by Jo Ann Brown
“Ye were told right. Were ye told as well such knowledge can cost dear?”
“What I need to know should not come dear because it involves nothing more than a dead man.” His stomach clenched at his own indifferent tone, but he must not allow Higbie to guess how desperate he was for information about the night of Cranny’s death.
“As my mamm-wynn was fond of sayin’, ‘dead men tell no tales,’ but that does not mean that information comes cheap.”
“My grandmother,” Arthur said with a cool smile to let the highwayman know he spoke Cornish as well as English, “was fond of saying only fools buy a pig in a poke.”
The man stared at him for a long minute, then another. Finally Higbie chuckled. “Tell me what ye need t’know, and I will tell ye how much it will cost ye.”
Arthur outlined what he knew about the night Cranny died. The man across from him held up a hand to halt him.
“I remember.” He spat on the floor. “One of m’boys was questioned about it.” With a snort, he said, “Ye be askin’ the wrong man. None of us play the sports ye Smarts do.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we have a matter t’settle, we do it with our fivers.” He held up his fists. “That is how poor men fight. We don’t face each other over pistols.”
Cranny was killed in a duel? Arthur asked himself why he had not considered that possibility. His friend was hotheaded, even though Cranny complained about Gwendolyn having the worst temper in their household.
If it had been a duel, who else was there? Such a secret could not be kept forever, even if the other participants swore to say nothing. A guilty man with a secret usually had a tough time hiding it.
“But ye are interested in more than a beefhead gettin’ himself killed in a duel. I hear ye be asking about some children.”
“Ye were told right,” he said, as Higbie had.
The highwayman’s smile appeared amidst his bushy beard, then he leaned forward. “If ye want m’advice, m’lord, ye need look no farther than yer own cove.”
“Are you saying someone in Porthlowen put those children in a boat and set them adrift?”
“I am sayin’ nothing. Just repeatin’ what I heard.”
“Where?”
“Can’t say. Might’ve been here. Might’ve been there.” He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Take the free information for what it be worth.”
Arthur was not deceived by the highwayman’s pose. “Why are you forthcoming?”
“No one should leave babies in a boat that be ready to sink.” Higbie sat up again, his boots striking the floor. “I once had a woman and a child. If someone had put m’child in a boat, I would ne’er rest till I made that person pay.”
Arthur nodded even as he wondered what had happened to Mick Higbie’s wife and child. Were they the reason he had turned to robbery? Or had he begun that life after they were gone? No matter. Higbie would not want his sympathy. Yet he had to respect the highwayman who cared about children. Pulling out a few more coins, he dropped them into one of the bowls.
Higbie glanced at them, but did not grab them as the barkeeper had. He said nothing as Arthur stood and turned toward the door. When Arthur put his hand on the latch, the highwayman said, “I wish ye good huntin’, m’lord.”
“Thank you.” He walked out, crossing the main room without looking either right or left.
He paid no attention to the rain that was threaded with sleet as he rode to Cothaire. The ice scoured his face, but Higbie’s words echoed in his head.
If ye want m’advice, m’lord, ye need look no farther than yer own cove.
Questions had been asked in the village and in the great house, and everyone denied knowing anything about the children.
Someone was lying.
But who?
* * *
“Am I intruding?”
Maris looked up from the thick history book she was reading in the day nursery. Until the book on the ancient foundations had arrived, she had not guessed how much she missed the chance to lose herself in a story. She once had been an eager reader, but since the violent encounter with Lord Litchfield in the book room, she had not turned a page other than while reading to the children.
“Lord Trelawney, what are you doing here at this hour?” She put her hand up to her hair, which she had unbound before going to bed. She had come downstairs to read so the light creeping out beneath her door would not wake the children. Glancing at her legs drawn up on the window bench, she made sure her dressing gown covered them completely. Only then did she say, “Forgive me. I should not have asked such a question.”
“Of course you should.” He remained in the shadows by the doorway. “My being here is unexpected. May I come in?”
“Certainly.” She stood and put the book on the cushion. Again she brushed hair from her face, wishing it did not curl wildly when she released it from its proper bun.
She forgot about her appearance when Lord Trelawney stepped into the light and she saw him. From the top of his head, where he was taking off his tall hat, to the tips of his boots, he was drenched. Water dripped off his dark hair and the hem of his greatcoat. Mud splattered his dark breeches.
But it was his face that caught her eyes and held them. For once, he wore his emotions openly. Grief, pain, anger, disbelief. They battled for precedence as if he had seen something so terrible no words could describe it.
Her first instinct was to hold out her arms and draw him into an embrace. She could offer the children such comfort, but not Cothaire’s heir, most especially when she was in deshabille. All she could do was step away from the window bench so he might sit there.
He shrugged off his greatcoat, looked at it, grimaced and then carried it into the hallway. He dropped it and his hat on the floor. The coat he wore beneath his greatcoat was damp, but clung to his wide shoulders.
Maris got a towel from the pile she kept to clean the children. Handing it to him, she stepped back as he rubbed his hair. He lowered the towel, and she could not keep from smiling. His hair stood on end, pointing in every direction.
“Pardon my appearance,” he said. “I am afraid the storm left me worse for wear.”
“If you will pardon mine.”
“Yours? You look beautiful.” He picked up a tress from her shoulder. “You should not hide this spun-gold silk as you do.” He dropped her hair and draped the towel over his head again. To dry his hair more or to cover his embarrassment at his untoward words?
Pleasure at his compliment warred with her good sense telling her to put a quick end to the conversation. No one had told her she was beautiful since before her father died, and his comments were usually self-satisfied ones of how her appearance might obtain her a titled husband to raise the status of their family.
“Please sit,” Lord Trelawney said as he continued to run the towel through his hair.
She did, but flinched when the wind banged against the window behind her. Rain clattered on the glass, and she guessed it was turning to sleet or snow.
When the viscount picked up the book and sat beside her, Maris resisted the warning alarms sounding inside her. Nobody was nearby except the sleeping children, and she had vowed she never would be alone with another man. But she could not flee up the stairs to her room without him asking why. She locked her fingers together in her lap and pressed her feet to the floor, ready to rush away.
“Let me begin by saying I am sorry I interrupted your reading.” He looked at the book’s spine. “Are you enjoying this?”
“I have only begun reading it.”
“The children keep you busy, I know.”
“Yes.”
Silence fell, smothering and uncomfortable. Rain struck the window again, driven by the frantic wind. Maris waited for him to speak, unsure why he had come to the nursery. Was it connected to where he had gone? Her breath caught. Had he discovered the truth about the children? If so, he might ask her help in telling his sister.
“I apologize again for intruding,” Lord Trelawney said with a sigh. “The truth is I needed to talk to someone. My father would listen, but telling him of my actions tonight could anger him. With his fragile health, I want to avoid adding any stress to what he bears.” He looked at her directly. “I have heard you are an excellent listener.”
“I try.”
“That is all I ask. That you listen.”
“I know how difficult it can be when you feel as if there is no one who will listen.” She reached up and smoothed a spike of his hair. Jerking her hand back, she looked away from the astonishment on his face.
He caught her wrist. Not like a manacle as Lord Litchfield had, but gently, as if her arm were a fragile bird. As he slowly lowered her hand, she held her breath. It burst out of her when he released his hold and set himself on his feet. He began to pace the long room. No, not pacing. Prowling, like the bear Bertie believed him to be.
“What I am about to tell you,” he said, his back to her, “no one else knows. You must promise me you will keep this secret.”
“Yes.”
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrow slits. “Promise me you will keep this a secret. Say the words.”
She wondered who had betrayed him by leaking a secret. “I promise I will keep this a secret as long as doing so will not harm the children.”
“I would never do anything that would cause them harm.” He faced her. “I thought you knew me well enough to know that.”
I don’t know you at all, and you know even less of me. She kept those words unspoken.
He prowled like a bear on the hunt, intent and unstoppable. “We have spoken of Lady Gwendolyn Cranford, but what I am about to say has to do with her late husband, Louis Cranford.”
Maris listened in shocked silence as Lord Trelawney spoke of Mr. Cranford’s death and his own suspicions. No wonder he had looked sad when she first found Bertie in his rooms. He was carrying a burden he had not shared with anyone.
“I have been searching for answers for more than a year,” he said, “and I may have found something tonight.”
“That is wonderful!” She put her fingers to her lips. “I am sorry. You asked me to listen, and I should listen without comment, Lord Trelawney.”
Again he paused and faced her. “I think that is no longer appropriate.”
“That I should listen about Mr. Cranford?” She came to her feet. “As you wish, my lord.”
He held up his hands in astonishment. “Must you always obey the canons of Society?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are always polite to the point it can become aggravating.”
Her eyes widened. “Would you have me be otherwise?”
“At times, yes! The ton did not collapse when the children began to address me as Arthur. It feels absurd when you continue to call me ‘my lord.’ Why don’t you do as they do?”
“They are children. They are excused from making such a faux pas.”
“How can it be a faux pas if I ask you to address me so?”
Maris had no quick answer to give him. To let his name form on her lips... If other servants or members of his family heard, would they be as accepting as they were with the children? The household thought it cute that the children called him Arthur, especially Bertie, who wondered if he was really a bear. It would not be the same for her. There would be whispers of an inappropriate relationship, perhaps even a love affair. She could not face those false accusations again.
As if she had aired her thoughts aloud, he said, “It would be only when we are with the children or when we are having a conversation like tonight. Could we at least try tonight?”
“Yes.”
He raised a single brow.
“Yes, Arthur,” she said with a faint smile. How sweet his name tasted on her lips! Would his lips feel even sweeter on hers?
She sat again, so she could avoid Arthur’s gaze. Even though he had granted her permission to use his name, she must keep a tight hold on her wayward thoughts. No matter what they called each other, nothing had changed. He was the heir and planning to marry Lady Gwendolyn. She could not forget that. Not for a moment.
“Now that is settled, Maris...” His smile sent another wave of warmth over her. “Let me tell you what I discovered tonight.”
“Please do.”
She tensed as he began to speak of how his friend had not died at the hands of highwaymen, but in a duel. A shiver coursed down her spine. Belinda had spoken about men dueling, sometimes satisfying honor by firing in the air as cooler heads prevailed. Other times the ending was more tragic.
“Can you imagine?” Belinda had asked, lying on her tester bed in her elegant bedchamber. “A man willing to die to protect your honor. What could be more romantic?”
“The man alive and at your side?” Maris frowned at her friend.
“Oh, Maris! You don’t understand. Of course, I would not want him to die, but a small flesh wound would be romantic, wouldn’t it? I could be by his side as he healed, and he would profess his undying love and ask me to be his wife. It would be like that new poem by Walter Scott.” She pursed her lips. “What is it called?”
“The Lady of the Lake.” Maris had read the poem and found the writing beautiful, but some of the events illogical, including how no one recognized the king disguised as a rival for the heroine’s hand.
“When Ellen and her beloved Malcolm marry after her father nearly gives his life for honor...” Belinda sighed and draped her arm melodramatically across her eyes. “Oh, to have such a poem written about me.”
Maris had changed the subject. Then, as now, when Arthur spoke of duels, she felt sick at the idea of men throwing away their lives.
“I must find the person who slew him,” Arthur said. “At least three men know the truth of what happened that night.”
When he paused, leaning his hand against a wall, Maris asked, “Who told you this tonight?”
“A knight of the pad.”
“A highwayman?” She surged to her feet. “Why would you accept his word on something like this?”
“Because I saw the truth in his eyes when he asked about my search for the children. He said he would not rest, if one of the children in the boat was his. Not until he knew who had abandoned them to the sea.”
She measured the man in front of her as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes flashed with resolve, and even with his hair sticking up as it dried, he looked every inch the earl he would someday be, ready to lead his people to protect their beloved Porthlowen Harbor. He believed the highwayman because his words echoed what was in Arthur’s heart. He was determined to find out the truth about his friend’s death, and he would not stop until the man who had killed Mr. Cranford was brought to justice.
“I understand,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Why you need to solve the mystery of Mr. Cranford’s death. He was your friend. You are doing this to honor his memory.”
Arthur regarded her through narrowed eyes, appraising her as she had him. Not on the outside but within. In a voice as quiet as hers, he said, “Thank you, Maris. It means more than you know to have you understand as nobody else has.”
When he closed the distance between them, she did not move. She wanted to be nearer to him, though every instinct warned her to flee. He paused a hand’s breadth away. When he reached out his finger to bring her face up toward his, warnings rang through her head. She ignored them as she touched his sleeve.
The arm beneath it was as strong and brawny as a laborer’s, and she wondered how many different ways he helped when he visited tenant farms. She had never imagined a lord’s arm could be so muscular.
With his fingertip, he drew her toward him. Her hand slid up his damp sleeve, savoring each plane along his arm. As he slanted toward her, she closed her eyes. The alarms in her mind grew louder, but not too loud to drown out footfalls on the nursery stairs.
Bertie came into the room, rubbing
his eyes. “Arthur!” He flung himself forward.
Scooping the child up at the same time he gave Maris a regretful glance, Arthur held Bertie so they were eye to eye. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, young man?”
Bertie giggled. “Yes.”
“So why are you here?”
“Thirsty.”
Maris went to the pitcher that was always kept filled in the day nursery. Her hands shook as she poured a cup. She should be grateful Bertie had arrived when he did. She had been about to kiss a man who was as good as betrothed to another woman. No reason she could devise excused her behavior.
And worst of all, what did Arthur think of her when she willingly came into his arms after they had discussed Lady Gwendolyn’s husband seconds before?
As she held the cup out to the little boy, she said, “Bertie, you know there is water in the cup by your bed.” Her voice was unsteady, but it was the best she could do.
He ducked his head and sipped, not as thirsty as he claimed.
Maris lifted him out of Arthur’s arms and carried him to the window bench. Sitting, she took the cup and put it on the sill. She did not need to persuade Bertie to lie down with his head in her lap. He curled up beside her and shut his eyes. His soft breaths seeped through her dressing gown to warm her leg. When Arthur brought a small blanket to put over the little boy, she thanked him quietly.
Arthur sat on her other side, because no chair in the room was big enough to accommodate a grown man. In a husky whisper, he said, “I appreciate you listening, Maris.”
“I wish I could do more.”
“You may be able to. Not with my search for Cranny’s killer, but by using the other information I was given.”
“Other information?”
“I told you my contact said that if one of his children had been in the boat, he would not rest until he found the person responsible. I agreed, and he suggested I look more closely in my own cove.”
