Wild Lavender

by Lynne Connolly

  He took the stairs two at a time, with the aim of reaching his rooms without interruption, but his father interrupted him. He popped out of the smaller salon with a promptness that indicated he had seen Tom’s arrival. “Ah, Alconbury, a word, if you please.”

  All Tom had wanted was a few moments on his own, perhaps a nap to rid himself of the copious bottles of wine the man he’d just done business with had pressed on him. As if that would have made any difference to Tom’s business. “The house is purchased,” he said softly, so that nobody else should hear.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Please.” His father opened the door wider and waved Tom in.

  One glance at the other occupant of the room drove Tom to execute a low bow, one suited to royalty. “Your royal highness.”

  “Rise.” The faintly Italian-accented voice sent shivers through him. What in the devil was his father thinking, to bring this man here? Speculation raced through his mind, superseding the freezing horror he had experienced when he’d recognized their visitor.

  He straightened slowly, meeting the prince’s eyes, although the man preferred people did not do that. He had not met Prince Charles more than three times in his life. Three times too many, in Tom’s opinion. No, to do him justice, two times too many. The first time he’d been dazzled by royalty. The stars had long since fallen from his eyes.

  The Stuarts did have a considerable presence, though whether that was from their birth or their expectations Tom had no idea. Charles could behave like a haughty aristocrat, if the need took him. The brown pop-eyes gazed up into his.

  Tom had last seen Prince Charles five years ago. They were of an age, born in the same year, but where Tom considered himself in his prime, the prince appeared to have passed his. His jaw was softer than Tom remembered, and although he still had the long face and high cheekbones typical of the Stuarts, his cheeks were rounded, an effect of high living, particularly drink. His mouth, described as full by some and feminine by others, was looser, too. An aroma of sour wine hung around him. He wore relatively ordinary clothes, a russet coat and plain white silk waistcoat, and his wig was not out of the ordinary. At least the man had more sense than to prance around London dressed to the nines. He should not be here. His very presence spelled treason for anyone harboring him.

  “I am surprised to find you here, sir.” Not to mention shocked. Was his father insane to let this man in here? Sometimes his father’s idealism drove Tom to despair, and this was most definitely one of those times. “This house is honored by your presence.” Tom was surprised to discover how hollow that sentiment sounded, even to his own ears.

  The prince acknowledged the compliment with a small regal nod. Arrogance was bred into Prince Charles’s bones. The Stuarts had no conception of humility, other than using it for their own ends and citing it in their correspondence. “We will visit often, once matters have fallen to our satisfaction. Our last setback was unfortunate, but we shall rally once more, thanks to the help of loyal subjects like you and your father.”

  The Dankworths had always been allied with the Stuarts. Five years ago, when Culloden had signaled the end of their hopes, only the payment of considerable bribes and some legal maneuvering had helped them escape, and that was on condition they did not become entangled in Stuart fortunes again.

  Now here they were, back again. Tom’s mood plummeted, and anger sparkled in his veins. Had he worked so hard only for the Dankworths to end here? He’d be damned if they did. His family had suffered too much and wandered too far to let themselves fall again. No more exile, no more waste.

  He had to get the prince out of here. “I have obtained a house for your use while you are here, sir. It is yours, should you deign to accept it.” Needless to say, the house was not in Tom’s name. Nobody would trace the ownership to him, because it would be his word against the man who sold it to him. From there, Tom could work to distance the family from this renewed threat.

  The prince waved his offer away. “I have no need of it. I am lodging at the house on Theobalds Street. This coming Sunday I will receive the communion of the Church of England. I have sent a message to all the nonjuring chapels left, for their members to come and witness my conversion. A relative of mine, Henry the Fourth of France, God rest his soul, declared that Paris was worth a Mass. I am merely moving in the other direction.”

  Too little, too late. He should have converted in the Cathedral in Edinburgh five years ago, in front of hundreds of witnesses. Not here, hugger-mugger, in a small chapel in London. A few nonjuring chapels remained, whose incumbents refused to take the Oath of Loyalty to King George. They were the only places that would accept the Stuart, or not report him to the authorities.

  “Do you plan to stay in London long, sir?”

  The prince took a seat in the chair Tom’s father was fond of using, but he did not bid them sit, and being royalty, they had to wait until he gave them permission. He stretched out one leg before the fire. “I will stay as long as necessary. I have viewed several of the establishments I always wanted to see. I have a few more on my list.”

  Perhaps he should employ a tour guide. As long as it wasn’t Tom.

  As if reading his mind, the prince said, “I understand you are busy about my business? I would ask you to introduce me to White’s, otherwise.”

  That Whig stronghold? Did he want to find himself in the Tower before the week was out? He was deluded.

  “Does your highness wish to search for a bride while you are here?” Because truly, that would be the best way to spend his time. To ally himself to one of the great families of would prove more than helpful at this stage. Prince Charles had no campaign, no set path. His father had appointed him Regent. Of what, Tom wasn’t sure, but he would have no part in it.

  The prince’s mouth formed what looked suspiciously like a pout. “I have no mind to saddle myself with a wife. My father is constantly harping on the subject.” He glared at Tom’s father. “What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?”

  An empty wine bottle stood on the table, and another two unopened waited by its side. Rather than open another topic of conversation Tom went to open it. His mind clicked into action. He needed to get the prince out of this house, but without upsetting his father. He would not do that. His father never thought in a straight line when he could take the scenic route. As usual, Tom would be sweeping up the pieces.

  He felt much older than his thirty years. His father did not have madcap schemes. He had dangerous stratagems and risky ventures. But Tom loved him.

  He sniffed the bottle. “I fear this wine is off. If you will excuse me, I will fetch another.”

  After bowing to the prince, he left the room and summoned a footman. Lowering his voice, he said, “Bring another bottle of this, please.” He turned away as if to go back to the parlor, and then turned. “Does not my father’s visitor, Sir Humphrey, look like the exiled Stuart prince? Anyone looking at him could make a foolish mistake.”

  The footman nodded. “I was only talking to Robinson about it a moment ago, sir. He does indeed, but what would the prince be doing in this country?”

  “Exactly.” Fortunately Tom had five guineas in his pocket which he had no hesitation in handing over.

  The footman winked. “Sir Humphrey Smith, my lord?”

  “Just so,” said Tom, relieved to have dealt with the matter. The last thing he needed was to have this visit reported all over London. If he had not nipped potential gossip in the bud, that was exactly what would have happened.

  Reality was pushing idealism aside, and they must move with it or perish.

  He would not deny that his first sight of Prince Charles in five years had been a shock. The man was heading for perdition faster than anyone could have imagined when he’d been the handsome young hero of legend. His reputation already damaged by the failure of the ’45 campaign, he seemed determined to drive it the rest of the way down on his own.

  Disillusioned, depressed
, and dejected, Tom went back to his father and his prince.

  * * * *

  Helena had accompanied her mother on a visit to Leicester House to visit the Prince and Princess of Wales. Most of fashionable London was there, the house being thrown open for one of the lavish entertainments the prince occasionally held.

  Julius was there, and this time Helena watched them closely, observing Caroline’s frantic flirting and sideways glances to her husband when she thought nobody was looking. Julius conversed, admired the Prince’s new acquisitions and behaved like a sensible man. Only his extravagant costume drew comment.

  Back home, they dressed and sat down to dinner. Despite there being only four of them, their mother had ordered two courses served, with a dozen dishes on each. They sat to eat at the fashionably late hour at four and did not finish until half past six. Two and a half interminable hours of lectures and cold silences. Augustus bore the brunt of their mother’s opprobrium, having announced his intention of leaving for the continent as soon as Caroline had given birth safely. “I have some work to do,” he said, but would add nothing more, except the enigmatic, “Ask Julius.”

  Their mother railed at him, but he would say nothing.

  Helena had had enough. Getting to her feet, she bowed to her parents. “I have a headache. Please excuse me.”

  Her mother would call it bad manners, but surely arguing with her son at the dining table was worse. Gathering her skirts, Helena left the room.

  Night had not yet completely fallen, so she went downstairs and outside. Pausing on the terrace, she took a few deep breaths until her tension eased.

  If her luck held, nobody would notice her coming out here. All she wanted was peace and quiet for a while and a chance to think.

  Helena had a special place in the London garden. Right at the bottom, past the ornamental terrace, the green lawns, and the showy grottoes stood a small pavilion. Nobody used it except the gardeners if it was raining. A sprawling elm spread its branches over the structure, hiding it from both the sun and any onlookers from this house or any other. Privacy was hard to come by in London, and here she could find it.

  The trouble with being a valuable commodity was that she was rarely left alone, and her presence was usually marked and noted. Not because she was Helena, but because she was Lady Helena Vernon. While she did not underestimate the privileges of her position, sometimes she longed to be ordinary.

  The wooden benches in the building were dry, if not particularly clean. Whisking her handkerchief from her pocket, she spread it over her chosen spot and settled with a grateful sigh, stretching her legs out before her.

  So many problems were piling up that she did not know where to start. She adored her brothers, Julius probably more than Augustus if she were to confess the absolute truth, but they could not help her now, not after her encounter with Tom Alconbury. What was she to do? She could not dismiss him from her mind, as she knew she should. Before their idyll had shattered, he’d shown her a world she’d never imagined. The more she thought, the more she persuaded herself that he’d been sheltering her when he’d turned against her, protecting her from her family’s opprobrium.

  She started when a shuffle came from the other side of the old wall at the end of the garden, the wall the pavilion was built on to. Before she could stop herself, she gave a “Who’s that?” of alarm.

  As shock chilled her, she held herself completely still, only now aware of how close she was to the outside world, and how much peril she was in. If someone got over that wall, high though it was, she could be in deep trouble. Heiresses were abducted all the time. All the journals said so. Lifting her skirts would cause a rustle of sound. Best to stay still until danger had passed.

  Silence met her ears, and then a muffled curse. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  The voice came from above. She looked up, startled. “It’s you!”

  Even in an ordinary coat with a cocked hat pulled low over his forehead, she recognized Tom.

  He grinned. “It is, yes. You’re perfectly right. I’ll go now.” The gate rocked. He flattened himself on the top of it. The padlock fastening it to the stay was rusted shut. The gate was a foot or so lower than the wall—the perfect place for a man to hide, if he wanted to risk life and limb.

  “No!” She swallowed. “That is, yes. You should go. You’re my family’s greatest enemy. What are you doing here?” Try as she might, she could not be afraid of him. Not this man, this ordinary man with his cheeky grin and the twinkle in his eyes.

  “I came to see you. Like any lover, I wanted a glance.” He leaned his cheek on his hand, gazing at her soulfully. “I’ve had a trying day.”

  When he gazed at her, she felt stripped down to nothing but Helena. She liked it.

  “You mean you did not reject me at the ball?”

  “Had I not, it would have meant scandal and disgrace for you. I could not have that, so a little private scene was in order.” He sighed. “You probably don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. What we shared was magical. I did not know who you were when I followed you.”

  “I know. I saw the expression on your face before you turned around. You were as shocked as I was.”

  “Yes, I was. Where were you that I didn’t see you before?”

  “I was ill just before my second season, so I stayed at home instead. The next year…” She shrugged. “I stayed at home, too.”

  He watched her, his eyes far too perceptive for her liking. “Your parents don’t want you married?”

  “Something like that. My portion is large enough that I could marry at fifty if I chose.” The way her mother was acting, that could well happen. The duchess seemed determined to keep Helena at home, although she had no idea why.

  The gate rocked alarmingly when he moved.

  “Get down here before that thing collapses under you. There’s a much safer way of leaving.”

  “The front door would be the most perilous way for me to come and go,” he said, his grin broadening.

  “No, I did not mean that. There’s another gate, a safer one. Come down before you kill yourself!” He must be seven feet up. A person could break something.

  He lay on his side on the rickety gate as if it was a sultan’s couch, resting his cheek on his open hand. “I should not. If the ball was compromising you, think what this would do.”

  “Are you afraid of my brothers?”

  “No.” He swung over the rail and dropped down, dusting off his gloved hands, and then turned to face her, spreading his arms wide. “Take me to them now. I’d rather face them and get it over with. I’ll sacrifice myself for your honor.”

  She made a sound of exasperation. “Tcha! Men and their honor!”

  “It’s more than honor.” He glanced around at the weathered walls, the chipped and stained mortar barely holding the soot-marked red bricks together. “Is this place safe?”

  “It’s stood for a hundred years,” she said. “It was here before the house, or so my father told me once.”

  “Very interesting.” He did not take his attention from her face, studying it as if to memorize it. “I prefer you like this.”

  “In my house clothes, with not a stroke of paint on my cheeks?” She could not believe that.

  “I can see you properly. You, not the duke’s daughter.” He lifted his hand and then shook his head. “I want to touch you. May I?”

  “You didn’t ask before.” Her heart beat madly, not from the shock she had received but from the nearness of him. Oh, yes, she wanted him to touch her.

  He stripped off his gloves and shoved them in the pocket of his brown coat. Then he grazed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. His touch, so gentle, awakened parts of her. “You’re so soft and warm. Are you not afraid of me?”

  “You won’t hurt me.” She knew that for a fact, as certain as the sun coming up every morning.

  “You’re right. I could no more hurt you than
I could my favorite horse.”

  She pokered up. “Oh, so I’m a horse now?”

  A smile lit his features. In repose, he seemed standoffish and haughty, but that smile lit him from within and brought a glow to his dark eyes. “I would have you know that I’ve had my gelding Mist nearly all my life. I won’t let them get rid of him, even though he is over twenty and well past his active days. But I did not mean that.”

  He had not referenced his parents or his siblings, but an animal. Knowing the tensions that racked families such as theirs made Helena understand. “I have a cat. Officially he’s a kitchen cat, but he lives in my room most of the time.”

  “I would be that cat. I’ve never longed for anything more.” His voice deepened and he took a half-step, bringing them so close their bodies were nearly touching. He glanced down. “You’re not wearing a hoop.”

  “I am, but it’s a small one.” So small it might not be there, and it only held out her gown decently at the sides. Her mother would have sent her back to her room if she’d turned up for dinner in a quilted petticoat or a morning gown.

  “I could capture you and hold you to ransom.”

  She refused to take his threats seriously. “I might welcome it. We could at least find time to talk that way.”

  He held up his hand, palm out, fingers straight up. “I swear I will never hurt you.”

  She already knew that, but like her brothers, he appeared very protective, as well as anxious that she should believe the best in him. “I learned something at the ball.”

  “So did I,” he said. “What did you learn?”

  “About my brother’s wife and your brother William.”

  A spasm of pain crossed his face, but he didn’t look away. “I know. My brother is a fool, but he goes his own way. He is much indulged, but that is no excuse. What he did was reprehensible.”

  It was at least as much Caroline’s fault. “So two people of the same mind met…” She could not say they fell in love. They could not feel like this, the way she wanted to be with him, in his presence.