by Julia Ross
How I wish I might ask Mr. Devoran, the loveliest man I ever met….
Guy stared at the scratched-out lines that followed. Only a few stray words were discernible, yet they were enough to see that they contained hints of longing—even love?
The breath left his lungs as if he’d been thrown from a horse.
How dare she!
He strode to the window and slammed closed one shutter to block the sunlight. The iron bar slapped against the wood with a satisfying clang.
If Rachel wanted to ask for his help, why hadn’t she come to him herself? Because of love? He felt as if Sarah had just lifted out the first of a set of nested boxes, where each one might contain a more devastating truth than the last.
“Why the devil did you prevaricate about this?”
“Because Rachel might have seriously misjudged you. I didn’t know.”
It would be equally satisfying to thrust his fist through a windowpane. Instead he swallowed the rage and stalked back across the room.
“And you do now?”
“Enough, I think. But I also feared that you might judge her too harshly, if you knew she had wanted to impose so deeply on your generosity after such a short acquaintance.”
“So you took the blame for her immodest wishes onto yourself?”
“I care for Rachel as a sister, sir. It’s bad enough that you know now how infatuated she was with the memory of meeting you. Any gentleman might judge that improper, unless he also knew how very naïve she could be.”
Guy stared at the urns on the mantel, fighting the temptation to smash them into an agreeable mess of broken china.
“How often do you risk your own contentment to protect her like this?”
“I’m a widow, sir, not an unmarried girl. The risks aren’t the same for me.”
“So you avoided approaching me directly because you feared that might reflect badly on your cousin, though now you’ve decided you may confide in me, at least this far?”
She glanced down. “Lady Ryderbourne loves you like a brother. I can think of no higher recommendation than that.”
He swallowed the caustic rejoinder that sprung to mind. “Yes, we’re very fond of each other, which hardly makes her opinion objective. However, in this much you may trust me absolutely: Miss Mansard’s reputation won’t suffer because of anything you tell me, and I’ll certainly bear in mind your assertions of her innocence.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s very easy for people to misinterpret Rachel’s naïveté for something quite different.”
“Quite. As for Daedalus, even if he does number among my acquaintances, he wouldn’t know that there’s any connection between Miss Mansard and myself, and I assume that no one in London is aware that you’re her cousin?”
She shook her head. “No. No one.”
“So your cousin’s fears on that score, also, would appear to be groundless.”
He stalked to the window. A bright sun was breaking through the clouds.
It must take considerable courage to swallow any vestige of pride in order to help the cousin she loved. Could he ever find it in himself to be quite that gracious?
Sarah sat down abruptly and propped her forehead on her interlaced fingers. Her face fell into deep shadow.
“I’ve thought the same, sir. So, just as I think we may join forces now without arousing anyone’s suspicions—even if we are seen together—I’m also afraid that you may be right about Mr. Penland. If Lord Jonathan paid Rachel so large a sum of gold, why would she take the first position she could find, especially a place with six children?”
“I’m quite certain that she did not.”
Her color still high, she traced one finger over the lid of her writing case. “Yet Rachel must have gone to live in Hampstead right after she left you on the yacht, because her letters were all postmarked from there. So I must go myself, sir. After all, no one knows Rachel better than I do.”
“And if I send you away, you won’t give me Penland’s address.”
Her tawny lashes swept up. “I can only bargain with what I have, sir.”
“Which includes the threat of aid from Miracle, instead? I see that I’m trumped. So if you’ll kindly tell me exactly where your cousin received your letters, ma’am, we may drive out to Hampstead together right now.”
She opened the lid of her writing case. “Here,” she said, holding out a paper. “I wrote it down for you.”
He didn’t really need the information, but he glanced at it: Miss Rachel Mansard, care of Mr. Harvey Penland, Five Oaks, Hampstead. Exactly what he had already surmised.
It was still a calculated risk to take Sarah there. Less dangerous than he had feared, but dangerous enough.
IT was a triumph, but an empty one. Sarah gazed out across the meadows as the carriage bowled out of London. Guy Devoran’s hands were sure and capable on the ribbons. His chestnut team gleamed as if the horses’ coats had been beaten from bronze.
A green afternoon in the company of Blackdown’s glorious nephew, driving along one of the prettiest roads in England. The scattering of villas, farm dwellings, and wooded hills formed an ever-changing picture.
Yet sorrow yawned in her heart.
This beautiful man had committed himself to her quest as he might have committed himself to a foxhunt: simply for the adventure of it. As a matter of male pride, he’d follow the quarry until it was either lost or pinned by the hounds.
But he only wanted to be rid of crazy, redheaded Sarah Callaway.
She had responded to his radiant presence like a schoolgirl caught in the presence of a fairy-tale prince. Every word of Rachel’s infatuation made sense. No female could ever meet Guy Devoran, even for a day, and not remember him for a lifetime.
Yet, as Sarah had surmised in the endless hours of darkness alone in her bedroom, he’d thrilled her with his luminous attention only because he knew it would make her uncomfortable.
Lord Jonathan had no doubt agreed to the plan. The cousins had hoped that an hour of gentle mockery among the orchids would be enough to persuade her to go back to Bath and leave the hunt to the men.
If she did not feel so committed to Rachel, it probably would have done. Nothing could be more humiliating than an attractive gentleman’s showing his pity for a plain schoolmistress through insincere gallantry, however flattering.
Yet she was not, for all her self-doubt, as easy to break as an ivory figurine.
Sarah lifted her face to the sun and laughed at herself.
In spite of her racing pulse and general sense of discomfort, she regretted nothing. With Guy Devoran’s help, she was bound to solve the mystery and rescue Rachel, whatever the reasons for her disappearance.
Sarah only wished she knew what Mr. Devoran was hiding. In the meantime, she would try to enjoy this outing and what remained of the day.
The horses were fresh and keen, trotting with pricked ears as if they expected a stable at the end of their journey, rather than a return trip back to town.
“You know Hampstead well?” she asked.
“Well enough. It’s a great road to let out a good horse. Of course, there was a time when everyone came to take the waters. Many still come for their health, or for inspiration away from the foul air of London.”
“Inspiration?”
Tendons flexed in his wrists as he steadied his team. They trotted down a small hill.
“Hampstead is full of lodging houses for artists and writers, as well as invalids. Pony carriages and donkeys still carry visitors out to the Heath.”
“Could Daedalus have been one of them?”
“Not if you insist that he met Rachel soon after Christmas. Winter is hardly the time to come to Hampstead for one’s health.”
The horses began to climb. A redbrick church tower soared above the rooftops of the small town ahead of them. Within a few more minutes they had passed a tollhouse, and Hampstead welcomed them with detached mansions nestled among small groves of trees, then rows of respectable brick
houses.
The carriage turned down a side street to pull into the yard of a small inn. The sign had faded to some indistinct green shapes on a background of pale yellow. The tiger swung down to take the horses’ bridles.
Guy Devoran leaped from the carriage and held up his hand to help Sarah step down.
“We’ll take a little refreshment here,” he said, “before we drive back to London.”
“But Mr. Penland’s address?”
“This is it.”
Sarah glanced back at the row of elegant redbrick facades in the street. A nervous shiver trickled up her spine.
“Which house?”
“None of them. This is the Five Oaks.”
She met his dark gaze and swallowed. “Rachel lived at an inn? I don’t quite—”
“Come, let’s take tea and we may find out.”
They walked into a small parlor and took a seat. Mr. Devoran ordered tea and cakes.
“I seek one Harvey Penland, Mr. Trench,” he said when the innkeeper returned with a tray. “Does he still work here?”
“Bless my soul, sir! The lad upped and left for his folks’ place in Norfolk nigh on two weeks ago.”
“Norfolk?” Sarah asked faintly. “He worked here?”
“That’s right, ma’am. Penland’s a Norfolk lad, born and bred. Spent a year learning horses in Newmarket, and then drifted here to Hampstead. A smart enough fellow, though cheeky with it. You’ll maybe have seen him, sir, mucking out the stables, though I can’t imagine that any gentleman such as yourself would ever have taken much notice of the boy.”
“No, I don’t recall him. Yet might Mr. Penland have run errands for local residents without your knowing?”
“Well, I suppose so, sir. We sent him out on little jobs for the inn often enough. A reliable lad. Trustworthy. I’m sorry to have lost him.”
“Then he might have delivered letters by hand and collected the replies to post without anyone else’s knowledge?”
“I can’t rightly say, sir. I see no reason why not, but only if he was paid smartly, mind.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Devoran tapped the side of his nose and slipped a coin into the innkeeper’s hand.
“Why, thank you, sir. Mum’s the word!” The man bowed his head and bustled away.
Little ripples of distress sent cold shivers down Sarah’s spine. “So I was sending my letters here to this inn, not to a private house. You’d already guessed as much, hadn’t you?”
He leaned back, fixing her with his dark gaze. “Since no one had heard of him, Harvey Penland couldn’t be a gentleman. Yet he had to exist. He also had to have access to the mail, plus the freedom to carry letters back and forth. Thus it was likely that he was working in an inn. I just didn’t know which one—”
“—until I told you. But you’d have come here and found out anyway, wouldn’t you?” Sarah poured tea. The spout rattled against her teacup. “So where was Rachel really living?”
“I don’t know for certain, though I made a few inquiries yesterday evening at St. John’s. The curate remembers a lady of her description living alone in a rented house called Knight’s Cottage near the Heath. She sometimes took long walks by herself on a Sunday, though she never welcomed visitors or went to church.”
A sick anxiety buzzed in her head. “And you think that was Rachel?”
Light limned his strong profile as he gazed out of the window. “For what it’s worth, yes. I was also able to talk to the landlord last night. This lady paid him several months’ rent in gold in advance.”
Her hands felt clammy. “Then Rachel was living by herself in a cottage for all those months, while writing to me about caring for six imaginary children?”
“So it would seem.”
Sarah took a slice of cake, then stared at it. “Did the landlord say whether she kept any servants?”
“The landlord provides any heavy work and sends a man to maintain the garden, and a housekeeper lives in.” Mr. Devoran glanced back at her, his eyes shuttered. “The same woman is still working there.”
The hot tea was quaking gently in her cup. It seemed impossible to keep her hands steady. The cup rattled back into the saucer.
“Then she may be able to confirm whether Harvey Penland was bringing my letters. So may we please drive out to this cottage?”
“That’s been my intention all along, ma’am.”
Sarah took a deep breath and swallowed hard, before she looked back up at him. The black eyes seemed filled with regret, even apology, as if he couldn’t bear to distress her, almost as if he despised himself for the necessity.
She opened and closed her fingers beneath the table, then picked up her teacup again. None of this was his fault. She had promised not to be difficult or hysterical.
“Our home was in Norfolk,” she said with quiet determination. “Rachel probably noticed Penland’s accent. It might have helped buy his loyalty, if they were from the same area.”
“I’ll send a man to trace him,” he said. “But either way, I think we may assume that your cousin used Jack’s gold to move here after that day on the yacht. Do you have any idea why?”
Cake crumbled in her mouth like dry sand. Sarah thrust away her plate.
“No. I can’t fathom any of it. And why make up all of those stories about still working as a governess?”
“Presumably so you wouldn’t ask awkward questions about why she was living here alone.”
“I can’t imagine what she was hiding. Yet she must have met Daedalus here.”
“On the contrary, I’m certain that she met him long before that.”
“That’s impossible!” Her empty cup clattered back into the saucer. “I’d have guessed it from her letters.”
“So you still believe that your cousin can lie about the facts, but not about her emotions?”
“You’ve not read the rest of her correspondence, Mr. Devoran. If Rachel had met Daedalus before that day on the yacht, I’d know it.”
“Would you?” He leaned forward to meet her gaze, as if convincing her of this one point was imperative. “Why did she leave Lord Grail’s house as she did? And why the devil did she work as a scullery maid at the Three Barrels?”
Sarah pushed away from the table. “I don’t know, sir, because I’m still not sure that she did!”
He stood up immediately and took her elbow to lead her from the room. As soon as they reached a private corner in the inn yard, he released her.
“You promised me no hysteria, Mrs. Callaway.”
“I’m not hysterical, sir,” Sarah said. “I’m furious. You’ve manipulated me and hidden things from me, and now you question my judgment about my own cousin’s emotions. Yes, something happened to drive her from Grail Hall. Very probably it was Lord Grail himself. She never liked or trusted him—”
“Then your cousin is a damned bad judge of character. Grail’s notoriously affable. I can’t imagine an easier household in which she could have worked. And from what he told me this morning, visitors came and went constantly that summer.”
“But she was the governess, relegated mostly to the nursery.”
“On the contrary. Rachel Mansard had plenty of opportunity to meet the guests. You don’t think every man among them didn’t take the opportunity to flirt with her?”
Indignation made her spine rigid; otherwise she thought she might have folded as if struck.
“Be that as it may, sir, Rachel was an innocent girl who met Daedalus here. She fell in love with him here. She became afraid of him here. She fled him after Easter and ended up in Goatstall Lane. This villain persecuted her here in Hampstead, Mr. Devoran, and I can’t imagine why you would even think to question that.”
CHAPTER SIX
AS RYDER HAD SO ELOQUENTLY PREDICTED, NOTHING could come of this situation but disaster. Guy glanced away as if simply distracted by the bustle of the inn yard.
He disliked all these machinations a little too intensely. Sarah Callaway deserved better. But not, surel
y, the news that Rachel could not have fallen in love with Daedalus in Hampstead in the spring, because Guy Devoran was keeping her as a mistress at the time?
“Yes,” he said, glancing back at her. “I have, within limits, manipulated you, Mrs. Callaway. I thought it necessary. That was presumptuous. Pray, accept my apologies.”
Rage sparkled in her eyes, but she swallowed, and in a sudden, entrancing change of mood, she laughed.
“Oh, goodness! I’ve prevaricated almost as much with you, sir,” she said. “I did so in our very first meeting and several more times since. I am entirely indebted to you, but I do wish you wouldn’t try to protect me from unpleasantness by disputing the obvious truth.”
Little barbs sank into his heart. Yet Guy smiled back, even knowing that she would see that his smile was empty and rightfully despise him for it.
“We don’t yet know the truth, ma’am. So we must agree to disagree for the moment. Now, do you wish to drive out to the cottage?”
“I certainly wish to find out the truth about Daedalus, sir, and thus rescue Rachel. Thank you.”
They walked back to his carriage and he helped her into the seat. His tiger swung up behind, and Guy drove out into the street.
He tried to keep his voice gentle.
“Daedalus the maze-maker escaped his own labyrinth in Crete,” he said. “You may believe that he met your cousin in Hampstead, but I’m equally certain that we’ll find no trace of him here.”
“Then I hope you’re wrong, sir, because what other clues do we have?”
Guy shook his head and said nothing. If Rachel was indeed the mystery tenant, she had left Knight’s Cottage in January, not in April, as Sarah would assume. Yet even if that uncomfortable fact was about to be uncovered, there was no possible way for Sarah to find out that in February he and her cousin had moved back into Hampstead together.
The horses trotted on toward the Heath, straight past the place he had rented for Rachel. Chimneys clustered like a meeting of top-hatted solicitors. The walls flashed in white glimpses through the trees. The few visible windows were shuttered.
Guy had paid the landlord a year’s rent in advance and still held the lease, so he knew that the house was unoccupied. Yet as they turned a corner the high oriel window in the bedroom he and Rachel had shared winked suddenly, as if the low sun conspired to bring the house back to life.
