Clandestine (10 page)

“So Sarah Callaway need never know the whole truth about her cousin.”

“Let Rachel tell her the truth, if she likes.”

“Because gentlemen don't kiss and tell. God, it's almost day! I don't question your ability to handle this, Guy, but—”

“I won't hesitate to call on you, if need be. Meanwhile, there's no need for Miracle to know all these details, when the truth is anyway nothing but shadows.”

“And is yours to confide or not, as you wish.” Ryder rose to his feet and set his cup on the tray. “Though sometimes I think that we try to protect the fair sex far too much. Ladies aren't really the frail vessels our society would have us believe.”

Guy folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. In spite of the coffee, fatigue swam in waves through his blood.

“Then Miracle's changed your view of women quite a bit in the last eleven months.”

“Not only Miracle. Anne may have seemed unworldly, but she's as strongly rooted as any mountain. She didn't hesitate to take off for the Himalayas with Jack last summer.”

His nerves jangled as if exhaustion were jerking them. “And let's not forget the duchess. So tell your wife what you will, Ryder. I have absolute faith in Miracle's common sense, her wisdom, and her strength.”

“Thank you,” Ryder said. “Though, as it happens, I see no need to distress her with any of this. Not because she couldn't handle it, but because it would only make her worry unnecessarily about you.”

“Miracle, Anne, and your mother are each exceptional females,” Guy said, “with the fortitude to marry one of you St. Georges. But unfortunately in the last ten years I've known quite a few frail vessels, and Rachel Mansard is one of them.”

“Though it's Jack's considered opinion that Sarah Callaway has the backbone of a queen.”

“That remains to be seen,” Guy said. “Though I certainly hope so.”

“So do I, because—for all your good intentions—it seems highly unlikely that you can pursue the truth about Rachel without Sarah Callaway discovering that her cousin was your mistress.”

His muscles felt as if he had been swimming for three days without rest. The temptation to let the ocean swallow him was almost overwhelming, but he laughed.

“Devilish, isn't it?”

Ryder stalked across the room to jerk the cloth from the parrot's cage. Eight opened his eyes, then closed them again to huddle down into an avian sulk.

“You do realize,” Ryder said, “that if there was ever a formula for disaster, this is it.”

“Quite so,” Guy replied. “I've been entertaining that delightful conclusion all night.”

S
ARAH
opened her eyes. A vision of pink orchids, sensual and lush, danced on the bed canopy. She blinked. Not orchids. Just the patterned fabric, dazzling where light poured into her room.

The maids must have folded back the shutters without waking her.

Iron-shod wheels rumbled and clanked somewhere outside, the sound muffled by the walls of Blackdown House. The clock hands formed a neat crook, like the crotch of a tree. Two o'clock! She hadn't slept past six in the morning for years, and it was already afternoon?

Sarah grinned, lay back again, and closed her eyes. The house thrummed with silent energy.

Orchids:
cattleya
and
angraecum
and
catasetum
.

Mr. Guy Devoran dressed as a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder.

That heady moment of recognition when her blood had sung symphonies of delight.

She had even thought that his eyes burned with the same wicked ardor, as if he would tear her dress from her shoulders to bury his open mouth in the curve of her neck.

Yet the real nature of love was the warm sharing of affection she and Captain Callaway had discovered. The sacrifice, given willingly. The gracious acceptance of one-sided care. The gentle humor maintained even in the face of disaster. Not this mad, uncomfortable shivering deep inside.

These young aristocrats were so sure of their power. More sophisticated ladies no doubt took that for granted. If one's father or brothers moved through the world with such confidence, surely that would offer some protection against making a fool of oneself?

And Rachel? How could her cousin have lied for so long about so much?

What terrible collapse of love and trust had prevented her from asking her only cousin for help?

Sarah jerked up in the bed as pain spiked cruel fingers into her heart.

G
UY STRODE BACK INTO
B
LACKDOWN
H
OUSE
. P
AUL HURRIED
to take his hat.

“You and Rose are planning to marry very soon?” Guy asked.

The footman flushed. “Yes, sir.”

“Then I wish you both every happiness.” Guy handed him his gloves. “Yet the duchess won't allow her town staff to marry each other, so you can't keep on here together. Please know that there's always a place for you both at Birchbrook. My father keeps country manners and has no objection to married staff.”

“Very kind of you to say so, sir. But Lady Ryderbourne's already seen to it that we'll be employed at the Derbyshire house. We're to have our own cottage.”

Guy smiled. “Then allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune.”

“Thank you, sir, but I'd have worked carrying night soil rather than lose my girl, and Rose would've taken in washing, if that's what it took to be with me. Yet we're both London born and bred, Mr. Devoran. We don't know too much about Derbyshire.” He wrinkled his brow. “But love often requires sacrifice, doesn't it, sir?”

Guy met the man's honest brown gaze. He saw no reason not to honor Paul with the truth.

“I don't know. I'm damned if I can claim to know anything about the true nature of love. Is Rose already back from Brockton's?”

“Yes, sir. Peter Coachman came there this morning, as you required, and Rose carried away all of the lady's things.”

“You and Rose remained undisturbed through the night?”

Sweat broke in visible beads on the footman's forehead. “Yes, sir.”

“It's all right,” Guy said. “I understand that part of love perfectly well.”

So no one had seen anything unusual—including the man Guy had posted to watch outside Brockton's Hotel. Though one quiet night proved little, perhaps the pale-skinned man he'd seen lingering earlier had been just a coincidence, after all.

“Yes, sir,” the footman said. “I'm sorry, sir. I should mention that Mrs. Callaway is waiting in the Ivory Room. I was that distracted thinking about Rose, I forgot.”

To the man's immense surprise, Guy shook him by the hand, forcing him to shuffle the hat and gloves beneath one arm.

“All the best, Paul. Derbyshire's very lovely. You'll like it. And I think you and Rose may expect some rather handsome wedding presents, as well.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Beaming, his face brilliant, Paul bowed his head and walked off.

Guy glanced at the marble columns, the Italian stone floors, the gilt and ebony. Blackdown House must be the pinnacle of any footman's career. Yet Paul would have given up everything he'd worked for just to be with Rose.

Now the newlyweds could settle happily into a cottage on the Wrendale estates—part of the vast holdings of the Duchy of Blackdown—where Ryder and Miracle would spend several months with their new baby later in the summer.

It was bloody absurd, of course, to be jealous of a footman, and he loved Ryder and Miracle, and Jack and Anne, far too well to feel envious of them. His cousins' happiness shone like a golden flame of gladness deep in his heart.

So where the devil did this burning indignation at the unjust caprices of Eros really come from?

Guy laughed at his own folly and ran upstairs. He had far more important things to think about than his past failures with women.

Ten minutes later he knocked at the open door of a room on the second floor, where cases of ivory carvings covered one wall. Sarah Callaway was sitting at a desk near the window, a writing case at her elbow, reading letters.

Her red hair was scraped back into a network of tight braids that hugged the neat contours of her skull. A plain gray dress with a high neck encased her from head to toe. She looked every inch the schoolmistress.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Callaway,” he said. “I see Miracle's been taking good care of you.”

She glanced up. Sunlight flamed into a red halo about her head.

Guy felt his stomach contract. Something in her open gaze seemed to see straight into his heart, as if she would strip away all of his subterfuge.

Pink color washed into her cheeks. The freckles faded into a dance of tiny shadows.

She rose to her feet and bobbed a greeting. “Everyone's been very kind, Mr. Devoran. Thank you. Lord and Lady Ryderbourne came to bid me farewell about an hour ago. Please, come in. You sent for all of my things from Brockton's?”

“Why remain in a hotel, when you may enjoy the hospitality of Blackdown House?”

Guy strode farther into the room, then stopped as if he'd run into a wall. His pulse quickened. If he raised his hand he could touch the edge of the faint aura that surrounded her. The scent spoke of simplicity and rest, yet it also inflamed some deep desire, as if he'd been offered manna when starving.

With a quiet dignity she sat down and rearranged her skirts. “Thank you, sir. I've had all night to think about Rachel. I'm truly very grateful indeed for your assistance, and for Lord Jonathan's and Lord Ryderbourne's, as well.”

He felt desperate to reassure her, so he deliberately kept his tone light. “Not at all. Solving problems is a hobby of mine. I'm glad that you came to me. Please, believe that!”

Glad?
It seemed a damned odd word to describe his true state of mind.

Her hazel eyes remained focused on his face. “You've been out again today, sir? Did you find out anything more?”

Guy swept one hand over his hair. “I slept until noon like the rest of the household, then I made another quick call on Grail before he left town. The duke and duchess already left for Wyldshay with Miracle and Ryder, I assume?”

“Yes, they came to say good-bye. I understand that no one else is here, except for the duke's widowed sister, Lady Crowse.”

“She's elderly and eccentric and you probably won't even meet her. She'll also leave for the country in a few days, but until then she's your chaperon. Once the House of Lords prorogues for the summer, almost no one stays in London.”

She sat back, her eyes thoughtful. “Then Daedalus has probably left for the country as well.”

“Daedalus?”

“I've been rereading Rachel's letters.” Sunlight warmed her hair to bronze as she looked down at the scattered papers on the table. “This man who's been terrorizing her. I thought it would help to give him a name.”

He stepped closer. The scent of green apples enveloped him. His heart thudded as if he were setting a horse at a fence that was too high.

How much sleep now? Five hours in the last forty-eight?

“Then I hope your choice isn't prophetic, Mrs. Callaway. In myth, Daedalus escaped.”

As if he were a lamp, her skin glowed. “Yes, I know, but he was still the maze-maker. Perhaps you'd prefer to choose something else?”

“No, Daedalus is fine.” Guy grasped a chair by its back and spun it into place, facing her across the table. “You will allow me to read your cousin's letters?”

Pretty color still warmed her cheeks. “Some of them are rather personal, and much of what she writes would no doubt seem only silly to you. But, yes, I think that I must. Some of them anyway.” She picked up a large sheet. It had obviously been read many times. “This is the first that's even remotely relevant. It's the letter where she first told me about that day on the yacht with you.”

“She wrote it after she had arrived in London?”

“Yes, last June. I can't fathom why she'd lied to me for so long about still working for Lord Grail, when in fact she was scrubbing floors in that inn. I fear something very terrible must have happened to make her leave Grail Hall that Christmas. Yet whatever the truth of that, I'm certain that she was indeed desperate when she met you. Did Lord Jonathan think the same?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Is that why you paid her so very much for taking a simple pleasure cruise? Enough to keep her without working for several months, you said?”

“Your cousin played a more critical role in rescuing Anne than she really knew. Jack's very wealthy. She was the recipient of his generosity, not mine.”

“There's more than one way to be generous, Mr. Devoran. Rachel's fear may not have been over losing her position, but her panic about an uncertain future was real, and you were infinitely courteous and considerate in the face of it.”

Discomfort crawled up his spine. “Was I?”

“Yes, I think so. You must have guessed that she'd given you a false name and wasn't used to working in a kitchen, yet you didn't try to pry even once into her odd situation, did you?”

“Why would you consider that to be kind? Perhaps I was merely indifferent.”

“Here,” she said, holding out the paper. “Now that I know what really happened, it's madly disconcerting to read this. Yet I don't think that she made up everything, you see.”

Guy felt as if he were suspended in some uncomfortable trap, like a fox snared in a wire. With enough gnawing he might yet get free, though it would probably be at the cost of a paw. Yet if he was to get to the bottom of Rachel's latest disappearance, he was going to have to read her letters.

He flicked open the paper and skimmed through the florid phrases.

Mr. Guy Devoran was such a bright miracle of generosity, Sarah. As you know, I had been feeling quite desperate—

Guy skipped several paragraphs of falsehoods about Lord Grail, until his gaze stopped once again on his own name.

Not only was he incredibly kind, but Mr. Devoran is so very handsome and with such a wonderful smile. He made me think of Oberon. Not some silly fairy king, but the most powerful ruler in nature, all brilliance and light. I'm already half in love!

Guy tossed the letter back onto the table as if he'd been scalded. While he had been searching in vain for Rachel—obsessed with that first meeting—she had been writing all this nonsense to her cousin?

“She was exaggerating,” he said. “Most of this is gibberish.”

Sarah gazed at him steadily, her color still high. “Yet I'm almost sure that the heart of Rachel's emotions is always true, even though the facts may be wrong. It's the same with all the rest of her letters.”

“God! How can one possibly know? Reading that is like swimming just beneath the surface of a pool, caught between the world of the air and the dark undercurrents in the water. Where the two meet, everything is distorted.”

“I don't know about that,” she said. “Ladies rarely swim.”

He laughed and leaned back. “So what's emotionally true about that letter? The relief that she was in possession of a large purse of gold and safely out of an uncomfortable situation, I assume.”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “And her admiration for you.”

“All very flattering,” he said, “but I don't recall that she paid me much attention that day.”

Her fingers moved rapidly as she sorted through the scattered letters. “Yet the same adulation runs through many of these. Remembering that one day at sea was a bright light in an otherwise dreary existence.”

Part of him wanted to believe it. Rachel had said the same when she'd first turned up on his doorstep.
I simply could not forget you, Mr. Devoran.
Yet it couldn't be true! She had disappeared for most of the year before that, hiding herself away even when he had discreetly advertised for her in the newspapers.

“It was the ocean she remembered so fondly,” he said. “Not me.”

Sarah's skin paled, then flushed all over as if she were being boiled like a lobster, though she laughed.

“Then perhaps you don't realize your real effect on women, Mr. Devoran?”

“I'm Blackdown's nephew,” he said carefully. “That brings me a certain amount of attention, even some small glory. Yet I remain, as you see, unattached.”

She looked down. “And that bothers you? I thought young gentlemen enjoyed being unattached?”

“Of course,” he said dryly. “Like butterflies, we flit from flower to flower—even orchids.”

Hot color burned over her cheeks. She began to fold the letters to set them back into her writing case.

“My pulse has been a little unsteady since you first walked into this room,” she said. “I have thought it all through very carefully, the benefits and the risks.”

He sat upright. “What risks?”

“The minute I first saw you, I guessed that you might flirt a little. Young gentlemen always do, however automatic and meaningless it may be. Yet it's not necessary, Mr. Devoran, and I prefer not be the recipient of any charitable gallantry.”

Astonishment pinned him to the chair. “I don't understand.”