The Duke Diaries (12 page)

Counting eggs and sheep to fleece held far more appeal at this moment. “So?”

“So . . . what?”

“Your visit. Are you here to ask my advice or to offer advice?”

“Neither. I’m here to fish.”

A moment later the corners of her mouth curled and she pulled the largest trout Rory had ever seen from the lake water. He calmly reeled in his line and placed the rod beside him.

“Already?” she asked, not looking at him as she moved the fish beside the others.

“A man can only take so much humiliation in one afternoon.”

“Rory?”

“Yes?”

Her eyes were trained on the line she had cast again in an expert movement. “You must promise you will never hurt her.”

That stopped him cold. “Pardon?”

“Verity. She is my cousin and best friend as you well know.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

She finally allowed her huge, unearthly gray eyes to meet his. “She has more secrets than you.”

He sat up straighter. “Whatever do you mean?”

She cast her fly upon the water with shocking speed. A moment later she reeled in another fish.

He would be damned if he would congratulate her or urge her to answer his question. He knew her well enough to know that she would choose her moment.

The minutes passed with maddening slowness, and his thoughts revolved around her words.

Secrets? Verity had secrets?

And what sort of secret did Esme know about him? Well, he could at least take comfort that he had not been forced to marry a female with a certifiable witch as a forebear.

“She doesn’t know that I know,” she whispered.

He whipped his head around, but Esme was so lost to the moment of reeling in another fish, he thought he might have imagined what she just said.

She quickly put all the fish in her wicker bag and gathered her affairs. “That should do it, then.”

He took her pole and his, and they silently trudged up the hill toward her carriage, which was waiting.

The silence should have felt awkward, but it did not.

Halfway there she finally spoke. “You know, Rory, Verity is not at all like a fish. She is more like the birds her mother so loved.”

He waited, patiently.

“And if you want to invite this little bird to live in your cage, you first have to make the place beautiful and inviting. But most importantly?”

“Yes?”

“You have to open the door.”

A muscle constricted in his side and he couldn’t speak. Instead, he nodded.

When they reached the elegant barouche, with the navy blue Norwich family crest emblazoned on the yellow paint, she turned to take the poles from him and handed them up to the driver, who stored them with reverence.

“Oh, I have a present for you,” Esme said. “For your betrothal.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A gift? For me?”

“Well, you did allow me to fish in peace. In the end at least.”

“If you wanted to fish in peace, then why did you invite me to come along?”

“It’s far more amusing when someone is there to bear witness.” She handed him a rolled sheaf of paper tied with a red ribbon.

“May I?” He held one end of the ribbon with his fingers poised to pull it.

“Of course. It’s my turn to bear witness.”

He pulled and the paper unfurled to reveal the most beautiful charcoal drawing of Verity. Esme had captured her essence in the rendering. Honesty, painfully in evidence, mingled with just the slightest hint of sadness despite the bright smile.

He had seen that look on her face, but only once and very fleeting. He couldn’t wrest his gaze from the compelling drawing. From somewhere far away he heard a whisper of a voice.

“You won’t forget what I said?”

He looked up, only to see the door of the barouche shutting behind her.

The coachman snapped the reins and a matched pair of grays trotted on.

Chapter 9

V
erity looked down at the wretched letter in her hands. Amelia’s usually even lettering was off slightly. It was not surprising, given her abigail’s impossible situation. She read the letter twice and then reread between the lines. Amelia would never ask for help. And the absence of any real news scared Verity more than anything else. She had to go to her. Within the week if possible.

Verity’s head was splitting; the aftereffects of imbibing that fiery frog water last eve.

What was she doing with her life? More than a taste of absinthe at Carleton house after spying on the ducal party, dabbling in Armagnac last night . . . was cheap gin far behind? If the insanity that was her life did not change course for at least a short return to her prior dull days, she might very well have to consider a future stay in an asylum. That would be at least better than where dear Amelia might end up if she herself did not find a solution immediately.

Amelia’s elegant scrawl of black ink filled two pages quite through. It seemed as if a twelvemonth had passed since they had last spoke. But surely it was no more than a fortnight.

God.

She would have to go to London and then quite possibly to Cornwall. Verity wasn’t sure how she would accomplish it, but then again, had she not done precisely what was required to end her banishment?

She was engaged.

She had done what was necessary even if it was only temporary. Now she must go to her faithful abigail and do what must be done to help her. And if there was a chance, she must recover her two missing diaries while in London or more likely find and pay someone to do it for her.

And it would be good to put distance between herself and Rory. She needed many miles to help her remember to stay the course, and end this properly. He had been far too attentive of late, and she could not waver for a moment. He was temptation personified.

Verity pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her drawer and began the reply to Amelia, pausing only once to think of the earliest she could leave.

A knock sounded at the door of the State Chamber.

“Come,” she called out.

Mary Haverty crossed the expanse of elaborate marquetry wood floor. “Dearest?”

Verity looked up to gaze at her beautiful friend. “Yes?”

Mary’s brow furrowed and she tilted her head to examine Verity better. “You look a bit green. Your housekeeper said you had not breakfasted. Are you feeling all right?”

“Wretched, thank you.”

“Ah.” Mary looked at her knowingly. “The obvious mark of a happily engaged woman.”

Verity shook her head and wished she hadn’t. “No. It’s not that.” She couldn’t bring herself to talk about the spirits of yester eve without fear of retching.

“Then, what is it?”

“I must go to London. And then quite possibly to Cornwall. And James will be furious if I show up unannounced at the Duke of Kress’s house party in the latter place.”

“When do we depart?”

Verity closed her eyes and rested her hot forehead in her hands. Esme still was avoiding her, and Verity was beginning to believe fate was ensuring she had a taste of her future state of loneliness in the Lake District. She looked toward Mary finally. “Whatever I did to deserve you for a friend, I would do it a hundred times over to ensure that you were here with me now.”

“My dear,” Mary replied, “we are both of us grateful. I was near to half mad with worry about the future when I found you here.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind coming with me? It’s such a long way.”

“I am certain you will tell me all about it as soon as we’re in the carriage. What day?”

“If you truly do not mind, let’s depart day after tomorrow.”

Mary avoided looking at her while she shook out the folds of her gown. “Verity?”

“Yes, Mary?”

“When I feel like you look right now . . . I always go riding. For a great distance. A good gallop will cure what ails you—and don’t accept any of the revolting concoctions most butlers would have you drink. They usually taste like tar and do not a lick of good.”

V
erity quietly bridled and saddled Captio in the shadows of Boxwood’s immaculate stable. As usual she wore tall boots and James’s cast-off riding breeches from his boyhood. She waved away the stable boy’s aid and saw to mounting the mare alone before setting out at a brisk trot toward her favorite path.

Entirely avoiding the estate’s infamous boxwood maze, which had been the scene of the most humiliating moments of her past as well as numerous moments of panic for many other unfortunate victims of the deadly tall hedges, Verity finally loosed her horse’s head and Captio broke into a canter.

She tried not to focus on the section of the woods ahead, her mother’s favorite place in all the world. Her mother had once called these forested acres the true home of her heart.

Tears formed in the back of Verity’s eyes. She swallowed hard. It was merely the wind, she told herself.

Lord, she longed for her mother. She would know what to do. She had always known what to do.

Oh, she was being so childish. There was no one to turn to. She had only herself to blame. In less than a month, once again, she had made a muck of her life, and probably the lives of a dozen others if she included her entire family. It was only a matter of time before the authoress of the diaries was found out.

She swiped at her face with the back of her arm and regrouped the reins. Captio took the hint and galloped toward the stile separating the lands of the two neighboring dukes. Her horse sailed over the jump with a foot to spare.

Verity tried to think of any good she had done—as her mother would always insist. There was the school in the village. She was finally beginning to see small signs of progress. And she liked teaching. Nothing could have surprised her more. Amelia would surely expire from the shock of it. Then again, Verity sobered, Amelia might very well expire from the shock of something far more serious if she did not take action immediately.

The least of her problems was her engagement. Then again, she had already told Rory her intention. She had only to see it through.

The green rolling hills and hollows of Rutledge Hall’s lower pastures had always been Verity’s favored places to ride. But her heart was heavy with worry, and she sought something less tame to break her frame of mind. She needed more wind in her face, more of a challenge to her ability, and so she turned Captio’s fine head toward the little-used path with dense brush on each side. Around the small bend ahead lay a tricky stone wall. The one James had always forbidden her to jump. That had never stopped her in the past.

The muffled hoot of a barn owl, hiding somewhere in the trees ahead, lent an air of pungently pervasive wildness to the moment as Verity leaned into the blind turn. Captio negotiated the bend and she glued her thighs to the saddle as she faced the imposing obstacle just ahead. Instinctively, she measured the distance, and urged her mare to lengthen her stride so they would arrive at the perfect spot to begin the great leap.

Her mare’s ears pricked forward and Verity’s heart swelled when the mare soared into the air. At the peak of the arc time seemed to expand, and for that one exhilarating moment all Verity’s worries and anxieties flew behind her and she was filled with the sheer joy of being one with nature.

Captio landed hard on the other side, jerking Verity forward. She regained her proper seat with ease.

A flash of movement caught her eye and she turned her head to the right at the same moment Captio shied in the opposite direction. She quickly brought the mare under control.

Rory
. He was moving fast, his gait ungainly, and his face . . . why, it was so contorted, it almost didn’t appear to be him at all. Instead, he was some grim, white-faced variation of a wild animal gone barmy.

“What in bloody hell are you doing?” His eyes were like hard emeralds, gleaming with fire.

Captio jigged in place, and Verity gave her mare her full attention before her reply, which was given in as cool and calm a manner as she would address a lunatic. “I beg your pardon. I did not know you would take offense at my riding in your park. I am your betrothed, am I not?”

“As such I would expect less insane behavior. Have you no sound judgment in that Fitzroy head of yours?” His distorted words radiated pain.

Verity stared at him. Where was the dispassionate, jaded devil-may-care peer of the highest realm?

“Have you nothing to say for yourself? I expect not since no lady in her right mind would set her horse at that monstrosity. Unless, of course, she had a death wish.”

Verity quickly snapped her jaw closed as soon as she realized it had dropped. No words could she form in her mind.

“Get off your horse, I tell you. You will walk home.”

When she did not move a muscle, he approached.

“I’ll snatch you off myself if you do not dismount this instant.”

That released in her the torrent of words that had built up. “No. I don’t think I will. I make it a habit to not freely give myself over to madmen.”

He reached for her horse’s reins and Verity urged Captio away from his grasp. She narrowly evaded him and was about to gallop her mare away before she heard him call after her.

“Verity! Verity. Please . . . for the love of God. Please stop.”

It was the tone of his words that scared her. Right down to her marrow. It was the sound of bleak despair. And she recognized it. She halted Captio abruptly and turned to look at his dejected form behind her.

His eyes were haunted, his posture that of an old man.

Verity dismounted and led her mare back to him. All the anger or fear, or whatever had caused him to behave like a heathen, had dissipated. “What is bloody wrong with you?”

It was his turn to remain silent.

“Well? What is going on here?”

His eyes glazed over and became remote as if he were not of this earth, but far, far away.

She grasped his shoulder with her free hand and shook him. Hard. He barely moved. “Answer me!”

His eyes looked beyond her shoulder in the distance.

She shook him again. “Rory . . . Rory, you’re scaring me. Talk to me. What is it? Where are you?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

She followed his gaze and swiveled her head only to find he was staring at the stone wall.

“The jump? Is that it? But I’ve taken my horse over it many a time. She’s very capable, as you saw.”

A tiny muscle in the hollow of his cheek beat a tattoo. “I—I . . .”

“Yes?” she encouraged gently now.

He shook his head.

“What is it you want? I will do whatever you ask—this is your property, after all—but please, Rory, tell me what is going on. I cannot bear to see you like this.”

“Never . . . please . . .”

“Yes?”

“Please . . . don’t ever go over that wall again.”

“All right.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Rory picked up her hand, his own shaking, and brought her fingers to his lips. He kissed them reverently. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“There is no need to thank me. I was trespassing. It might be different if we were truly betrothed. And, oh, botheration, I know that jump is not the safest in the park. I shouldn’t admit this, but James would have taken a horsewhip to me if he knew.”

Rory’s face, which had been taking on color, turned ashen again.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she began. “Come sit on this log.” She led him to the fallen tree.

“No,” he began. “You sit. I’ll stand.” He propped a foot against the log as she sat down.

She waited. She refused to hurry him.

Finally he opened his mouth. “Verity, I know you deserve an explanation. But, truly, I promise it will do no good—and has nothing to do with you.”

The branches in the trees creaked as a rush of wind brought a sudden chill to her arms. The owl hooted again. “Look, this has nothing to do with curiosity or what I do or do not deserve in your eyes. Here is the thing of it. We are both of us at present in need of . . . of kindness and charity and, well, we
should
be of comfort to each other if nothing else. So I propose you tell me. I won’t judge you—this I promise. I am the very last person to judge, but I can listen.”

He rested his elbow on his bent knee and pressed his forehead against his hand. “I trust you, V. I trust you with my life, I think.”

She waited.

“James had good reason to forbid you to jump this hellish—” He waved at the stone wall, unable to finish the phrase. “It’s where
Catharine
broke her neck.”

“I don’t underst—
You mean Miss Talmadge
? But that’s not right at all. James found her at the bottom of our north field, near the stream. Her horse slid on the muddy bank and she fell.”

“That’s what you were all supposed to think.”

She watched a shudder race through Rory’s body.

H
is body felt leaden. He knew it was fatigue after panic. It had happened only one other time in his life—and not on a battlefield.

She was alive . . . in front of him, sitting within reach. Verity’s complexion was not waxen and white. But that is what he’d envisioned the moment he’d seen her racing toward that bloody wall. It had been a sodding reenactment down to the color of the horse. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could not escape the former haunting scene of fourteen years ago. Catharine’s laugh, her flapping arms, the horse’s refusal at the base of the wall . . . and the sound her body had made when she crashed into the stone wall.