Authors: Juliana Gray
The knife stopped slicing.
He looked up in agonized bewilderment. She was frowning, as if concentrating her mind on some important matter, her head cocked slightly to one side. “Signore Burke,” she repeated.
“Signorina?” He reached one hand across the table and snatched a slice of bread.
“Oh, but . . .” she began, and then sighed. “Signore Burke, I remember I have a message for you, from Signora Morley.”
His hand, conveying a large ripped hunk of bread to his mouth, froze on his lips. “From Lady Morley?” he repeated.
“Yes, Signore Burke. She asks . . . will you meet her . . . tonight at ten o’clock . . .” Her lips pursed disapprovingly.
“Go on,” Finn whispered.
“Tonight at ten o’clock in the peach orchard.” She threw up her hands and turned back to the larder. “That is all, do you hear me? All!”
“No, no,” Finn said, still whispering. “That is sufficient.
Grazie.
” He put the bread back to his mouth and chewed in mechanical movements, watching her bring out the remains of a leg of lamb and fling it onto the table with a distinct air of censure. He swallowed his mouthful of bread and cleared his throat. “It is likely something to do with the automobile,” he said. “Lady Morley is my assistant.”
She looked upward at him through her eyelashes.
Finn cleared his throat and summoned his fragile command of Italian. “Tomorrow we go to perform a delicate operation, to put the engine back together again with her new battery. I think Lady Morley has a few final questions. Ah, is that your lamb? It looks excellent.”
“It is excellent lamb. Tender and new and innocent as Our Lady.” She turned away and marched to the hearth, where two large cauldrons shot steam into the air in a mighty boil. With one sturdy arm she lifted each pot from the fire and attached it to a wooden yoke, which she hoisted onto her shoulders as if it were nothing.
Finn half rose from his chair, astonished. “Can I help you, signorina?”
The look she tossed him was of purest scorn. “Is milady’s bath,” she said, and apparently no further explanation was necessary, because she marched from the room without another word, leaving Finn to his bread and his innocent lamb and his nighttime assignations.
TWELVE
T
he approaching footsteps startled Finn out of a tantalizing reverie involving Lady Morley’s lace-edged corset.
He’d been trying to focus his mind on his automobile, as he sat there on the damp grass, propped up against the slim trunk of a peach tree laden with blossoms. After all, he had a complicated operation to perform the next morning, reattaching the improved battery to the motor and installing it back in the chassis. If he did it well, he might even be able to fit in a trial before sundown. That, indeed, was something to look forward to. That, indeed, was exciting. A triumph.
His brain, however, was uninterested. His brain kept turning to Alexandra, to her mouth and hair and breasts, to the silken skin of her neck under his lips. To her underclothing, and how he would remove each piece, slowly, revealing first the slope of her bosom, and then the curves of her breasts, and then her . . .
Snap, snap
went the footsteps on the fallen twigs, and Finn jumped up, searching through the trees for the sight of a pale dress bobbing against the darkness.
Awfully heavy tread for a woman, he reflected, placing one hand on the rough bark of the trunk.
Then he dove behind it.
“Still, still, still,” said a masculine voice. “Pill? Kill? Oh, God, no. Mill? Hang it all. Shall have to try something else.”
Finn pressed his forehead into the tree trunk, hard, until the ridges bit sharply into his skin.
Lord Roland’s voice came louder, drifting between the trees. “. . .
the memory is with me still . . .
no,
the memory is with me
yet.
The memory is with me yet
, there’s the ticket.
The memory is with me yet, and something something . . . shall forget?
Or
regret
?
And never shall my love regret?
Oh yes. Very good.”
Very good? Was he mad?
Finn peered cautiously around the tree. Though the moon was nearly full, the profusion of leaves and peach blossoms swallowed its light, and he could only just make out the dark-coated figure of Lord Roland Penhallow as he settled himself against a tree trunk ten or twelve yards away, paper in hand, face turned dreamily into the blossoms above.
“
The memory is with me yet, and never shall my love regret
,” murmured his lordship.
Finn had never gone in much for poetry as a youth. Still less as an adult, come to think of it. But he recalled hearing, at some point, amid the ale-soaked midnight conversations of his Cambridge years, that young Penhallow was reckoned a dab hand at a verse. Colossal promise, it was said. Perhaps another Byron, or that mad chap with the sister.
This was not Byron. This was some of the most appalling rot Phineas Burke had ever encountered.
Would Lady Morley hear him? Would it stop her in time? Finn slid his pocket watch free and squinted at the face, tilted it this way and that, trying to catch the meager light. Five minutes past ten, it looked like. Where was she? Perhaps he could sneak away and warn her, without alerting Penhallow. A risky move, though.
Lord Roland glanced back down at his paper and straightened. “Excellent. From the beginning, then.”
Finn turned his forehead back into the tree and began to pound, softly, in time with the meter of the poem. Was it a sonnet? Only fourteen lines in a sonnet. Five little iambs per line, five strikes of the old forehead against the tree. No, no. Wait. Something was quite wrong. Penhallow had only four iambs per line, which meant . . .
Snap, snap.
Finn bolted to attention. So did Lord Roland. He stuffed the paper inside his coat and scrambled behind the nearest tree.
The footsteps drew closer, slow and deliberate, striking firm earth and crisp twigs. A nightjar called out a warning through the darkness, low and trilling.
Hell and damnation. What was he to do? Reveal himself and expose their meeting to Lord Roland? Or allow her to walk away, thinking he’d played her false?
The footsteps stopped. Heavy footsteps again, Finn realized in shock. Which could only mean . . .
“I know you’re there,” growled the deep, impressive voice of the Duke of Wallingford, carrying through the orchard with enough force to make the tender young blossoms vibrate in fear. “You may as well come out.”
Not on your bloody life, Wallingford
, Finn thought grimly. Not a chance in the world he’d confirm Wallingford’s suspicions, not until the last second, not until it was too late and Lady Morley had actually walked into full view and confessed. He concentrated every nerve on the effort to remain still, to let not one movement of his body catch the duke’s attention.
“I have your message,” Wallingford went on, his tone turning pleasant. “There’s no need to hide. No need for any more tricks.”
Finn’s mind raced. Message? What message? Had Lady Morley left him a note?
Or was it Penhallow’s note? Had Penhallow actually managed to defeat the inflexible virtue of Lady Somerton and arrange a tryst in the orchard?
He didn’t dare risk looking across at Lord Roland, hidden behind his own tree. He could only stand there, frozen, and pray that Lady Morley had been unavoidably detained by her sister’s account of the goat milking that evening.
“Now look here.” The duke’s voice gentled further, until it seemed almost coaxing. “You asked me to meet you tonight. Don’t be afraid, my brave girl.”
Brave girl.
Finn’s breath caught in his throat.
Unless, of course, the maid had made a mistake. Unless Lady Morley hadn’t intended to meet Phineas Burke in the orchard at ten o’clock at all.
Unless she’d set her sights on a duchy instead.
Snap, snap.
* * *
A
lexandra stared, stupefied, at the Duke of Wallingford. The words
what the devil?
rose in her throat, but her vocal cords seemed unable to activate them.
“Lady Morley.” The duke ran his eyes down her pale figure and back up again to her face. He lingered on the headscarf, which still clung modestly to her hair. “This is charming indeed.”
She didn’t panic long. She never had, after all. A few seconds’ indulgence was all she ever allowed herself before practicality took over. Options flitted through her brain, one by one, and in the end—that is, after a split second’s consideration—she decided to brazen it out. “Your Grace,” she said. “You’re looking well. Courting the moonlit shades for your studies, perhaps? Or a dalliance with a village girl?”
His face was deeply shadowed, the eyes mere black pits above the dark blur of his nose and mouth. “I might ask the same of you, Lady Morley,” he said, in a silky voice.
“Village girls are not in my preferred style.”
“Ah, more’s the pity.” The duke exhaled with regret. “You’re a lover of nature, then?”
She took a deep breath, filling her senses with the heady scent of peach blossom. “I walk here every evening,” she said. “The cool air braces one wonderfully before bed. Dare I hope you’re picking up the same habit? You’ll find it puts you to sleep directly.”
“Now why do I have trouble believing this charming tale?”
“Because you’ve a fiendish mind, I suppose,” she replied, tilting her chin. “You’re a devious fellow, and you can’t imagine that everyone else isn’t scheming just as you are. I expect you think I’m meeting Mr. Burke here tonight, don’t you?”
“Since you asked, yes. I do.”
“Then tell
me
, Wallingford, whom
you’re
meeting here tonight.”
He lifted one hand and examined his fingernails. “Perhaps I came to catch you out.”
She made herself laugh. “That won’t do at all. Even if I were meeting Mr. Burke tonight, I shouldn’t be so careless as to let anybody else know of it. No, the shoe is quite on the other foot. I’ve caught
you
out. The question, of course, is whom.”
“There is no question. I’ve no meeting at all.”
“Your Grace,” she said, smiling into the darkness, “I should never be so indelicate as to call into question a man’s command of the truth . . .”
“I should very much hope not.” His tone was deadly.
“Though of course, in affairs of the heart, one’s allowed a bit of rope. After all, it would be far more shabby to expose one’s sweetheart to disgrace than to insist on an exact adherence to the facts. Wouldn’t it?”
“We have strayed, Lady Morley,” said the duke, his words striking her ear in precise notes, “rather far from the point at hand. Are you meeting Burke here tonight?”
“I’m not under any sort of obligation to answer your question. Why don’t you ask him?”
“He’s not here, at present.”
“Isn’t he?” She cast about in confusion. “But I thought you said I was meeting him! Dear me. What a dreadful muddle. Perhaps I got my times mixed up. Or perhaps it was the seventh tree, twelfth row instead of the twelfth tree, seventh row. I burnt his note, you see, in the fireplace.”
Wallingford folded his arms and regarded her steadily. “Well played, madam. I commend you. My friend Burke, I must concede, is an exceptionally lucky man.”
“Mr. Burke is twenty times the man you’ll ever be.” She folded her own arms. “Your Grace.”
“So I perceive,” he said softly. His fingers tapped against the dark wool of his jacket. “What now, then, Lady Morley? We seem to be at an impasse. Do we await his arrival together?”
“Do as you like, Wallingford. I shall continue with my walk.” She started forward, in a direct line from the way she had come, brushing past him with only a foot to spare.
His hand reached out and snared her arm. Up close, his features emerged from shadow, familiar and severely handsome, fixed on hers. “A shame, Lady Morley,” he said, his voice still soft, “to waste this lovely evening.”
She shrugged off his hand. “I don’t intend to, Your Grace. Good evening.” She walked on a pace or two, and then stopped and turned back to him. “Tell me, Wallingford. Why does it mean so damned much to you? Can you not simply let people do as they please? Can you not simply look to your own affairs for happiness?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “No. It appears I cannot.”
* * *
T
he flagstones beat cool and hard underneath Alexandra’s slippers when, an hour or so later, she slipped down the rear hallway to the little staircase in the back of the library wing.
The castle was quiet. She’d waited until the last sound had died away, until the door to the gardens had ceased opening and closing, until the muffled noises of booted heels on stone had ceased to echo through the hallways. And then she’d waited another half an hour, just to be certain.
Even in her fury, she showed patience.
It might, of course, have been an accident that Wallingford had appeared in the orchard instead of Mr. Burke. Perhaps the housekeeper had muddled the messages, or perhaps Wallingford’s presence had been coincidental. The peach orchard, after all, was rather an obvious place to arrange an assignation; she was probably fortunate that she hadn’t tripped over any number of trysting couples as she made her way through the trees.
On the other hand, Mr. Burke might have been sending her a very clear message.
Regardless of what had actually happened, she refused to rest tonight until she’d reached the bottom of it. Her reasons, of course, were entirely practical. Mr. Burke must be brought to understand that he couldn’t treat the Marchioness of Morley in such a cavalier fashion, and that dodging appointments with ladies smacked of cowardice. More importantly, their earlier kiss must be explained away in rational terms, and firm rules established to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
No, her eagerness to meet him had nothing at all to do with the happiness that sang through her veins at the sight of him. That was entirely beside the point, and best ignored.
She ignored, too, the delicious thrill that snaked through her body as she crept up the staircase. A clandestine activity naturally produced an excited physical response, in order to heighten her senses against discovery. Nothing at all to do with the anticipation of seeing Mr. Burke in his bedroom, perhaps half-clothed, perhaps even in the bed itself, perhaps with his hair charmingly tousled and his eyes half-lidded and his chest . . .
You are angry, she reminded herself. You have grievances. He
failed to keep an appointment
.
She reached the top of the stairs and peered around the corner into the darkened hallway, lit only by the glow of the full moon outside. It stood empty, doors closed, shadows settled comfortably into the corners, holy and blessed just this day by Don Pietro and his beautiful young server. Rather sinful of her, presumably, to desecrate the hallway’s state of grace so quickly, but it couldn’t be helped.
The door to Mr. Burke’s room stood almost at the top of the staircase, just a few feet away. She stepped over to stand in front of it and raised her hand for the fateful knock. For an instant she hesitated, as a terrible thought occurred to her: What if she’d been mistaken? What if—God forbid!—it hadn’t been a mechanic’s smock on the shelf? What if it had been one of Wallingford’s white shirts?
Rubbish. She knew a smock from a shirt. Besides, Wallingford’s shirts were always rigidly starched, and the garment on the shelf had carried a distinct droop.
She tapped the door. Solid wood, of course, and quite heavy. Unlikely Mr. Burke could hear such a fainthearted sound, particularly if he were already half-asleep.
She tapped more smartly and listened, ear to the door. Through the wood she could hear, just barely, the sound of the castle as it groaned and shifted its old stones through the night. Comfortable, inanimate noises, and nothing at all like the rustle of a man rising from his bed to answer a midnight knock.
Well, then. There was nothing for it. Alexandra reached one hand toward the old brass handle and pushed.
The door swung open, unlocked, carrying Alexandra with it. She staggered into the room, nearly falling to her knees on the worn braided rug covering the stone floor.
“I beg your pardon,” she whispered, gathering herself, smoothing her dress. “It’s only me. I tried knocking, but . . .”