Lord of Secrets (3 page)

Though he knew he should offer his condolences and move on, David couldn’t tear himself away. He settled against the rail, lounging with his weight on one elbow. “I take it you and your father often sailed together?”

“Goodness, yes. And my cousin joined us whenever his studies permitted, though that wasn’t as often as we would have liked. Papa was determined to see as much of the world as possible. I’ve not only traveled to India, I’ve also been to Egypt and the Levant, up and down most of the Continent, and as far west as Canada and the West Indies. We added the Italies to the list last year, and this year, America.”

How old was she? Eighteen? Twenty? She must have spent most of her life roaming from place to place. “I’m impressed. Speaking for myself, I find travel rather wearying.”

“Oh, so do I.”

His brows rose in surprise. “But I thought—”

“Papa loved to travel. I just loved Papa. Not that I’m complaining,” she rushed to explain. “As agreeable as it would have been to stay home long enough to make friends my own age, I’m grateful now for the memories my father and I shared. I’ve seen so much. And perhaps you would enjoy travel more, Lord Deal, if you had a traveling companion.”

Perhaps—and perhaps he would enjoy passing a kidney stone. Still, her earnest defense of life with her father left him wondering what kind of future she could look forward to now, given Lord Whitwell’s sudden passing. It was none of David’s business, but she
had
come to his cabin the night before, dragging him into the thick of her family tragedy. “Forgive me for asking a personal question, but what becomes of your father’s title and property now?”

“I wish I could say they pass to my cousin Charlie, but he’s not a Whitwell. It all goes to my uncle Roger.”

Something in her choice of words nagged at him. “You don’t really mean
all
, I trust? Surely your father must have provided for you in some fashion.”

She looked down again at her hands. “I have a small competence, but most of Papa’s fortune was entailed. I’m sure my uncle will be quite willing to take me in.” She looked up with what was clearly meant to pass for hopeful good cheer, but it was a strained expression.

“I seem to recall your cousin objecting to that prospect.”

“You heard him calling Uncle Roger ‘rackety,’ did you? You have sharp ears, my lord.”

David had imagined he had at least some right to ask about her welfare. Clearly he’d been mistaken, if she saw his concern as the intrusive equivalent of listening at a keyhole. He stiffened. “I had no wish to eavesdrop. I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that! I was only trying to tease you, my lord, in the way friends do—but that was foolish of me, wasn’t it?”

Looking out over the water, he nodded with an inexplicable feeling of disappointment. “As you say, we’re hardly friends. Your family affairs are none of my concern.”

Her forehead puckered in dismay. “No, that wasn’t what I meant at all. I only meant that you don’t seem the sort of man who enjoys being teased.” She bit her lip. “And now I’ve offended you, when that was the last thing I wished to do. I’m most grateful you came to my father’s burial service.” Impulsively, she reached out to where his arm rested atop the railing, setting her hand on his.

They were both wearing gloves—plain black gloves, as befitted mourning. He had just witnessed the most sobering of spectacles, the committal of her father’s final remains. Her artless gesture should never have sent such a surge of attraction through him, such a shock of pure, concentrated sexual awareness. Before he could stop himself, David flinched and pulled his hand away.

At his reaction, Miss Whitwell broke into a nervous babble. “I’m sorry, I—that is—I fear my cousin is right. My uncle Roger
is
rackety. He’s always been the black sheep of the family.” She rushed to answer his original, impertinent question. “But it’s not as if Charlie can take me in. We aren’t closely related enough to live together without marriage, and not only would marrying him be like marrying my own brother, but he’s already promised to a girl in Shropshire. They’re only waiting until she’s old enough to marry without her father’s permission.”

Lord, why had he drawn back that way? She was going to wonder what was wrong with him, perhaps even suspect where his thoughts had strayed. He had nothing to fear from Miss Whitwell, and he hoped she had nothing to fear from him. Besides, his reaction had clearly discomposed her. He didn’t expect to be told every private detail of her family life. He’d simply wished to know she’d be all right.

His gloved hand tingled where she’d touched him, but he ignored the sensation to focus on her unguarded outburst. “Have you no other relatives in England? No married sister or widowed grandmother? No impoverished maiden aunt who might welcome the arrival of a young lady of modest means?”

She shook her head. “There’s only Uncle Roger on my father’s side, and on my mother’s, Charlie.”

With his left hand, David kneaded the back of his right, where he could still feel the light touch of her fingers. Less than a day had passed since he’d first spoken to Miss Whitwell. Why, then, did it bother him so much to learn the narrowness of her prospects? “Hmm...”

Gamely, she scraped together a smile. “Please don’t fret on my account. At the moment, where I’m to live is the least of my worries. You’ve no idea what it’s like, losing a father.”

David had been trying to formulate an excuse for his earlier reaction, his brain laboring to come up with a plausible explanation why a grown man should shrink back from a slip of a girl, but at her words, the justification that had seemed almost within his grasp slipped irretrievably out of reach.

His expression must have mirrored his shifting thoughts, for she said, “How thoughtless of me. You’re the Marquess of Deal. You could never have succeeded to that title unless you’d already lost your own father.”

“Yes. When I was not quite ten.”

The sea air lashed a tendril of dark hair against her cheek. “I’m very sorry. How old was he?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Oh. So young! How did it happen?”

He gave her a long, assessing look. “You really don’t know?”

“No. Why, should I?”

“He killed himself—locked himself in his study, put a horse pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.” How matter-of-fact he made it sound, how manageably remote. In fact, he’d been only a few feet away, playing outside beneath the open window.

The color drained from her face. “Oh, my...”

And now she would grow guarded and distant, as people always did when they learned the ugly truth. Usually he just accepted the reaction, even considered it a blessing of sorts, but this time he found himself making excuses for his father. “The jury at the inquest found he was not of sound mind. It was considered fortunate for me, as otherwise his goods and chattels would have been forfeit. But he’d been behaving irrationally for several days, or so his valet testified.” David forced a smile. “I suppose I have that to console me—madness runs in my family.”

Miss Whitwell stared at him, her eyes wide and incredulous. “I do hope you’re joking.”

“Yes.” He gave a short, uneasy laugh to serve as proof. “One has to have a sense of humor about these things, or one really is likely to run mad. Perhaps that was my father’s problem. I’m told he took everything very much to heart.” Hunching over the rail, David gazed out at the sea.

“Then you were only a boy when you came into the title.”

“Yes, though of course I had a guardian until I attained my majority. My uncle.” His mouth twisted at the memory.

“He was unkind to you?”

David glanced at her in surprise. “No, not in the least. He rarely took any notice of me at all.”

“It was just that you had a strange look on your face when you mentioned him.”

“Did I? I must have been thinking of—someone else.”

“Someone who mistreated you?”

“No, not at all.” He straightened. “Quite the opposite.”

“I’m not sure I understand...”

Bowing, David touched his hat. “Good day, Miss Whitwell. My condolences on your loss.”

Drawing a deep breath, he strode away before he could make the mistake of saying more.

Chapter Two

What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

—
William Shakespeare

Rosalie let herself into her quarters—the same quarters that had belonged to Lord Deal only hours before—to discover her cousin hard at work. The last of the marquess’s belongings were gone, and Charlie was pushing her brassbound traveling trunk into place at the foot of her berth.

“I put Mrs. Howard’s things in the connecting cabin. This is the last of the job.” Charlie glanced at her, his face red with effort. “Exactly what do you ladies pack in these things, cannonballs?”

“And lead bricks.”

“I suspected as much.” Her trunk satisfactorily positioned, Charlie sat down atop it, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat. “How are you bearing up?”

Rosalie motioned for him to move over and took a seat beside him. Though her heart ached and she could have cried at the drop of a hat, at least it was the honest grief of knowing someone she loved was gone, and not the numbness and confusion of the night before. “Better than I expected.”

“It was a fine service, Rosie. Your father would have approved. Even that cold fish Deal turned out to pay his respects.”

“He’s not such a cold fish.” Though she wasn’t sure what to make of the marquess’s abrupt leave-taking after their conversation, Lord Deal had already been waiting on deck when she and Charlie had ventured above at sunrise. He’d been dressed in the same sober mourning as they were, only far more polished—black cravat, dove-gray waistcoat, black coat, charcoal trousers. Even his neatly barbered hair, black and glossy under his curled beaver hat, had looked tailored to the occasion. “He stayed after the service to talk with me about Papa, and about my plans.”

“About your plans...” Charlie opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and let out a sigh.

Rosalie hurried to forestall him. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’ll be perfectly fine. Happy, even. Living with my uncle Roger will mean I can finally settle down. He’s never shared Papa’s passion for travel.”

“How could he, when he was already too busy having a love affair with the bottle?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t drink that much.”

“I
hope
he drinks that much, because I can’t think how else to excuse his conduct. First he marries that actress—”

“I’ve heard she was quite celebrated in her day.”

Charlie’s brows lowered in a scowl. “I don’t care if she performed rings around Sarah Siddons, she’s still the most vulgar creature I’ve ever clapped eyes on. She already had a bastard in tow when your uncle married her. If that woman takes you under her wing, Rosie, there’s not a respectable hostess in England whose doors will remain open to you.”

Rosalie listened in silence, at a loss how to answer. She’d yet to meet her aunt, but even her father had mistrusted Uncle Roger. Though she’d never learned the source of the rift between them, they’d kept their contact to a minimum, carrying out what little communication family needs required through intermediaries like Charlie.

“And then there’s the crowd your uncle runs with,” Charlie went on. “Libertines and ne’er-do-wells, every one of them. They go jauntering about the countryside with nothing to fill their time but race meets, hunting trips and disreputable house parties. Face it, you’ll be trading one kind of nomadic existence for another, only now you’ll have no one to protect you.”

“And what alternative do I have, at least for the present?” She spoke lightly, loath to let Charlie see her misgivings. “I have no marriage prospects. Even if you were mad enough to ask me, I could never think of you as anything but a brother—and I know you’re not mad enough to ask me, because how could you do that to poor Mary Halliday? She has scarcely a year and a half to go before she turns twenty-one.”

He sighed and rubbed his jaw. “I’ll grant you that point. Even if it weren’t for Mary, I can’t imagine us as husband and wife. For one thing, it would be downright cruel to expect you to follow the drum when I know how badly you want to settle down. For another, you’re far too stubborn.” He glanced at her with a dissatisfied look. “You’re sure you can’t afford to hire a companion and set up your own establishment?”

“Not even with the strictest economizing. Though perhaps I could
be
a companion. Do you think Mrs. Howard might be willing to take me on?”

Charlie’s jaw dropped in an expression of comic incredulity. “Are you trying to insult me? First you tell me outright you refuse to marry me, and then you announce you’d prefer to live with that mushroom?”

“I’m serious, Charlie. I could ask her—”

Of course, it would mean having to go to America, where she would be an ocean apart from Charlie and the country she considered home. She doubted she’d have many chances to make friends her age, or the opportunity to meet eligible gentlemen. But at least she’d have some kind of security, looking after Mrs. Howard. She wouldn’t be alone. And it wasn’t as if she could have what she really wanted anyway. She couldn’t simply conjure up a husband, a house and a family out of thin air.

“Mightn’t you work for someone else?” Charlie said.

“Eventually, perhaps. But I’d have to apply for a position, and that would mean living with my uncle in the meantime. Not to mention that I have no references and precious few connections. If you’re worried my aunt’s reputation will damage my standing in society, I can’t imagine it’s likely to recommend me to an employer.”

Charlie patted her arm. “Let’s not talk about it just now. The more I consider the matter, the more I’m convinced it’s too soon. You can’t have managed much sleep last night, and your loss is still fresh.”

“We’ll have to talk about it sometime. We’re due to reach Liverpool in two weeks.” Rosalie stood and dusted off her skirts. “It’s either Uncle Roger or Mrs. Howard, because I have nowhere else to go.”

* * *

David could have insisted, due to his rank and consequence, on taking a permanent place at the head of the captain’s table. Instead, he’d asked Captain Raney to offer the other passengers a turn in the place of honor. Coming from any other man, the gesture would have been hailed as supremely gracious. In his case, however, his shipmates had apparently concluded he preferred to avoid the friendly conversation that took place around the captain to lurk in uncommunicative solitude at the far end of the table.

And they were right.

They must think him cold and proud. Well, let them think what they liked as long as it satisfied their curiosity. He would rather his fellow passengers dismiss him as haughty than question what other reason he might have to keep to himself.

At thirty-one years of age, he preferred a private, predictable and largely uncomplicated existence. He moved in a well-established pattern, spending most of the year in London and removing to his country seat, Lyningthorp, when Parliament recessed. He dined at only one club, nodded to a limited number of acquaintances and scrupulously avoided the company of marriageable females. This voyage home marked the end of his first journey abroad, and he had every expectation it would be his last.

Given the pains he took to avoid awkward entanglements and troubling disruptions to his routine, it took him by surprise when Miss Whitwell braved the curious stares of their fellow passengers to approach him as they all filed in to dinner.

“Do say you’ll sit with my cousin Mr. Templeton and me tonight, Lord Deal.” She had either packed mourning clothes or borrowed them, for she was dressed modestly in a slim-fitting black gown of black crepe, a string of jet beads at her throat. “I’d be honored if you would take my father’s place.”

A stir of uneasiness ran through David. He couldn’t deliver his customary demur, a bland smile and a few practiced but insincere words of regret. After all, the girl had just suffered a tragic loss. Besides, he had no one to blame but himself for the invitation she’d just extended. He should have kept his distance after her father’s burial service instead of lingering on deck to talk with her.

He took care to make his answer sound both respectful and final. “My dear Miss Whitwell, I could never deserve such a distinction.”

Regrettably, she refused to take the hint. “Truly, you’d be doing me a favor. I’ll feel quite lost if my father’s chair remains empty.”

“I assure you, there are others here who would prove more diverting.”

“But I’m not looking for diversion.” She gazed up at him with disarming earnestness. “My cousin Charlie has been laboring to divert me for the past eight hours, and the effort is exhausting both of us. All I wish is a calm, steady presence. And surely you could use the company, my lord.”

She gave him a beseeching look, a heartbreakingly beautiful girl appealing to him for aid, and he almost changed his mind. Almost. Then he reminded himself that Captain Raney would look after her, and firmed his resolve. “It’s most gracious of you to invite me, but I’m not in the habit of socializing.”

Unfortunately, the girl was as tenacious as a barnacle. “Not in the habit, perhaps, but won’t you join our party just the same? I promise we don’t bite.”

Why wouldn’t she let the matter drop? The other passengers were already taking their places around the table. “I’m confident any young lady as charming as you are should have no trouble finding some other gentleman here who’s not only willing to join you, but eager to do so.”

“But—”

He sketched a hasty bow. “You really must excuse me, Miss Whitwell.” He turned on his heel before she could offer another objection.

He strode resolutely to his place at the end of the table, as far as possible from where she customarily sat. It was better for both of them if he had nothing more to do with her.

He took his seat but couldn’t resist the urge to glance back at her. She was hurrying to her join her cousin, her head down, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

Damn. He’d handled that badly. Telling her she could find some other gentleman willing to join her was tantamount to saying he was unwilling. As much as it made sense to hold himself apart, the poor girl had lost her father only the night before. David wished he could turn back the clock and have another chance at the last few minutes. Perhaps then he might find a more tactful way to turn her down.

Then again, perhaps if he had another chance at the last few minutes, he might give in to temptation and say yes.

He sighed. Why did her father have to die on this particular voyage, and why did she have to turn to his door for help? He had no experience at offering comfort and support, especially when it came to innocent young ladies. And now he felt—well, not responsible for her, to be sure, but not entirely unconcerned in her welfare, either. It didn’t help that she was winsome and unaffected and he was far from blind to her charms.

Around him, the din of conversation steadily swelled to fill the cramped confines of the dining saloon. Stewards circled the candlelit table, pouring wine. When they’d served the last of the passengers, Captain Raney rose to his feet and waited as a hush fell over the room.

The captain looked up and down the board. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, as you all must know by now, we’ve suffered the loss of one of our company.” He turned to Miss Whitwell. “With your permission, I wish to drink to the memory of your father. I didn’t know him long, but I feel privileged to have met him and to have sailed with such a man—a gentleman of boundless energy, a loving father, and a credit to his country.” He raised his glass. “To Lord Whitwell.”

Unsociable David might be, but he was hardly so callous as to refuse to toast a dead man. He lifted his glass along with the others, joining in the chorus. “To Lord Whitwell.”

He drank the toast mechanically and set to work on the dinner before him, doing his best to concentrate on his food. Despite a fine cream of leek soup and a roast leg of lamb, however, he couldn’t stop picturing Miss Whitwell’s face as she’d taken her place at the table. For that matter, images of her had been running through his head all day. He liked her shy smile, and the way her cheeks turned rosy whenever anyone paid her a compliment. Then there were her happier smiles—the ones that brought dimples to her cheeks and sometimes even a mischievous glint to her eyes, like the time when she’d told him that awful pun. And her laugh... She had the most musical laugh he’d ever heard, light and silvery and joyful.

He hoped it was only a misplaced sense of kinship, these feelings he had for her. After all, as she’d pointed out to him just that morning, he’d lost a father too.

With a grimace, David picked up his wineglass and drained it. Try as he might, he could never forget the day his father died. No, not
died
—that word was too polite, too commonplace. His father had
blown
his
brains
out
.

For some reason, he’d chosen a bright summer day to do it, a day of blue sky and birdsong. The tranquil country afternoon had seemed perfect for fishing, and in his nine-year-old enthusiasm David had escaped his tutor to go poking about the south garden, digging for worms to use as bait. When the shot rang out through the open window, literally only a few feet from his head, the report was so sudden and so loud he froze, his ears ringing and his heart racing out of time. His face felt wet. He looked down to discover blood spattering the front of his clothes. It was only in the next minute, as the servants burst in to his father’s study and raised a hue and cry, that he realized it wasn’t his own blood spotting his jacket, but his father’s.