Читать книгу The Duke's Suspicion - Susanna Craig - Страница 12

Chapter 3

And a liar, Erica wanted to add, but a rare flash of self-preservation kept her tongue in her mouth. Tristan Laurens, indeed! Although…

At the wedding ceremony joining her sister to the Marquess of Ashborough, she’d learned one thing. Noblemen were saddled with a long string of names that were almost never used, not even in the family. Vaguely, she’d wondered whether such a man might even forget a few of them. Perhaps the Duke of—what was it he’d said? Ah, yes. Raynham—had a similar litany that included the name Tristan. Tristan, whose father had been fond of the stories of King Arthur and his knights…

What rubbish!

Over the plodding steps of the mare, who followed her dutifully though the reins had fallen slack in Erica’s hand, she heard the splash-stomp of a man’s booted tread. “A coward, did you say? Explain yourself, Miss Burke.”

Did he ever ask? Plead, cajole, beg? She would hear him barking out orders in her sleep tonight.

“And if I won’t, Your Grace? Ah, but I forgot. Your sort considers it a matter of pride to answer an insult. Or is it a matter of honor? Oh, dear. Will you challenge me to a duel, then?” She whirled on him so fast she nearly lost her footing in the mud. “Before you speak, you ought to know my younger brother taught me to shoot, and I almost never miss.”

She tried to convince herself he didn’t look like a duke, standing there covered head to toe in mud, overlong hair plastered to his brow and neck, rain tracing glittering tracks through the scruff of his beard. Yet even through the dirt, his bearing radiated power, authority, control. As did his eyes, which at this distance were black and hard as mica chips. “You almost never…” he repeated, incredulous. “Stop spouting nonsense, Miss Burke. If you can.”

As he spoke he continued to stride toward her, and on the last three words he stopped just inches away. Perhaps his eyes really were black. At the moment, not even a sliver of color rimmed his flared pupils. His breath formed little puffs of steam in the chilled air, putting her strongly in mind of a cartoon sketch of a raging bull.

The fingertips of her free hand drove into his breastbone. “Only a coward would have kept his true identity a secret. Did you imagine if I had known who you were, I would have used last night’s unfortunate circumstance to my benefit? Let’s see…a young woman, stranded overnight with an eligible gentleman…ought I to expect an offer of marriage?” At that, his jaw actually fell open. “Silly me, I thought only to shelter from the storm. And for that matter,” she went on, lifting her fingers for the satisfaction of thrusting them forward again with the next point, “why on earth were you there to begin with? You might have reached your home easily before the heaviest rain began to fall. Only a coward would have chosen that tumble-down shack over the risk of getting wet.”

“Have a care, Miss Burke.” In a flash, his hand came up and pinned hers flat to his chest. A wall of muscle and bone leaped to life under her touch. Were pampered, privileged noblemen usually so wonderfully…hard? “I am—”

But whatever he was remained unspoken. Lady Jane stamped and snorted, heralding the arrival of another set of footsteps.

“Raynham? Is that you?” The man spoke with a strong Scottish accent that carried through the rain as he trudged up the hill from the direction of the gatehouse. He was neatly dressed, bespectacled, and carrying an umbrella.

“Mr. Davies.” The duke dropped his hold on her hand and leaned forward to extend his in greeting. “What brings you out in this weather?”

The man stopped a few feet from them and bowed his head crisply; he made no attempt to shake hands. After holding his own position a moment too long, the duke jerked himself upright, as if a fishhook had caught him in the spine. “Her Grace asked me to keep a lookout,” Mr. Davies said. He looked to be her father’s age, or thereabouts. His clothes, his complexion, everything about him bespoke the sort of person who performed his most important work behind a desk. And everything about his current demeanor suggested he toiled behind that desk at the behest of the man standing before him. Even the rain seemed to make him nervous. He fumbled with his umbrella as if weighing whether or not he should surrender it to the duke.

For a moment, silence fell among them. Mr. Davies glanced at her once out of the corner of his eye but gave no other indication of noting her presence. He seemed to be waiting for the duke to decide whether she merited an introduction.

She dipped into a curtsy, a shallow one. Anything deeper might send her toppling once more into the mud. “I’m Miss Burke,” she said, mustering all the dignity she could.

“Oh, er, pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Burke,” the gentleman stammered and bowed again. “Walter Davies. Raynham’s man of business.” His gaze flicked over her once before lighting somewhere in the vicinity of the duke’s chin.

“I found Miss Burke sheltering in the gardener’s cottage. An unhappy accident separated her from her family, with whom she was traveling to Windermere.”

“’Tis fortunate you rescued her, sir.”

Tristan—she would not go on thinking of him as “the duke”—accepted Mr. Davies’s praise with a stiff nod.

As neither of them showed any sign of consulting her opinion on the matter of the supposed “rescue,” she cleared her throat, drawing both sets of eyes her way. “I wish to be reunited with my sister,” she said. “At the very least, I must get word to her, to let her know where I am.”

“But the rain and the flooding have likely made that impossible,” Tristan interjected smoothly. “I fear the best we can do at the moment is to send a messenger to Endmoor to leave word for her family when they are able to return there.”

Mr. Davies nodded his agreement. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it that a lookout is kept in the village for…for the Burke family, is it?”

Tristan looked at her expectantly.

“Yes—er, no.” For a moment, she had forgotten her sister’s newly acquired title. “My sister is Lady Ashborough.”

“Lady Ashborough?” Mr. Davies exclaimed. “The authoress?”

Erica nodded. “The same, sir.”

Tristan looked from one to the other in open incredulity, but Mr. Davies did not seem to notice. “Oh, The Wild Irish Rose is delightful. I’m no’ sure I can bear it until the next installment is released.” In his excitement, t’s began to drop from his otherwise proper speech. “I dinna suppose you know…?”

“Whether Lord Granville is the villain he seems? Even if I were so fortunate as to know the story’s outcome, I would not dare reveal it, sir. My sister would—” She hesitated. Cami was going to have her head, either way.

“Of course, of course.” Mr. Davies nodded, disappointed but resigned. “You may rest assured, Miss Burke,” he said, “that my son will do all in his power to find her and to set her mind at ease.”

“I would advise him to go on foot rather than risk a horse.” Tristan quickly reclaimed control over the conversation with that commanding tone of his. She doubted he ever offered mere advice. “And tell him to take the eastern path, through the wood. The main road appeared to be under water.”

“I’m not surprised to hear it, Your Grace. Some of Her Grace’s guests told quite a harrowing tale about the state of the roads. And that was well before last night’s rain.”

“Guests?” The echo of that single word hung on the air long after the steam of his breath dissipated.

“Aye,” said Mr. Davies, though the affirmation rose like a question, and his lips gave a nervous twitch. “She planned a grand welcome for you—and here I’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.”

“For which I can only be grateful, Mr. Davies. The surprise would be all hers, and not a pleasant one, were I to step into the drawing room looking like this.”

Mr. Davies dared to give a rusty laugh. “Aye, Your Grace. That it would.”

Despite his claim of gratitude, however, Tristan still looked vaguely unsettled by the other man’s revelation. He dipped his head once more, a sign Mr. Davies evidently read as dismissal, for that gentleman at last jumped into action.

“Very good.” He bowed sharply, nearly poking them both with the spines of his umbrella. “I’ll send Kevin out straightaway. Miss Burke is welcome to wait here for any news.” The enthusiastic glimmer in his eye foretold a few more questions about the plot of her sister’s novel if she accepted his invitation.

Without looking at her, Tristan offered Erica his arm. “I will not impose upon you, Mr. Davies. I made a promise to Miss Burke. She is my…responsibility.”

That hesitation. She felt certain he’d been about to say “my problem.”

Except she was neither his responsibility nor his problem. Not his in any sense.

She glanced toward Mr. Davies, but even if he wished to, he obviously believed he dared not contradict his employer. Why was Tristan so determined to take her to Hawesdale Chase? His behavior smacked of something more than simple hospitality.

Then an earlier question jostled its way to the forefront of her mind: Why had he stopped at the cottage to begin with? It was as if he didn’t want to go home alone. Or perhaps he didn’t want to go at all. What awaited him in that enormous, ornate mansion? A sister, he’d said. And a stepmother. Was that all? With five siblings, Erica hardly knew what solitude was.

Loneliness, however, was another matter entirely.

An unexpected—and no doubt unwarranted—ache of sympathy coiled within her, and she knew it would find its release in ill-advised words if she did not give it some other outlet. She had to move.

Pinned between Tristan’s outstretched arm and his horse, however, she had few alternatives. Suppressing a tremor that had nothing whatsoever to do with the icy rain, she lifted her hand and settled it on the sleeve of his greatcoat.

* * * *

When they arrived at the stable block, Tristan found it full of horses and the mud-spattered carriages belonging to his stepmother’s guests. Grooms stood in a knot near the back, and for a moment, no one broke away to take his horse. At last the huge hand of James, the head groom, caught a passing boy on the shoulder, nearly bringing him to his knees. “G’on wit’ ye, Dick.” The boy righted himself, tugged at his forelock, and scampered forward to take Lady Jane Grey’s reins.

A cold reception, no question, and though different from Mr. Davies’s strange obsequiousness—as a child, Tristan had played with the man’s son, for God’s sake—he could not help but wonder whether the behavior stemmed from the same source. Distrust. For a duke who ought never to have become one.

Fortunately, Major Laurens could fall back on the rank he had earned. He had years of experience in establishing his authority and maintaining proper order.

“James,” he barked to the head groom. “You’ll look after my horse.” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Miss Burke, who stood beside him in the pungent warmth of the stable, breathing quickly. Her rapid stride for the last half-mile had given Tristan no excuse to check his own. “Come. We’ll go to the house,” he said, though he did not relish facing anyone in his present condition.

Her bare hand lay pale against the darker sleeve of his muddy greatcoat, highlighting the dirt under her nails. What a pair they made. What would his guests make of such a display?

“Are you displeased with your stepmother?” she asked, catching unexpectedly at the thread of his thoughts and withdrawing her hand from his arm.

“I am…” He reached for Davies’s word. “Surprised.”

Oh, how he despised surprises. And he was about to escort the living embodiment of one into his home.

If only he had not given in to the impulse—not sentiment, surely—to stop at the abandoned gardener’s cottage. But he had, and so had she, and he could not, in good conscience, have abandoned her there. Still, he might easily have avoided bringing her here. A man of sense would have accepted Davies’s offer to keep her. And he was nothing if not a man of sense.

But this morning, he had not acted like one. Perhaps a part of him had hoped, in a most ungentlemanly fashion, that her appearance would distract attention from his own. The better part of him, however, had begun to suspect that something interesting lay beneath Miss Burke’s rough exterior, like an unpolished gem…

His mind tossed aside the cliché. She had more in common with a challenging bit of code. The cultured voice, the educated mind, a well-made dress—if one overlooked the filth. Almost certainly a young lady of good breeding, despite her protests. So why did she resist the label so strenuously? And if he succeeded in cracking the code, would he uncover something dangerous after all?

Almost instinctively, he ushered her toward the servants’ entrance near the kitchen garden. As a boy he’d made frequent use of it on escapades not unlike this one.

Until sneaking past the kitchen had lost its appeal.

“Now,” he said as they moved quietly along the empty corridor, “we shall enlist the help of Mrs. Dean.”

The housekeeper was not, however, the first to greet them in the servants’ hall. A dark-haired girl, the very image of her father, peeked from a doorway, squealed “Tris!” and barreled toward them, throwing her arms around his waist, heedless of dirt or damp. “Is it really you?” Her voice was muffled against his coats. “It’s been weeks since your things arrived. I was afraid I’d—” She hiccupped around a sob. “I was afraid you’d never come.”

“Vivi.” He laid one hand on the back of her head and wrapped the other around her body, her shoulder blades sharp against his palm. Her slight figure shook and trembled against him.

His sister had entered the world when he’d been almost fifteen. The bond that had sprung up between them had surprised everyone. Most of all himself. On school holidays, he’d spent hours in the nursery simply watching her. When she’d grown old enough to toddle, she had gamely followed him everywhere, and he had never complained. The morning he had descended the stairs wearing his first scarlet uniform, she had beamed up at him through tears streaking down her cheeks. During the years far from home, her ill-spelled, rambling letters had given him hope.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, stroking her hair. Months had passed since the accident that had claimed Father and Percy, months in which the news had traveled over land and sea to reach him. He was surprised to find her grief so raw. Twenty-five years her senior, Percy had been all but a stranger to her. And if Father had sometimes been distant to Tristan, he had been largely indifferent to his only daughter.

Still, Vivi was young and had always been sensitive. He held her until she pushed away and looked up at him. A welter of emotions crossed her pinched, tearstained face. Grief. Guilt—over the secret of this ridiculous party, perhaps. But he was relieved to see she had not lost all her good humor, either. “Phew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like a wet sheep, Tris.”

“A wet sheep, eh?” He swept her up into his arms and spun her around before returning her to her feet. “And just how would you know? Have you been going about in the rain sniffing sheep?” She dissolved in a fit of giggles.

The severely clad figure of Mrs. Dean came sweeping down the corridor at the sound. “Hush, Lady Viviane. You’ll have only yourself to blame if Miss Chatham hears that screeching and finds you here.” The sight of him sent her rocking back on her heels. “Why, if it’s not Lord Tris—” He caught the flicker of a twinkle in her eyes. But before he could speak, she shuttered her expression and curtsied deeply. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

His arms ached to sweep the housekeeper into a boisterous hug too. Propriety held him back. He thought of his cool reception from Davies and in the stable. Now, more than ever, it was time to behave like the son of a duke.

Correction: like the duke himself.

He stiffened and held his sister at arms’ length. “Lady Viviane, may I present Miss Burke, who was stranded in the storm.”

Erica dipped into a curtsy made ungainly by the weight of her sodden skirts. “I don’t know if I smell like a wet sheep, but I certainly feel like a drowned rat.”

Vivi’s uncertain stare shifted into a smile; inwardly, he winced. It was one thing for a girl of twelve to say such outrageous things…

“What’s this about hiding from your governess, Viv?” he demanded sternly. He was responsible now for his sister’s upbringing. He was her guardian. It was his job to prevent her from turning into a hoyden, and Miss Burke was hardly a suitable role model.

Vivi turned saucy, dark eyes on him. “I can’t help it if she’s—”

“Will I take Miss Burke to the south wing with the other guests, Your Grace?” The Mrs. Dean of old would never have interrupted her master. But he had the distinct impression she was doing it for Vivi, trying to turn the conversation away from his sister’s misbehavior.

And it worked, though not quite in the way she had intended.

“Oh, Mrs. Dean,” Vivi cried out, “now you’ve ruined the surprise.”

“Mr. Davies told me already, and even if he hadn’t, I’d have known something was afoot. The stable is full of strange horses,” he pointed out. “May I ask how I came to be hosting a house party?”

“It’s not a house party,” she insisted. “It was meant to be only dinner. We expected you sooner. But the storm came instead. Now the vicar and his wife are stuck here. Along with Sir Thomas and Lady Lydgate. And Captain Whitby too, though he wasn’t exactly invited.” Vivi’s voice dropped slightly from its usual exuberant pitch, as if sharing a secret. “I think he was simply passing through and wanted to get out of the rain.”

“David Whitby is my oldest friend. He doesn’t need an invitation.”

“Oh, and Miss Pilkington, of course,” Vivi added. “With her parents.”

“Miss Pilkington?” he repeated absently. His stepmother had no doubt felt obliged to include the clergyman and his wife. The Lydgates were near neighbors, old friends. But why on earth had the Pilkingtons been invited to celebrate his homecoming?

Percy had had an understanding with Caroline Pilkington, though no formal announcement of their betrothal had ever been made. Years had passed under the quiet assumption that his brother would eventually do the necessary. After all that time, Miss Pilkington must be teetering dangerously near the edge of the shelf. A pity she had been kept waiting so long with nothing to show for it.

“I expect you’ll want to get cleaned up before she sees you,” Vivi added, wrinkling her nose once more. “Or smells you.”

“Oh?” He was only half listening. Without waiting for further orders, Mrs. Dean had motioned to Miss Burke to follow her down the corridor. Good God, but he hoped the housekeeper would at least find her another dress to wear, and soon. Something clean. Something suitable.

Something that didn’t cling quite so distractingly to her limbs with every step she took.

He forced himself to focus his gaze on his sister. “And why is that?”

“Because I overheard Lord Easton Pilkington tell Mama he expects you to keep Percy’s promise to their daughter.”