“Do you mind if I sit and enjoy the pleasure of your company for a time?” Cyril bowed politely and waited for Lark to nod before sitting an appropriate distance from her. “I see you are writing. Am I to assume, then, that we might converse by such means?”
Lark studied her future brother-in-law. He did not seem to find it strange, her presence this morning. No accusation showed in his eyes and none laced his tone. She wondered if he was merely shielding his suspicions or if he truly saw nothing amiss. She nodded and removed a fresh page to begin the conversation. A fluttering of nerves jostled her stomach. She had to be careful not to give away her living arrangements.
“What is that you are writing?” Cyril motioned to her pages.
“Nothing of importance, sir. I enjoy recording my thoughts at times,” she wrote.
He read her response and then eyed her with a scrutiny that worried her. “You are highly unusual, miss. Not so much that you would record your thought, mind you. I daresay many a woman does that, but rather that you would so openly admit the fact. What were I, or anyone else for that matter, to take and read of it?”
Lark clutched her words firmly. Never had she thought that someone else might partake of her diary. There were private thoughts recorded within, but no one in the household would dare to invade.
“I would not dare to do such a thing, of course,” he assured her. “I merely wondered at the possibility. I have not met a lady with so open and honest a response ere this day. Forgive me if I offended you.”
“You did not offend, sir. I was but surprised.”
“That was of the obvious.”
“Your tongue is quite frank.”
He chuckled, then. “Forgive my insolence if you deem it such, I have never been overblessed with manners.”
Lark considered Mister Rexley for some time. It was true he spoke words that seemed to raise the hackles of many, but she could not help but to like him. There was an honesty in his lack of tact that seemed much more virtuous than the backhanded niceties exuded from the likes of those such as Lady Wescotte.
Besides, she saw something of her own situation in the likes of Cyril Rexley. He was of a respected family, but still not quite accepted by the ripened fruit of society. She would be the same.
Her gaze met Cyril’s and she graced him with a smile ornate with kindness and gratitude. “I must say, Mr. Rexley, I think I am going to like you.”
If only Jonathon would see her in such unclouded regard as did his brother. Perhaps then…
As if manifested by her own thoughts, Jonathon suddenly appeared on the gazebo.
“Good morning, Miss Lark. Cyril.” His words were as cordial as could be on a beautiful morning such as this, but Lark noted how the scowl furrowing his brow belied the tranquility of his greeting.
“I do hope my brother hasn’t been bothering you, Miss Lark.” He gave his sibling a reproachful glance.
Lark shook her head carefully. She did not understand the reason Jonathon’s jaw clenched so tightly. It was a wonder he could even speak considering just how little his mouth actually opened.
“My dear brother, I was merely keeping the miss company. No need to draw your dagger.” Cyril stood and clapped his brother on the back. “I daresay you are a lucky man, though.”
“I am sure you don’t mean to insult my future wife, so I will take that remark as a compliment of my judgment rather than an assessment of some seedy time you have spent together.”
Lark’s gasp had both men turning their attention to her. She wrote furiously upon her paper, then stood and shoved it under Lord Somerset’s nose. “You insult me yourself, sir. If you think me undignified, perhaps you should find another to wed.”
Cyril chuckled as he craned his neck to read Lark’s words. “Guess she told you, old chap. You did slip into a ‘Cyril’ mode there for a time. Question my motives all you want to, brother, but fair your maiden well. She did not invite me to join her; I came upon her quite by accident.”
Jonathon had not meant to hurt or insult her, he had just been so furious when he witnessed her smiling at Cyril. A smile so sweet and encompassing should have been meant only for…him. And the way Cyril gazed at her, well, that was downright reprehensible. A seed that much resembled jealousy had sprouted in his stomach when he entered the gardens and took note of their warm, friendly exchange. He might not be able to have Lark, but the idea of someone else wooing her curdled the blood in his veins.
“Besides, Jon, if you truly care for this lady’s reputation, you wouldn’t have her here at such an hour without chaperon.” Cyril’s chide sounded much like a deliberate taunt. “At least when there are guests in the house to find you out,” he added, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Jonathon wanted to throttle his brother.
“If I am not mistaken I invited no guests to spend last evening. They quite invited themselves by arriving in such a state as they could not possibly find the door back out into the cold.” The nerve twitched in his jaw. Maintaining control was an arduous task.
Cyril, with apparently no control left whatsoever, burst into a million laughs. Jonathon ignored him and turned to Lark. Her unsure gaze darted from one brother to the next.
Jonathon took a step towards her and effectively shut Cyril out of the conversation. With a gentle hand, he lowered Lark’s outstretched arm that still held her rebuke to his face. He took her hand in his and looked at her in earnest.
“I apologize for insulting you. I was not thinking. I was out of my mind with worry when I saw you with Cyril. I thought…” What was he doing? He cut himself off and rethought what he was about to say. To utter the words he had, but in the nick of time swallowed, would only serve to either insult her once again or scare her from him entirely. He wanted to accomplish neither.
She had his emotions quite in a tizzy—one minute vexing him, the next charming him out of his boots. He glanced down at her hand laying in his, his gaze traveling up her gloved arm. His heart almost stopped its steady beat when he noticed a blemish unhidden where the top of her glove met her alabaster skin. “What is that?” he demanded, dropping her hand.
She glanced at the mark on her arm, her face startled and flush. She shook her head and bolted past both Jonathon and Cyril.
“Blast!” Jonathon bit out. That crescent-shaped blemish was the very same as the one as on his own papa’s shoulder.
Chapter Ten
Air refused to fill Jonathon’s lungs. Reality tunneled; everything around him disappeared until all that remained was the mirror image of his father’s birthmark on Lark’s arm. It screamed unholy possibilities. His father had produced one illegitimate child. Why not two? Could this be the reason Peter Rexley had been so secretive and adamant about Lark’s identity and whereabouts? Surely, his father would not have betrothed him to his own half-sister. But how could he be sure? Had not his father’s letter referred to Lark “as a sister” and had it not instructed Jonathon to a marriage of convenience only?
No, he could not believe his father would do such a thing, yet not a year ago, he would have never believed Peter Rexley could commit adultery, but Aunt Harriet had legal papers proving that disability.
Jonathon’s mind’s eye traveled up Lark’s arm and rested on her lovely face. So innocent, so inviting. Absently, he smiled at the way her mouth pouted when she was angry—the way she slumped in her chair, or stormed off, when he damaged her sensibilities. He did not realize until this very moment that losing her would be so painful. His growing feelings for her made his heart hurt. And now, to discover the possibility that she might be forever off-limits was unbearable. He needed desperately to speak with Bentley Smythe.
“Jon?” Cyril’s hand touched Jonathon’s shoulder; reality came crashing to the fore, as he remembered the intimate rendezvous Lark and Cyril had shared.
Jonathon spun to face his brother. “How dare you take private audience with her.” The words blasted from his mouth, and Cyril’s playful countenance did nothing t
o alleviate Jonathon’s black mood.
“I daresay you are bitten by that proverbial monster who dons the color green.” Cyril grinned at his brother in a way very familiar and very irritating.
“Poppycock! Jealousy has absolutely nothing to do with my reaction, brother mine. You are incorrigible, compromising the family’s reputation, but more importantly, that of Miss Lark. What were people to find out about your private interlude? She would be labeled a light skirt in no time. Did you think not of that?” Jonathon groaned in disgust. “Selfish, Cyril, that’s what you are. Always have been, always shall be.”
“You wound me. A shade knavish, perhaps, but never, never selfish. Why, I am constantly of the mind of others. To let the truth be known, it was my utter concern for your fiancée that led me to be in her company from the start.” Cyril gave a flip to his coattail and sat, peering up into his brother’s eyes in quite apparent anticipation.
Jonathon expelled a long sigh that proved to animate his frustration, and cause his brother’s lips to curve into that irritating, upturned state once again. Cyril crossed one leg over the other, and draped a lazy arm across the back of the seat cushion.
“I haven’t seen you in such an agitated state since Papa ousted us from this very house. I daresay it’s quite refreshing to see you still have some emotion, brother.”
“I suppose I have ‘nodcock’ printed across my forehead this bright morn, Cyril? For, surely you would not attempt such a cork-brained excuse for your behaviour under normal circumstances, and goad me, to boot?” He began to travel the confines of the small gazebo and, in the process, inadvertently knocked Cyril’s propped leg from its perch.
Cyril straightened. “No need for physicality, Jon. I should say you are the one who should be reprimanded for compromising Miss Lark’s position. After all, it was not I who had her visit at such an unholy hour with no hide nor hair of chaperone in sight. What say you to that?”
“I say you are deliberately trying to shift the attention of your indiscretion to other, less important, matters.” He looked firmly into his brother’s face and shook an adamant finger. “I tell you now, Cyril. You are to stay away from my future wife whenever possible. I do not want her immaculate reputation sullied by your wayward one. Do I make myself clear?” All he needed was Cyril enamored with Lark.
Cyril stood and looked unwaveringly at his older brother. “Clear as glass, Jonathon.” The amusement was completely void from him now. “Until this moment I did not realize quite how much you distrusted me. I am your brother, after all.” Without another word, Cyril turned and stepped from the gazebo.
“Cyril…wait…”
But he didn’t, and Jonathon was left to watch his sibling storm towards the house. Oh, how he felt like the left shoe devoid of the right. He hadn’t intended to roast Cyril quite so much. It was the pressure of it all—First Lark’s speech impediment, then Aunt Harriet’s by-blow disclosure, the subsequent prolonged absence of Bentley Smythe, and Lark’s birthmark—now he had cast out Cyril.
And, as if that were not enough, he had arranged to learn the hand language with which Lark communicated. His first lesson was this very day and he didn’t feel quite up to the challenge of having to swallow his ample pride and learn from the likes of an abigail.
Oh, bother! This just would not do. He was in such constant high dudgeon these days that he was acting like a vacillating weed. What had happened to his steady demeanor and perfectly controlled emotions? He might as well be a silly, love-struck gel. He knew himself, not.
With determination, he descended the gazebo and made his way back to the house. He would reset Cyril.
Cyril had put on his overcoat and stood diligently buttoning the front when Jonathon at last found him.
“Now, Cyril, don’t rush off in apparent dismay. Let’s settle this thing before you go. I am quite on mark in saying you have misunderstood me.” Jonathon hastened to his brother’s side. “It’s been a trying fortnight. Let us make amends and be brothers once more.” He looked directly into eyes that were a mirror of his own.
“I know I am not a paragon, but I am your brother, Jonathon. And loyal to the end,” Cyril said, meeting his brother’s gaze.
“And this I know. With all my soul, this I know. I was but upset. I can’t speak of all that has materialized these past weeks. I am not myself, and I apologize.” Jonathon clapped Cyril on the shoulder with a strong grip. “Are we set aright?”
Cyril nodded. A grin spread across his face and his dark eyes brightened. “Yes, brother. We are set aright.” He slapped Jonathon on the arm. “Now let me take my leave. I must return home and clean myself up. The ladies await me this eve.”
“You call those females with which you gallivant, ladies?” Jonathon teased.
“As close to one as I dare to get. Such a handsome devil as myself, flock among the ton? Why, I would be hen-pecked in no time.”
They laughed together, and then Jonathon watched his brother get into the ready curricle and urge the horses away.
Jonathon secured the door and turned to look at the staircase. One misunderstanding righted. Now for the difficult measure. Miss Lark Blackwell.
He put one foot towards the stairs and heard a board creek above. He looked up to see Rebekka descending post haste.
“Ah Rebekka, I was about to—”
“Sorry to be late, m’lord,” the abigail puffed as she hurried down the stairs. “Miss Lark was in quite a tizzy, she was. I dare not come down at all.”
“Yes, I am afraid that was my doing. I was about to speak to her about it.”
“Not to worry, m’lord. I tended to her.” Rebekka reached the bottom landing and made her way breathlessly to him. “She is a gentle creature more often than not, but I am afraid she inherited her papa’s temper. Keeps it hidden quite well most of the time. She is not one to seek other people’s wrath, you see. What with being hid away. She don’t quite know how to act.”
So, Rebekka knew they were hiding. He wondered if she knew why. Certainly, his father’s letter had told him the fire had not been an accident, but no clues to intent or perpetrator were included. Perhaps Rebekka knew the answer to these questions. Taking the time to learn the hand language might prove more productive than he first imagined.
He smiled cordially. “No need to make excuses for her, Rebekka. I quite understand her situation.”
He directed Rebekka to go into his study while he issued Chauncy to fetch a light meal. The day was still a hatchling, but Jonathon was famished.
When he returned to the room, he found Rebekka seated primly in the same chair Lady Wescotte had occupied while she had dealt him that fateful news.
The memory made his stomach lurch. Soon, Smythe would return, and Jonathon would be able to clear up that portion of his father’s affairs. Now for the more pressing issue at hand.
Rebekka shifted in the chair and rose when he entered.
He motioned with his hand. “Do sit down. Chauncy will bring in some refreshment shortly.” He crossed the room and circled the desk to sit opposite her. “Where shall we begin?” He queried.
She sat and smoothed out her thinning skirts. “Well, m’lord, I thought we would start with the basics, just as when I taught Miss Lark. You see, each letter in the alphabet has a matching hand sign.”
“Very well,” Jonathon smiled to reassure Rebekka. Although she always seemed to look at him with thoughtful, kind eyes, she appeared a mite apprehensive today.
“Are you quite well, Rebekka? Should we do this another time?”
“I am all right. I find myself a bit nervous, m’lord. After all, Lark was a wee sprite when I taught her the language and not at all the lord of the house.”
“Forget who I am for now, Rebekka. You seem to be a levelheaded abigail, if ever I saw one. I’m quite confident you shall help me understand Miss Lark’s words without a dither.”
“Thank you, m’lord. You are very kind indeed.”
Chauncy entered with a tray of del
icate pastries and tea. With a smile to Rebekka and a nod to Lord Somerset, he presently left the room in silence.
“He realizes we are in private conference,” Lord Somerset offered at Chauncy’s hasty retreat. “Allow me to pour you some tea.” He stood and moved to the tray service Chauncy had placed beside the desk.
After quelling the woman’s protest that he should not wait on her, Jonathon prepared Rebekka’s tea to her specification, then sat back at his desk and sipped his own. “Let us begin, shall we,” he urged.
Rebekka nodded and placed her teacup on the tray. She positioned her fingers. “This is the letter ‘A’.”
Lord Somerset imitated her. “‘A’,” he repeated, the pattern-card of students.
Chapter Eleven
The solicitor’s outer office was filled with the pungent odor of cheroot as Bentley Smythe said his good-byes to Baron Oscar Reginald. Jonathon waited, somewhat impatiently, for the prolific baron to dispense with niceties and finally take his leave.
The baron raised his cigar in greeting as he walked past, and Jonathon smiled, clutching the papers Lady Wescotte had given him.
When the door closed behind Smythe’s other client, the solicitor offered his right hand to Jonathon. “Sorry to keep you waiting, my lord.”
Jonathon stood and shook Smythe’s hand. “Not to worry,” he assured him, sounding much more cordial than he actually felt at the moment. He’d waited a lifetime, it seemed, for the solicitor to return from abroad and was quite impatient to get this mess with Lady Wescotte sorted.
They walked into the privacy of Smythe’s office. “I had several messages from you, Lord Somerset. Is there some problem with your father’s will or holdings?”
“Not at all. I wished to see you about this.” Lord Somerset handed Mr. Smythe the stack of documents. “My Aunt Harriet came to me with these, and I would like to know the validity of them. They are papers from your office. Is it true that Geoffry Wescotte is truly one of my father’s heirs?”
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