Skylark (25 page)

The doctor removed his spectacles. “My, my. That certainly raises alarms, ma’am.” He rose, putting his newspaper on a table. “I shall have a word with Topham and see if I may tender my services.”

With a bow, he left. Laura supposed it was too much to expect that if he attended Dyer he’d return and report to her, but if she remained here, she might learn something. She eyed Dr. Nesbitt’s newspaper, tempted to read it, but it would be out of character for Mrs. Penfold. In her experience, nosy gossips were never interested in important matters.

She returned to her sketching but heard returning footsteps and turned to the door, wearing an anxious, questioning look.

“It is as you described, ma’am,” Dr. Nesbitt said, shaking his head. “But from what Topham says, Captain Dyer is in a chronic rather than an acute state. Sad to say, medicine often has little to offer such cases other than rest and fresh air. Bleeding and cupping sometimes, but I am not in favor of those when the patient appears pale, which is as Topham describes him. I will, however, send over a bottle of my patent restorative, which might assist his return to health.”

He had come over and now looked at her drawing. “Why, ma’am, you are quite an artist!”

Laura realized that her artistic ability was out of character with Priscilla Penfold, too, but there was no help for it now. She simpered. “So kind. Just my little hobby.”

He had turned to the sketch of Henry. “Now there’s a man who looks in need of my services, ma’am. Consumption?”

Laura was caught unawares, and any fluster was completely natural. “Oh, dear, I do hope not, sir. That is my brother. He . . . er . . . suffered a serious accident in the hunting field, but is recovering well now.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Penfold, but if he were my patient, I would want him to take my restorative draught. For now, however, I must take my leave. Another patient awaits.”

With that, he drained his teacup, tucked his paper under his arm, bowed, and left. In a few minutes she watched him struggle against the wind down the road until he turned into a nearby house.

She waited. A young couple came in, windblown and laughing, to take tea. It turned out that they had driven from Seaton with no care for the weather. Laura suspected that they were on their honeymoon, and that perhaps wind and wild sea was exactly what they wanted, which made them positively irritating.

They left, rapt in one another, and Laura hoped the young man could manage to keep his mind on the road. She was about to give up and return to her room when Mrs. Grantleigh came in. What good fortune that she hadn’t yet put away the picture.

The elderly woman paused. “Mrs. Penfold. Do you mind if I join you? My husband is dozing, and I like a change of scene but cannot go too far.”

“Not at all.” Laura pointed encouragingly to a nearby chair, remembering to be Priscilla Penfold when she would much rather befriend this poor woman. “I fear a storm is rising.”

“I fear so, too,” the older woman said, sitting by the picture but looking out at the sea. “So dismal.”

Laura liked storms, but she fervently agreed. “I just met Dr. Nesbitt. He seemed an excellent man.”

That set Mrs. Grantleigh off on an account of the doctor’s kind but ineffectual treatment of her husband, along with the other doctors consulted back home in Cambridge, and in Bath.

Then, at last, she looked down and started. “My, that is an excellent portrait, Mrs. Penfold.” She glanced around, clearly not believing what she saw. “Your work?”

Laura simpered again. “Just my little hobby.”

Mrs. Grantleigh’s glance was shrewd, and perhaps even suspicious. No fool after all. “A talent, Mrs. Penfold,” she said firmly. “You should not hide it under a bushel.”

Laura felt herself flush beneath her sallow cream. It was partly because she was caught in a lie, but also because she hadn’t done anything in particular with her talent.

Mrs. Grantleigh was studying the picture, however. “There is something slightly familiar about this man,” she said, “and yet I do not know. . . . Perhaps I might have known him before he was so unwell?”

She looked up, demanding an answer.

Laura had to tell the same story. “My brother, Reginald,” she said, cheeks so hot she feared they’d melt the paint. “He suffered an accident in the hunting field. We . . . er . . . feared we might lose him, so I did that sketch. But he is much recovered now. I don’t think he has ever visited Cambridge, however. He lives year round in the Shires.”

Mrs. Grantleigh pushed the picture away with a moue of distaste. “Then you are doubtless correct, Mrs. Penfold. I have no patience with men who use their lives for nothing but sport. How refreshing to know a man like Sir Stephen . . .”

Laura let her sing Stephen’s praises and slid away the picture. What was she to make of that moment of recognition, however? Did the picture look like Dyer, but too frail? After some thought, she tidied her portfolio and let the original copy of Henry’s portrait flutter to the floor.

“Oh!” she exclaimed and grabbed for it. Then she turned it toward Mrs. Grantleigh. “My dear younger brother, Cedric. So scholarly.”

The older lady smiled. “And he looks more robust and happy for it, Mrs. Penfold. May he be saved from the ways of dissipation and vice. Oh, my, look at the time!” She rose. “But it has been most pleasant to chat with you, Mrs. Penfold. I hope we can do so again.”

She left the room, and Laura frowned at her pictures. Mrs. Grantleigh had shown no recognition of the picture of young Henry. None at all. If only she’d been able to ask if the familiarity with the aged one had anything to do with Captain Egan Dyer.

Topham. He was the other person most likely to have seen Dyer. Laura thought up and discarded a number of cunning ways of getting the man in here, but then shrugged and pulled the bellpull. A maid—a young, plump one she did not know—bustled in. “May I help you, ma’am?”

Laura willed her to come over to the table where the drawings still lay, but she stayed by the door.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Topham,” she said.

In moments, the innkeeper was there, bowing. Laura stayed seated by the window and the man did come over. “What may I do for you, Mrs. Penfold.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Laura with a hand to her chest, “I have been watching the storm rise. Are we safe, sir? Are we safe?”

He put on a beaming smile. “Safe? As houses!” He chuckled at his own joke. “Certainly a little storm is rising, but the Compass has weathered a hundred such.”

She gave him an uncertain smile. “If you are quite sure. I was thinking that the King’s Arms . . . it being constructed out of stone . . .”

He bridled. “Not at all, ma’am. Only been there ten years. Not stood the test of time.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you. That does make me feel safer. Perhaps you could help me gather my papers, Mr. Topham. My hands are quite unsteady.”

He quickly did so, flattering her artistic abilities but showing no recognition. Then he tenderly escorted her upstairs and left to arrange a steadying brew of brandied tea.

Laura sat at the table and spread the two portraits in front of her. “Did Mrs. Grantleigh recognize you, Henry, or was it some other fleeting resemblance? Are you dead, or are you Dyer?”

She frowned over that, wondering if the name Dyer was some complicated play on
die
. They had never solved the puzzle of the name Oscar Ris.

A gust of wind rattled the windows and she rose to look out, wishing Stephen would return. The light was going now and she wanted him here, safe. She smiled wryly at that, knowing her feelings flowed deeper and deeper by the moment.

She started at a knock, and called for the person to enter. It was Jean with the brandied tea. She watched carefully as the maid went to the table and put her tray down there, carefully away from the drawings. The maid paused, looking at them for a moment.

Laura hurried over. “My little hobby,” she said.

“They’re very cleverly done, ma’am.”

Laura tittered. “People keep saying they recognize them, but they are my brothers who have never been here. I do find, however, that sometimes strangers look like people we know.”

“That’s the truth, ma’am. I went right up to someone in Seaton who I thought was a woman who used to live next door. And I must say that one”—she nodded to the aged one—“does put me in mind of someone.”

“A guest, perhaps?” Laura prompted.

The maid shrugged. “I can’t bring one to mind, ma’am. Likely it’s just as you say and he reminds me of someone else. Folks aren’t so different in the end, are they? Now, shall I pour your tea? And do you want to order your dinner, ma’am?”

Laura sighed. “No, thank you.”

When the maid had left, she sat and poured herself tea. She could smell the brandy already. She supposed smuggling country had an ample supply. She sweetened it and sipped, enjoying the strong taste and the warmth, then carried the cup over to the window to watch the storm grow.

She drained the cup and found clean paper to do rapid sketches of wind and weather, reveling in the raw energy of the storm as shown in roiling clouds, whipping waves, and people fighting to make their way to their homes.

A blue turban caught her eye. Farouk! He was striding down the street away from the inn, robe flapping around his legs in the wind. Where could he be going? Because she had her pencil in her hand, she sketched him.

He was a fine figure of a man—tall, straight, and vigorous. What was he doing here, writing letters to an English lord, offering to kill for pay? She drew in palm trees behind him, bent in the wind, trying to imagine going to Egypt and attempting such a crime. Impossible. She and Stephen must be missing pieces of this puzzle, but she couldn’t even imagine what they were.

If Jack wished to kill Harry, that was evil, but she understood why. An Egyptian coming to England to offer out of the blue to kill Henry Gardeyne, a man supposedly dead ten years ago? It was a fairy tale.

Then she saw Stephen emerge from the King’s Arms, spot Farouk, and plot a course that would intersect. She sketched him, too. Merely the sight of him flushed heat through her body. How was she to cope with this?

The two men met and exchanged a few words, before Stephen turned toward the Compass and Farouk walked on, past the King’s Arms. Where on earth was he going?

At least Stephen would know how good Farouk’s English was. Every scrap of information could be useful. As she thought this, she drew Stephen walking back toward the inn, clutching at his hat. Suddenly he gave up, and she saw his grin as he took it off and let the wind whip through his hair.

She smiled in sympathy, wanting to run out and let the same wind blow her hair and clothes, down by the edge of the wild sea. Alas, alas, that she was Priscilla Penfold and not Lady Skylark.

When he came in, bringing crisp, salty air with him, she said, “The windblown, I assume,” referring to the fashionable hairstyle.

He grinned. “Definitely.”

“I saw you speak to Farouk. Is his English good?”

“Fair, though heavily accented. He confirms he’s from Egypt. His master is not well but improving. They plan to stay here indefinitely. That’s it.”

“I tried the pictures on the visiting Dr. Nesbitt, Mrs. Grantleigh, Topham, and Jean, the maid. Jean and Mrs. Grantleigh thought they might vaguely recognize the older picture, but surely if it looked like Dyer, whom they saw recently, it would be more than that. Nothing at the King’s Arms, I assume.”

“Just the expected rumbles about heathen savages.”

“Then there’s nothing for it but invasion. Farouk’s out, though where on earth is he going?”

“Not far in this weather. It’s too risky,” he added. “Invasion, I mean.”

Laura twitched her shawl into place. “Nonsense. I can try sociability. Priscilla Penfold would do that as a cover for her nosiness. Should I send a message through a servant? No”—she headed for the door—“simply knock.”

“Laura.” He caught her on the way to the door, as he had in Caldfort. His hand sizzled on her arm.

Perhaps he’d meant to stop her, but he let go and stepped back. “Very well. But be careful. I’ll be on guard. Don’t hesitate to scream.”

“I am the best one to do this,” she said, understanding. “Priscilla is precisely that sort of curious meddler.”

“I know.”

She smiled her thanks, then, correct manner in place, ventured into the corridor. As there seemed to be no other guests up here, she wasn’t surprised to find it deserted. All the same, she stayed in character and minced along to tap on the door next to Stephen’s.

Hearing nothing, she knocked harder. Ear to the door, she thought she heard a faint movement. “Captain Dyer?” she called in a fussy voice. “It’s Mrs. Penfold, a fellow guest. I wondered if you would like some company, sir.”

Silence.

She’d expected that.

“Are you all right, sir?” Having given reason for her concern, she turned the knob.

Again, the door was locked. Disappointing, but it supported her hopes. If Farouk locked the doors when he left, Dyer was a prisoner. If Dyer was a prisoner, he must be Henry Gardeyne, Harry’s savior.

She glanced behind and saw Stephen watching her. She waved him back. If this was the parlor, then the next door must be the bedchamber. She walked along and tried that one.

It, too, was locked.

She returned to the parlor door and tried another knock, but heard nothing to indicate anyone was there at all.

She returned to Stephen. “He made one slight noise.”

“If he wanted to be rescued, don’t you think he’d make more? And you’re only just in time. Farouk only walked down to the sea, as if wanting air. He’s almost back.”

Stephen was sure he would be a lunatic soon. Enacting a stage kiss, when he wanted Laura in his arms with passion. Letting her go into danger, no matter how slight. Sharing these rooms, assailed by her perfume and her body.