic and pure excitement. The dress became her, she knew that.
It was suitable armor for a coming battle.
Had Con felt like this before battle—afraid, afire, eager?
Eager for what?
Her goal should be simple. Find the gold and leave. But another goal was stirring.
She couldn’t recapture what they’d had all those years ago, and Con had found happiness with another woman. She didn’t want to leave Crag Wyvern, however, leave this area, without trying to get to know him a little, the man he had become.
And she ached to heal him. Whatever the causes of the darkness around him now, some were her fault. They had been friends once. Could she reach out now to help a friend?
She looked in the mirror and grimaced at herself. She might think noble thoughts, but in truth she was excited to be looking her best, to be able to show him that she was a woman able to attract men.
Attract men?
By the stars, she’d worn this dress six years ago when she’d let Lord Rivenham seduce her! It had been higher-necked then, sans lace, and with a trim of golden ribbons, but she’d been wearing this dress.
The next day, when he’d taken her for a drive to a conveniently private place, she’d been in pink jaconet, but the day before at the Bath assembly, it had been this dress.
Oh, what folly that had been.
Ada finished with the tiny buttons, and Susan sat so the maid could brush out her hair. She couldn’t stop dwelling on past follies.
She’d been in Bath with her aunt and cousins. Her aunt had been advised to take the waters, and she’d taken her two oldest girls, as she always called them, along to enjoy society there. Cecilia, at twenty-one, had met her husband in Bath. Susan, at twenty, had seized an opportunity to try to drive Con Somerford from her mind and heart.
It hadn’t been frightening or unpleasant. Lord Rivenham had been some years older, married, and a known rake. He was not an honorable man, but skilled. He’d even brought a sponge soaked in vinegar and shown her how to insert it.
It had all been very interesting, especially the contrast between Con’s ignorant enthusiasm and Rivenham’s expertise. It hadn’t been an improvement, however, except in the simplest mechanical sense.
When they were leaving the rooms, strangely back to normal after that brief tumult, he’d asked, “Get what you wanted, pet?”
She could remember the moment as if someone had pinned it in a frame for eternity. Her face had burned, but she’d met his curious, cynical eyes and said, “Yes, thank you.”
He’d laughed. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know what brought you here today, but I hope you find the man you want for more than an afternoon.”
She hadn’t exactly lied to him. She’d wanted to wipe Con from her mind, from her skin, and she’d failed at that. But she had gained in knowledge, and not just about preventing babies.
This matter between men and women could simply be an act, but it wasn’t always. What had happened between her and Con had been both less and more. It had been different because of the feelings involved. It hadn’t caused the feelings; the feelings had caused the effect.
Therefore, she had set herself to fall in love. Cecilia and even young Amelia and most of the young women she knew seemed to find it easy to fall into love with handsome gentlemen and dashing soldiers. And just as easy to fall out again.
So she stirred herself into tremulous excitement about Captain Jermyn Lavalle in his dashing Hussar uniform. When she’d let him make fumbling, hasty, unsatisfying love to her in the gazebo of his colonel’s country villa, however, she’d been used without care or even appreciation.
Too proud to protest, or scream, or weep, she’d known she was a mere physical convenience to him, and a trophy as well. She’d parted from him, chin high, terrified that he’d boast of it to his fellow officers, and knowing she was on a course to insane disaster.
At least Con wasn’t a Hussar. She remembered thinking that, as if it were the crucial point.
The encounter with Lavalle had not made a scrap of difference to the secrets of her heart, but it had changed her behavior. She’d recognized at last that life would not be forced into the channels of her choosing, but must be lived with honor as it came.
Play the hand that was dealt her, as apparently Mel Clyst had put it. She wished she’d known her father better.
She’d spitefully wished Captain Lavalle dead in his first battle, but she’d overcome that too, and even managed to be glad when she saw notice later
of his making major. She’d prayed, however, that their paths would never cross again, and that he would keep their assignation secret.
As Ada began to sweep her hair up, Susan adjusted the low bodice of her gown. At least she hadn’t been wearing this dress with Lavalle. He’d thrown up the skirts of a pink dress trimmed with rosebuds. Immediately afterward she’d spilled blackberry cordial down it so it would have to be thrown out.
Ada screwed the hair up into a knot and jabbed in pins. Susan winced. Ada was no lady’s maid, and Mrs. Gorland would be fuming that she wasn’t out in the kitchen. In this gown, however, Susan couldn’t reach up to arrange her hair for herself. In truth, fashion for women could be a kind of prison, but then, some men’s tight jackets and high shirt points trapped them, too.
Not Con, unless he dressed very differently for fashionable affairs.
Finished at last, Ada added a slender bandeau decorated with golden brown ribbon and tiny silk rosebuds. Susan thanked her and sent her back to her work, then put on her pearl earrings and necklace.
The pearls had been a gift from her father. She’d forgotten that. They’d been sent to her just before she was to make that trip to Bath. David had received a handsome set of pistols on his twenty-first birthday.
She touched the large pearl that hung in the center of a cluster in the front, thinking of David’s words about Mel Clyst. Bitter because of her mother, she’d made no attempt to know her father. Maybe he had kept his distance because he’d seen his children bettering themselves through his wife’s family.
But why in heaven’s name hadn’t he married Lady Belle? The union would still have been a scandal, but not so much of one if it had been blessed. Had it simply been so that his children would be Kerslakes rather than Clysts?
She sighed and put the matter aside. If he’d meant well, it was far too late to acknowledge it now. It was probably too late for everything. The past happened. It set like concrete and must be lived with.
She stood and slipped on the silk slippers that went with the gown, raising her foot to the chair to tie the golden brown ribbons, thinking again of veiled ankles.
