THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  She returned to the house. If David hadn’t left, she should be able to intercept him and talk to him alone.

  In fact, she saw him coming out of the arch.

  “David!”

  As he turned, smiling, she found it easy to smile back. This was right, and it was good to be doing it outside the oppressive house.

  “Believe it or not,” she said as she joined him, “I have a letter from Lady Belle.”

  “What does she want?” he asked, and it made Susan laugh.

  “Oh, she’s all benevolence. Read it!”

  He took it, but pulled a squint-eyed face at the writing. “I presume you’ve deciphered this. How about giving me the précis.”

  “No, I think you need to read it as given.”

  He sighed but then settled to it, complaining, but then falling silent as he reached the revelations. When he’d finished, he stayed silent.

  She resisted the urge to demand his answer.

  “She really is a most immoral woman,” he said at last. “There’s no trace of hesitation about perpetrating a deception, or making out false testimony.”

  “I know. It would be pleasant to discover that she wasn’t our mother, but I’m afraid there’s no hope of that.”

  “I’m proud to be Mel’s son, especially now I know why they never married.” He looked at the letter again. “She only sent this because she knew he’d disapprove. A sign of her love, I suppose, but still...”

  She had to ask. “What are you going to do?”

  “Do? Nothing. For heaven’s sake, you didn’t think I’d go along with this, did you? It’s outright fraud!”

  Susan was suddenly carried back to last night when she’d taken such fierce offense to Con’s simple query as to whether she had told anyone about their lovemaking. Wrong again. Every step of the way, wrong, wrong, wrong.

  She gathered her wits. “No, I didn’t think you would. I hoped not. But I put it in your hands. I do think we need to tell Con, though. The documents might turn up, and I wouldn’t put it past Lady Belle to stir the matter herself later. Now her husband the earl is dead there’s no risk to her in asserting her right to be the countess.”

  “Except that letter,” David pointed out. “It admits that we are Mel’s children, and exposes her willingness to lie under oath.”

  Their eyes met. “So we have to give it to Con.”

  He folded it and gave it to her. “You do it.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Can you tell me what lies between you two, Susan? Whatever it is, it isn’t making you happy. I don’t want to be unkind, but you are not looking your best.”

  With a sigh, she moved closer. “Give me a hug, David. I need a hug.”

  Susan appreciated his strong arms around her, and the certain knowledge that he would stand by her through life even if she continued to fall into follies. She thought soon she would be able to tell him the truth about some of the things she had done. But not yet.

  She told him one truth as they parted. “I love him, David. I’ve loved him since I was fifteen years old. But he’s going to marry Lady Anne Peckworth, who I am sure is a lovely lady and will make him very happy.”

  “Is it your birth? Is that what stands between you?”

  She smiled. “No, of course not. He doesn’t return my love. It happens all the time, I’m sure, and the world doesn’t end.”

  “Eleven years, though. I wondered why you hadn’t married. It would seem you share one thing with our mother. Eternal constancy.”

  “Hopefully not quite as obsessively. Go along. I’ll give him this letter and tell you his reaction.”

  She watched him set off down the hill, then turned to enter the house. She supposed she needed to go dragon hunting. She crossed the courtyard, glancing in the window of the library, and saw Con still there with de Vere and Swann.

  There was no great urgency about giving the letter to Con, and yet she felt it. Perhaps she was afraid that she’d weaken and try to persuade David to pursue safety through fraud. She wasn’t entirely sure of her new skin yet.

  Perhaps she simply wanted an excuse to be with Con again.

  She took up a watching post in the breakfast room, from which she could see the library. She was soon rewarded when he emerged through the doors to the garden, leaving de Vere alone.

  She hesitated for a last moment of thought, then hurried out. “Con!”

  He turned sharply. She could almost see shields rising. “Susan.”

  “I have something I must show you, tell you.”

  He took the time to think, and it hurt, but then he said, “Very well.”

  She glanced up at all the watching windows. There were few people here now to watch, but all the same she said, “In the breakfast room would be better.”

  His look was both wary and suspicious, but he gestured for her to lead the way. Once inside, she shut the doors.

  “This isn’t something anyone should overhear,” she said. At his expression, she quickly added, “This isn’t some attack, Con. Please don’t look like that. This is ... a kindly act. At the least an honest one.” She pulled out the letter from her pocket. “Amelia brought this. It’s a letter from my mother. You can read it all if you want, though she writes in a terrible hand.”

  She glanced at the densely covered page. “I’d never seen her handwriting before. Isn’t that strange?”

  When she looked up, he was as blankly distant as if they were strangers. Why was she saying such irrelevant things?

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  She couldn’t think where to start. “That she was married to the earl. I know, I know! But I believe her. It was a mad business, but he was mad.”

  She quickly related the details, seeing his distant coolness melt at least into bemusement.

  She put the letter into his hands. “There. It’s all there. The letter that you can use to stop her if she tries this again. The sworn false statement. Doubtless somewhere here are those marriage lines. If you find them, you can destroy them too, then she’ll have no case at all.”

  “I believe records will have been kept in Guernsey as well.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not true. Surely it can’t be proved if it’s not true.”

  “I wonder ...” He looked at her. “You might have made it stick, then you’d have had Crag Wyvern at least through your brother.”

  “Dragon spit!” she exclaimed. “I do not want Crag Wyvern! I can’t wait to escape this place.”

  “And yet you have just made sure that I keep it. And last night you proved I am vulnerable to you still.”

  She closed her eyes. “Con, please!” She opened them to look at him, to try one last time. “I know you have reason to distrust me, but in this I am completely honest. I, like you, will never stay in Crag Wyvern, no matter who owns it. I don’t care about the title, any title. I’m deeply sorry to have given you reason to be so distrustful, but now, here, I am being starkly honest.”

  He was turning the letter in his hands as if it could reveal something extra from the outside. “Be honest then. How many lovers have you had?”

  “Three,” she said softly.

  He looked at her, demanding more.

  With a sigh she added, “On four occasions. I’m sorry for misleading you, but I thought that if you knew the truth you would not make love to me, and I was greedy for it. But it was wrong to lie, even by implication.”

  “Why only two other occasions? I have no right to ask, but I need to know.”

  She hesitated but continued on the honest path. “I was trying to wipe away the memory of you.”

  After a moment he put the letter in his pocket. “I need to think about this.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. I told David about it, and he thinks as I do. It would be horribly wrong.”

  He continued to look darkly thoughtful.

  “Con!” she protested. “Please. I will never do anything to hurt you again.”

  “I believe you,” he said w
ith a touch of a smile. “Don’t leave here, Susan. I want to talk to you about this more.”

  “I am staying for a few more days at least.”

  He nodded, and left by the corridor door.

  Con closed the door and paused to try to deal with the thoughts swirling in his head. It was no good. At this point, before making some crucial decisions, he needed an obviously sane head to help him.

  He changed into riding clothes, then walked down to the Crag’s stables and set off for the two-hour ride to Redoaks in Somerset, home of Nicholas Delaney.

  He prayed Nicholas was at home.

  As he rode it occurred to him that it was the first time he’d sought out any of his friends since he’d come home from Waterloo. He’d spent time with the Rogues in the Shires and then in London, but with masks and guards thoroughly in place. He’d been hiding within them rather than meeting them.

  He’d last seen Nicholas in London a few months back when Francis had married his beautiful, scandalous wife.

  All the available Rogues had gathered to launch her into society. Being in hiding, he’d avoided Nicholas, who tended to notice such things.

  The devil finds work for idle minds, so he’d kept his mind busy. He’d even gone to Ireland for another Rogue’s wedding.

  But in the end, the dark had crept in, and he’d begun to avoid those who knew him well. He’d sent chatty replies to letters from Hawk, who was abroad. He’d sent brief ones to various Rogues, who were busy with their own affairs. But he’d ignored Van’s letters, because Van was too likely to seek him out.

  He’d known Van had to be struggling with his own darkness, but he’d been too deep in his own hole to reach out to a friend.

  Did he deserve to reach out to Nicholas?

  He made good time and was soon looking at the brick house that was Nicholas’s country home.

  Redoaks was a simple place, but something about the proportions, the gardens, and the oak trees that gave it its name, all spoke of the kind of Tightness that Nicholas would choose.

  Quite a contrast to Crag Wyvern.

  He turned his horse into the short drive, wondering what exactly he was going to say, but knowing that it didn’t matter.

  The door opened before he reached it, and Nicholas came out in an open-necked shirt and loose pantaloons, his dark blond hair obviously not cut for fashion. “Con! A surprise, but a delightful one.”

  He looked relaxed and welcome as a clear spring— which made Con aware that he was remarkably thirsty. He swung off the horse. “I’m at Crag Wyvern. You know I inherited the earldom?”

  “Yes, of course. An interesting encumbrance, I’d think.”

  “That just about sums it up, yes.” Con was smiling without any clear reason to, except that he was glad he’d made this journey.

  A groom came running around from the back of the house and took the horse, and Nicholas led the way into a square hall painted a clear green and containing two pots of hyacinth. The sweet perfume of wax polish and blossoms made Con think of Somerford Court.

  “It’s what? About fifteen miles?” Nicholas asked.

  “A little less, I think. This was an impulse, though if you’d ever visited Crag Wyvern, you’d know the impulse to go somewhere else is persistent.”

  Nicholas laughed. “I’ve known many places like that. I did look up a picture of it in a book. It was depicted suitably surrounded with dark clouds and stormy sea and looked rather like something dreamed up by Monk Lewis.”

  “Oh, a mere novelist could not do it justice. To create Crag Wyvern, you’d have to be completely mad. It runs in the blood.”

  He saw Nicholas give him a quick look as they went into a room that was probably called the drawing room, but which had a coziness that rejected such a formal term.

  Of course there were books: books in bookcases, in small piles on tables, and three waiting on chairs. Sewing lay on one chair arm, and a chess table invited. Con wandered over, attracted by the unusual pieces, and saw they were some Indian design with elephants instead of horses.

  “Metal,” Nicholas said. “Very practical with little fingers around.”

  Con saw then that there were toys around the room, including a collection of dolls and carved animals set in a circle around a small lace cap.

  “Guarding it, of course. It is currently Arabel’s most precious possession. She and Eleanor are out, so you’ll have to put up with crude masculine hospitality. What would you like?”

  “Cider?”

  “Of course.” Nicholas went to the door and gave instructions.

  Con put his hat, gloves, and crop on a table, feeling heavily overdressed. After a moment he stripped off his jacket and cravat and opened his shirt. When Nicholas returned, Con asked, “Why the devil do we men dress in so many clothes in May?”

  “In recompense for demanding that women wear corsets.”

  “Do we demand that?”

  “But surely they wouldn’t ask that of themselves?” But Nicholas’s smile pointed to most follies being self-imposed, which pretty well fit Con’s thinking at the moment.

  Nicholas would probably not ask any direct questions. It wasn’t his way. Con, however, wasn’t quite sure what he had come to talk to Nicholas about.

  The Crag. Susan. Lady Anne. Dare. Gifford. Smuggling. Inheritance ...

  Inheritance was the blast that had blown him here, but it was all tangled with the rest of it.

  The cider came in a sweating earthenware jug, accompanied by glass tankards. Nicholas filled both and gave one to Con.

  At first taste, Con let out sigh of satisfaction. At second, he said, “This is strong stuff.”

  “Home brew,” Nicholas said. “If you’re not ready to tell me your secrets now, you will be in a while.”

  Con sat in a chair and took another deep draft. “I suppose I wouldn’t just be dropping by.”

  Nicholas sat opposite with his distinctive lazy elegance. He never looked as if he thought about movement at all, and he doubtless didn’t, but his body didn’t seem able to arrange itself in awkward lines. “Dare?” he guessed.

  Typical of Nicholas to hit the spot. Or one of them.

  “It’s like a nagging tooth,” Con admitted. “Not quite bad enough to drive one to the dentist, but perpetually stealing comfort and rest. It makes no sense. It wasn’t my fault. But I can’t close the door on it. If only we’d found his body.”

  “His mother’s the same way, poor woman. She has this obsession at the moment about having the whole British army tattooed to make identification of bodies easier. I gather you are to blame for that.”

  “God. I did mention our tattoos, that we’d had them done for that reason. Careless of me.”

  “You couldn’t expect her to cling to it, and it gives her a purpose of sorts.” Nicholas took another drink. “I don’t suppose Crag Wyvern helps. I know you never wanted the earldom.”

  Con shrugged. “Once Fred died, it was bound to happen one day. I had reason to hope it would be a long time, though. The mad earl was only fifty. The damned man killed himself with a potion supposed to increase longevity.”

  Nicholas laughed and demanded details, so Con told him about the sanctum and bedroom—the dried phalluses were a big hit—and what he knew of the mad earl’s eccentric ways.

  “I wouldn’t mind a look at those books and manuscripts, you know. I’m a collector.”

  “Of alchemical absurdities?”

  “Of alchemical curiosities, among other things.”

  “You just want the dried phalluses. Slowing down in old age, are you?”

  “Creaking and groaning. So, is that the worst of Crag Wyvern?”

  Con thought of the fountain, and Susan, the gold, and Susan, and the bath, and Susan, but didn’t know where to start, or even if he wanted Nicholas’s clear eye on these matters at all. He’d come to talk about the inheritance.

  “I’m presented with a dilemma,” he said, and gave Nicholas the bare bones of Lady Belle’s letter.


  “What an interesting family you have, to be sure.”

  “She’s hardly family.”

  “She’s Countess of Wyvern, after a fashion. I suspect it would be quite hard to prove that she wasn’t the woman in Guernsey if she stood firm about it.”

  Con groaned. “That’s all I need—Lady Belle in residence in Crag Wyvern. Thank God she took it into her head to sail off in pursuit of Mel.”

  “You could probably pull some administrative strings to see that she and this Melchisedeck Clyst get good treatment in Australia. Wonderful name, by the way. I wonder if Eleanor would agree to naming our firstborn son that.”

  “Probably not.”

  Nicholas laughed. “True.”

  Con was thinking about what Nicholas had said, however. “If they were treated well, they might stay after Mel’s seven years are up. I suspect there’s scope for a man of his abilities in a raw land like that. But what do I do if she insists her son is the true earl?”

  “You have that letter. It should blow her case sky-high. A foolish woman.”

  “Apart from the letter, however, it could stick.”

  “Ah,” Nicholas said, and drained his tankard. Trust him to see the possibilities immediately. He rose to refill both tankards. “You dislike being Earl of Wyvern so much?”

  “And more.”

  Nicholas sat down again. “What a very intriguing idea. Deliciously Roguish, in fact. It’s a shame Stephen isn’t here with his legal wisdom, but I can’t see why it shouldn’t prevail. It would create quite a storm in society, and a devil of a lot of talk.”

  “I believe I can handle that. It would be a falsehood, however. I may not feel strong allegiance to the Devonish Somerfords, but it goes against the code to put a complete cuckoo in the nest. The whole damn lot will probably come back to haunt me.”

  “Perhaps they can only haunt Crag Wyvern. Stay away, and you should be safe.”

  Con looked at his friend. “You really don’t see anything wrong about it?”

  “I like to look at consequences not conventions. Who suffers? The Demented Devonish Somerfords, perhaps, but they died out without force from you. Who gains? You. This David Kerslake. The local people who will have a resident lord. The smugglers who will have a great deal of security. Is he able to be a good Earl of Wyvern, do you think?”