Skylark

by Jo Beverley

  He spoke well, but not quite well enough for the highest birth. There was the hint of an accent, but she couldn’t place it. He looked an unlikely type to be a military officer, but she knew she shouldn’t make that judgment. War could turn strong men weak.

  Whoever he was, however, he wasn’t Henry Gardeyne.

  All hope died.

  “Ma’am? Are you all right? I’m sorry if you were alarmed.”

  She supposed she should still try to find out what was going on, if only for Lord Caldfort’s sake. And for Harry’s. If these criminals succeeded in extorting ten thousand guineas, it would come out of his inheritance. She sat down, remembering to be Mrs. Penfold, which she feared had slipped when she’d assisted him to his chair.

  “No, no, sir. Well, only a little. Much better now. So sad to be sick when so young, Captain Dyer. A war wound?”

  His eyes fluttered uneasily. “Fever. And an accident. I’m getting stronger.”

  “I see you are playing patience. A pleasant occupation, but it becomes tedious over time. Would you care for a game? Casino, perhaps, or cribbage?”

  He glanced at the door and she knew he was worried about Farouk’s return. She couldn’t do this to him. “I am sorry to have intruded, Captain. Would you prefer that I left?”

  She began to rise, but he said, almost shyly, “No, if you don’t mind. It is tedious here and I’d like to learn a little more of . . . things. I . . . I’ve been abroad for many years, you see.”

  She could see why Farouk kept him in his rooms. He was a terrible liar. But then she remembered that he might have been an Algerian slave, poor man.

  Then brought here to pretend to be Henry Gardeyne? Whom he didn’t resemble at all.

  And he certainly hadn’t recently done brutal physical work, or lived under a hot sun. His skin was as delicate as the most fussy beauty’s, and his hands, though manly in shape, as soft.

  She simply had to try to solve this conundrum.

  She settled back down and put her heavy reticule on the table close by. “Foreign air can be so very insalubrious,” she clucked. “But then, you cannot have been in the tropics, sir.”

  When he looked alarmed, she added, “You have not been browned by the sun, sir. I pride myself on my powers of observation!”

  He smiled, and she wondered if it was a suppressed laugh at her idiocy. He certainly hid his eyes with lowered lids. “No, no sun.”

  “An icy clime! Equally harmful. England is ideal because it is temperate, you see. It avoids tropical and arctic extremes. Are you receiving good treatment here, Captain? I understand that there are many excellent doctors in Draycombe.”

  “Oh, Farouk takes care of me.”

  Laura pursed her lips. “Your turbaned servant, yes.

  But forgive me, sir, a British constitution requires a British doctor. I met a most amiable one here. I believe he sent up a restorative potion.”

  With another glimmer of humor, HG gestured to a dark glass bottle on a sideboard. “Farouk doesn’t trust it, and when I sniffed it, it smelt awful.”

  Laura put on the stern expression of the Merrymead nursery governess. “The best medicines always taste the worst, sir.”

  “Farouk says that’s why the doctors make them taste so foul.”

  Farouk says, Farouk says. No, this young man had never been an officer. He sounded as if he was scarcely out of the schoolroom, though he looked to be about the same age as she.

  “Besides,” he said, “the doctors say I need only rest and recover. It’s damned boring.” He flushed and apologized. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

  She waved a gloved hand. “Oh, I make allowances for a gallant soldier, sir. I don’t think I introduced myself, did I? I am Mrs. Penfold, a widow, you see. We are in a similar case, for I am here for my health, though I fear I have no noble excuse for my state. Since my dear husband’s death, I have been in a poor way with my nerves and so my dear cousin offered to escort me here for a little while. If it suits, I may take rooms . . .”

  She burbled on in this way for a while about fictional plans for the restoration of her health and saw the man relax.

  Time to pry. “So, sir, what of Mr. Farouk? Such an interesting appearance. He is Indian, you said?”

  Often an error elicited truth.

  It worked. “No.” Then he stopped. “He’s . . . er . . . Egyptian.”

  “Egypt! All the rage, sir. Pyramids, crocodiles, and the Sphinx. Were you posted in Egypt? Was that how he came into your service? Oh, no, you said otherwise. Russia.”

  She tried the error trick again, but he said, “Perhaps we could play cards, Mrs. Penfold. I don’t know the games you mentioned, but I would like to learn.”

  It was clearly a deflection, but his eyes were bright with interest. It presented a new puzzle, however. He didn’t know casino? It was played in every household, even in schoolrooms.

  Laura hesitated. If she stayed here long enough, Farouk was certain to catch her, but did it matter? HG would tell the man she’d been here, and her excuse should hold. In fact, being found here innocently playing cards with the invalid would be safer than retreating after a few questions.

  She gathered the cards and shuffled, explaining the rules of casino, then dealt. To allay suspicion, she asked no questions as they played, but simply tried to understand this strange young man. He learned the game quickly, so he wasn’t simple, and yet his amusement with it seemed juvenile.

  Eventually she mentioned playing casino with some fictional nieces and nephews, and gained the response that his family never played cards. “Methodist,” he explained, with a twitch of the lips that might be a grimace.

  An explanation. There, at least, she’d constructed a mystery out of nothing. “Well, to be sure, that is a worthy practice,” she remarked, “but I cannot see any harm in a simple game of cards. One need not play casino for money, not even for farthings.”

  “Cards are a first step toward damnation, all the same,” he said with a smile.

  She saw an opening and probed. “Are you perhaps estranged from your family, Captain? Is that why you are not recovering at your home?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” He said it too quickly, though.

  “So sad when families are divided. If you have been serving abroad it is perhaps some years since you have visited your home. They might be more tolerant now.”

  His quick look startled her with its amused cynicism. “I doubt it.”

  And oh, those wicked eyes. What sturdy, Methodist home had produced this fey creature? It was hardly surprising that they’d parted ways.

  “How very sad,” she said. “So foolish to cling to old estrangements, but it is their loss, I’m sure. So what will you do once your health is restored? Will you return to military service or have you sold out?”

  “Sold out?” he asked, as if the term was new to him.

  “Sold your commission in the army. Retired.”

  “Oh! Of course. Er . . . yes.”

  “Because of your injuries.” She nodded sympathetically, but wanted to roll her eyes. Army, indeed. He didn’t know the term, and captains who left the army didn’t use their rank thereafter.

  She dealt a new hand. “Will you return to your home area to live, sir? You must have friends there. Where did you say it was? Cheshire?”

  “Suffolk.”

  “A country estate, or in town?” she asked as if all her attention was on fanning her hand.

  He didn’t answer, so she looked up to smile a bland query at him.

  “Er . . . Ipswich.”

  He mumbled it, however, and was becoming uneasy. She pretended to be puzzling over her play as pieces began to form a pattern.

  A port town. A sailor? Had he run away from his stern home and gone to sea? She supposed he could be a naval captain, and naval captains didn’t purchase or sell their commissions. But if it was hard to imagine him a captain in the army, it was impossible to imagine him lord and master of a ship. There was no trace of command in him. />
  No, if she had to lay money, she’d bet on him having run away from home as a lad to be a sailor, and a sailor could then have been captured by Barbary pirates. He could even, she realized, have served on the Mary Woodside. . . .

  “You must have visited many fascinating foreign places, sir,” she prompted, putting a three on a four. “Seven.”

  “No.”

  She glanced up politely and saw him swallow as he tried to think what to say next. “I . . . I didn’t find them fascinating.”

  “Oh, I see. You, like me, would prefer to live at home in England.”

  “Or France,” he said, and she remembered hearing him say the same yesterday.

  She pursed her lips. “A fascinating country, I’m sure, but I cannot forget that until so recently they were our enemy and cost the lives of so many brave men.”

  “Or Italy,” he said, somewhat desperately. “Or America. Oh, Azir! See, Mrs. Penfold has been teaching me casino.”

  HG’s voice had risen in pitch.

  Laura turned and felt a spurt of fear herself, perhaps because of the icy look on the Arab’s blade-boned face.

  She rose by instinct, and had no difficulty in appearing nervous and unsteady. “Mr. Farouk! I have been enjoying such a pleasant game with Captain Dyer, and he does admit to being bored alone here, so you must not hesitate to request my company whenever he wishes.”

  She picked up her reticule, taking comfort from the weight of the pistol inside. She thought the Arab did hesitate a moment, as if he might not let her leave, but then he stood aside.

  Laura minced toward the door, and only turned back when halfway into the corridor. HG was looking like a puppy that expected a scolding. But a devoted puppy.

  “Do let me know whenever you wish to play cards again, Captain Dyer.”

  With that she tottered to her own parlor door. Once inside, however, she raced into Stephen’s room and pressed the listening device to the wall.

  Farouk’s voice was low and angry, but she caught bits of it.

  “Foolish . . . dangerous . . .”

  HG’s voice was high and clear. “She’s only a silly woman, and I’m so bored here. When can we leave?”

  “We must hear from the Caldforts soon.”

  No contact yet.

  “Then we can go where it’s safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re angry at me,” HG said in a little-boy voice.

  “No, no. No harm done, nuranee. I know this is hard for you.”

  “Is ...”

  The voices sank into muffled murmurs. Could HG be crying? She should think him pathetic, but instead she felt the urge to protect him. He was clearly in some sort of thrall to Azir. Perhaps he had been Azir’s slave. Slaving underground, far from the sun . . .

  But then she remembered his hands.

  She growled, tired of trying to make these mismatched pieces fit. The soft voices faded even more, and then a door closed. They’d gone into the bedroom. Or HG had been sent to bed like a naughty boy.

  Laura straightened and abandoned her post. She went to look out at rippling sea and sunny sky. Not a scene to match her thoughts. There was no longer any hope that HG was Henry Gardeyne.

  Stephen was on a wasted journey, for there was no need to raid the room. But then she changed her mind. They’d do it in order to liberate HG from Farouk and give him a chance to live his life as he wished. She’d have to leave that in Stephen’s hands, however, because she really must return home.

  But then it truly sank in that Harry was as vulnerable as before. That she must return to her previous plan. It was perhaps not quite so bad now. Stephen had said he wanted to marry her, so there was no need to seduce him. She had only to say yes.

  As for suitability, she would make sure it was an honest bargain. After all, she loved him, so it surely wouldn’t be difficult to be what he wanted and needed—informed, concerned, serious, decorous. There would be no trace of skylarking. She’d enjoyed their quiet time here and their complex, interesting discussions . . .

  She wasn’t paying any attention to the scene in front of her, so it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing.

  Jack Gardeyne. Riding up to the Compass!

  Chapter 37

  Laura shrank back out of sight. How had Jack made it here so quickly? He must have ridden like the devil, and half through the night. She shouldn’t have underestimated a sporting Gardeyne. Of course, there was nothing for him to find other than a fraud, but there’d be hell to pay if he discovered her!

  She edged forward just enough to watch him. Was he planning to take rooms here? How was she going to avoid him then? She didn’t believe her disguise would fool him for more than a moment.

  When he turned his horse, she let out a fervent breath of relief. He’d only been checking out the Compass.

  What would he do now?

  She watched him ride back down the street and into the yard of the King’s Arms.

  Oh, thank heavens. Here came Stephen. She waited impatiently, keeping a cautious eye on the street. As soon as Stephen walked in, she said, “Jack Gardeyne’s here!”

  He was instantly alert. “At the inn?”

  “No, but he rode past, studying it.”

  He smiled. “Then things could become interesting.”

  “Interesting!” She sank into a chair, realizing that Stephen didn’t know what she knew. “HG isn’t Henry Gardeyne.”

  “What?”

  She told her story.

  He’d taken the station by the window and was looking out, so she couldn’t see his expression. “Don’t tell me it was too big a risk,” she said at the end.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” It was flat, possibly sarcastic. He turned to look at her. “You’re sure? He could be very changed.”

  “Including the color of his eyes? What’s more, I’d lay money that he was a common seaman once. It’s there, even though he’s been educated. And how can that have happened, when he was a slave in the Algerian mines? Which he obviously wasn’t. His hands and complexion are finer than mine.”

  “Impossible,” he said with twitching lips.

  “Wait until you see him.”

  “Will you be jealous?”

  She realized where that might take them. “Nothing about this makes sense. Nothing! But I want HG freed from Farouk. He . . . he dominates him, and I’m sure he can be cruel.”

  “Of course.” He seemed lost in thought. “And we want to see what Jack Gardeyne does. We might be able to make some use of it. You’ll have to stay in these rooms, though. He might recognize you.”

  “You’re right. And when the sun is finally shining. As for Jack, what do you think he’ll do?”

  “Investigate, I assume. And have as much trouble seeing HG as we did.”

  Stephen, however, had a look she knew of old: deep thought. “What if Lord Caldfort shared his worries, and Jack decided to act on his own?”

  She straightened. “Strike without warning and get rid of the problem altogether? It would be like him. And his principal target would be HG. Until he sees him. Then, I assume, he’ll ride home laughing.”

  “Thus HG’s seclusion. They could never know when an investigator would arrive, so Egan Dyer had to stay out of sight. Strange that Farouk didn’t find someone a little more likely.”

  “Oh!” she cried in exasperation. “It still doesn’t make sense. My brain feels like scrambled eggs. I should leave for Redoaks now.”

  But then she realized that would leave Stephen unbound.

  “Don’t you want to be here to catch Jack Gardeyne in mischief?” he asked. “It could be very useful.”

  “As a weapon over his head? You’re like the snake with the apple.”

  “Hisssss.”

  She laughed, shaking her head, but inside she knew she was the snake, or Eve, ready to tempt him, perhaps into misery.

  “What of Kerslake’s men?” she asked.

  “I reached Crag Wyvern—and I don’t envy Kerslak
e that place. It’s like the grimmest medieval keep. Nothing on the outside but arrow slits—to find him away at Bridport. So I left a message hinting at the situation. He probably won’t get it until it’s too late to come here today, but that doesn’t matter now.”

  No, nothing matters now.

  She found herself fretting about HG, however. He seemed so defenseless. “What if Jack’s come here prepared to pay the money, and Farouk then slits HG’s throat? Just because HG seems devoted to Farouk doesn’t mean that Farouk isn’t a deceitful villain. And the young man is strangely sweet.”

  Stephen gave her a look. “I approve of a tender heart, but yours is becoming mushy. What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “If Farouk goes out again, can you follow him? Make sure he doesn’t rendezvous with Jack?”

  “I can, but I don’t like to leave you alone. I know, I know, but if Jack Gardeyne is a murderer, he’d welcome a chance to kill you, too. That would leave Harry completely in his power.”

  A chill swept through her. “You’re right. I’ll lock the door while you’re gone, and I do have my pistol.”

  She took it out of the reticule, and he came to inspect it. “A nice piece. Does it fire straight?”

  “I could hit things with it. I stopped practicing when Hal wanted me to hit a rabbit.”

  She caught a flicker of a grimace. “Stephen, I cannot and will not stop talking about Hal. He was my husband for five years, and some of those years were happy. Harry is his son, and I’ll do my best to keep Hal’s memory alive for him.”

  There she was, warning him off again.

  “I was simply wondering if you’ll be able to fire at a man.”

  “Oh,” she said, deflated. “Have you ever shot a man?”

  “Touché. But I have shot rabbits and various other creatures.”

  She put the gun back in the bag. “I can only hope I’ll do what I have to do.”

  He returned to watching through the window, and Laura paced anxiously. Though serious, this venture had not seemed truly dangerous before. She wasn’t even sure where the danger came from—Jack or Farouk, or both—but she truly believed it now.

  She didn’t want Stephen out there, even though Jack could meet him and be not at all suspicious.