A Lady Never Lies

by Juliana Gray

  “Lady Morley.”

  The words moved low and quiet through the sodden air.

  With a lurch of her innards, Alexandra looked up into the face of Mr. Phineas Burke, bent toward her with grave care, his black-gloved hand outstretched. “May I be of assistance?” he inquired.

  As if she had a choice.

  She let out a little sigh and placed her hand in his.

  His walnut-cracking fingers closed around hers, large and capable, and she found herself rising weightlessly from the Tuscan mud to stand before him, entirely too close to that formidable chest. She stared at the plain horn button a few inches from her nose and realized again how disturbingly tall he was, up close. She wanted to take a step back, but found that she could not.

  Not from reluctance, thank God, but because the mud had already closed around her trim ankle boots, holding them fast.

  “Lady Morley?” Mr. Burke’s voice rumbled next to her ear.

  “My boots,” she said feebly, looking down. “It appears they’re stuck.”

  “A curious species of mud,” he observed, bending in a sinuous motion and grasping at her ankle. “Extraordinarily viscous.” He pulled firmly, freeing one foot and then, as she was forced to lean against him, the other.

  Then he lifted her, actually lifted her—her breasts pressing against the ridge of his shoulder, his broad arm lying firmly against the backs of her legs—and placed her on a rock. She felt the round eyes of her companions, staring.

  “Thank you,” she said primly, shaking free the folds of her mud-slicked coat.

  “Not at all.” He had evidently ridden on ahead. She could hear the sound of hoofbeats to her left, Wallingford and Penhallow drawing near, but she could not, for a few vital seconds, bring herself to look away from Phineas Burke’s green eyes. Their color had muted, out here in the chill gray Italian morning, more lichen now than grass, rimmed with lashes a few shades darker than his hair. They regarded her with sober warmth, completely absent of any sort of invitation or flirtation, scattering her wits.

  Such a particular stare, a knowing stare, teeming with the memory of last night’s encounter in the stables. Alexandra could hear the beat of her heart thumping against her eardrum. Surely his curiosity hadn’t been piqued; surely he hadn’t discovered her secrets already?

  No, it was impossible. He could have no knowledge of her personal affairs, no idea of the straits to which she’d been reduced. All the world knew that Lord Morley’s widow must be a wealthy woman.

  “Look here, Burke,” came Wallingford’s voice, making a sharp crack through the charged air. “You’re supposed to be leading us wretched sinners down the path of scholarly virtue, not seducing the first willing woman to cross your path.”

  Mr. Burke’s head snapped up, as if someone had nudged him with a cattle prod. He stumbled backward, his boots slipping in the mud, and turned to the brothers. “For God’s sake, I was only offering my assistance.”

  The duke pulled up a few yards away, his wide mouth turned upward with amusement. “What an unseemly predicament you’ve gotten yourself into, Lady Morley. Typically impulsive behavior, to set out in carts with the roads knee-deep in mud.”

  “We’re in a hurry,” she said, preparing to rise in full haughty splendor and shatter the duke’s disdain. She was brought up short, however, by the realization that she wasn’t wearing any boots. Those, she saw in horror, still dangled absently from Mr. Burke’s right hand.

  She closed her eyes and cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Burke, if you would be so kind as to return my boots.”

  He gave a start and looked down at his hand. “Good God. I’m so terribly sorry. Here you are . . . If you’ll allow me . . .” He made a motion as if to put them back on her himself.

  “Quite all right,” she said swiftly, snatching them from his hand. She could feel her face erupt in a blush. “You needn’t bother.”

  Her words seemed to startle Abigail out of her shocked immobility. “Oh, Alex, let me,” she said, darting forward contritely and taking the left boot.

  “Tell me, Wallingford,” gasped out Alexandra, since she could not quite bring herself to address Mr. Burke’s green eyes, “what hideous mischance brings you along the same road this morning? Are you headed for Siena?”

  “No,” he answered, and then, after a brief pause: “Are you?”

  “No.” Her heel slid down at last and she began to relace the boot. “Are you determined to watch the entire process, Your Grace? Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the proper lacing of a lady’s boot.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “Quite familiar. I was only hoping for a glimpse of your stocking, but I see such privileges are allowed only for my fortunate friend Burke.”

  She heard Mr. Burke grumble something, under his breath. “The other one, if you please,” she said to Abigail, fuming inwardly at Wallingford, the ass. She spoke without thinking. “I don’t allow such privileges to anyone. Least of all Mr. Burke.”

  An icy silence descended. Alexandra glanced up in time to see Mr. Burke turn away, walking back to his horse. He had apparently tossed the reins in haste to the driver of the cart, and he retrieved them now, swinging aboard the animal with a single lithe movement, not scholarly at all.

  “That is to say,” she said helplessly, “since we have only just met.”

  “Excellent,” drawled Wallingford. “For I should hate to see you lose our wager so easily. No sport in it at all.”

  “I have no intention of losing the wager, Wallingford,” Alexandra snapped. “And certainly not in that manner.”

  Mr. Burke’s horse shifted about impatiently, its hooves making deep sucking noises in the mud.

  Lord Roland cleared his throat. “I say,” he chirped out, “that’s hard luck, about your cart. How exactly are you expecting to go on?”

  Alexandra rose. “We’re unloading the baggage,” she said, with dignity, “in order to push the cart out of the mud.”

  Wallingford gave a low whistle. “Do you know, I should almost like to see you do it.”

  “You’re a beast, Wallingford.” Lord Roland swung from his horse, looped the reins about one of the slats on the cart, and reached inside for a trunk.

  “Oh, I say,” Alexandra said gratefully, “that’s awfully kind of you.” She picked a path back to the cart between the stickier patches of mud and fell in beside Lord Roland. “Come along, then, Abigail,” she called, over her shoulder.

  “Oh, bugger it,” Wallingford muttered, and dismounted in resignation.

  * * *

  Four hours later, trudging along a winding narrow track into a fogbank, his left boot rubbing a blister the size of a guinea on the knuckle of his fourth toe, Finn found himself cursing the name of Alexandra, Lady Morley.

  “Just how far along is this inn of hers?” he grumbled to Wallingford.

  “My dear man,” sighed Wallingford, “you don’t suppose it actually exists, do you?”

  Finn drew in his breath. “She wouldn’t!”

  “The thing is, she used to be a nice sort of girl,” Wallingford said, kicking viciously at a stone, until it tumbled over the ledge and fell in long dramatic plunges to the switchback below. “I believe I first met her in Lady Pembroke’s ballroom, directly after she came out. Fetching creature. Round cheeks, glossy hair, fresh from the country. Bit of a sharp wit, of course, but charming enough, all told. If I’m not mistaken, I kissed her once, on someone’s terrace, moonlight and all that. And then . . .” He paused to kick another stone.

  “And then?” Finn prodded, a little too eagerly.

  “What’s that? Oh, I suppose I got distracted. I was chasing after Diana at the time, and . . . oh, gad, yes. Now I remember. Diana caught me at it, you see, on the terrace, and . . . well, Burke, old fellow, if you ever want to get a particular woman in bed—which I daresay even you must, from time to time—the thing to do is to get caught kissing another one.” He chortled mirthlessly and sent another stone flying off the ledge. “Bloody hell,
yes. The desk in the library, it was. I had to borrow her handkerchief, as my own was . . .”

  “Look here,” Finn broke in, “about that inn. Do you really think she made that up?” He narrowed his eyes to peer some twenty or so yards ahead, where the graceful figure of Lady Morley floated along the road atop his own horse, her black skirts gathered cunningly to accommodate the saddle. In the shrouding mist, the two beasts blurred together like a kind of female centaur, only with rather more clothing.

  Wallingford shrugged. “It don’t matter, Burke. Not a whit. Don’t you see? We’re all at her mercy. Look at the three of them. Well rested, riding our horses, the damned baggage cart miles behind, no end in sight.” He stopped walking and placed his hands on his hips, scanning the rocky hillside and the befogged valley below. He flung out an arm. “Behold your land of endless sunshine, Burke. Endless . . . bloody . . . sunshine. So you see,” he continued, resuming the track, “it don’t matter whether the inn exists or whether it’s her own damned invention. We simply walk, Burke, until she tells us to stop.”

  Finn looked down at the damp speckled stones sliding past, at the pattern of his booted feet going crunch crunch into the track. “Reason, of course, tells us there must be an end to it. The castle itself can’t be more than a few miles farther. When we reach the access road . . .”

  “Ah, Burke. You and your rational brain. Don’t you see? Even if we should reach your castle before Lady Morley’s mythical inn, it won’t be the end of it. Oh no. We’ll be obliged to take them in, offer them shelter until the baggage cart catches up, and then, my good fellow”—his voice rose into a bark, almost frantic—“then we’ll never see them leave!”

  “Nonsense,” Finn said pragmatically. “They’ve leased their own lodgings, after all. And there’s the wager, which, practically speaking, requires a complete cessation of contact with the opposite sex . . .”

  A high peal of laughter wafted down to them from the mist ahead, followed by the rumble of Lord Roland’s genial chuckle.

  “The sister,” Wallingford said darkly. “Mark my words, Burke. She’ll be the most trouble of all.”

  Finn opened his mouth to question why, but Lady Morley’s voice carried down the road, clipped with excitement, and cut him off.

  “Why, here it is!”

  Finn turned to the duke. “You see?” he said triumphantly. “The inn.”

  Lady Morley had brought her horse to a halt a short distance away and overheard him. “No, not the inn, of course,” she said, waving the map in her gloved hand. “The inn is . . . well, never mind about the inn. Look there, near the bend up ahead. There are our lodgings! Or at least the access road, you see.”

  “The access road,” Finn repeated numbly.

  “It can’t be above two miles from here,” said Lady Morley cheerfully, “and then we can send you quite on your way, with our deepest appreciation. Although if you’d be so kind as to find the fellow with our baggage and direct him properly, we’d be most abjectly grateful.”

  “Now see here, Lady Morley,” Finn burst out. “This has gone on far enough.”

  “Really, Burke,” said Lord Roland, visible now, standing next to Miss Abigail Harewood’s horse. Or rather his own horse, which she was riding. “You can’t possibly be proposing that we leave the ladies here and trot off on our merry way. Anything might happen. Brigands, even.”

  Finn glowered. “Brigands have been unknown in these parts for at least a century, Penhallow. And I should think that ladies so sturdy and self-sufficient would be grateful for the exercise.”

  “Ah, Burke,” Wallingford said placidly. “It’s pointless to argue, merely a waste of valuable energy. Lady Morley wishes us to follow her to her lodgings, and as she’s got our horses, I don’t see we have any means of stopping her.”

  Finn crossed his arms and cast a speculative look at Lady Morley. The map dangled from her long fingers, coated with clear wax against the damp, and a rather disturbing idea insinuated its way into his brain. “Lady Morley,” he said, “would you perhaps be so good as to show me your map?”

  She eyed him, her elegant brow arched with suspicion. “Haven’t you a map of your own, Mr. Burke?” she inquired coolly.

  He returned her look and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. His map, which was unwaxed, damn it all, had grown damp next to his perspiring body. He unfolded it gingerly and ran his eyes along the erratic squiggles of railway line and road until he came, roughly, to their present location. His chest heaved with relief. By his own best estimate, they were at least a few miles away from their own turnoff from the main road.

  In any case, he had the owner’s letter of confirmation still in his pocket, warm and wilting against his chest.

  There was nothing to worry about.

  “Very well,” he said, turning away from Lady Morley. “I suppose we can spare another hour, since we’ll soon have our horses back.”

  “That’s ever so kind,” she replied, and wheeled the horse about, urging it into a trot up the drive. Finn began to walk in her wake. The duke paced along beside him, shielding him from the small signpost at the crossroads that read CASTEL SANT’AGATA 2 KM and pointed up the path Lady Morley had taken.

  * * *

  My dear,” said Lady Somerton, ranging up next to Alexandra, “are you quite sure about all of this?”

  Alexandra tilted her chin and replied briskly, “All of what, Lilibet? Really, it’s rather late to be asking those sorts of questions. We’ve made our decision, haven’t we? We’ve left England behind.”

  “I don’t mean that,” her cousin said. “I mean all this business with the duke. This wager of yours, and making them give up their beds, and now the horses.” She spoke, as she always did, in that smooth mellifluous voice of hers, as if nothing on earth could annoy her. Even now she rode Wallingford’s horse with ease, though she’d probably never attempted to ride astride in her life, and certainly not with a five-year-old boy wriggling before her in the saddle.

  “I don’t see what you mean,” Alexandra said. “They were quite happy to offer us assistance. We should have done them a disservice if we’d refused; just think of all that offended chivalry. I don’t know about you, darling, but I shouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt.”

  Philip made a sudden grab for the reins, and the horse tossed his head at the intrusion. Lilibet’s body shifted, adjusting, and it occurred to Alexandra that her cousin was a much better horsewoman than she’d imagined. “All the same,” Lilibet was saying, as she pried the boy’s fingers away and recalled the horse to its duty, “Wallingford and . . . and the others know where we’re staying, and what we’re doing. They may mention it to their friends, or . . .”

  “I assure you,” Alexandra said, a trifle haughty, “they will not. Mention it to whom, anyway? The birds? The rocks?”

  “Don’t be tedious, Alex. They’ll write letters, send wires. They won’t cut themselves off completely. They’re men of the world.”

  “But that’s the point. They’re supposed to be cutting themselves off, aren’t they? Scholarly seclusion.” Her horse, feeling her rising tension, began to mince his steps.

  “But there’s a chance, isn’t there? A chance that word will reach home . . .”

  “And then what?” Alexandra asked impatiently. “You’re afraid your husband will come galloping after you? Really, Lilibet.”

  “Not for me,” she said, glancing down at the fine light brown hair bobbing along below her chin.

  Alexandra spoke in a low voice. “We’re more than a match for Lord Somerton, I assure you. I shall turn him away with a shotgun, if I must.”

  “But don’t you see,” Lilibet pleaded, “it’s better, far better, if word never reaches him.”

  “If you must know, I’ve already spoken to Mr. Burke,” Alexandra said. “He may be a cad, but I’m confident he’s discreet.”

  “Have you, now?” Lilibet said, in a different tone. “That may explain a great deal.”

 
“What on earth do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. That business with the boots. I should almost have said you were flustered.”

  “I was not flustered,” Alexandra insisted. “Mr. Burke is a man of no standing . . .”

  “No standing?” Lilibet let out a peal of laughter. “Really, Alex. You’ve just given yourself away. No standing, indeed! Even I’ve heard of him. That speech he gave to the Royal Society last autumn; why, the Times carried it verbatim, with the most breathless introduction. And I suppose he’s made millions from those inventions of his.”

  “Millions indeed!” Alexandra sniffed. “One or two, at most. No more.”

  “Oh, no more than two million pounds, then.” Lilibet laughed. “A pittance.”

  “Money does not concern me in the least, Lilibet.” Her voice was sharp.

  “They’re sure to knight him, at least. Or perhaps a baronetcy,” Lilibet went on.

  “How charming for him. Though I don’t see that it’s any concern of ours; we, after all, have sworn off all that, and I’ve no intention of giving Wallingford the satisfaction of winning . . . Oh, look ahead! Do you see it?” Alexandra shifted the reins to one hand and pointed ahead with her riding crop.

  Beyond, in the clearing mist, a dun-colored bristle of medieval towers jutted into the heavy sky, surrounded by tall, unkempt cypress and overgrown with rampant vegetation. It rested, or appeared to rest, on a ridge of some sort, for Alexandra could see nothing behind it but thick, impenetrable gray.

  “Good God.” Lilibet shifted her son’s weight and strained to see more. “It looks as though it hasn’t been lived in for years.”

  Alexandra urged her horse forward. “Nonsense. It’s just the Italian style. Rustic, you see. It’s all a carefully cultivated wilderness.”

  “Look here, Lady Morley!” Mr. Burke’s voice lashed out from behind them. “What sort of game is this?”

  Alexandra turned in her saddle and slowed the horse, allowing him to catch up. He came forward in long, angry strides, his face deeply flushed, the sprinkling of freckles almost jumping from the bridge of his nose.