by Susan Wiggs
“You never tried it?” Oliver asked.
“I know better than that.” She glanced around. “Where is Kit? I thought he was coming with us.”
“He dropped back a few moments ago,” said Oliver. “He has work to do. We’re devising a lawsuit, remember?”
She turned her face out to the view of the valley. It had always seemed so deep and distant, illuminated by long rays that touched places she could never go. “You will pretend Blackrose is really yours, given to you in a prior grant the year you were born.” She squinted at the sun-struck river far below. “Won’t that make Spencer look rather stupid?”
“Not at all. He wouldn’t defend his right. He’ll swear that a third person—”
“Who?” Lark demanded. She was unhappy enough being party to deception without bringing in more cheaters.
“He need not exist. Let’s name him Mortimer.”
“I hate that name.”
“He’s not real, Lark. Now, Mortimer has always been an obliging sort.” Oliver touched her arm, and she forgot to tell him not to. “He’s the defaulter.”
“Oh.” She glanced at his hand. It was quite an ordinary hand. Large and squarish, sprinkled with golden hair. She wondered why the touch of so unremarkable a hand could make her go warm inside, all trembly with yearning. Did Oliver de Lacey possess some special magic, or was the magic inside her?
Suddenly afraid to find out, she took her arm away. “Go on. Spencer will swear that Mortimer did what?”
“Sold him the estate. Illegally.”
“Ah. Then Spencer would be entitled to compensation from Mortimer.”
Oliver nodded. He leaned back against a broad, rounded boulder, crossing his booted feet at the ankles and eyeing Lark as if he had not eaten in days. “Lands of equal value would be nice.”
“But where would this mythical Mortimer get—”
His fingers touched her lips. She wanted to moan with the pleasure she felt, to melt in a puddle at his feet. She should have punched him harder last night.
“Just listen, darling,” he said, his fingers tracing her jawline, moving lower, toying with the locks of hair that had escaped her coif. “Our dear Mortimer will disappear at that point.”
She steeled herself against the impulse to lean toward him, to let his hand travel lower. “Then he’d be in contempt of court.”
Oliver’s gentle, knowing smile confirmed it—both her statement and his acknowledgment of her need.
Lark forced herself to step back, to escape the tender bond of his caresses. “I’ve got it all worked out now. Since Mortimer’s in contempt, judgment must be given against him.”
He shoved off from the rock and took a step toward her. “Aye. The court will say Mortimer had no right to make the sale to Spencer.”
She edged backward, away from him. “And the estate must therefore be awarded to you.”
He advanced, his pace unhurried yet unrelenting. “And I can do what I like with it.”
Lark pretended not to notice what he was doing. “What about Spencer? He’s still entitled to compensation from Mortimer.”
“Spencer and I will work that out.” Each time he spoke, Oliver came closer. “I can keep the estate and pay him a fair price for it. Or I can sell it to anyone Spencer designates. It doesn’t matter. The entail will be broken.”
Lark felt the wind tease more tendrils of hair from confinement. “’Tis cold-blooded and dishonest,” she said, still edging backward. “But there is a certain beauty to it.”
“Why is it,” Oliver asked, “that we cherish beauty more when we find it in unexpected places?” He reached for her. “Lark, sweetheart, the cliff—”
She took another step back and started to fall. Even before a scream could gather in her throat, he had her by the waist. He brought her toward him, slamming her so forcefully against him that the breath left them both.
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. He was shaking, and for some reason that made her like him better.
He took her by the hand and started down the rubbled path back to the estate. He stopped and turned, smiling as the breeze tossed his hair into splendid disarray. “I promise you,” he whispered into her ear, “I am not so deadly as a fall from a cliff.”
Five
“An excellent plan,” Spencer declared in his quavering voice. “Quite ingenious.”
“Lord Oliver and Kit think so. You’d think the two of them had discovered Atlantis.”
Almost under his breath, Spencer said, “I made a wise choice indeed.”
Unsure of his meaning, Lark spooned up more oxtail broth seasoned with leeks and carrots and fed it to him. “Choice?”
“They are clever and good-hearted young men,” Spencer said, turning his head away from the next spoonful of broth. “Honorable men.”
“Kit Youngblood is.” Lark waited, trying not to seem impatient. Spencer had been endlessly patient with her all her life; she should show him tolerance now. Of late, this was a nightly occurrence. If she didn’t feed him, he wouldn’t eat.
“And Lord Oliver?” he asked.
“A knave,” Lark pronounced. “A typical idle nobleman.”
“You voice a strong opinion.” Spencer spoke mildly. He never had to raise his voice to her. He asserted his command in subtler ways—a meaningful pause, a lifting of the chin, a narrowing of the eyes.
Lark flushed. “No doubt he’s only helping because you ordered him to be saved from hanging. Once he considers that debt repaid, we’ll see no more of him.”
With a pang of restless worry, she thought of the communiqué in cipher that lay concealed inside the stomacher she wore around her waist. She had not yet decided whether she would tell Spencer of it.
She had never, ever deceived him. Until lately.
“He’s more than a knave,” Spencer said. “Beneath his roguish surface beats the heart of a man of honor. It might take time for you to realize this.”
Her guilt sat like a knot in her throat. Spencer was going to die. Surviving grief was the one lesson he could not teach her. “What does it matter what I think of him?” she asked, offering another sip of broth. “He will serve his purpose and then be gone.”
Spencer took a few more swallows, then turned his head away again. “Enough. I am helpless as a babe.”
“So was I when you took me in,” she said with a rush of sentiment. “I was a babe.” They shared a history of nearly twenty years. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. To keep from wringing her hands, she took up her ever-present sewing and stabbed idly at the chemise she had been stitching.
“Taking you in was no great sacrifice for me, dear Lark. The rewards I have reaped far exceed the commitment I made. You’ve become a woman of great virtue, obedient and humble, a joy to me.”
Hating herself for deceiving him, she put down her sewing and withdrew the ciphered letter from her stomacher. “Spencer?”
He let out a wispy sigh. “Another rescue?”
“Aye.”
“Be careful, Lark. I have never liked your role in this.”
He would like it even less if he knew of all her adventures. “You need my skill at ciphering,” she said. “This one’s based on the birthday of the pope. I think it could be traced to someone very close to the queen.”
“‘A woman who thinketh alone thinketh evil,”’ Spencer reminded her.
As always, Lark sank her teeth into her tongue until it hurt. Arguing with Spencer was never worth the cost to her pride, for he never failed to win.
“Don’t let anyone know you have this knowledge,” he continued. “Thank God you’re a woman and can’t endanger yourself with these rescues.”
Oliver lay wakeful long into the night. Every day he spent with Lark made him want her more. He glared up at the pleated canopy over the bedstead and scowled at the play of shadow and candlelight in the velvet folds. There was a time when any woman would do—so long as she was warm, pliant and of a decent age.
Lark had
destroyed his breezy disregard for virtue and chastity. She had made him want her and her alone. Now only one woman would do.
Muttering under his breath, he rose from the bed, took a drink of water from a large ewer, then pulled on a loose shirt and stepped out into the darkened passageway.
The countryside was insufferably silent. He missed London and the sounds of revelry, the stomping feet and jangling harness, the call of the sleepless bellmen on watch. This place, buried in river-fed hills, was as quiet as a crypt.
As he had done each night, Oliver moved soundlessly along the upper passageway, stopping at the door to Lark’s chamber.
Each night he simply stood there, weighing the merits of either entering her room or slinking back to his own quarters.
Thus far, he always chose the slinking.
Did she lie alone and dream of him, he wondered, or were her dreams locked away in a cage like the rest of her?
Was she by nature pure of heart and mind, or did she work at her virtue as a swordsman practiced his stance?
And why, by all that was holy, did he find her so appealing? She was so damned good. All the time. Even on the two fondly remembered occasions when he had kissed her, she had managed to hold part of herself back. To resist, as if fearful of committing some terrible sin.
He clenched his fists at his sides. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and make her cry out in ecstasy. Didn’t she know what she was missing?
He took a step toward her door. He pressed slowly and steadily and silently at the latch.
As he did, with his face screwed up in anticipation of the noise the latch would make, he heard voices from within.
Lark’s angel voice, murmuring in hushed tones. Followed by a low, deadly, masculine rasp.
Devil take the wench on her back! She had a lover!
On fire with curiosity and gut-tearing jealousy, Oliver leaned his ear against the door. He ceased pushing on the latch, for he did not want to miss a word.
“…sooner than we thought,” Lark was saying.
Oliver pictured her bent over her lover’s supine form, that long hair she took such pains to conceal dragging over the scurvy jack-dog’s chest.
“Careful now,” said the gravelly, half-familiar voice. “It won’t do for us to get caught before we’re even out of the gate. Are you sure that bit of blond London fluff is none the wiser?”
The rude scall. Blond London fluff indeed! Surely Lark would set him straight.
“Lord Oliver remains as blissfully ignorant as a shrieve’s fool,” Lark said. “He takes a bottle to his room each night and drinks himself into a stupor.”
Oliver seethed, then froze as he heard a strange creaking like the sound of leather straps.
“Mind, it’s a tight squeeze,” said Lark with a gasp.
Oliver broke out in a cold sweat. The deceiving little lightskirt! What sort of perversion was she practicing?
“I’m almost there,” said the lover.
Lark whispered something swift and unintelligible. The heavy breathing exploded in a burst of relief, then ceased.
Oliver pressed his ear even harder to the door. In one lightning movement, the door whipped open.
Oliver fell into the room. Blinking, he tried to take in his surroundings: blowing curtains, guttering candle, the watery scent of the river, a man straddling the window casement, half in and half out.
They were on him like a pair of St. Bartle’s footpads. Lark landed with her knees on his chest. Her lover heaved himself back into the room to clamp a hand around his neck.
Sweet Jesu. It was what he dreaded above all other tortures. The slow strangulation. The chest-ripping starvation for air. Oliver’s eyes flew open wide, and he tried to protest, but no sound came out.
“Let up,” Lark whispered, parting her knees to ease the pressure on his chest.
The hands stayed in place.
“For the love of God, look at his eyes! He’s having some kind of fit. Let up!”
The hand loosened. Oliver dragged in a great gasp of air, then slowly, painfully, released it. He gazed up at Lark. The single candle, burning on the mantel, tinged her pale skin and dark hair in precious gold.
He smiled, acting as if such things happened to him often. “I’m naked beneath this shirt.”
She jumped off him so quickly that she landed with a thud on her backside, her skirts riding up over her knees. “How dare you listen at a lady’s chamber door!”
Thank God she was still fully dressed, that he had arrived before she had disgraced herself. Imagining her hulking lover waiting behind him with knife drawn, Oliver tamped down his fear. “Are you a lady? Do ladies in this part of the country entertain men in their private chambers at night?”
“No!” she snapped. “I mean, yes! That is, it’s none of your affair!”
Oliver sat up. Her lover loomed like a shadow against the blackness outside the opened window.
“Have you no shame, sir?” Oliver asked with dramatic outrage. “Will you leave Mistress Lark to defend her honor all on her own?”
“My honor is none of your concern,” Lark retorted. “Good night, my lord.” She looked pointedly toward the door.
Oliver jumped up, glaring at the intruder. A breeze through the window caused the candle to flare, and at last he recognized the man. The heavy jowls. The soft eyes. The withered arm hanging at his side.
In the private darkness of her room, Lark had been entertaining Dr. Phineas Snipes.
“A married man at that,” Oliver said in disgust. “And his wife is a friend of yours, or so it seemed at the safe hold.”
Lark and Snipes exchanged a glance—not one of lust or guilt, but of collusion.
Comprehension hit Oliver like a slap in the face, leaving him relieved and oddly excited. “It’s your secret work, isn’t it? The work of the Samaritans.”
Lark clasped both her hands around his. “Pray do not betray us, my lord. I beg you.”
Lark. Begging. How he loved it.
He was tempted to take advantage of her, to put a price on his silence, yet he found himself saying, “Of course I won’t betray you. I’ll help you.”
She dropped his hand. Head down, eyes looking up through her lashes, she regarded him dubiously. “This is no romp to amuse an idle cove.”
Her stab cut his pride. “Do you think I’m made of no more substance than that?”
“You’ve given me no reason to suppose otherwise.”
“He owes us a blood debt, Lark,” Snipes said quietly. “And Piers is nowhere to be found. That’s why I risked coming here.”
“Who is Piers?” Oliver asked.
“A river pilot. He is also a loyal man who specializes in a certain type of escape. We need him now, and we cannot find him. It’s sometimes necessary for our confederates to disappear from time to time.”
“Then let me play his role.” Oliver was caught by the secrecy and urgency of the plan. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“’Tis risky,” Snipes warned.
“I thrive on risk. What was Piers’s specialty?”
“Helping prisoners escape.”
“From Newgate? By now I know every foul passage and oubliette of the place.”
“Not Newgate,” Lark whispered.
“Smithfield,” said Snipes.
A swift image of sandpits and blackened stakes swept like a shadow through Oliver’s mind. “Ah, gross spectacle.”
“Go back to bed, my lord,” Lark said, not unkindly.
“I’m coming with you.”
“What about your promise to Spencer?”
“Kit will work on it while we’re away.”
Lark and Snipes exchanged another long, considering look.
He wanted to shake them both. “Why do you doubt me?” he demanded. “A ‘bit of blond London fluff’ indeed! Why do you think me a shallow, frivolous nobleman seeking the thrill of a daring escape?”
“Isn’t that what you are?” Lark asked.
“Do not bel
ieve everything you hear.”
“I’ll remember that next time you lie to me,” she shot back.
“You need me,” he said in his most imperative tone. “At the very least, you need my hands at the oars, since your pilot is missing.” He hiked his chin to a lofty angle. “If I fail at Smithfield, you can let me burn there.”
“I like it not,” Lark said slowly.
“You have no choice,” Oliver pointed out. “For if you leave me behind, who’s to stop me from divulging your plan?” He hoped they didn’t realize he would never betray them. He might be a bit of fluff, but he was a loyal bit of fluff.
Their silence seethed with desperate indecision.
He had them.
To Lark’s annoyance, he did look rather dashing. True to his word, he had readied himself in haste and joined them at the river landing. He wore tall boots, fashionably slashed, the tops turned down just above the knees. His cloak was long and dark, and it gave off a rich rustle of silk when he moved. His sword rode discreetly at his hip—a quiet, elegant threat that a thief would not want to test.
“You’re staring, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Is my codpiece unlaced?”
Chagrined, she backed against a mooring post. In the swift wherry, Dr. Snipes was busy preparing to cast off. Lark cleared her throat. “You look too perfect for the dirty work ahead of us.”
He gave a supple bow. “Is this a problem?”
The problem, she decided, was not with the clothes, but with the man himself. He was simply conspicuous. Even in black garb, with nary a bauble nor plume in his hat, Oliver de Lacey stood out. It was his height and breadth, his pale silver-blond hair, which caught the moonlight and shimmered like a halo.
He had a presence. A high vigor, an almost frenzied lack of restraint, an ineffable yet undeniable quality that commanded attention.
“Lark?” he prompted.
She scowled at him. “I cannot think how to make you less noticeable, my lord. Let us go. We should hurry.”
The grin he flashed her shone like a beacon through the darkness. She shot him a quelling look. “Do not smile. It makes you even more conspicuous.”
“Ah.” He sobered instantly. “No smiling. I can’t think why I would smile around you, anyway.”
