“New directions,” he repeated in a whisper. “Perhaps that is what I need. My life has become too predictable. And far too boring.”
“If this house party is typical of London, I can understand why,” she murmured, almost afraid to speak lest she break the spell that had suddenly bound them. There was something pulsing in the air that had nothing to do with flirtation. It was almost as if she was seeing a glimpse of the real man for the first time in their acquaintance. Breathing became a conscious chore.
“I had never considered myself bored,” he said in wonder. “My days are filled with activities, yet life has become stagnant. I have fallen into a rut. Perhaps more than one, but there is no challenge in ruts.”
“Maybe you are looking at life as a single quality,” she suggested. “Like the sky, life enfolds everyone in its embrace, presenting a similar face to all. Yet if one reverses the perspective, there is so much variety. The sky looks down on sea and moor, on field and forest, on rich and poor. The life-force that animates all living things is constant, yet like the world as seen from the sky, it can be expressed in an infinite number of ways.”
“Is this what contemplation does to you?” he asked softly. “Do you become profound after a short time alone?”
“I doubt it. But you must admit that life is more interesting if one occasionally tries something new.”
He nodded. “True, though I did not come here to analyze my life, but to enjoy the beauty of the day.
Sun raining quiet contentment
.”
“Thornton, and also, sharpened sparks upon the waves.”
He laughed. “But not the same feeling at all. Forgive me for intruding. I will leave you to your solitude.”
“Thank you, my lord. You are
a man after mine own heart
.”
He frowned. “I must be slipping. Shakespeare, but I cannot place the play. Or is it from one of his sonnets?”
She laughed. “Try the Bible,
I Samuel
. But I am not surprised to find you less conversant with that source.”
“Your claws are sharp. I must retire before you strike again, lest I be forced into bed to nurse my wounds.”
“Hardly your customary bedroom activity,” she said without thinking, then blushed furiously.
He laughed. “Minx!”
“You might explore the cliffs beyond the village. There are several stunning views from there,” she suggested, desperate to get rid of him before she said something even more embarrassing – like commenting on the brilliant green of his eyes that made the most glittering emerald appear dull. Or did something incredibly stupid – like running her hands over the hard muscles of his shoulders, or kissing that full, sensuous mouth.
Stop it!
she screamed silently. This was unreal. She was merely off balance because she had expected to spend the day alone.
Thankfully, Bridgeport turned back downhill.
Mark frowned as he retraced his steps to the Manor, blind to the beauties of the day. He would not follow her advice at the moment, having lost some of his enthusiasm for grand vistas. After his earlier reflections on where his life was heading, her words made him wish for nothing more than the solitude of his study in London. As that was impossible, he would have to accept the dubious substitute of the Treselyan library.
Was he really in a rut?
Life had turned stale in recent months, but it was more a case of fragmentation. His public and private lives were totally separate. Worse, both of his halves were further fractured into myriad activities – Corinthian, rake, politician, financier, writer. Even his writing stretched in too many directions – sober commentary, reformist exposés, social satire, poetry. And each face required its own personality.
Rather than boredom, he was suffering from exhaustion.
He had pulled out Thornton’s second volume, leafing through it so he could chide Elaine with inaccurate memory on her ‘Waves’ reference, when the truth suddenly slammed into his midsection. While her quote resembled a line from that poem, it was actually a quotation from ‘The Sea,’ which was part of the as-yet-unpublished third volume.
Could she have seen it at Mr. Beringer’s house? The verses had been sent with the original commission. Or she might be acquainted with Merriweather, who must reside somewhere in the area despite his current absence. Mark had been unable to discover where, for he could think of no way to explain his interest.
But the kaleidoscope of his mind suddenly shuffled memories to form a new pattern.
Helen’s voice – “This is not at all like
Beauty and the Beast
,” and earlier, “She does the most fantastic drawings.”
He pulled out several books Murray had sent that contained Merriweather illustrations. Extracting the samples that had prompted him to accept an artist he had never met, he frowned in concentration, trying to recall that brief glimpse of Elaine’s sketch up on the hill.
The bishop’s voice echoed from a long-ago Sunday – calling the banns for the marriage of Mark Allan Parrish, Lord Staynes, to the honorable Mary Elaine Merriweather Thompson…
M. E. Merriweather. Horror rapidly transformed into fury.
How dared she? And how dared Beringer? It was unconscionable that so well-regarded an artist would perpetrate such a fraud. No chit barely out of the schoolroom should pass herself off as an artist.
He slammed his copy of
Beauty and the Beast
onto the desk. It had been published fully six years earlier. It was ridiculous!
Yet his fury quickly spent itself. Passing herself off as an artist? She
was
an artist. More than an artist, she was a genius with a brush. He could hardly denigrate her talent when he had spent the last two months in awe of it.
He had wondered after Helen’s first riding lesson how Elaine – with her restrictive background – had learned to draw so well. Beringer had lived next door to her for eight years. Why had he never considered that the artist might have taught her? Nor had he ever wondered why she spent so much time sketching – Helen claimed that Elaine was out every day. That was exorbitant even for the most dedicated lady of leisure.
His impressions had been right. She was not a person to live on charity. When she had severed all ties to her family and repudiated marriage, she had pulled herself together and established a paying career.
Mark sank into a chair, willing his heart to cease hammering and his breathing to become less labored. Other thoughts jangled in his mind, raising goose bumps on his arms. She had often demonstrated the ability to crawl into his head, as if his public facade were a window rather than a mask. She had not learned anything from their meetings, either, for she did not connect him to Thornton. She gained her insight solely from his poetry.
Should he tell her? He had considered revealing himself to Merriweather the day he was quizzing the artist’s solicitor. After a lifetime of furtive behavior, it had seemed a frightening step to take. But now it appeared less momentous. Knowing that she was hiding a secret identity of her own, he could trust her to remain quiet about it.
On the other hand, what would be the purpose?
His original intent had been to judge Merriweather’s character. He did not like working with an unknown. The thought had been teasing his mind that he might turn his satirical series for
Life in London
into an illustrated book, but the libelous nature of some of his parodies would require absolute secrecy. Should he speak to Elaine about it?
This sudden urge to bare his soul to another – especially to a female – was shocking, but perhaps it was just a product of impatience. He longed to see what she had done with his poems. Or maybe it was a desire to continue the analysis she had started on Thornton’s character. He had been amazed at her perspicacity, and more than a little frightened at the idea that others might also see as clearly.
Writing had begun as an emotional outlet when he was still so young he could barely hold a pen. Words that he never dared utter to his mother had poured out on paper, to be immediately consigned to the fire lest he be discovered. With time, the paper tales gained incisiveness, becoming exposés of her manipulative cruelty. And he wrote other stories whose characters embodied all the traits she lacked.
After he discovered a secret panel in the old wing, he saved his writings, reading former outpourings as another way to relieve stress. By the time he enrolled in Oxford, he had turned his pen to the oppressed of all classes and began selling his essays to newspapers. His command of language was such that he experimented with poetry, liking the structure that forced him to hone his ideas into precise images. But never had he believed that he was exposing his own core by doing so.
He was not ready for revelation, he decided, returning the books to a shelf. Such an act would risk pain. Not understanding himself in the least, he decided to remain anonymous.
“Yes, Burgess?” Mark looked up from his book as the butler appeared in the library doorway.
“Mickey wishes to speak with you, my lord.”
“Send him in.” The words were prosaic, and his demeanor remained unchanged, but it was surprising that the groom would seek him out. Stable problems fell under Freddie’s purview.
His normally cheeky servant seemed oddly subdued to find himself inside the big house, but Mark soon realized that it was not the setting that was affecting the man’s spirits.
Mickey dropped a wickedly barbed piece of metal on the desk. “Milord, I cain’t say ’ow it come to be there, but I found this under Ranger’s saddle when I brung ’im back this mornin’.”
Mark fingered the piece. Three prongs protruded fully half an inch from one side of a triangular base. “I suppose the points were down.” Anger flicked through his voice.
“Yes, milord.”
“Tell me about the preparations for this expedition,” he ordered softly.
“We was told to have the ’orses ready at ten.” Mickey detailed what everyone had done to accomplish that. Two carriages were harnessed – Lord Carrington’s traveling coach and Mr. Parrish’s curricle – and five saddle horses.
“Was Ranger readied last?” asked Mark.
“Not quite. I ’ad ’im rigged out – though without cinchin’ the saddle tight ’cause I knew ye wasn’t really goin’.” Mickey was the one whom Mark had asked to call him away before the party left; Freddie had been busy when Mark delivered the message. “Afore I could lead ’im out to the yard, Mr. Parrish’s bays spooked. It took four of us to calm ’em down.”
Mark smiled at the disgust in Mickey’s voice. Harold was not known for his horsemanship. His seat was bad, his driving worse, and his judgment of horseflesh left him prey to every coper in the country. The bays were mismatched, ill trained, and nervous, jumping out of their skins at the tiniest sound.
“Who was helping calm the bays?”
Mickey frowned. “Me, Davie, Tom, an’ Freddie.”
“It would be more helpful to consider who was not helping,” decided Mark.
“Jem and Eddie. They was both saddling ’orses.”
“Jem works for Lord Carrington,” he mused, knowing the man well enough to discount any funny business in that quarter. “Who is Eddie’s master?”
“Mr. Hardwicke. The lad’s a good enough fellow, but a mite green.”
“Was there any other time after you saddled Ranger that you were not with him?”
“Once. After we got the bays calmed, we brung all the ’orses round front. I ’ad to give Ranger over to Jem so’s I could come discover the problem that kept you ’ome. You sent t’others on their way, and I took Ranger back to the stable. He were a mite feisty by then, but I figured he just wanted some exercise. It was when I took off your saddle to put on mine that I found that thing. I’d a told you sooner, but you was gone.”
“Thank you, Mickey. It is certainly not your fault, and no harm has been done. But it would be best not to mention this to anyone else until I know why. In the meantime, keep an eye on Eddie.”
Mickey nodded and departed.
Mark paced slowly around the room, his mind churning in disgust. There was little doubt that Eddie had slipped the barb under his saddle. Since the man had no reason to dislike his host – Mark had never even met the groom – Hardwicke must have ordered the action. It would seem that Peter had talked himself into seeking revenge. That was the trouble with high-stakes card games. Losers rarely blamed themselves for their poor judgment.
He grimaced. At several points, he had tried to end the game, but Hardwicke had been belligerently foxed, claiming his luck was on the turn and that no gentleman would deny him a chance to recoup. The exorbitant side bets among the onlookers had made for an explosive situation. And so Mark had continued, unable to convince Hardwicke to write off the afternoon and go home. Short of deliberately losing, there had been no way to minimize the damage. Since allowing the lad to win would merely have encouraged him, Mark had had no choice but to continue, drinking little so as to maintain his wits as the stakes rose higher and higher. He had even accepted that last mad offer of double or nothing on a single cut of the deck. Utter stupidity, of course, but Hardwicke had been past all reason by then.
But this confirmed why the man had joined the house party. What would he try next? Tossing the barb into a drawer, he shook his head and left the library.
* * * *
The guests returned while Mark was in the stable checking on Ranger. Ten minutes later he headed back to the house, only to meet Mrs. Woodleigh when she rounded the corner of the terrace, not five feet away. He stifled a groan. She had not wasted a moment before tracking him down. Nor had the company stayed long in town.
“There you are, my love,” she purred, laying a possessive hand on his sleeve.
“Did you enjoy Bodmin?” he asked politely.
“How could we without you to show us the sights?” She smiled seductively up at him. “It was naughty of you to stay behind.”
“Nothing of the sort.” He shrugged. “Problems must be dealt with immediately lest they turn serious. I warned you that I had too much work to be able to accommodate guests.”