The Resurrection of Lady Somerset

by Nicola Beaumont

  He attempted to apologize by following Cyril’s lead and quoting the next line from Romeo and Juliet. “Not having that which, having makes them short.”

  Cyril did not continue the charade, but rather, to Jonathon’s aggravation, took up with reality. “Out of sorts with our lovely Miss Lark, are we?”

  “She is not ‘our lovely Miss Lark’. I thought we cleared that up. She is my Miss Lark.”

  “Can’t say as I remember you being this protective of something since Papa brought home that foal when you were nine, and I wanted to ride him.”

  “Well, he was mine, and you were but five years old. You would have killed yourself and injured the foal.”

  “I see you have a keen ability to shift the subject. An asset, I assure you, but one that does not work so easily on me. I know you too well, brother. Besides, I saw you wiggling your fingers and waving your hands about. Even I do not think you would go to such lengths if you did not care for the miss.”

  “I have no choice. I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt were I to let all pass to you.”

  Cyril clutched his heart dramatically. “You wound me.”

  To Jonathon’s relief, his brother seemed not to notice the faux pas of his statement. He had to be careful not to let anyone know he was being forced by decree to take Lark to wife. He was certainly growing weary of being in constant mind of the secrecy.

  Jonathon sighed. “You know I don’t mean to sound so harsh. I merely state the obvious truth. You are neither ready, nor willing to settle in to such responsibilities. It is an observation, not a criticism.”

  Cyril chuckled. “I know,” he said. “And you have the right of it. I wouldn’t wish to be you for anything in the world. Save, Miss Lark, that is.” He smiled as Jonathon clenched his jaw. “Well, I must be honest with you, Jon. You are, after all, my brother. I would not for the world burrow in on your claim. I do have some manners. But mark my words. Do not ever bring her to tears, for if you do…” He offered a hand to Jonathon. “Do get up and we shall have a drink.”

  Jonathon ignored his brother’s hand and rose of his own accord. “You will not let it be known, that I must study so intently to learn this language of hers?”

  Cyril clapped Jonathon on the back then threw his arm around Jonathon’s shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me. It would not be all the pretty if she were to find out you have more than a stone for a heart, eh?”

  Jonathon eyed his brother seriously. Perhaps Cyril was not such a wastrel after all.

  They walked to the house in companionable silence.

  “So tell me, what had you looking all vexed out there?”

  “Nothing serious. I am just befuddled by Miss Lark.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Cyril surmised, suddenly wise.

  Jonathon pivoted to look at his brother. “There you have what?”

  “‘It’, Jonathon. The problem at hand.”

  Jonathon let out a disgusted groan. “I have no idea what you are on about.”

  “I wonder, have you ever noticed a resemblance to your Miss Lark Blackburn and the late child we once knew, Lark Blackwell of the house of that name?”

  Jonathon froze. He was at a loss for words for several moments before he actually could utter hoarsely, “You see some resemblance?”

  Cyril nodded calmly. “Quite. I find it extraordinary. Almost as if a ghost has come back from the dead. Frightfully eerie if I dwell on it.” He shuddered.

  “I cannot say I had thought of the like.”

  “Mmm,” Cyril muttered. “And I suppose it has not crossed your mind another connection to that fateful eve? That it was hence that Father booted us out. Quite strange, that. Can’t say as it had crossed my mind until just recently. The connection, that is. And now suddenly there is another fair Lark in our midst—with almost an identical name. Do you find it most strange?”

  “I suppose if I had a suspicious and inventive mind I might find it intriguing. But strange? I think not. Just coincidence.” Jonathon looked at his brother in earnest. “People, Cyril, do not come back from the dead.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right. But, tell me, have you had any contact with that dratted Somerset Ghost the gossipmongers run rampant with?”

  “I do not pay heed to gossipmongers. And of course, I have not had contact with any such Somerset Ghost. Ghosts do not exist. Have you gone completely daft, Cyril?”

  “No. Not completely.” Cyril walked into the house ahead of Jonathon and then turned as Jonathon didn’t follow.

  The brothers studied one another in silence.

  Jonathon straightened his back a little under Cyril’s scrutiny. The man had an expression of regality on his features that was quite vexing. It had the effect of making Jonathon feel very much the cat’s paw.

  But there was something much more important that he discovered as he studied his brother—Cyril was quick-witted to a fault. In normal circumstances, this would have troubled Jonathon, but instead it gave him measure to know that Cyril could be trusted with a secret. For, if Cyril suspected a connection between the mysterious Miss Lark and the Lark of the Blackwell family, he had done well to keep it under his hat.

  “I am quite beginning to see you in a new light,” Jonathon said, walking past his brother.

  “I can’t be sure if you mean that as a compliment or a jibe, but I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Cyril didn’t follow his brother. “I must be off. I shall see you on the morrow.” He retrieved his hat and coat.

  “What is tomorrow?” Jonathon inquired.

  Cyril blessed his brother with a mischievous grin. “Why, tomorrow is not today and bound to be full of adventures yet experienced.”

  “Egads! Give me strength,” Jonathon mumbled as he watched his brother depart.

  ~*∞*~

  “You should have been there, my lord, it was wonderful!”

  Jonathon delighted in the animation of Lark’s entire body as she told him of her outing. Since he revealed he was learning her hand language, she had become a veritable chatterbox. Her hands moved with such quickness that he could scarcely comprehend all the words, but her enthusiasm invigorated him. He sipped on his after-dinner sherry and watched the candlelight play across her face and hands.

  “I must admit I quite acted the child at first, poking my head out of the carriage window to allow the crisp morning air to wash my face. Oh, the streets were still wet with dew and the shop fronts, oh, the shops!” Lark stilled her hands and looked at him rather sheepishly. “I am sorry. I have talked and talked this eve without a thought to boring you, my lord.”

  “No, no, do go on, my dear. I am interested in your first experience off the estate.”

  Lark graced him with the widest of grins. “Carriages teemed the streets, and the clatter of horses’ hooves was like an orchestra of music. Ladies and footmen covered the lanes. Bond Street is the most enticing place. I can scarce describe it.”

  “I am very happy to hear your experience was quite pleasant.”

  Her smile faded. “It was not all pleasant, my lord. There was a time when I was quite terrified.”

  He leaned forward and touched her gloved arm. “What should terrify you about Bond Street?”

  “The ladies in the mantuamaker’s. It was harrowing to the complete to have to use my hands to speak. I thought the lot of them would fall away from the counter like dominos.”

  He laughed, and she looked as if he had stuck her with a dagger. “I am sorry. I did not mean to find pleasure in your formidable experience. It was merely the image of the ladies falling away.” He held out a hand to her. “Come. Let’s retire to the library and you may finish your most intriguing story.”

  She allowed him to help her stand and then eased her hand out of his grip. “And I saw your lovely cousin, Marie. We partook of nuncheon and dessert at a delightful place called Gunter’s. The ices were impeccable.”

  As they made their way from the dining room to the library, Jonathon tugg
ed the bell-pull. Chauncy appeared in the great room. “We shall take tea in the library,”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Jonathon turned his gaze back to Lark. “So you like Marie, I gather?”

  Lark stopped walking and turned to him, her hands flying in that same animated fashion. “Oh, yes. She is a dear, not at all like Lady Wescotte. It is hard to believe they share relations.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I am sorry,” she quickly signed. “I completely forgot myself. I hope I do not embarrass you thus in view of the ton. That just would not do.” She looked up directly into his face. “I am sorry,” she signed, her fingers and body slowly deflated from that effervescence she had previously shown.

  He found her charming beyond compare. Without thought, he took her hand in his and gently brushed his lips against her gloved palm. “You are like buttercups and honey, my dearest,” he said.

  She gazed up at him with a caressing glow in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she might speak, but then she lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  Her mouth was soft and warm. He had never experienced so gentle an embrace, and it touched him to the core. He tightened his grip around her fingers and pulled her closer, then raised his other hand to stroke her soft cheek. Her cornflower blue eyes fluttered closed; she looked like an angel.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled the lavender scent of her. How could he have ever thought someone so delightful could be deceitful?

  He took her lips with his own. Her dainty curves leaned against his body, and an urgency welled within him. He released the hand he held between them and pulled her ever closer. She framed his face with her hands in an embrace that sent spirals of desire through his body. And suddenly it was as if someone had drenched him with a bucket of cold water.

  He shoved her away from him with such force he had to reach out again to keep her from tipping over. He dropped her hand and stepped backwards himself. “What the devil am I doing? I have birds in the attic!” He noticed her startled, hurt expression. “Do not look at me thus. We may have to wed, but we will certainly never, ever…ever…” At loss for an appropriate word, he simply raked his hand through his hair. “Bloody hell!” The oath escaped him before he could pull it back. He bolted past Lark and above stairs to his chamber. What kind of man was he to make love to a woman who might very well be his relation?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Oft-times in the midst of turmoil genius sprouts, Lord Somerset thought as he made his way through West London. So many quandaries had plagued his mind of late, that he had scarce been able to solve any of them. Then, last evening, a brilliant idea popped into his head for dealing with Aunt Harriet. With a little luck and crafty persuasion, he would teach the toplofty old squab a lesson she would be hard-pressed to forget.

  Lord Somerset greeted the house steward with a warm smile. “Good morrow Simpson. Do announce my arrival to Lady Wescotte.”

  “How do you do, Lord Somerset. Allow me to extend my condolences,” Simpson said, stepping back to allow Lord Somerset entrance.

  Jonathon pulled off his riding gloves and handed them to the steward. “I trust Lady Wescotte is up and about?”

  “Yes, my lord, however, you do come unannounced.” Simpson looked a little perturbed, but Jonathon ignored it. Arriving unannounced was part of the plan, part of the pleasure. Aunt Harriet despised impropriety—especially in one of her kin. It would definitely set her in a tither, and he would no doubt have the upper hand.

  “Do not fear for your position,” Lord Somerset said, shrugging out of his overcoat and handing it to the servant. “I shall be sure to tell Lady Wescotte the fault was all mine.”

  Jonathon couldn’t remember feeling so completely full of mischief in ages. It felt good.

  “If you do not mind waiting, I will announce you, my lord.”

  Jonathon nodded and watched the butler walk away.

  When next Simpson appeared, he looked quite bedraggled, and Jonathon had the decency to feel sorry for him. The steward bowed politely. “Lady Wescotte will see you now,” he said on a sigh. “However, I am to inform you it is the only exception she will make.”

  “That so? Well I suppose we’ll see.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Simpson replied, his tone echoing his doubt of Jonathon’s ability to overturn the lady’s decision.

  Jonathon found his aunt in the parlor with a cart of tea next to her chair. She waved a ringed finger at Simpson. “Leave us,” she demanded. “And do not disturb us unless someone is dying. And then only if it is someone of importance,” she called after the departing butler. “I suppose you want tea now that you have interrupted my solitude. For heaven’s sake, Jonathon, it is only half past eleven. An ungodly hour to take visitors.”

  He came into the room and stood directly in front of her. She looked unusually overweight this morning, he thought. Pink was definitely not her color. The bombazine morning dress distended around her in the chair, making her look quite like one of those new-fangled hot air balloons.

  Jonathon smiled. “Not mourning, Aunt Harriet?” He asked pointedly.

  She glanced down at the rose-colored fabric. “I am alone in my home, Jonathon. And not expecting callers, I might add.”

  “Are you not going to offer me a chair?”

  She waved an impatient hand in his direction. “As you please. For what are you here? You have spoken with Mr. Smythe?”

  Jonathon sat perched on the end of a chair opposite that of his aunt. “I have.”

  “And?” Lady Wescotte huffed in obvious disgust at the length of time her nephew insisted on detaining her. She dwarfed her teacup in her hands. “Do you take tea?” The question was intoned with irritated cordiality.

  “No thank you. I don’t wish to be a nuisance.”

  “If you wished that, you shouldn’t have arrived unannounced,” she shot back.

  “Yes, well, I am here and ready to discuss business.”

  “Well do get on with it then.”

  “Smythe admitted the truth regarding the parentage of Geoffry,” Jonathon said evenly. He slid back in the seat and watched the look of triumph envelop Lady Wescotte’s face. She didn’t speak for several seconds. It was as if she wallowed in victory while awaiting Jonathon to continue.

  When he did not, she replaced her teacup on the teacart and leaned forward. “So? Am I to assume you will now continue the endowment due me until the contract’s end?”

  “Aunt Harriet, you know I am a man of honor. I wouldn’t dream of trying to cheat you out of what you rightly deserve.”

  “Good,” she snapped, almost too quickly. She smiled then. “What I meant to say, Jonathon, is that I had every faith you would do what is right.”

  “Oh, I know exactly what you meant, Aunt Harriet.”

  She frowned at him for a moment before pasting a satisfied smile to her face once again. “The allowance for this month is, of course, past due. Am I to assume you will distribute that portion immediately and then proceed on course as the agreement states?” She picked up her teacup and tipped it to her lips.

  “No.”

  Tea sputtered from Lady Wescotte’s mouth in the most unbecoming fashion, and it took all of Jonathon’s concentration not to laugh at his overset aunt. Phase one of his plan was much more successful than he could have imagined. He only hoped she would respond just as aptly when he completed this portion and implemented the final stage.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I mean you would be mistaken to assume such things. I will not appropriate the belated portion immediately, nor will I forward any more portions to you.”

  He paused for effect and watched as the woman’s florid cheeks turned a pasty-yellowed hue, and her lips deepened to purple. A slight twinge of compassion made him continue promptly to put her out of her misery.

  “I do not feel my father lived up to his responsibility adequately, Aunt Harriet. I vow to do much better by you and Geoffry…”

 
Her face lit up like a dark London alley suddenly drenched in sunlight.

  “…You should never have been burdened with the raising of a son not your own. I propose to take the boy off your hands and continue with the raising of him personally.”

  The light in her face extinguished. Her lips flapped soundlessly and the teacup rattled in the saucer. She promptly put the china on the serving cart. “Am I to take it that you think I have been an inadequate guardian to Geoffry?”

  “Not at all, dear lady. I admire your selfless sacrifice in shouldering my father’s responsibility. In fact, I thought to reward you for your commendable efforts,” Jonathon said evenly. “I shall have Smythe draw up a new agreement. I shall deliver to you a lump sum as payment for your past trouble, and I shall take Geoffry off your hands. Is that acceptable to you, Aunt Harriet?”

  “We—we—well, I suppose…are you quite positive…I mean do you…What do you know about raising a young boy?”

  “As I was one myself once, I daresay a good deal more than you.”

  “Well, I never. The impertinence.” She struggled to her feet and stared down at him with fierce eyes. “You think you know. Well, we’ll see. Take him. Take him. And we’ll see who knows about the upbringing of children.” She showed him her back. “Good day,” she said, then left the room.

  Jonathon sat for a good deal of time with a curve on his lips which he was unable to straighten. He couldn’t have staged a better response had he been a puppeteer and Aunt Harriet the puppet.

  He rose from the chair, smoothed his tails, and readied to make his leave. If he were going to pull this off without discord, he would have to have Smythe draw up some papers.

  ~*∞*~

  Lark winced, mirroring the pain on Jonathon’s features. She backed away from him. “I am so sorry. I just cannot seem to get the hang of this quadrille,” she signed slowly.

  “‘Tis quite all right, my dear. It would probably do you all the better were there more than just the two of us here. It is awfully difficult to get the right idea without the benefit of all the proper partners and music.”