Skylark (21 page)

Her smile faded. He was looking at her in a way that did not seem connected to church or smuggler.

“You surprised me with your knowledge of philosophy,” he said.

“I being a mere woman?”

He laughed dryly. “Remember my sister Fanny.”

“Then why assume I’m a feather wit?” But she knew. “Because I never showed great interest in such matters when we were young, I suppose. That’s probably more truly me than what happened today. I told you, there’s not much to read at Caldfort.”

He put aside his soup plate and uncovered a meat pie. “I assume you could have ordered novels if you’d wished to.”

“And I did. But one cannot read novels all the time.”

“Charlotte manages to.”

He served her pie. She served him vegetables. “Charlotte and I are much alike.”

“You were. But you and I rubbed along pretty well, too, I think.”

Laura picked up her knife and fork, considering his sister. “Perhaps Charlotte and I are quite different now. Perhaps that’s why we’re no longer close.”

“We drift apart from people over time. It’s a natural force.”

“And drift toward others.”

“I would say you hurtled toward Gardeyne.”

“He was a very attractive man.”

“Wealthy and heir to a title.”

She speared a carrot. “There was more to him than that.”

So much for matrimonial, or even friendly, harmony. They abandoned conversation by agreement, and finished the meal quickly. That was easy for Laura, as she’d lost her appetite. To her surprise, Stephen ate little, too.

Surely they could do better than this. She pushed away most of a pear tart. “Why are we fighting?”

“I was not aware that we were.”

“I know you never liked Hal.”

“I would prefer not to talk of him. It seems disrespectful to the dead.”

“Only if you say disrespectful things.”

His brows quirked in a way that suggested that there was nothing else to say.

“You can’t deny that he was a brilliant rider.”

“So are most jockeys.”

She pushed away from the table and stood. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk about Hal. We should talk about our plans.”

“We’re here and have gathered some information. Any further discussion would be repetitive.”

Let’s talk about that kiss, then
.

She almost said it, but knew it would be disastrous. If it had meant so little to him, what was there to say? If it had meant more, she wasn’t ready to explore those depths.

She tugged angrily at the bellpull and soon Jean arrived to clear away their dinner. Perhaps the picked-at meal would confirm her sickly status. She wanted to question the maid further about Dyer, but couldn’t think of a reasonable question. Patience was probably best, but what were they going to do now? It was only eight o’clock, a ridiculously early hour to go to bed, and she didn’t want to. She wanted to explore Stephen, infuriating as he was.

When the maid left, she suggested, “Cards?”

“By all means. What?”

“Bezique. Piquet?” She tossed out the gambling games deliberately, and added, “I was married to Hal Gardeyne, remember?”

His lips tightened. “Piquet, then. Do you have a pack? If not, I’m sure Topham can provide.”

“I do, as it happens. Sometimes I play simple games with Harry.” She went to get them, then sat at the table and opened the wooden box. “How good are you?”

He sat opposite. “Good enough. I was raised among Rogues.”

“Excellent.” She sorted out the lower cards, aware of a simmering annoyance that lent edge to the game, and of enjoying it. “Do we play for paper points?”

“Not at all. I want you in my debt.”

A shiver went through her that was surely not what he intended, though if she were willing to permit herself fantasy, she could imagine a vivid scenario.

She passed the reduced pack to him. “You want to use my poor widow’s mite to fund some reform, I assume.”

He shuffled with those promising, long-fingered hands. “Certainly to bring about a significant change.” He put the cards in front of her. “Cut.”

She did so, exposing a ten. He cut to show a six.

“Your deal,” he said, and they settled to the game.

Guttering candles forced the end of play. When they’d completed the last
partie
, Laura leaned back, aware that anger had transmuted into a peculiar and unexpected pleasure. For the past hours everything had disappeared except the game. Stephen had simply been Stephen, the sharp-witted player she wanted to beat.

Now he was more than that, as if the hours of intense play had burned away dross, leaving clarity.

“Who won?” she asked, without great interest. They’d been evenly matched and the points had gone backward and forward.

He was calculating on a piece of paper. “You,” he said, looking up. “By one hundred and fifteen. Guineas?”

“Lord, no. I’d never play for guinea points. Shillings.”

“Five pounds fifteen, then. I assume you’ll take my word for it?”

It was an idle pleasantry of a conversation and the strange idea came to her that it was like the words spoken after coupling, contented and dreamy.

“Of course, and I’ll give you time to pay.”

He passed the paper to her, but she didn’t bother to check it. “That was an excellent game.”

“You’re very good.”

“As are you.”

With her mind stuck in bed, it was . . . stimulating.

He rolled the paper and threw it accurately into the fire. “Too late for more, I assume.”

She bit her inner cheek to control a smile. “Could you rise to the occasion?”

“It’s past ten, but I’m not exhausted. I was merely thinking that we should be up with the larks to spy on our neighbors.”

Up
amused, but
lark
sobered. She looked down for a moment, then met his eyes again. “I forgive you for Lady Skylark.”

He stilled. “I never thought you’d mind.”

“You didn’t mean it to be a constant reproach?”

“Ah . . . Perhaps I did. What I meant was that I didn’t think you’d mind being Lady Skylark.”

She wished he hadn’t misjudged her so, but she only said, “It was too light. It doesn’t matter anymore. Thank you for coming, Stephen. For helping. For being you.”

“And who is that?”

He pinched out one wallowing candle, which turned his features shadowy. In childish competition, she licked her fingers and did the same to the other. Now only firelight lit the room.

“Stephen the thoughtful, the observant,” she said, but then saw a flicker of distaste. “Stephen the fighter for those who cannot fight.”

It was the right thing to say. He took her hand. “I will fight for you, Laura. You have my promise on that.”

“Thank you.” Her heart pounded deeply, a beat that seemed to pulse through her body.
Will you also kiss me again?

But he held her left hand, and Hal’s wedding ring glinted in the candlelight. It no longer bound her, but it gave her strength not to speak her thought.

She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to break this moment, but she made herself free her hand, rise, and say good night. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she closed the door then leant against it, breathing deeply and trying to sober her heated mind.

When she realized that she was rubbing her hands over her body, over her breasts, she stopped, but she couldn’t stop desiring Stephen in a direct and feverish way.

If he were Hal, she could go to him, touch him, kiss him, and get exactly what she wanted. If he were Hal, she wouldn’t feel quite this way.

She puzzled over that as she took off her cap. When she looked in the mirror, however, she saw the sallow skin, the ugly mousy curls, and the mole. She tore off the wig so roughly it hurt, then sat, head in hands. What was she
doing?
What had become of her orderly life? She’d always coped, always created a way to be content. Why this turmoil now?

Because of Stephen. Her feelings now were nothing like feelings she’d ever had with Hal, but Stephen was Stephen. She was no suitable match for a future Prime Minister!

She took out the remaining pins and shook her own curls free, then realized she still had to ring for her washing water. She did so and put the wig back on, stuffing her own hair roughly under it.

To put distance between herself and the door, she stood by the window, realizing that she hadn’t lowered the curtain. If someone was out there with a spyglass they could have seen everything. She let down the balloon curtain, then went to her empty valise.

When the maid knocked and entered with her hot water, Laura said “Thank you” without looking up.

“Was there anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you. I can undress myself.”

When the door closed, she straightened and began to undress. The substitute corset was very comfortable. As her fashionable days were over, perhaps she’d have some made.

Rational clothing. Rational actions.

Somewhere inside, the old Laura laughed.

Laura awoke from a restless night overhung by inconvenient hungers and an awareness of just how perilous her situation was. Urgency had carried her to Draycombe, but now it seemed like a headlong, heedless rush into danger and temptation.

Last night she’d scraped and washed off her disguise—except the mole, which was glued so firmly she wondered how she’d eventually get rid of it. Putting her disguise on again was tiresome, but she tried to take reassurance from it. Priscilla Penfold would never do anything scandalous.

When she ventured into the parlor, she found Stephen already there, eating his breakfast. He’d ordered enough for two, and immediately poured her coffee. Laura surreptitiously studied him, wondering if he, too, had suffered a restless night, but she could see no sign of it.

Abandoning hope that he, too, was seething with restless and confused desires, she turned her attention to food. The delicious smell of warm rolls was already reminding her that she’d picked at her dinner last night. She remembered why, but all the same, a body must eat.

She buttered a roll, and the first delicious bite settled her nerves somewhat. “Do we know what time the service is?”

“Am I not the epitome of efficiency? The church is St. Peter’s, and the service is at ten.”

“Bravo, but I assume you simply asked the servants.”

His smile acknowledged it.

“If Dyer attends, we could rescue him then. Claim sanctuary, even.”

“That’s protection from the authorities, not villains.” He was still smiling. It was strangely comforting to be back to friendly ease.

“But in the midst of a staunch English congregation, Farouk would be powerless,” she pointed out, then sighed. “Which almost certainly means Dyer won’t be there.”

“Remember, we don’t know that Dyer is a prisoner, or that he is Henry Gardeyne. We need more information before we act.”

He sounded apologetic, but as Laura ate another bite of roll, she recognized that she was pleased. It was wicked of her, but she didn’t want this adventure over just yet. It was as if she’d turned the first few pages of a fascinating book—about Stephen and about herself. She couldn’t bear to abandon it.

Once they’d finished breakfast, they both dressed for the cool weather and set out to walk to the church at the other end of town. It was small, simple, and quite full. Three worshippers arrived in wheeled chairs pushed by servants. None, however, was a young man, and, of course, there was no turban.

The vicar preached a sermon that mentioned the holy duty to be hospitable to visitors, then touched more delicately on the need to convert the heathen by showing Christian charity. They’d been right to think that some of the local people were uneasy about, or even hostile to, Azir Al Farouk.

As she and Stephen filed out of church, Laura murmured, “It would have been more politic of him to wear normal dress.”

“I believe the turban is part of the religion.”

“Even so, with a normal jacket and trousers, he wouldn’t stand out quite so much.”

They had to break off then to speak to the vicar, who confirmed that some of his parishioners were angry about Farouk, especially with the news not long ago being full of the horrors of Algerian slavery.

“Fear for the honor of their womenfolk is also good excuse for deep drinking,” remarked the worldly vicar. “May I invite you and your cousin to dine with us, Sir Stephen?”

Stephen extricated them from that, then had to do the same with the rotund, jowly squire, Mr. Bartholomew Ryall, who knew him from London. Next, a Mr. Frobisher wanted to shake his hand. Of course, Laura had to be introduced—a problem she hadn’t foreseen. She blessed her concealing bonnet, and used her sickliness as excuse to keep her head and voice low.

She was part of each encounter, however, and realized that a great many people here knew Stephen, or knew of him. He was a Member of Parliament from Dorset, even if his constituency was on the eastern edge, but that didn’t account for the attention. He was a well-known, and well-admired, man.

It was no surprise to her that Stephen had a flourishing political career and that, as Juliet had written, he was even spoken of as a potential Prime Minister, but she’d not understood the extent of his reputation until now. In her mind, he’d remained the childhood friend with too deep an interest in books.

The military captain, Trainor, shook Stephen’s hand and thanked him for his support of better treatment for injured officers. Mrs. Ryall praised his work to reform the Poor Laws. A frail elderly gentleman in a chair turned out to be the Dr. Grantleigh who with his wife had the ground-floor rooms at the Compass. Unfortunately, he had been one of Stephen’s tutors at Cambridge and went on and on about how he’d always predicted a brilliant future.