Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (27 page)

“I have. Would you like to see him?”

“Yes, sir!”

“We will first offer Lord Dare refreshment, Harry,” Lady Chance said. “He has been traveling. But let us remove to a cozier place for that.”

“I must see to a matter in the stable,” Ian said. “I will rejoin you in a moment.”

The countess invited Tacitus to follow her. Lady Evelina’s eyes danced quite like her sister’s could. Undoubtedly she knew he would rather be on the road heading toward Calista than drinking tea. But they followed Lady Chance into a parlor that was indeed cozier, with cushioned chairs and a merry fire to dispel the chill.

“Oh dear, Evelina,” Lady Chance said and went to a table strewn with drawings. “I did not realize you had been in here today.”

“I don’t do portraits, Mama, only landscapes. These are Calista’s. I was showing them to Harry this morning.”

An object on a side table grabbed Tacitus’s attention: a statue of a woman carved from milky white stone. That statue had been in Calista’s bedchamber at the inn.

“Aphrodite,” slipped through his lips.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Lady Chance said. “She is fourth-century Attican. B.C., of course. And such superb artistry.”

“My mother is collecting Greek sculptures for an exhibition someday. Calista brought it from up north,” Lady Evelina said. “Do come look at these, Lord Dare. My sister is a remarkably talented portraitist. Just see.”

She held the pencil sketches before him, each drawn with extraordinary skill, but also obvious affection for her subjects. They were of the people of the little village of Swinly. There was the constable as he announced that they were flooded in. There was Miss Smythe with her earnest chin, blushing as she took Mr. Curtis’s arm. There were Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, his good cheer and her pinched disapproval rendered perfectly in pencil. There was the stable boy who had lost his grandmother, and the vicar, and the doctor. And there was the innkeeper and Molly, and even the cat.

“But this one, I think you will agree, is the best,” Evelina said, and offered him another.

It was a picture of him, drawn with such tenderness that he was at least ten times handsomer than in reality.

“It is fantastically accurate, don’t you agree?” Lady Evelina said. “When I first saw these I recognized you, of course. But I do wonder who all these other people are. Probably the residents of the village near Herald’s Court.”

He did not correct her. Calista must have drawn these people from memory, but how she had done so after spending only a day with them was astonishing.

“Ah, Harry, tea is here.” Lady Evelina went to the footman entering with a tray. “Did you bring the poppyseed biscuits, Lloyd? They are Harry’s favorite.”

“Rather, they are Lady Evelina’s,” the countess said with a fond grin.

“I like the lemon tarts,” Harry said stolidly.

“Well, I can’t fault you for liking fruit, can I?”

“My lord, do come help yourself to biscuits before my daughter eats them all.”

Tacitus dragged his eyes from the Aphrodite statue.

“Did any of you just see that— That is— I thought I saw—” For a moment the stone had
glowed
.

They were all staring at him. Then Harry came forward and thrust his plate at Tacitus’s waist.

“If Aunt Evie eats all the biscuits, my lord, you can share my tart.” He held it forward with a hand that quivered a bit, his chin resolute and eyes guardedly hopeful. Tacitus’s ribs abruptly felt too small to contain his heart.

He smiled. “Thank you, Harry. I would be honored.”

Biscuits and tarts and tea were consumed. Ian returned with news that the first foal of the year would drop soon. Evelina showed them a design she was making for the garden behind her brother’s house in town, and the merits of lily ponds and trellises were considered. It was all so enjoyable that Tacitus might have accepted their invitation to remain overnight if he could even momentarily consider lengthening the time before he would again see Calista.

Bidding them adieu at the earliest opportunity, he set off to find the woman of his dreams.

Calista threw the gig’s reins
into the ostler’s hands, said, “I won’t be more than five minutes,” and strode toward the door of the posting house. According to her servants, Mr. Absalom Grange had returned to town. And last night, in her late husband’s cigar case, she had finally found what she was looking for.

Light rain pattered on her hair and cloak, but she was already half-soaked from the mad dash from her house, and entirely livid. And a little rain never harmed anyone.

Few patrons as yet peopled the taproom. Only three stared at her as she entered.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, and shook the soggy document clutched in her hand.

Harry’s solicitor stood up, his eyes darting guiltily to the document, then back to her face.

“You see, my lady, your husband—”

“My
late
husband, Mr. Preston.”

“Your late husband instructed me to draw that up in the event that he perished while you were not in residence at Herald’s Court.”

“While I was not
in
residence
? That is nonsensical. Why would he leave a will that stipulates I must be in residence at Herald’s Court upon his death or Harry would receive none of his liquid assets?” In six years he had rarely allowed her to go anywhere. “I was
always
in residence.”

“That’s what you wanted him to think,” the man to his right smirked.

“Mr. Billicky, you are no longer my late husband’s lackey and no longer in my employ. Your opinion is not wanted here.”

“I find Mr. Billicky’s opinions very useful,” the third man said.

“And you, Mr. Grange, may go to the devil,” she said. “I’ve no doubt that you engineered this implausible program in order to cheat my son out of his inheritance. What were you and Richard quarreling about the morning you called on him? Your commission on this scheme?”

“Good guess,” he said with smug grin.

“I will see you in court before I accede to any of this.”

He rose to his feet. “I’ve another idea, my lady. You run back to your scoundrel of a brother and let him know I’ll be suing you for the house, carriage, and horses too.”

“Mr. Grange, I will have you know that my brother is a Peer of this Realm—”

“With plenty of troubles of his own to manage, I hear, and not much blunt in the coffer. Do you want to be dragging him into your little infidelities, my lady?”

“My
infidelities
?”

“No one need drag Lord Chance into anything,” came a deep voice behind her. “I am here for you to threaten instead, gentlemen. And also to wipe the ground with your faces, if necessary.”

She pivoted around and her shock warred with perfect joy.

“What are you doing here?”

“Staring down these fellows menacingly. Go along with it, hm?” Lord Dare spoke with ease, but his eyes were wonderfully warm upon her.

Mr. Grange glared. “Who’s this, then?”

“This is—”

“I am Dare.” The three clear words declared pure aristocratic authority and sublime confidence. “Also a Peer of the Realm, however with plenty of blunt in the coffer, and actually standing here before you rather than seventy miles away. So, who would like to threaten me first?” He looked at each of them. “Anyone?”

“In point of fact, they were threatening me,” she said and turned to her late husband’s henchmen while butterflies played tag in her stomach. “I will not accept your insults and untruths. If you wish to accuse me of misdeeds, do so before a magistrate and bring proof against me if you can find it. In the meantime, I will be sending these documents to my brother’s legal counsel, who will certainly make mincemeat of them. And if you step one toe onto my property until this is settled, I will shoot the whole foot off. Have I made myself clear?”

Mr. Grange’s face bunched into a scowl. Billicky sneered.

Mr. Preston cast the marquess a terrified glance and stepped forward, pulling a sheaf of papers from his coat.

“These are the only other copies of the letter, Lady Holland,” he said. “The—ah—copies that Mr. Holland actually signed.”

“Damn you, Preston!” Mr. Grange lunged forward. “You won’t—” And then he was flying backward, tumbling over his chair and onto the floor in a great clattering sprawl of shouts and splitting wood.

Beside her, Lord Dare flexed his hand and frowned a bit.

“Haven’t done that since third year, when that scoundrel Abernathy stole my Aristophanes to use as a doorstop. Not without a glove, at least.” His eyes glimmered. “Smashingly satisfying, though admittedly painful.”

She laughed and thought perhaps that she had just fallen in love with him again, if that were possible after falling in love with him so many times already.

“Thank you for your assistance,” she said, and then snatched the papers from Mr. Preston’s hand as he stared in shock at Mr. Grange on the ground and Mr. Billicky backed toward the rear door.

“I think you’ve broken his nose, my lord,” Mr. Preston warbled.

“I daresay,” the marquess murmured.

“L’msten dere,” Mr. Grange mumbled through the bloody neckcloth crushed to his face as he struggled to his feet. “Dou cand do dis.”

“I’m fairly certain she already has,” Lord Dare said. “My lady, are you finished here?”

She tossed the documents into the fireplace and watched the flames consume them.

“Now I am,” she said. “Mr. Preston, I am grateful for your honesty.”

“Truth is, I’d hate to see the little master cut out of his rightful due,” he said, clutching his hat and darting wary glances at the marquess.

She went out of the inn to the street and retrieved the gig from the ostler. After a delay, Lord Dare appeared.

“What were you doing in there?” Her fingers were unsteady on her horse’s lead as he walked toward her. “Breaking Mr. Billicky’s nose as well?”

“I was paying the innkeeper for that ruined chair.”

“You are …” She was full of heat and tingling that made her want to melt against him.

“I am …” He stepped close to her. “Peculiar?”

“Wonderful,” she said upon a smile that arose from her heart. “Thank you for helping me.”

“You had it in hand already,” he said, his gaze scanning her features slowly. “But I am glad I was here to see you prevail. You truly are a most capable woman. And courageous too.”

“I haven’t always been. I used to try to run away from my problems.”

“But no longer?”

“No longer. Why have you come here?”

“I must tell you something.” He looked about the street and then returned his gaze to her. There was intention in it. “But not here.”

“There is a path to my house just over there that avoids the road.”

He told the boy who held his horse to take it to the posting house’s stable. Then they started along the dirt trail, drawing the gig along as they walked, the sun battling with the remnants of clouds and rain making everything brilliantly green. He spoke as soon as they were clear of the village.

“I am sorry I left Swinly as I did, without speaking to you. Without saying good-bye.”

“I had no expectations. I told you that.”

“I know. You made that especially clear. But you deserve more than a man who shares your bed without benefit of marriage.”

“What I do with my body is my choice. No man will control me again.”

He halted, and the gray of his eyes was like storm clouds.

“I understand,” he said. “At least, I think I understand. And I respect your wish for freedom. But, Calista, will you allow me to speak now? Finally?”

The air seemed to sparkle. “Finally?”

“I have spent the past three weeks composing speeches, rational speeches of argumentation worthy of Parliament, of Thucydides and Cicero. None of them suffice. None make clear what is in my heart.” He stood very still. “This is the sum of it: You feel like home to me.”

“Home?” she whispered.

“You will undoubtedly think me mad. I suspected it too. But I’m not. Dear God, I am not.” He stepped forward. “I know you so little, only your beauty, your spirit, your kindness with the people of Swinly, and what you yourself have told me about the past six years. And I knew the girl years ago, that girl who rebuffed me when I would have given her everything, despite my intention of wedding without attachment, despite my fears. Everything—my name, my fortune, my heart. I would have reached into the heavens and battled the gods to pluck down the stars for you, one by one, if you had asked. And I would again, now. I don’t understand this. I only know that you are no stranger to me. And here is the most insane part of it. For three weeks now, fantastical dreams have filled my sleep, visions of your laughter, stories that I know you never told me, things I know we have never done together but that feel so real, so true. I have never seen you dancing in the street in the rain, covered in mud. And yet that image is emblazoned in my mind’s eye, and the sensation in my chest of laughter as I watched you dance. There is that image, that feeling in me, along with dozens of others I cannot explain. The sensation of your hand in mine is
acute
. It is to me as though we had made the memories together, as though these six years had not been lost to loneliness and unhappiness. I don’t believe in reincarnation or whatever the spiritualists call it. I believe I have only this life to live. But though we have not lived any of it except a few weeks together, and those weeks years ago, I know you.” He spoke deeply. “I
know
you.”

“Tacitus—”

“Calista, for six years I have held the memory of you locked in my heart. Three weeks ago when I held in my arms a different woman, a woman so altered from the girl I knew before, still she seemed the same to me. Everything and yet nothing had changed. I cannot shake this and I don’t want to. I will never shake it. You feel like home to me.”

“This is not a dream.” She barely breathed.

He took the final step that brought them together and his hands came around her face, strong and tender.

“Tell me you feel this too,” he said. “Tell me I am not alone in this madness that is no madness.”

“You are not alone in it. You were never alone. Not then. Not now.”

His eyes shone. “Not now?”

“Never. I love you.”

“You love me,” he said roughly.

“I love you.”

“Will you marry me? Please. I will never harm you, never seek to control you or shackle you. You may have your freedom, however you wish it. But be my wife. Marry me and make your son mine to love as well. Please, Calista. Make my dreams come true.”

A sob of happiness broke from her. “This is
real,
” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said upon a gentle smile. “Can you give me an answer now, or do you require time? I will wait. I will wait with extraordinary impatience and I will probably be cross with everyone I know. But if it means you will be mine in the end, finally, I can wait.”

“Tacitus, now I must tell
you
something,” she said, backing away from him and clasping her hands tightly together. “You won’t believe it. But I must say it. And if you cannot live with it … Well, I don’t want to imagine that.”

“Does it concern the matter discussed at the inn just now, the accusation Grange leveled against you?” He spoke with such calm. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and never release him.

“You heard that accusation, yet you have asked me to marry you.”

“I have waited six years for the privilege to do so. Give your news to me quickly, plainly, Calista, and I will be the judge of whether I can live with it.” His face was very serious.

“It is not exactly easy to explain.”

“Allow me to make an attempt, then. You are actually a French spy. There. It is out in the open now. And it’s perfectly all right. I don’t particularly care for half of those fellows in Parliament either, not to mention the king, and I’ve always thought tariffs on brandy were a crime.”

She cracked a laugh and her heart ached with love. It seemed she would never stop falling in love with him.

“You are
absurd
. I am not a spy.”

“All right. You are not a spy. But you have robbed a bank. Several banks.”

She tried not to smile. “No.”

“Of course not. Bank robbing is not nearly adventuresome enough for you. Therefore, you must be a highwayman. How positively thrilling. But I would rather you retire now. Dangerous life, that.”

“No. Tacitus,
please
—”

He seized her and kissed her. His hands went into her hair and his mouth drank her in. She let herself touch him, and adore his lips and scent and body that she craved for a few precious moments, praying that they were not the last she would ever have of him.

He lifted his lips from hers.

“There is nothing,
nothing
that you could do that would drive me away from you. Believe me, Calista.”

“I
didn’t
do it.” She broke out of his arms. “Someone else did.”

“All right.” His jaw was taut. “Tell me.”

She told him.

“I am not insane,” she said after a lengthy stretch of silence during which he only stared at her, no readable expression on his handsome face, and the sunshine battled with the rain for preeminence around them.

“This is …” He inhaled heavily.

“Unbelievable.”

“I was going to say interesting.”

“Interesting?” She stared at him. “That’s all?”

“Well, it’s not
all
. Of course.” His brow furrowed. “I should probably ask you to furnish proof. I suspect that unless I do, you won’t be satisfied.”

“
Tacitus
. You are not
that
peculiar. You cannot simply shrug this off.”

“Calista, I am who I am,” he said simply. “Now, tell me something about me that I did not reveal to you during that day in Swinly. The day that I remember.”

She could not shake her disbelief. “You are not running from me. You are not looking at me as though I am a madwoman. You trust me.”