Sharon Sobel (14 page)

Lark looked directly ahead, at the rise of the seawall as it protected the narrow road from the sea and wind. Mr. Queensman’s talk of such things must surely be a trap of some sort, contrived to make her confess to her duplicity. He would like to send her home to Raeborn; of that, she must remain certain. But did he not already own enough evidence to do so? Why continue to bait her and test her endurance?

“There is no potion capable of making one person love another, Mr. Queensman,” Lark said carefully. “There are sweet-smelling things capable of enhancing sentiments, but nothing so strong as to induce in an individual the divine pain of true love. I think it is a blessed affliction that comes quite unbidden and strikes the victim almost at once.”

The cabriolet rolled along steadily, attracting the notice of a flock of gulls and at least two spirited dogs.

“You speak with conviction, my lady. I suppose you know of what you speak with firsthand experience?”

Lark thought of the dozen flirtations of her youth, and the several more serious affairs deemed by many to be of serious
import. She thought of Hindley Moore with hardly a twinge of longing or regret, and the sterile and staid companionship offered to her by Lord Raeborn. And then, with an uncomfortable jolt, she thought of the handsome and industrious gentleman at her side, who had ignited some indefinable passion in her even before they met. And who now, most assuredly, looked upon dear Janet Tavish with the admiring eye of a suitor. She ought to wish only happiness for Janet, but the prospect of her dearest friend settled with the enigmatic Mr. Queensman left her agitated and unsatisfied. She felt an aching hunger to taste of some rare spice she had not yet sampled. She could not name what it was she lacked, but she rather thought he might provide it.

“I believe, sir, it will prove the saddest part of my elegy, for I believe I do,” Lark said, and thought she would burst into tears.

“The building is not yet completed, for the king entertains a good many notions for its construction,” Ben informed his companions as he brought the horses up close to the Pavilion. As he expected, the banners announcing George IV’s arrival were not yet flying from the turrets, though there seemed to be a fair amount of activity in the drive and the courtyard. Perhaps Mrs. Fitzherbert, the king’s devoted mistress, intended to ride out today or planned some frivolous entertainment for her lover’s pleasure. Ben had not heard of it, but surely it was not impossible.

Ben Queensman knew a great deal about the comings and goings at the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, though he rarely revealed more to a confidant than that he had stood in the king’s favor since the days of the Regency. So much could be accounted for by nothing more than the fact that he had been summoned to the Regent’s chamber one stormy night after the court physician, in a drunken sweat, could offer no remedy for what ailed the royal heir. Curiously, for all his talents, it did not require much effort for Ben to determine the cause of the problem.

The king had been walking in the garden at Kensington several days before and had not taken the precaution of wearing any clothes to protect himself. A spider undoubtedly found his rather large Achilles’ heel and attacked the royal
flesh. Thus was Ben able to conclude from the round, swollen area on the king’s foot and the rising fever elsewhere.

The conclusions of the royal advisors were not so simple.

After the fever passed, as Ben expected it would, it was reported to the king that an attempt had been made upon his life by a traitor who had brought poisonous spiders into the garden at Kensington. The more Ben argued that it was likely just a random act of nature, the more he unintentionally worked his way into the king’s favor. And so it happened that Mr. Benedict Queensman, of Brighton, entered into the service of his monarch and became as trusted an advisor as any in the royal retinue.

His responsibilities were rarely arduous; playing whist with the king until dawn might be the most punishing exercise. But occasionally there came reports of treasonous plans and assassination plots. As they came now.

“I think it is a splendid structure,” Miss Tavish said generously. “Do tell his majesty not to change a thing, nor add another turret. I think it perfect.”

“And you, my lady? What do you think of the king’s Pavilion?”

Ben glanced down at the lady at his side and admired her unusual beauty. She would blame him all anew if she knew their little journey had provoked the freckles to come out across her nose and induced color in her cheeks, but he felt willing to risk her wrath for the pleasure it gave him. Her dark eyes fell into the shadow of her bonnet’s stiff brim, but the Oriental turrets of the Pavilion were clearly reflected in their unfathomable depths.

She opened her mouth, and her tongue wet her pink lips. The practical side of his nature wished to warn her that to do so in the salty breeze would likely prove irritating. But another, antithetical side felt tempted to bruise her lips with his own.

He looked away.

“I am not sure it is a very happy place,” she finally answered, surprising him. “I imagine the king, frustrated with so many other things, must have sought solace with his architects and tried to buy satisfaction with such an awesome project. And why in Brighton? Before the king settled upon it as a site, it must have been a lonely place.”

“You forget, my lady, I have lived my entire life here,” Ben said.

“Was that fact sufficient to recommend it?” Lady Larkspur looked teasingly at him.

Something twisted in his heart, and he turned away.

“I hope not, for then my family and I would need to shoulder the blame for the changes done to our comfortable little neighborhood since the king’s arrival. New town-houses have gone up everywhere, often displacing more modest dwellings. The roads are more trafficked, making them unsafe for children. And bathing machines have sprung up on the pristine beaches that were once open to everyone. The natives are not altogether happy with these improvements, although most are aware of the honor due them by the king’s choice.”

“And did you live in one of those modest houses, now gone?”

“I suppose you would like to have me admit to it. But I am sorry to disappoint you by saying I grew up upon and now own a rather large estate just to the north. My ancestors arrived on these shores with the Conqueror, and my cousin Raeborn still bears the original name: de la Reine. Sometime in the seventeenth century my branch of the family anglicized it to Queensman. Not as elegant, perhaps, but more solidly English.”

“It is a very good name,” Lady Larkspur said thoughtfully, “deserving of credit if it is earned. But how came you to Benedict? I know only a few of that name, and one is only a literary character.”

“It also is a family name, one I share with Raeborn. But my parents were not unaware of the literary reference, and used it for their own pleasure. I suspect their nature is as playful as that of your own family. As you Leicesters are all named for flowers in the garden, my sisters and I are named for Shakespeare’s heroes and heroines. I suppose I must count myself lucky their inclinations were not reversed, for I might have found myself called Petunia or something of that sort.”

Lady Larkspur, forgetting herself, laughed out loud, and for a moment Ben could imagine he was escorting any beautiful young lady for a ride in his absurd carriage. But even in a fantasy, unencumbered by her obligations to his cousin
and by her determination to put off those obligations as long as possible, he knew she would never be merely any beautiful young lady. Her beauty, original and deliciously pure, was what had attracted him from the moment he first saw her at Southard’s party. But in all the weeks since, he had come to appreciate her revelations of practical intelligence, bookish knowledge and cutting wit. Her disarming beauty was as much a mask for her true character as her feigned illness was a mask for her beauty.

“Well, Mr. Queensman? Will you not answer me? Or are you so rapt by the display before us, you are speechless?” Lady Larkspur’s sarcastic tongue laced into his reverie, returning him to their business.

He smiled a little sheepishly. “I confess, I am rapt by the display before me and did not hear your question. It is unusual for me to be so distracted.”

Lady Larkspur looked up at him with a gleam of suspicion in her lovely eyes, but wherein he expected a confrontation, she instead turned away. Her shoulders, shedding the protection of the soft woolen shawl, were very straight and rigid and would have been altogether uncompromising but for a heart-shaped birthmark on the nape of her neck. Ben wondered how many gentlemen knew of its presence.

“Lady Larkspur only asked about your familiarity with the Pavilion, Mr. Queensman,” Miss Tavish explained clearly. “You have already told us you are welcome in the king’s company, which is a very fine thing. But have you been within the building, admired its architecture and finery, dined in its hall, danced under the painted sky of the ballroom? Met any of its other tenants?”

“Ah, Miss Tavish, you would tax me too much with your curiosity if it were not for the fact I might answer yes to each of your questions. But let me assure you, for all its grandeur, the Pavilion seems to me to be a singularly uninteresting place. The same might be said for another tenant in residence, though many people are curious to learn about her.”

“Do you mean Mrs. Fitzherbert?” Janet asked.

Ben shrugged his shoulders. “Of course. Mrs. Fitzherbert lives very comfortably here and, I believe, provides a respite for our king when he wearies of court life in London. She is, however, neither flamboyant in style nor exuberant in
speech. She is merely pleasant, gracious and seemingly honest in her manner.”

Miss Tavish looked disappointed.

“I wonder if we might meet her while we are in Brighton,” she said.

“It is not unlikely,” Ben answered. “The king is expected in the near future and will surely provide entertainment. I am likely to be invited and am usually encouraged to bring several guests.”

Miss Tavish clapped her hands. “Could it be possible? Would you truly take Lady Larkspur and me to a party at the Pavilion? It would be the most wonderful thing!”

“I am delighted you think so, Miss Tavish. But you misunderstand me. I did not think to bring the two of you. Surely Lady Larkspur might spare you for an evening so I might indulge your desire.”

Poor Miss Tavish looked confused, so Ben glanced down at the exquisite termagant at his other side. The shoulders seemed a good deal straighter than they even were before, but the delicate birthmark had all but disappeared next to the blushing stain across the lady’s skin.

He leaned over and spoke almost in Larkspur’s ear.

“If your lady fancies an evening at the Royal Pavilion, I promise to indulge her as well. But I will do so under one strict condition: When Lady Larkspur is able to walk through the gates without any assistance, I will be her escort.”

He waited for her to accept his challenge, and almost gave up on hearing it. But just as he lifted the reins again and snapped the horses into movement, he heard her clear her throat.

“When I am able to walk through the gates unassisted, I will neither desire nor need your cursed escort,” she said.

He supposed it was precisely what he deserved.

E
ven as Mr. Queensman deplored the rapid growth of the seaside town in which he lived, Lark thought there remained much to commend it to a discerning taste. With the notable exception of those responsible for the design of the Royal Pavilion, architects clearly designed new town-houses and shops with an eye to the sea and an ear to prevailing preferences in more sophisticated locales. They constructed neat rows of whitewashed buildings, enhanced by decorous awnings and umbrellas, and laid out streets in a sensible grid. The traffic so heartily condemned by Mr. Queensman did not seem so very arduous after London, nor did the proliferation of small shops in the vicinity of the Pavilion.

Brighton appeared, all in all, to be a very congenial place.

Nor could Janet Tavish have desired a more congenial guide. As the three meandered throughout the town, Mr. Queensman pointed out a good many local attractions of interest and answered even the most obvious questions. He paused to make introductions with fashionable sorts, of whom he seemed to know many, and to greet workmen and serving girls, who all seemed to know him. He told a dozen amusing stories and offered all the possible advantages for preferring this place over London. And he made Janet laugh at every street corner and exclaim at each sight.

If he asked Janet to abandon her father’s home and live with him in a cave under the white cliffs, she most certainly would do it, Lark thought angrily. While the man disarmed her friend with his provincial ways, he surely was as experienced a seducer as any rake in town. She would have to lecture her friend on the subject if he ever returned them to Knighton’s, for the poor girl clearly needed her protection.

After some time, the carriage turned into the wind, and there were no buildings nearby to protect them. They seemed to be heading in the direction of the sanatorium, and
yet were on a road unfamiliar to Lark. A well-built stone wall marked a private drive, but they passed no gatehouse. As they came around a turn over the water’s edge, Lark glimpsed the broad veranda of Knighton’s on the hill above.

And even as she guessed at their destination, the low stucco building she had occasionally admired from afar came into view. Built to harmonize with the chalk cliffs and pebbly beach, it nevertheless had a certain grace and elegance. A grape arbor at the threshold to a garden drew the eye along a line of columns and down a stone path to the water. Broad windows opened to the light except where ivy draped too close upon them. And along the terrace bright flowers spilled out of Greek amphoras that looked ancient enough to have been brought to English shores by Alexander himself.

“Goodness, Mr. Queensman!” Janet exclaimed. “Could this possibly be your home? Lady Lark and I have ever admired it from the terrace at Knighton’s and wondered who could be lucky enough to live within. It is a splendid place!”