Loving a Lost Lord (22 page)

“That will have to do,” she said, her expression still troubled.

He didn't blame her. He was troubled himself. But he'd not spend the rest of his life in hiding.

He glanced at the letters again and saw one written in a hand that looked very familiar. He broke the wax seal and opened the letter to find it was from Lady Agnes Westerfield.

He heard a warm female voice in his head as he read, and images began pulsing through his mind. First was a clear memory of looking down at a tall, handsome woman who acted as if it was perfectly natural to talk to a boy perched in a tree and clinging to a grubby mongrel. Mentally he regarded the dog and saw that his friends were right: the original Bhanu was possibly the ugliest dog on the face of the earth, but also the most loving. Lady Agnes had understood that.

Other memories of her began spinning through his mind. Teaching, disciplining, comforting. He could feel her arms around him when he wept after receiving a letter from the Ashton lawyers telling him that his mother was dead. Lady Agnes had given him the warmth he desperately needed, and without revealing to anyone that he had been so weak as to cry. The memories jostled painfully.

Mariah grasped his arm firmly and guided him toward a nearby door. “Let us wait for the surgeon in the small salon.” When they were in private, she drew him down onto the sofa beside her, expression concerned. “What's wrong? You looked like someone had struck you after you read that letter.”

He realized he was rubbing his aching head and dropped his hand. “It was a very kind letter from Lady Agnes Westerfield, and it has triggered a number of memories of my school days. A blow of sorts, but in a good way.”

“How wonderful!” She took his hand, her clasp comforting. “Do you remember other things, like going to Scotland to test your steamship?”

He thought, then shook his head.

“What about your childhood in India?”

He tried reaching back to that time but found nothing new. Her questions helped him focus on the memories he had just retrieved, though. “Mostly I'm recalling school and my friends. How we met, how our friendships developed.”

“Can you recollect your school days in a fairly orderly fashion?”

“Let's see….” His brows knit as he sorted through the jumble of memories. “I remember meeting Lady Agnes, traveling to her house in Kent, and meeting the other boys as they arrived. Learning. Getting into mischief. Summers and holidays with my cousins.” He had sharp recollections of Janey now, and she was truly an adorable child. Feeling disloyal for the thought, he continued, “The memories that have returned seem to be just of those school years, but they feel reasonably complete.”

He smiled as he remembered how each friendship had been built up over time as mosaics of shared enjoyment, worry, and occasional conflict. He'd been amazed that Masterson, Randall, and Kirkland had come all the way to Scotland to look for his body. Now he saw that he would have done exactly the same for one of them. They were nearer to being brothers than friends.

He vividly recalled tossing Randall across the room during one of the
Kalarippayattu
lessons he gave the other boys. Randall's arm had broken. He'd laughed through pain and demanded that Adam teach him the trick of that throw later. The local surgeon, Richards, an imperturbable man of middle years, had bound up the injury. There were countless such stories, such moments, attached to each of his friends—and Adam remembered them all, including what he'd experienced with Wyndham and Ballard, his other classmates.

“This sounds very promising,” she said thoughtfully. “Since you've just regained a large chunk of memory all at once, other pieces may fall into place with equal completeness.”

“Maybe it's a matter of finding the right keys,” he said. “Lady Agnes was the key to my school days.”

Mariah's expression turned neutral. “Janey may be the key to your more recent years.”

Wharf entered the room looking worried. “Your grace, you were hurt?”

Mariah stood, her fingers slipping irrevocably from Adam's clasp. “I leave you to your valet's care. The surgeon will be here soon. You've had an eventful day.”

A murder attempt and a restoration of a large chunk of memory—yes, eventful. It was exciting to have so much of his life back. Perhaps he might recall a clue to who was trying to kill him.

The hard part was watching Mariah walk away.

Mariah was getting better at leaving Adam without looking back. Perhaps when she left for the last time, she'd have the knack of it. She didn't even collapse on her bed. Instead, rather blindly, she made her way to the sitting room she shared with Julia and folded down into a wing chair. Her friend was out, so there was blessed silence.

Were women the keys to Adam's past? Lady Agnes had unlocked a large door, and Mariah suspected that Janey Lawford would do the same when she returned to London. Adam had found more of his past in the private shrine connected to his bedroom. Soon he would have most of his life back again.

He wouldn't need her, and that was as it should be. It hadn't been long since they'd first met, only a few weeks. She would return home and build a life as Miss Clarke of Hartley. When she was old and gray, the time she had known Adam would be the merest ripple in the lake of her life.

But she would not forget him. Oh, no, she would not forget.

Her numbness lasted until Julia swept into the room, her face glowing. “Mariah, I'm so glad to see you! I had the most wonderful visit with my grandmother. The more we talked, the stronger she seemed. I'm so glad I made this journey.”

Mariah pulled herself out of her reverie, which was drifting dangerously close to self-pity. “You look five years younger yourself,” she said warmly. “Tell me about your grandmother.”

Julia's expression became guarded. “She's wise and kind and has always approved of me, even when no one else in the family did. I don't know how I would have managed without her.”

“That is exactly what grandmothers are for,” Mariah said nostalgically. “My Granny Rose felt the same about me, even when I was at my most mischievous.”

Julia settled in the opposite chair with a flurry of skirts. “Did you enjoy your ride with Ashton?”

“Right up until the point when someone shot him,” Mariah said wryly. “He wasn't hurt badly, but it wasn't a good start to the day.” When Julia gasped, Mariah explained what happened in the park.

“For a pleasant man, he seems to have acquired some dangerous enemies,” Julia observed. “And you could have been hurt, too. Or killed.”

Mariah sighed. “I'll be safe when I leave London, and that's only a few days away. I just hope that Ash stays safe, too.”

“He will. He is powerful and intelligent, and he has good friends.”

“I hope that's enough.” It tore at Mariah's heart to think of Adam's warm, passionate body lying cold and dead. She realized her hands were clenched and carefully relaxed them. She had an idea so wicked she shouldn't say it aloud, but once more the virtuous Sarah side of her nature went down in defeat. “Julia—do you know how a woman can prevent herself from becoming
enceinte
?”

Julia blinked but showed no other sign of shock. “I know a method or two. They're not guaranteed, but usually they work.” She gave a glimmer of a smile. “It's the most common reason that women come to me. Especially wives who have too many children. Having babies or not has always been female business.”

“What is the best way to prevent one?” Mariah stared at her hands, which were clenched again. If Julia asked why she wanted to know, she would dissolve with embarrassment.

But Julia didn't have to ask. “A vinegar-soaked sponge is usually effective.” In calm, nonjudgmental words, she described how the sponge was used. “I have a couple of sponges with me, actually. One never knows when one will meet a woman in need. Shall I get you one?”

“Please.” Mariah's voice was barely a whisper.

Julia rose to go to her bedroom for the sponge. As she reached Mariah, she laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

“I might not do it.” Mariah's nails were digging semi-circles into her palms. “But…I might have regrets forever if I don't.”

“Fair enough.”

As Julia turned to head to her room, Mariah asked, “Do you have any romantic interest in the Reverend Mr. Williams?”

“Good heavens, no!” Julia exclaimed, her brows rising. “I've had one husband and I certainly don't want another. You have my permission to flirt with him as much as you like when you return to Hartley.”

Mariah managed a crooked smile. “Perhaps I will. He's pleasant and attractive, and after I go home and embark on a life of blameless virtue, he may be the only eligible man I'll ever meet.”

Julia laughed. “If you go out in London society at all, you will have men clustering about you like honeybees.”

Mariah made a face. “I am not looking to be stung.”

Julia became serious. “Have you wished that Ashton had washed up on someone else's shore?”

“Never,” Mariah said instantly. “Nor am I sorry I fell in love with him.” There, she had said it out loud. “My heart may be dented, but I shall survive. And I quite like Mr. Williams, you know. Perhaps someday I will feel more.”

As Julia left, Mariah wondered if she would have the courage to use the sponge and seduce Adam. And if she tried, whether she would succeed. If he had a clear memory of his betrothal, he would be honor bound not to betray his future wife. But if Janey remained a misty obligation…well, that would be a different matter.

Janey would have him always. Mariah would settle for one single night.

 

Mariah's meeting with her lawyer was midmorning, so after breakfasting in her room, she went to the stable yard behind the house. Adam was standing next to a small, rather shabby closed carriage and conferring with Murphy.

Bemused, she asked, “Was this vehicle already in the Ashton mews, or was it conjured up overnight?”

Adam smiled. “Conjured up. I talked to Murphy yesterday and told him what was required, and, lo, a miracle.”

She chuckled. “Well done, Murphy. This vehicle will disappear into the London streets very easily.”

“Particularly since there is a rear exit to Ashton House,” Adam said. “We must hope that the villain doesn't have colleagues to watch all the exits.”

“This carriage was driven through the gates this morning and looks like it might belong to a tradesman,” Murphy said. “It won't be obvious that the duke is leaving in it.”

Murphy was clearly a talented protector, but as he helped Mariah into the carriage, she wished such skills weren't needed. She settled on the seat that faced backward so that she and Adam wouldn't be sitting next to each other. The more distance, the better—and there wasn't a lot of distance in this small vehicle, even if both passengers were doing their best not to touch.

Murphy himself drove the carriage, dressed in neat but nondescript clothing. As they rolled by the back gardens toward the rear exit, Mariah noticed several soberly dressed men walking inside the walls. “You have guards now?”

“Former soldiers,” Adam replied. “My secretary, among others, insisted on it. The number of guards will increase after dark.”

Mariah tried to relax against the lumpy seat. “This is not a good way to live.”

“It won't be for long, I hope.” Adam sighed. “I wanted to refuse the guards, but there are many people in the household, including you. It would be unforgivable if anyone was hurt due to negligence on my part.” He gazed out the window at streets that became increasingly crowded as they drove east toward the City, which was the ancient business and financial district of London. “Precautions make sense, but I don't think it's possible to fully protect oneself from a determined assassin.”

“Luckily, guns often misfire, and if you're attacked directly, you're very capable of defending yourself,” she said pragmatically. “I still cherish the memory of you throwing George Burke across the drawing room.”

Adam's grin made her want to lean forward and kiss him. She didn't, but it occurred to her that she hadn't seen him smile much lately. “You said your friends first suggested that you were in danger. Why was that?”

His smile disappeared and he tersely described what they had learned about the explosion on the
Enterprise.
When he was done, she said, “So someone wants to kill you, and there is no obvious motive except perhaps resentment of your Indian blood.”

“Maybe I grievously offended someone and don't remember it. I may have had a debauched secret life that friends and family didn't know about, and made enemies galore.” He shrugged. “I'm less interested in the reason than in stopping the fellow.”

“Agreed.” Mariah's lips curved into a smile. “I'm having trouble imagining you with a debauched secret life.”

“So am I,” he admitted. “I don't remember enough about debauchery to know what I might have done.”

They looked at each other and burst into laughter. She covered her mouth with her hand and gazed out the window, thinking how intimate shared laughter was.

She hoped that he and Janey would be able to laugh together.

 

Mr. Granger's chambers were in a middling area, neither rich nor poor, Mariah saw as she descended from the carriage. That made sense. Her father wanted competence but would have looked for it at a reasonable price.

Murphy waited with the carriage as Adam ushered her inside. The office was well kept, though the young clerk had files overflowing his desk. He got to his feet with a smile. “You must be Miss Clarke?”

“Yes, and this is my friend, the Duke of Ashton,” she said, willing to get every iota of benefit out of Adam's lordly presence.

The clerk's eyes widened. “I shall tell Mr. Granger you are here.”

He disappeared and returned in less than a minute, a voice behind him calling, “And make a pot of tea for our visitors!”

Mariah wondered if mere Miss Clarke would have rated tea. When she entered the office, Adam a step behind her, Mr. Granger came forward and greeted her warmly. He was a solid man with graying hair, and while he gave Adam a shrewd glance, he didn't seem inclined to toady.

“Please sit down,” he said, indicating two chairs in front of his massive desk. “I'm delighted to meet you at last, Miss Clarke. Your father always speaks so highly of you and your business abilities. Is he also in London?”

Mariah froze. “You didn't know he is dead?”

“Good heavens, no!” Granger said, shocked. “It just happened?”

She swallowed hard, feeling much as she had when she first received the news. Seeing her distress, Adam said, “It's been some weeks. Mr. Clarke was on a journey to London when he was attacked and killed by highwaymen. We were told he was buried in a local church in Hertfordshire.”

“Mr. Clarke visited me perhaps two months ago,” the lawyer said slowly. “He told me he was considering changing his will and he intended to return soon, but I haven't seen him since. It never occurred to me that such ill fortune had befallen him.”

“Did he say why he wanted to make changes?” Mariah asked, puzzled. “I'm his only heir. Does this affect my inheritance?”

“He didn't say why,” the lawyer replied, “but since the previous will is unchanged, you inherit all his worldly goods.”

“Having recently acquired Hartley Manor, perhaps he wanted to make provision for longtime servants,” Adam suggested.

“Perhaps, though he hadn't mentioned that to me. Maybe he'd just thought of doing that. He was often impulsive.” Mariah's mind began working again. “I received a letter from you confirming his death, Mr. Granger.”

“That's not possible,” he said flatly. “Today is the first I've heard that your father is dead.”

“The letter was on your printed letterhead.”

The lawyer's expression stiffened. “I am not a liar, Miss Clarke.”

Adam intervened. “A letterhead can be stolen or forged. Do you have that letter with you?”

Mariah shook her head. “I didn't think I would need it. I assumed that I would dismiss Mr. Granger because I'd written him four times and he'd never replied.”

Granger's brow furrowed. “I never received any letters, Miss Clarke. I would have attended to them immediately. I know that Hartley Manor is in one of the most remote parts of England, but surely the Royal Mail operates there.”

“It does indeed.” Adam gazed at Mariah. “The Royal Mail runs to Hartley, but in most villages, the post office is in a shop. If that's the case in Hartley, might George Burke have bribed the shop owner to intercept letters addressed to you?”

“That would be highly illegal!” Granger exclaimed.

“But not impossible,” Adam replied. “It seems like something Burke might do.”

Mariah gasped as she thought of another possibility. “If that's the case, letters from my father could have been intercepted as well. He might be alive!”

Adam's eyes were compassionate. “Perhaps. But he has still been gone from Hartley far longer than you expected.”

He was right, she realized. There was also her father's gold ring that Burke had given her. That suggested that her father really was dead. She rose unsteadily from her chair. “Please excuse me, Mr. Granger. I have much to think about.”

He and Adam both stood. “Of course, Miss Clarke,” the lawyer said. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you solve this puzzle.” He hesitated. “If there is no clear proof of your father's death, you won't have legal title to Hartley Manor for seven years.”

“I understand,” she said numbly.

Adam took her arm, saying, “If you learn anything useful, Mr. Granger, send a note to me or Miss Clarke at Ashton House.”

Mariah managed to control herself until they were in the carriage and heading back to Ashton House. She began to shake, then turned to Adam, who held her in his arms.

Hope hurt.