by Jo Beverley
In lieu of other passions.
“Patience. This is only our first day.”
He meant only the first day of their enquiries here, but Laura’s body clenched as if that were a promise. Considering the changes in the day since they’d arrived, what could happen in two or three more?
What should she allow to happen? Flame to gun-powder, which could destroy them both.
He walked to his bedchamber door but paused there and turned. If there had been any physical reaction, it had been controlled. “Promise me you won’t rush into action while I’m gone.”
“Rush into action?”
“I know you. If Farouk goes out, you’ll be tempted to act on your own and try to see Dyer. Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
Laura sighed. “Very well, sir. I will try to restrain my mad passions.”
If he caught the double entendre, he gave no sign of it as he left.
Chapter 29
Laura settled back to her book, promising herself that she would indeed practice restraint. Matters were too important for self-indulgence. The novel could no longer hold her interest, however, when thoughts of Stephen dazzled her mind.
Three times they’d kissed, now. First awkwardly, then angrily, then . . . truly. Yes, though nothing had been said, that had been a true kiss, one that in any other circumstance could have led to more.
She put the book aside but saw the dangers of sitting here sunk in such thoughts. She had to be sensible and in control. There must be something useful to do, something distracting. She went into Stephen’s bedchamber and listened at the wall.
A murmur of voices as indistinguishable as the murmur of the sea. No sign of fear, anger, or pain.
She glared at the wall and even checked it for a crack at the top, bottom, or sides. The Compass Inn was in unfortunately good repair. She turned to go back into the parlor, but instead she drifted to the bed as if pulled there by a magnet.
She trailed her hand over the rough wool of the blue coverlet, inhaling, finding Stephen in the air. She couldn’t resist pulling the coverlet down from the pillows so she could touch the place where his head had rested.
Maudlin nonsense.
Yet she picked up the pillow and inhaled, pressing her face into it. She’d not been aware before of knowing Stephen’s smell like this, but she did. It was as distinctively his as his signature, and it trickled into her body, exciting every part of her.
She held the pillow closer, sinking to sit on the bed, igniting at the thought of being here with him, of breathing in his skin, licking his sweat. . . .
With a gasp, she scrambled off the bed. What did she think she was doing? Desperately she put back the pillow and tidied the covers, smoothing them over and over to erase any trace of her idiocy. Then she fled back through the parlor to the privacy of her own room, feeling, when she closed the door, as if she’d shut out the devil.
After a minute or so, she peeled herself away from the door and went to the mirror. She didn’t look deranged—but then she saw a smudge of the dark around her eyes and realized she must have left some trace of her face paint on Stephen’s pillow.
“Perish it!” she muttered, ripping the cover off her own pillow. She raced back to Stephen’s room and dashed to the window to check for his approach. No sign. Please heaven, keep him out for a while longer!
As she’d feared, smears of brown marked the pillowcase. Heart thundering with urgency, she stripped it off and replaced it with hers, then straightened the bed again. Would he notice any difference? She’d normally think not, but Stephen was infernally perceptive.
She hurried back and put his pillowcase on her pillow. Only then did she feel safe.
The feverish energy lingered and she paced her room, multiplying the miles to Redoaks by the year, 1816, by her age, by the time. . . .
It didn’t help. She was tempted to clutch and inhale her own pillow now. She forced herself away from her bed. In fact, this would be an excellent time to go down to the public parlor and exhibit her picture. She might learn other gossip there, too.
She wrapped her virulent shawl around herself, picked up her drawing portfolio, and left the room, assembling her persona of Priscilla Penfold. In fact, Priscilla Penfold would venture down the creaking corridor, just in case she might overhear something. It did her no good, however. The adjacent rooms could be uninhabited for all she could tell.
She headed downstairs, trying to appear timid. However, as she descended the stairs she decided Priscilla Penfold wasn’t timid at all. She was the sort of woman who pretended uncertainty as a disguise. She would flutter and hesitate in order to hide the fact that she was a weasel in search of eggs of gossip.
She would worry out loud that she was bothering people so that everyone would have to assure her that she wasn’t. She would timidly declare that she was just a silly woman so that everyone would have to pay attention to what she said.
Laura struggled not to laugh. She was describing a particular person she knew, someone who had exasperated her for years.
She crossed the hall and entered the small, bow-windowed parlor. It was painted a pleasant yellow, perhaps to suggest sunshine even on a dull day, and warmed by a large fire. It even seemed free of drafts. The only occupant, however, was a sinewy gentleman in a chair to the left of the fire who was drinking tea and reading a newspaper, pince-nez on his long nose.
He rose when she entered, but then resumed his seat and occupation.
Laura sat by the window and looked out, but the wind was rising and few were taking the air. The sea was steel gray and choppy, and she wondered if they were in for a serious storm. She opened her portfolio on a small table and took out a clean sheet of paper, leaving her aged sketch of Henry Gardeyne exposed.
The gentleman was engrossed in his newspaper.
Laura began to sketch, trying to catch the feel of the gathering clouds as she waited for someone else to come into the room. A lad came in with a bobbing bow and put more wood on the fire. He hardly raised his eyes and certainly didn’t look at her drawing.
Laura drew boats tossed by the growing waves, and did a quick sketch of a man chasing after his tumbling hat. She silently cheered when he caught it just short of the sea. But it was becoming clear that she was unlikely to encounter anyone here except the newspaper reader.
To speak to a strange man was somewhat improper, but she was a dull widow, not a brash flirt.
She started with a timid clearing of the throat. When he looked up, she said—hesitantly, of course, “I fear we are in for a storm, sir. Are you, too, staying here for your health?”
He lowered his paper and looked at her over his glasses. “Only in a manner of speaking, ma’am. I am Dr. Nesbitt of this town, and I have been visiting a patient here.”
She remembered Topham mentioning him. This could be exactly what she’d hoped for!
“Poor Captain Dyer?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.” His look had become alert. “The captain requires medical care?”
Laura suppressed disappointment and fluttered. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know, sir. But the innkeeper said he is an invalid, and it seems he never leaves his rooms. They’re next to ours, you see. Those taken by my cousin, Sir Stephen Ball.”
“Ah. Sir Stephen.” He beamed. Clearly her status had immediately risen.
“So kind of him,” she simpered. “For my health, you see. But Captain Dyer has only the one servant, it would appear, and he is a foreigner.” She lowered her voice as such people often do when about to criticize. “He wears a turban—the servant, sir—and I fear he is dosing the poor captain with foreign nostrums.”
The doctor removed his spectacles. “My, my. That certainly raises alarms, ma’am.” He rose, putting his newspaper on a table. “I shall have a word with Topham and see if I may tender my services.”
With a bow, he left. Laura supposed it was too much to expect that if he attended Dyer he’d return and report to her, but if she remained here, she might learn
something. She eyed Dr. Nesbitt’s newspaper, tempted to read it, but it would be out of character for Mrs. Penfold. In her experience, nosy gossips were never interested in important matters.
She returned to her sketching but heard returning footsteps and turned to the door, wearing an anxious, questioning look.
“It is as you described, ma’am,” Dr. Nesbitt said, shaking his head. “But from what Topham says, Captain Dyer is in a chronic rather than an acute state. Sad to say, medicine often has little to offer such cases other than rest and fresh air. Bleeding and cupping sometimes, but I am not in favor of those when the patient appears pale, which is as Topham describes him. I will, however, send over a bottle of my patent restorative, which might assist his return to health.”
He had come over and now looked at her drawing. “Why, ma’am, you are quite an artist!”
Laura realized that her artistic ability was out of character with Priscilla Penfold, too, but there was no help for it now. She simpered. “So kind. Just my little hobby.”
He had turned to the sketch of Henry. “Now there’s a man who looks in need of my services, ma’am. Consumption?”
Laura was caught unawares, and any fluster was completely natural. “Oh, dear, I do hope not, sir. That is my brother. He . . . er . . . suffered a serious accident in the hunting field, but is recovering well now.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Penfold, but if he were my patient, I would want him to take my restorative draught. For now, however, I must take my leave. Another patient awaits.”
With that, he drained his teacup, tucked his paper under his arm, bowed, and left. In a few minutes she watched him struggle against the wind down the road until he turned into a nearby house.
She waited. A young couple came in, windblown and laughing, to take tea. It turned out that they had driven from Seaton with no care for the weather. Laura suspected that they were on their honeymoon, and that perhaps wind and wild sea was exactly what they wanted, which made them positively irritating.
They left, rapt in one another, and Laura hoped the young man could manage to keep his mind on the road. She was about to give up and return to her room when Mrs. Grantleigh came in. What good fortune that she hadn’t yet put away the picture.
The elderly woman paused. “Mrs. Penfold. Do you mind if I join you? My husband is dozing, and I like a change of scene but cannot go too far.”
“Not at all.” Laura pointed encouragingly to a nearby chair, remembering to be Priscilla Penfold when she would much rather befriend this poor woman. “I fear a storm is rising.”
“I fear so, too,” the older woman said, sitting by the picture but looking out at the sea. “So dismal.”
Laura liked storms, but she fervently agreed. “I just met Dr. Nesbitt. He seemed an excellent man.”
That set Mrs. Grantleigh off on an account of the doctor’s kind but ineffectual treatment of her husband, along with the other doctors consulted back home in Cambridge, and in Bath.
Then, at last, she looked down and started. “My, that is an excellent portrait, Mrs. Penfold.” She glanced around, clearly not believing what she saw. “Your work?”
Laura simpered again. “Just my little hobby.”
Mrs. Grantleigh’s glance was shrewd, and perhaps even suspicious. No fool after all. “A talent, Mrs. Penfold,” she said firmly. “You should not hide it under a bushel.”
Laura felt herself flush beneath her sallow cream. It was partly because she was caught in a lie, but also because she hadn’t done anything in particular with her talent.
Mrs. Grantleigh was studying the picture, however. “There is something slightly familiar about this man,” she said, “and yet I do not know. . . . Perhaps I might have known him before he was so unwell?”
She looked up, demanding an answer.
Laura had to tell the same story. “My brother, Reginald,” she said, cheeks so hot she feared they’d melt the paint. “He suffered an accident in the hunting field. We . . . er . . . feared we might lose him, so I did that sketch. But he is much recovered now. I don’t think he has ever visited Cambridge, however. He lives year round in the Shires.”
Mrs. Grantleigh pushed the picture away with a moue of distaste. “Then you are doubtless correct, Mrs. Penfold. I have no patience with men who use their lives for nothing but sport. How refreshing to know a man like Sir Stephen . . .”
Laura let her sing Stephen’s praises and slid away the picture. What was she to make of that moment of recognition, however? Did the picture look like Dyer, but too frail? After some thought, she tidied her portfolio and let the original copy of Henry’s portrait flutter to the floor.
“Oh!” she exclaimed and grabbed for it. Then she turned it toward Mrs. Grantleigh. “My dear younger brother, Cedric. So scholarly.”
The older lady smiled. “And he looks more robust and happy for it, Mrs. Penfold. May he be saved from the ways of dissipation and vice. Oh, my, look at the time!” She rose. “But it has been most pleasant to chat with you, Mrs. Penfold. I hope we can do so again.”
She left the room, and Laura frowned at her pictures. Mrs. Grantleigh had shown no recognition of the picture of young Henry. None at all. If only she’d been able to ask if the familiarity with the aged one had anything to do with Captain Egan Dyer.
Topham. He was the other person most likely to have seen Dyer. Laura thought up and discarded a number of cunning ways of getting the man in here, but then shrugged and pulled the bellpull. A maid—a young, plump one she did not know—bustled in. “May I help you, ma’am?”
Laura willed her to come over to the table where the drawings still lay, but she stayed by the door.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Topham,” she said.
In moments, the innkeeper was there, bowing. Laura stayed seated by the window and the man did come over. “What may I do for you, Mrs. Penfold.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Laura with a hand to her chest, “I have been watching the storm rise. Are we safe, sir? Are we safe?”
He put on a beaming smile. “Safe? As houses!” He chuckled at his own joke. “Certainly a little storm is rising, but the Compass has weathered a hundred such.”
She gave him an uncertain smile. “If you are quite sure. I was thinking that the King’s Arms . . . it being constructed out of stone . . .”
He bridled. “Not at all, ma’am. Only been there ten years. Not stood the test of time.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you. That does make me feel safer. Perhaps you could help me gather my papers, Mr. Topham. My hands are quite unsteady.”
He quickly did so, flattering her artistic abilities but showing no recognition. Then he tenderly escorted her upstairs and left to arrange a steadying brew of brandied tea.
Laura sat at the table and spread the two portraits in front of her. “Did Mrs. Grantleigh recognize you, Henry, or was it some other fleeting resemblance? Are you dead, or are you Dyer?”
She frowned over that, wondering if the name Dyer was some complicated play on die. They had never solved the puzzle of the name Oscar Ris.
A gust of wind rattled the windows and she rose to look out, wishing Stephen would return. The light was going now and she wanted him here, safe. She smiled wryly at that, knowing her feelings flowed deeper and deeper by the moment.
She started at a knock, and called for the person to enter. It was Jean with the brandied tea. She watched carefully as the maid went to the table and put her tray down there, carefully away from the drawings. The maid paused, looking at them for a moment.
Laura hurried over. “My little hobby,” she said.
“They’re very cleverly done, ma’am.”
Laura tittered. “People keep saying they recognize them, but they are my brothers who have never been here. I do find, however, that sometimes strangers look like people we know.”
“That’s the truth, ma’am. I went right up to someone in Seaton who I thought was a woman who used to live next door. And I must say that one”—she nodde
d to the aged one—“does put me in mind of someone.”
“A guest, perhaps?” Laura prompted.
The maid shrugged. “I can’t bring one to mind, ma’am. Likely it’s just as you say and he reminds me of someone else. Folks aren’t so different in the end, are they? Now, shall I pour your tea? And do you want to order your dinner, ma’am?”
Laura sighed. “No, thank you.”
When the maid had left, she sat and poured herself tea. She could smell the brandy already. She supposed smuggling country had an ample supply. She sweetened it and sipped, enjoying the strong taste and the warmth, then carried the cup over to the window to watch the storm grow.
She drained the cup and found clean paper to do rapid sketches of wind and weather, reveling in the raw energy of the storm as shown in roiling clouds, whipping waves, and people fighting to make their way to their homes.
A blue turban caught her eye. Farouk! He was striding down the street away from the inn, robe flapping around his legs in the wind. Where could he be going? Because she had her pencil in her hand, she sketched him.
He was a fine figure of a man—tall, straight, and vigorous. What was he doing here, writing letters to an English lord, offering to kill for pay? She drew in palm trees behind him, bent in the wind, trying to imagine going to Egypt and attempting such a crime. Impossible. She and Stephen must be missing pieces of this puzzle, but she couldn’t even imagine what they were.
If Jack wished to kill Harry, that was evil, but she understood why. An Egyptian coming to England to offer out of the blue to kill Henry Gardeyne, a man supposedly dead ten years ago? It was a fairy tale.
Then she saw Stephen emerge from the King’s Arms, spot Farouk, and plot a course that would intersect. She sketched him, too. Merely the sight of him flushed heat through her body. How was she to cope with this?
The two men met and exchanged a few words, before Stephen turned toward the Compass and Farouk walked on, past the King’s Arms. Where on earth was he going?
At least Stephen would know how good Farouk’s English was. Every scrap of information could be useful. As she thought this, she drew Stephen walking back toward the inn, clutching at his hat. Suddenly he gave up, and she saw his grin as he took it off and let the wind whip through his hair.
