Sharon Sobel (24 page)

“I am betrothed to Lord Raeborn, sir. If Mr. Queensman, as my physician, pronounces me well enough to marry, we shall only then be related as cousins.”

The answer seemed to satisfy almost everyone, but Lark could not bring herself to look up and meet Ben Queensman’s eyes. She knew not if he planned to expose her deception, but it appeared that in other matters she had already revealed herself far too plainly. She was foolish to do so and would probably be made to regret it all the rest of her life.

“What have you brought for us, Mr. Siddons?” Miss Hathawae asked softly, and Lark was instantly grateful for the diversion. “If you have not brought your ungentlemanly friends for entertainment, might we hope for some other small pleasure?”

Gabriel Siddons laughed nervously. “Indeed you may, dear lady. But I hope you will not be disappointed to learn it is yet another dissected map. Knowing how difficult the maps of America proved, I decided on one a lot closer to
home. It is a map of the coastline, from Winchelsea to Brighton.”

“I believe you already once picked Winchelsea as your subject, Siddons,” Ben Queensman said. “I remarked on it as an odd choice, since so few people are familiar with it.”

“And yet, the king himself will embark from there to arrive in Brighton on the morrow. It is why I thought this dissected map an excellent choice, so the ladies and my uncle could visualize the route he sails.”

“How very clever of you,” Ben Queensman said dryly. Lark wondered if he was still smarting from Colonel Wayland’s thoughtless comment about his ungentlemanly labors. “And are you quite sure the king travels by sea?”

The tension between the two men was palpable. Lark had never understood the animosity between them, though she had once flattered herself into believing it might have something to do with her. She finally appreciated her own foolishness in that regard, as ill conceived as her determination to avoid an arranged marriage to Lord Raeborn. For it was perfectly clear that whatever made Ben Queensman and Gabriel Siddons go at each other with tipped foils, it was not anything so frivolous as the love of a lady.

“I am quite sure, sir,” Mr. Siddons finally answered. “The royal barge is decorously prepared and is being loaded with provisions.”

“Have you seen it yourself? Or do you rely entirely upon the word of your good friends? You do know the ones I mean, of course. They own a rather sturdy sailboat and seek to discourage those who stand—or swim—in their way.”

Miss Hathawae chose that moment to sit down upon one of the chairs in their small circle, prompting the gentlemen to do the same. Lark looked at her gratefully, knowing she had moved so some of the tension could be diffused. But the two antagonists would not be so easily diverted.

“As a matter of fact, I have only just come from Winchelsea,” Mr. Siddons said. “The king went to visit with friends, but the whole town celebrates his attention and the honor he bestows upon them. I am sure there are those among them who wish he had settled upon their neighborhood as the site for his Royal Pavilion. It would have greatly enhanced the local markets.” Mr. Siddons paused, no doubt reflecting
on his words, and the well-known fact of the many people in and around Brighton who despaired of the hundreds of city folk now summering in their once quiet town. But then he narrowed his eyes at Ben Queensman. “But what do you know of my friends and their boat?”

Colonel Wayland made a slight noise, but Mr. Queensman ignored him.

“Why, everyone knows it is my habit to take the waters in the early morning, before the beach is host to other bathers and clammers. I see a good deal in those quiet hours, including furtive meetings between those on shore and those sailing through.”

“Such meetings are innocent enough, sir. A man might greet strangers to these shores.”

“If a man is confident those strangers are friends.”

“Why would you ever suspect they are not?”

Ben Queensman gave a short, humorless laugh.

“You have apparently forgotten, as your uncle will not, that I am the local physician in these parts. Not very long ago, a man turned up dead on the beach. And several days ago innocent women were attacked by men in a sailboat. Such matters necessarily come to my attention.”

“A dead man is not in great need of a physician.” Colonel Wayland laughed too loudly.

“Unless one wishes to know how he came to be so,” Ben Queensman said with a certain flourish.

“And do you have such knowledge, sir?” Mr. Siddons asked.

Ben Queensman looked at him with barely concealed contempt. “We are in the presence of ladies, my good man. As we are all gentlemen here …”

Lark knew she was perfectly right about the offense he took at Colonel Wayland’s stupid remark. Despite the abundance of uncertainties surrounding everything else, Mr. Queensman’s pride remained perfectly intact. She studied him with unabashed interest, considering how quickly his look of uncertainty had passed and how he managed to maintain control of a conversation in which he ought to have been the least integral participant. Lord Raeborn, their most honored guest and certainly the loftiest among them, might as well have been absent.

It seemed impossible to imagine Ben Queensman so invisible in
a group. His physical bearing and interest in all things made him instantly noticed by those around him; as soon as he spoke, his audience was fully engaged. And possibly enamored. Lark remembered how she had felt ever so long ago, when he had entered the door of her sister’s home, and how she could scarcely comprehend Delphinium’s words, distracted as she was by an unbidden and certain unseemly fascination with him. He was a stranger then, but how quickly the fates had conspired to change that.

He glanced down at her, his eyes glinting with mischief, and Lark wanted nothing more than to rise out of her chair and stand up beside him. If he still stung from Wayland’s barb, she wished to apply the balm to his wound. If he waged some private war, she wished to fight with him. Her love for him, so painfully strong, would never be requited, but neither would it be put aside.

“Do you think the king in any danger, sir?” Lark asked. “Is it possible the two events in question were not accidents?”

Mr. Queensman’s blue eyes widened, but nothing else in his countenance changed.

“I trust our king is safe, surrounded as he is by so many who would protect him. And no, I do not believe Martha Gunn was attacked intentionally, but only stood in the path of another.”

Of the dead man, he said nothing. And while the rest of the company gave a collective sigh of relief, Lark realized the obvious implication of his words. It was a question she had already asked herself. That is, if Martha Gunn was the accidental target, for whom was the missile intended?

She looked up quickly and met his eyes, and intercepted his brief, meaningful nod.

“Then we shall greet the day cheerfully,” Miss Hathawae said graciously. “When the Royal Barge arrives in Brighton Harbor, we shall join the crowd and sing out our praises as loudly as the next person. Our carriages can accompany the escort to the Pavilion, and we shall wave to people in the street. You are quite certain the king arrives by sea?”

“I have it on the best authority, dear Miss Hathawae,” Mr. Siddons said with very much the air of having the last word.

Indeed he did, for Mr. Queensman, so quick to dispute him and wonder at his information, only nodded.

Gabriel Siddons, grasping his moment of triumph, withdrew his little offering from its brown paper wrapping and scattered the many pieces of the dissected map onto a broad table. Lark saw far too many pieces of bright blue paper, indicating the sea on the map, and wondered why he thought such diversions would be amusing. She would have much preferred a new book, or several tubes of watercolor paint so she might devise the same color on a canvas.

But Colonel Wayland, of a different disposition, hastened to the table and began to arrange the small pieces in some sort of order. He gave the appearance of having greater familiarity with the English landscape than with his earlier attempts at the American. But then, it seemed perfectly natural.

Miss Hathawae soon followed them to the table and pulled up a small chair, apparently engaged. Lark wondered if her move was more out of politeness than interest in the map, for she certainly must be sensitive to the fact that Lord Raeborn might wish to spend some time alone with his beloved.

If her action was intended to be a guide, surely Mr. Queensman would take the hint and remove himself as well.

But it was Raeborn who stood up next and stretched his creaking joints.

“I have never amused myself with a dissected map,” he said. “And yet it appears to be just the thing for a day’s diversion. I should like to try my hand at it.”

Ben Queensman promptly rose to his feet, and Lark wondered if she would be entirely abandoned at her seat by the window. But as soon as Raeborn moved off, Mr. Queensman sat down again.

“Are you not fascinated by Mr. Siddons’ little puzzler, Mr. Queensman?”

He settled back into his chair and ran his fingers through his thick hair.

“I am more fascinated by Mr. Siddons himself than by a map of the countryside I have known all my life. Indeed, Mr. Siddons appears to be more of a puzzle than anything he has yet brought here.”

“And yet I consider him a very thoughtful, kind man. He is deferential to his uncle and always pleasant with the rest of us. Indeed, I have found him a more agreeable companion than I usually find you, sir.”

Mr. Queensman’s hand stopped in midair, and for a moment it looked as if he might reach for her.

“But it was never my intention to be pleasant or agreeable, so I had nothing to gain by assuming such a stance. Mr. Siddons, on the other hand, plays his part very nicely.”

“You do not consider him the genuine article?”

“I consider only that the most glowing veneer might be of the cheapest varnish. One does not necessarily see the quality of the wood underneath.”

“And I suppose you are an expert in such matters?”

“I believe I hold a certain degree of authority there.”

“I see,” Lark said, and doubted it not. “Is there any matter on which you will not prevail? Any prize you will not attempt to claim?”

His hand came down slowly to his knee, where Lark watched it knead the firm muscle around the bone.

“I am afraid there is one. A month ago I believed with absolute confidence that none existed, but circumstances have proved me a second Bonaparte. It appears that, like the little general, I am not infallible.”

“You must not blame yourself, sir. After all, you did not ask to be in this war.”

“Of course. I resisted it mightily. But then, I was not told to embrace it as well as I did.”

If his pun was intentional, it aimed to sting her heart. For how else would they endure through the remainder of their lives, but through veiled allusions and metaphors? And what else could this be but his justification for their brief affair, and his gentle valediction? She now knew, with painful understanding, that this day he would return her, outwardly healed but inwardly dying, to his elderly cousin.

“You are a man of strong convictions, Mr. Queensman. I believe you feel things more strongly than most. It is not a defect in your character, but an asset.”

“I might say the same of you, Lady Larkspur.”

But that is where it must end, Lark thought to herself. A nod to mutual integrity and spirit and determination. A suggestion of what might have been if only they had met under
different circumstances and at a different time. But whatever else they shared, the very things that would make them a whole from two separated selves must remain forever unspoken.

Their awkward, unnatural silence went unnoticed by the four companions who seemed to be expending too much energy on the dissected map.

Lark would have gotten up and walked away if it were possible, but she remained a captive of her own making.

“You seem very confident that Martha Gunn was not the intended victim of this week’s mischief, sir. May I ask how you concluded as much?” Lark wished, for her own sake, to return to a conversation that did not affect her quite so personally.

Mr. Queensman, rather than appearing grateful for the door she opened, seemed somewhat distrustful of what lay behind it.

“It is not so difficult to conclude, my lady. Who would wish to do Martha Gunn any harm? She is a bit of a celebrity, if a little stern and forbidding. But she is an honest woman making an honest wage. There are few who would fault her for it.”

“Perhaps her enemies might be those who resent the current popularity of Brighton,” Lark said thoughtfully. “But then, I suppose they would have more quarrel with the king than with poor Mrs. Gunn.”

She saw Ben Queensman sit up straighter in his chair and thought he looked suddenly wary.

“Nevertheless, even if I concede your point, and Martha was an accidental target, for whom might the missile have been aimed? Only Miss Tavish, Miss Hathawae, and I were close by. Anyone else would have been very far off the mark.”

“Where were you only minutes before the shooting, my lady?”

Lark thought carefully before she answered. She had just escaped the hoop of Mrs. Gunn’s protection, diving mischievously below the surface of the sea so she might meet up with Miss Hathawae. Anyone setting her in his sights would have been surprised by her unladylike move.

She looked across at Ben Queensman and saw the face of a stranger.

“Had you just removed yourself, albeit unintentionally, from the line of fire?”

“How would you know, sir?” Lark asked, though she had a fairly good idea how it was possible. His next words confirmed it.

“I was watching from the terrace at Knighton’s. Why else do you suppose Matthew and I arrived on the scene so quickly?”

“It was very rude of you to be watching ladies at a time when we were assured of privacy.”

“I will not argue about the temptations of such a scene, but, in truth, I was more intent upon the men in the sailboat.”

“Mr. Siddons’ friends?” Lark asked with belated, but clear, understanding.