Skylark (19 page)

“Do you support Hume, then?”

Was he testing her? “He has many interesting ideas, but I cannot agree with his attacks on God and religion.”

“Religion can sometimes be a vehicle for evil. Look at Reverend Jack.”

“His evil, if true, has nothing to do with him being a vicar. True religion is virtuous by definition.”

“Even if it demands that a widow throw herself on her husband’s funeral pyre?”

She frowned at him. “No, but is that truly a religious belief or a social one?”

“You’re trying to define religion to fit your premise. . . .”

When they neared the inn, Laura realized that she was enjoying a spirited philosophical debate. Her first instinct was to flutter and protest that these subjects were of no interest to her, but it was obvious Stephen didn’t dislike her for it.

But really, anyone would think her a bluestocking!

Because of that, she did explain about boredom and the Caldfort library. “I didn’t think the works had made such an impression on my mind. Perhaps one day I’ll join your sister Fanny’s philosophical circle.”

She meant it to be flippant, but he said, “Why not?” But then added, “Cousin Priscilla.”

With a suppressed exclamation, she remembered to be dull and awkward, which was probably helped by a feeling of depression. Was that the sort of woman he admired—a bluestocking?

Lady Skylark’s only accomplishments had been high spirits, beauty, and charm.

Perhaps—and the thought was truly depressing—becoming physically plain changed everything, including Stephen’s impression of her. Was it worse to be assumed feckless when beautiful, or to only be taken seriously when plain?

She paused to frown at him. “I don’t see why an interest in philosophy should require being unfashionable.”

“Nor do I,” he drawled, and she had to fight a laugh. Of course he didn’t. He was the Political Dandy. Even his plain traveling clothes were the height of fashion and beautifully made.

“Thank heavens for that, for I do enjoy pretty clothes.”

“You’ll be back in them soon.”

“Will you still talk philosophy with me then?”

His brows quirked. “Now, what do you mean by that? I will talk anything with you, Laura, whatever you’re wearing.” As he opened the door for her, however, his smile was merely polite. The connection that had spun during their discussion had disappeared.

Laura moved to enter the inn, but a man was about to come out. A man in a long black robe, a three-quarter-length coat of sorts, and a bright blue turban. He stepped back to make way for her.

Laura felt her effort not to stare should be palpable—but then she realized that she
should
stare, at least a little.

She slid a glance to the side as she passed and took in the strange clothes, mahogany skin, strong, austere features, and impassive brown eyes.

And yet she felt that he had studied her just as keenly as she had studied him.

She had to almost bite her lips until they were in their parlor with the door shut. Then she could exclaim, “Farouk. Now we have our excuse to gossip!”

“So we do,” Stephen said, pulling the bell, but Laura sat, suddenly unsteady.

“He’s real. I wasn’t sure until now.”

“Nor was I. Or at least, that Azir Al Farouk was the Arab he sounded like, not a strange device.”

“And staying here. There aren’t many rooms—”

She broke off as the door opened and Jean came in to curtsy.

“We’ll order our dinner now,” Stephen said with unusual coolness.

The maid curtsied again and listed the various dishes available. Stephen gestured for Laura to select and she did so, wondering if he was going to ignore this opportunity for questions.

Of course not. “We encountered a foreign gentleman on our way in,” he said. “Is he a guest here?”

His tone had shifted from cool to icy, and the maid’s eyes turned wary. “He is, sir, yes. But he’s no trouble. Farouk’s his name. From Egypt. Servant companion to a sickly gentleman, Captain Dyer.”

“Does Captain Dyer have a number of such servants?” Stephen asked with an astonished hauteur that made Laura want to giggle. She’d never heard him put on such an intolerably superior manner.

“Oh, no, sir! Just the one. Farouk does everything for his gentleman. Won’t even let us in to change the sheets or build the fire.”

Excitement began to fizz. Because they had a child confined in their rooms?

“Are they staying long?” Stephen asked. “I am not pleased to be sharing a roof with a
heathen
.”

The maid’s fingers were tugging at her apron now. “I’m sure I don’t know, sir. They’ve been here only a week and show no sign of leaving. The climate here is very healthy, you know.”

Perhaps Stephen sniffed. Searching for a heathen odor? Laura pursed her lips, praying not to laugh. Surely Priscilla Penfold would purse her lips at this horror.

“Do these people have rooms near us?” Stephen asked at last.

The poor maid turned pale. “Well, sir, the captain’s parlor lies next to your bedchamber, sir, but there’s no adjoining door! There’s no other way, sir, for Captain Dyer’s taken the center rooms, you see, and we only have the eight up here and two down below, but an elderly couple has those on account of him needing a chair to go out.” She ran out of breath and asked desperately, “Shall I get Mr. Topham, sir?”

Stephen appeared to consider it. “That will not be necessary at this time. At least assure me that there are no children around. My cousin cannot abide a childish racket.”

“Oh, no, sir! No children other than the boot boy.”

Laura longed to soothe the maid, but suspicion and affront gave a better basis for curiosity. She was relieved when Stephen, radiating disapproval, sent the maid off to get their dinner.

As soon as the door closed, she laughed. “You were insufferable.”

His eyes twinkled. “Yes, wasn’t I? But we know our men are here and nicely close.”

“But where’s the child?”

“There may not be one, Laura. That was only supposition.”

She realized she’d built young Henry Gardeyne in her mind to point of reality. “Then who is HG? I know, I know, this could all be a hoax, but it may not be.”

“Perhaps HG is hidden somewhere else. This is all speculation. We need more facts, and we’ll find them in time.”

She almost spit back, “Time!” but suppressed it. Stephen seemed to bring out the child in her.

He turned to look toward his room. “So, we share a wall.”

That was more like it. Laura rose. “You think we might be able to hear something. Do let’s try!”

But he raised a hand. “Patience. Dinner will be here soon, and you can hardly be found in my bedchamber.”

“We could switch. I don’t think it’s fair that you have that one.”

“What? Would I let my frail cousin sleep next door to a heathen savage? I’ll go and listen while you wait for the meal.” When she would have protested, he added, “There’s doubtless no point yet, Laura. Farouk has just left, so who would Dyer be talking to?”

Accepting that, Laura only pulled a face at his back, then went into her own bedchamber to remove her outer clothes. She really must stop acting like a girl—and yet it was as amusing as sharing a bedroom with Juliet at home and chattering as they once had.

She turned, smiling, for her habitual check in the mirror, and remembered. She snarled at Priscilla Penfold and returned to the parlor. Stephen was already there.

“Silent, as expected.” He eyed the door to the corridor. “I wonder if their doors are locked.”

She grabbed his arm. “Now who’s being rash?”

“I will merely be checking out these suspicious characters for fear that they might attack my poor cousin in the night.” His smile was boyish as he slipped free and left the room.

He was back in moments. “Locked, which is certainly suspicious if Farouk is merely a servant.”

Laura frowned in the direction of the next room. “I’m not normally impulsive, but I wish we could break in.”

“Not impulsive? Don’t I remember a prizefight you attended, dressed as a lad?”

“I was twelve. And you took me!”

“Even so. And the time when you and Charlotte went swimming in the river without thought to the view from Ancross.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t have looked. I could remember some of your childish scrapes, you know.”

“I indulged in no scrapes to match yours,” he said, strolling to the window to look out. “What about the time you bribed the gypsy at the Barham fair to let you take her place so you could give most peculiar predictions to your friends and neighbors?”

Laura covered her mouth. “I thought no one but Charlotte knew about that. Did she tell you?”

He looked back. “No, but when I heard some of the fortunes I kept watch, so I saw you slipping out of the back of the tent. So don’t tell me, Laura Watcombe, that you are not impulsive.”

“That, sir, was a carefully thought-out plan.”

But he’d called her by her maiden name, as if he, too, were back in the past.

He didn’t seem to notice. He was looking out of the window again, and said, “Farouk!”

She ran over to look. “Now can we listen? If dinner arrives, you can emerge to deal with it.”

To look out at Farouk, she had pressed close to Stephen’s body. A tingling awareness washed through her, almost causing her to gasp. She slid away, trying to make it look natural.

“You always get your way,” he said, but his voice sounded strange. She glanced at him and saw a tight expression. Disapproval of her impulsive manner, probably. Or disgust at her appearance. Or both. She couldn’t tell. It was most peculiar to inhabit a different skin, to make different ripples in the world around.

They turned together and hurried into the adjoining room, past his nightshirt hanging on a rack before the fire to warm. Through a faint aroma of spicy soap, and him . . .

The shared wall was mostly taken up by the head of the bed and a chest of drawers. He moved into the available space and beckoned her to join him. She could hardly refuse. Or perhaps she didn’t want to, even though she had to squeeze against him there. That frisson dazed her again, and now she was aware of his scent.

She knew about the arousing smell of men, but Stephen’s was both new and familiar. She wanted to press closer to his chest and inhale, but had willpower enough to instead press her ear to the rough plaster wall.

Stephen pressed his right ear to the wall, but his mind could not escape Laura. She was facing him, and they were squeezed into the small space available, her back to the bed. She was almost where he wanted her.

In his arms.

In his bed.

Had she just looked at him with awareness that he was a man, not just her old friend? He was used to assessing situations and making quick decisions, but now, in the midst of the most important situation of his life, his brain seemed like a soggy pudding.

“Can you hear anything?”

Laura’s soft question pulled him out of the pit and he concentrated. “Only a faint murmur.”

“Me, too.”

So hard not to press his body against hers, hard to look anywhere except at her breasts, swelling softly beneath her dull, high-necked gown. Impossible to avoid that perfume.

The one created for Labellelle.

Careless, that. It wasn’t at all the scent for Priscilla Penfold, but he wouldn’t ask her to change it. He tried to remember what scent she’d used as a girl. Something light and flowery, he thought, probably made in the Merrymead stillroom from garden flowers. This was a complex masterpiece.

As she was.

Nicholas had been right.

To all the other Lauras he was aware of, he must now add philosopher and quick-witted partner. He shouldn’t be surprised—Laura had never been stupid or silly.

Something about her appearance was twisting his mind, as well. Would he have even mentioned philosophy to her without her sallow skin and faded hair? On the other hand, the way he was reacting now had nothing to do with Priscilla Penfold.

He swallowed and concentrated again on the voices beyond the wall. Frustratingly, they were almost distinct, so he felt that if he concentrated hard enough he would be able to distinguish words. Either that was untrue or concentration was beyond him.

“Well?” he asked.

She shook her head.

That gave him an excuse to move away. He didn’t want to, but for sanity’s sake, he must.

When they were safely back in the parlor—people could make love in a parlor—she said, “It sounded like a normal conversation, though, didn’t it? No anger or fear? And adult voices.”

He tried to recollect and couldn’t. Devil take it, being squeezed close like that had clearly had no effect on her. Would he have to watch as she again married another man?

“Stephen?”

He pulled his wits together. “Probably.”

She spun away and took a tempestuous turn around the parlor. “How frustrating this is. Is there
nothing
we can do?”

His hungry mind put a different interpretation on her words, and her sizzling energy burned him.

“Stephen? What is
wrong
with you?” She’d stopped and was frowning at him, hands on hips.

“I was thinking. Wait a minute.”

He fled into his room to collect himself, taking a deep breath to try to sort out his wits. Now he needed an excuse for his abrupt departure. Some result of his brilliant thoughts. Some action.

He opened his valise, took out the long leather case, and returned briskly to the parlor to show it to her. “A telescope. Nicholas lent it to me. Tomorrow, if nothing else avails, we can spy on the windows from the beach.”

“What a clever idea!” She glanced out of the window. “We could do it now.”