Skylark (28 page)

She stayed there a moment, remembering men she’d known who’d fallen in that terrible victory, then pushed straight as he returned to the parlor.

“You lost friends, too?” she asked.

“Everyone did. But one, at least, returned from the grave.”

“Lord Darius.”

“Yes. It worked?”

She shook off the solemn mood. “Excellently, though I think you were in orator mode. I don’t know how clear an ordinary conversation would be. What a shame Farouk is out.”

“We have only to wait for his return. Then we might finally discover what they’re up to.”

She sat and smiled at him. “I always knew you were brilliant.”

He bowed. “Thank you, fair lady. Now, I intend to seek some reward in lunch.” He pulled the bell.

“I’m hardly fair at the moment.”

“Fair at heart.”

It was an admirable sentiment, but it didn’t satisfy her.

“Did you learn anything in town?” she asked.

“Everyone’s aware of Farouk, of course. It’s not wise of him to be so noticeable, but I’ve not come up with a cunning purpose for it. I suspect he simply doesn’t understand the effect he has in a small English town.”

“The vicar was concerned enough to mention it in his sermon.”

“Let’s hope it did some good. We don’t want our business complicated by a riot.”

“It might give us a glimpse of Dyer.”

He smiled in acknowledgement. “Farouk’s movements are noted, but all he seems to do is go for long walks. The only purchases I could uncover were a chess set, a pack of cards, and, believe it or not, a copy of Byron’s
The Corsair
.”

“Good heavens! Checking it for accuracy about the Arab world?”

Stephen shrugged, and Jean arrived then to take their order for lunch.

“And your morning?” he asked, when the maid had gone.

“Virtually nothing, though Farouk did stop and stare. My heart was in my mouth in case he came in and saw the pictures. But then,” she added, “he probably wouldn’t recognize them, either.”

He gave her a commiserating smile. “Don’t lose hope.”

“I want so desperately for Dyer to be Cousin Henry. It means everything!”

“There are other ways to keep Harry safe, Laura. You can’t think I would let anything happen to him.”

She held out a hand and he took it. “I don’t, but . . . A child cannot be kept safe, Stephen, as long as someone wants him dead. Wants it badly enough.”

When he didn’t argue, she knew that he saw that, too.

Their lunch arrived then, but Stephen waited by the window as the maid spread it on the table.

As soon as she left, he announced, “Here he comes.”

Ignoring food, they both ran into his bedchamber.

He gave her the instrument and she smiled her gratitude for his letting her go first. She pressed the wide end to the wall and put the small end in her ear, waiting for Farouk to arrive.

Stephen was over by the corridor door. “He’s coming. I hear the squeaks.”

“It works,” she whispered. “I heard the door open and shut.”

Say something,
she thought, concentrating fiercely.
Say something that makes it clear that Captain Dyer is Henry Gardeyne.

Then she heard another click.

She moved back from the wall. “I don’t believe it. After all this, Dyer must be in the bedroom, and Farouk’s gone in there.”

Stephen came to take the instrument and try, but then he shook his head. “Infuriating, but they can’t stay there forever. Let’s eat.”

“What if Captain Dyer’s taken ill and is confined to bed?”

“Then we sneak into the empty room farther down the corridor.”

“Of course!”

She moved toward the door, but he stopped her. “Not yet. Give them a little time, and have your lunch.”

Laura had a strong urge to act like the tempestuous girl she had once been, but he made sense. Sense would be easier all around if she wasn’t in his bedchamber, so she went to the parlor and settled to bread and sliced ham.

Both of them, however, ate little and quickly, then Stephen rose. “I’ll take first turn at the listening post.”

It would be madness, besides being pointless, to crowd against him there, so she paced the parlor helplessly.

“Laura.”

She started and whirled to find him at the door. “They’re there.” He held out the listening device.

“You’re a saint!” she exclaimed as she seized it, and unthinking, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. She was halfway to the wall before she realized what she’d done. She carried on, anyway. What was there to say?

She pressed the device to the wall and applied her ear to the spout. “I can hear them!”

He came close, though not, she noticed, too close. “What are they saying?”

“They’re not orating. Hush.”

She and Stephen were both whispering, even though the men next door could not possibly hear what they said.

“Nine?” she guessed. “Or mine? There’s so much silence.”

“Only natural.” He did come closer then to speak in her ear. “It’s unlikely, anyway, that they’ll neatly lay out their history and their plans for us. They must both know them well.”

She swallowed against the effect of his voice and his breath, almost on her skin. “Except that if Dyer is Henry, he doesn’t know Farouk wants to slit his throat for money.”

She made herself be noble and passed the device to him. As they exchanged places, their bodies brushed together for a brief moment. He seemed not to notice.

“Anything?” she asked.

“A rattle.”

“A
death
rattle?”

He grinned. “Of course not. Like dice. No, chess. He bought a set, remember. Farouk has given Dyer his choice of colors, and he has chosen white. Conversation has ceased. . . .”

Laura allowed the situation to give her permission to lean against him, one hand on his shoulder. He was so beautiful in his concentration, his features still as a classical statue, perfectly made.

In London his hair had always been carefully arranged. Now it was windblown, and not in the elaborate artificial manner of that fashionable style. She longed to comb it with her fingers, to brush a wave from his temple.

To run her hands through his hair.

To cradle his face.

To kiss. To kiss with all the passion burning inside her.

 

Stephen kept his eyes closed, as if that might aid hearing, but in truth he could not let Laura glimpse his emotions. A moment ago, she’d even leant against him, her whole body brushing down his side, her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder.

Through shirt and jacket, he shouldn’t have been able to even feel that light hand, but it had burned. She’d moved now. Inches, at least, separated them and the world was colder. The temptation to turn and drag her into his arms almost broke him.

He moved away from the wall, put the Auricular Enhancer on the chest of drawers, and gestured her back into the parlor.

“I don’t think they’re likely to say much at the moment,” he said. “They have all the feel of long familiars, with no need to talk. I confess to disappointment. Despite what I said before, I did hope they would immediately reveal something to make the situation clear.”

“We have to keep listening.”

“I suppose so.” He couldn’t bear it. “Perhaps I should put your plan into action, as well.” When she looked puzzled, he added, “A visit to the vicar.”

“Oh. It seemed so clever at the time, but is it necessary now?”

It was necessary to escape again. At this rate, he would be rushing out every half hour.

“Do you mind keeping vigil for a while?” he asked.

“No, of course not. Dividing our forces.”

“Right.” He grabbed his hat and gloves. “But remember, no matter what you hear, don’t do anything rash.”

“Stephen.”

He turned at the door, alerted by her tone. Her severe tone.

“Stephen, I’m not a girl anymore. I know that sometimes these past days I’ve acted it, but it was . . . a sliding into what we were, I suppose. No more than a game.” After a moment, she added, “I don’t want you to treat me like a girl.”

What did that mean?

“I’m sorry if I have offended you,” he said.

“Of course not. We’re friends beyond trivial offense.”

“I’m merely pointing out that I must do what I think best. I’m a woman full grown, which I believe to be in all practical ways the equal of a man.”

“You denied being a bluestocking. You didn’t tell me you were a radical.”

“I’m not sure I was aware of it myself. But here I am, shaping my fate and my son’s, and unwilling to give that over to anyone else. Even you.”

He had never expected this. Never expected to discover in Laura a woman like this. He hadn’t thought he could love her more, but it threatened to shatter him.

He felt he should say something eloquent, but he simply escaped.

Laura bit her lip. She’d probably just destroyed any hope of happiness with Stephen, but without warning she’d come to a point of truth, a point of choice. She’d recognized herself for the first time and had to speak. And she had meant every word.

She felt as if the world had changed, but of course, it hadn’t. Nothing had except her. It was as if she was settling into a new home and must make it comfortable. Whether Stephen was part of it remained to be seen. They would get nowhere useful in this hothouse of emotions, however. They needed to solve the mystery and return to normal life—ideally a life where Harry was no longer heir to Caldfort.

She headed for Stephen’s room, but then thought of something. She found paper and pencil to record what was said, then went to the wall.

She paused at the end of his bed, but more in thoughtful contemplation than in rash passion. She knew now what she was, and she knew what she wanted. As a woman full grown and responsible for her actions, she must be careful.

She put a chair by the wall, grateful that it fit in the space, then settled herself as comfortably as possible. The irritating men still said nothing except for the casual comments on the game.

She began to record the conversation anyway, though it was awkward with one hand required for the listening device. She hoped she could decipher her scribbles later.

 

 

Thank heavens the two voices were distinctive. Farouk’s was deeper and stronger, not in volume but in character. HG’s was higher and less certain. Did that fit Henry Gardeyne?

Silence settled, so she marked it with a line. She wished there was a clock here. She would note the time and length of the silences. Pointless, but it would feel as if she were doing something.

 

 

Said admiringly, warmly. If Dyer was Henry Gardeyne, he had no suspicion that his head was on the block.

She didn’t like calling him Dyer. She wanted him to be Henry Gardeyne, key to Harry’s safety, but she compromised on HG, who according to the letter had sailed on the
Mary Woodside
and been the guest of Oscar Ris.

Scarred mouth rice,
she thought with a twist of the lips. She feared she was clinging to cobwebs. What could explain Cousin Henry staying away for ten years?

 

 

Laura started out of her thoughts. Miss what? She grabbed the pencil and tried to nudge her paper straight. That had been HG.

 

Freedom!
Laura felt as if her heart was bruised. They had been
convicts?

 

 

Sun. New South Wales, the penal colony, had a hot climate, didn’t it?

The men settled back to their game and Laura ignored their occasional comments. She was reading over those few, hope-destroying words.

HG had lived in England once, but was now more used to a hot climate, which was linked with imprisonment. It seemed that they’d been imprisoned together. She’d thought only British people were sent to New South Wales, but perhaps they had only to break British law.

She realized something then. Farouk had spoken perfect English, not accented at all. He must have been educated under British rule, probably in India, and Stephen had mentioned men in the Indian army committing crimes in order to be sent to New South Wales.

She pressed her hand to her head. It seemed horribly clear that the two men next door were criminals intent on extortion, but how did this link at all to Henry Gardeyne? He could not have ended up a convict, and he’d been nowhere near India!

She stilled, listening. Had that been a clink in the parlor? Their parlor!

She rose in shock. Had Farouk somehow realized what she was doing and crept around to attack? And—stupid!—she’d left her pistol in her bedchamber.

She put down the hearing device and crept, heart hammering, to the door. Eased it open . . .

To find only Jean, filling the log bin. The maid saw her, however, and her eyes went wide.

Oh, Lord! Here she was, emerging from her male cousin’s bedchamber.

“Sir Stephen is out,” she said, fluttering. “I . . . I saw a tear in his handkerchief and thought I would repair it while he was gone.”

The maid didn’t look impressed, but she didn’t seem much interested, either. She probably assumed that nosy Mrs. Penfold had been poking around in her cousin’s belongings.

Merely to stay in character, Laura asked, “Do you take wood to Captain Dyer?”

“No, ma’am. That Farouk collects it himself, which is a blessing, for they use a lot.”