Elizabeth Mansfield (16 page)

He covered her hand with his. "I hoped—" he began.

But he was interrupted by the appearance of Hickham at the door. "My lord," the fellow said loudly, looking fixedly at each of the two men in the room, his eyes flicking from one to the other, "there's a visitor for you."

Jeremy and Charlie exchanged glances. "For me?" Charlie asked.

Hickham nodded vigorously. "Yes, m'lord. A Mr. Clive Percy." And he made a nervous gesture with his head toward the door.

"Percy?" Cassie asked, glancing up at Jeremy interestedly. "A relative of yours, Lord Lucas?"

But before Jeremy could think of an answer, and before Charlie had managed to cross the room to stop the intrusion, a young man appeared in the doorway. He was a tall, muscular, pleasant-featured young fellow about twenty-two years of age, with the ruddy complexion and confident carriage of a sportsman. His clothes also bespoke the sportsman, for his greatcoat hung carelessly open to reveal riding clothes underneath, and his boots had been chosen for rugged wear rather than appearance. He took a quick look about the room, saw Charlie bearing down on him and immediately put out his hand. "Good evening, Uncle Charles," he said with hearty good humor. "I've taken you up on your invitation, as you can see."

They shook hands, Charlie throwing Jeremy a look of desperation. "Good to see you, my boy," he mumbled, trying to shove the young man toward the door. "Come with me to the hall and let's get you out of your coat before I make you known to the ladies."

"Nonsense, the coat can wait," the boy insisted, resisting his uncle's pressure. "I must at least be permitted to thank Lord Inglesby for his hospitality." While he spoke, he made his way across the room to the window, and he was pumping Jeremy's hand before his uncle could say another word. "I say, Lord Inglesby, it was deuced kind of you to have me. I was going out of my mind with boredom hibernating at Mama's."

Charles groaned. Eva and Cicely, their faces clouding, looked over at Cassie in alarm. Jeremy, utterly speechless, let the young man shake his hand. Cassie was thoroughly confused; she wondered why no one was correcting this strange young man's mistake. "Don't you know your own uncle, young man?" she asked.

"Of course I do," Clive Percy said, looking at her with surprise. "Known him all my life."

'Then why are you calling him Lord Inglesby?"

He peered at her for a moment, his brow knitting suspiciously. "Are you making a game of me? I've known Lord Inglesby all my life as well. He's my godfather."

"But
this
man is not—" she began. Then she took note of the faces staring at her. Why, she wondered, where they all gaping at
her
so strangely when they should have been gaping at the visitor?
Unless .
. . She felt an ice-cold spasm clench her chest...
Unless he was speaking the truth.
But he couldn't be! She remembered Lord Lucas as well as anyone. She could even recall his face as it was
before
the accident. How could she have mistaken him?

Her eyes flew up to Jeremy's face. "Have I lost my mind
again!"
she asked pathetically.

He looked stricken. "No, no, of
course
not! Please don't think such a thing!" He threw an agonized look at Charlie. "I
knew
we should never have—!"

"Confound it, it was only meant to be a joke!" Charlie said miserably.

'The doctor thought we shouldn't tell you," Eva said, taking a step toward her, her eyes brimming with sympathy. "Not until you were fully recovered."

Cicely, as usual, started to cry.

But Cassie was staring in wide-eyed horror at Jeremy. "Then you
are
Inglesby?" she asked, her voice choked.

"Does it matter so much?" He grasped both her hands, his eyes pleading. "I'm the same, no matter what I'm called."

She didn't answer. She couldn't, for she was overwhelmed with a sense of betrayal. She pulled her hands from his, clapped them to her mouth and, throwing him one last look of reproach, ran from the room.

He stared after her, feeling more helpless than ever. "Damnation," he muttered, "what do I do now?"

Chapter 21

They all stood staring at the door, Charles abashed, Eva frightened, Cicely sobbing, and Jeremy white at the mouth. Young Clive, whose brash entrance had precipitated the crisis, blinked at them all in confusion. "Dash it all, what did I say?" the young fellow asked in dismay.

"Nothing," said his uncle. "It was not your fault."

"Do you think that this muddle will affect her recovery?" Eva Schofield asked in concern.

"Well, Dr. Swan did warn us—" Charlie began.

"The doctor be hanged," Jeremy snapped. "We never should have lied to her!"

"P-poor Mama!" wept Cicely.

"Must you always be a watering pot, child?" her aunt admonished. "Stop your foolish wailing! Much good tears will do for your mother."

"Hang it, your ladyship," Charlie burst out, "we know that you're alarmed, but you needn't take it out on the girl. None of this is her doing."

Cicely, unaccustomed to such defense, lifted her head and threw him a look of melting gratitude. From that moment her sobs ceased, and her tears dried on her cheeks.

That look inspired new courage in Charles's chest. "Perhaps I ought to go up to Lady Beringer and explain. This contretemps is all of my doing, after all."

"No," Jeremy said, starting for the door. "I'll go."

Lady Schofield heaved herself from the chair into which she'd been sunk. "Wait, Jeremy. I'll go with you."

As she hurried out the door, Cicely glanced once more at her protector, smiled at him wanly and followed her aunt. Her voice floated back to the two who still remained: "Aunt Eva, wait for me!"

Clive, to whom none of this had made a bit of sense, nevertheless stood staring at the now-deserted doorway with a gaping mouth. "Tell me, Uncle Charlie," he asked, awestruck, "was that the chit you wrote to Mama about?"

His uncle favored him with a glower. "If it was, I certainly did not refer to the lady as a 'chit.' Her name is Miss Beringer. Cicely Beringer."

The boy grinned. "Whatever you call her, you were decidedly in the right about her. The girl's an out-and-outer if ever I saw one." He slapped his uncle vigorously on the back. "A regular out-and-outer!"

Charles tottered from the force of the boy's affection. "I'm delighted to hear it," he said tartly as he regained his balance. "Nothing is more pleasing to an old man like me than to have his opinions approved by a young upstart."

But his sarcasm went completely unnoticed. His nephew merely dropped down on a chair, stretched out his booted legs and sighed contentedly. "I'll admit to you, Uncle Charlie, that I started out on this visit only to do the pretty, you know? For your sake, because Mama said you needed me. But now, I'm sure-as-check glad I came."

Chapter 22

Cassie shut her bedroom door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. The past few hours had been too much to bear. The life she thought she'd lost was rushing back at her like a flood of water from a broken dam, while the life she'd been clinging to for the last month was crashing down in ruins all about her. She was drowning and being battered, both at the same time.

They would all be coming up to see her, she knew that. To make explanations, apologies, promises. But she didn't want to listen. She had to be alone for a while, to think, to try to sort out this confusion of old memories, new impressions and turbulent feelings, to make some sense of it all, to find some peace. But she'd foolishly revealed her inner frenzy by running out of the room in that dramatic fashion, so the others were bound to come up and show their concern. In fact, she could already hear footsteps down the corridor. If there were only a way to lock them all out...

As if in answer to a prayer, Mrs. Upsom emerged from the dressing room at that moment. "Is the celebration over already, ma'am?" she asked cheerfully. But then she saw her mistress's face and clutched her chest in alarm. "Oh, my poor heart! What's
happened
to you?"

"Annie! My dear, you're just the person I need. Go outside, quickly! If anyone wants to see me, tell them I've gone to bed. If they insist, assure them that I'm quite well but very tired. I'll see them all tomorrow." She gave the woman a quick embrace and thrust her out the door. "Please, Annie," she begged before shutting the door on her, "be firm!"

Evidently Annie
was
firm, for despite some low-voiced exchanges out in the corridor, no one knocked at the door.

Cassie sighed in relief when the footsteps retreated. Still too upset to go to bed, however, she blew out her candle and perched on the window seat. Annie peeped in, but seeing that the room was dark, she too retreated. All became silent. Now at last, Cassie was alone.

She stared out the window at the night sky. The moon was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, but Cassie did not really see it. She was too concerned with the tumult of her feelings. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that this inner turbulence was caused more by learning Lord Inglesby's true identity than by anything else she'd discovered in this day of shattering discoveries. He was not Lord Lucas. He was Jeremy Tate, Viscount Inglesby. Why was that discovery more shattering than the others? It made no sense. What difference did the name make? As he himself had pointed out, he was still the same man, whatever his name. Why did she feel so
betrayed?

To find the answer, she had to ask herself why this matter was of such concern to her. Why, in fact, was his every word, every look, every facial expression so significant to her happiness? But she knew the answer to that question. She loved him. She'd known it for weeks. She hadn't let herself confront that feeling because he'd said she had to
remember
love first. Well, she remembered now, for all the good it did. She remembered that she'd never experienced love before. Yes, she knew what mother love was. And familial love. But the love between a man and a woman was new to her. Her experience as a wife had been so unpleasant that she'd made up her mind to avoid marriage—and thus love—forever. She might never have permitted herself to fall in love with Lucas—no, Inglesby!—if her memory had not failed her.

But it
had
failed her, and she loved him now. It was too late to use her old memories as a shield.

But she loved
him,
not his name. Why had the discovery of his real name come as such a blow? Was it because she loved him, and he'd lied to her?

No, there was something more to it. There was an explanation for the lie, she knew that. She wasn't sure what the explanation was, but she was sure Charles Percy was responsible, not her Jeremy. ("Jeremy," she murmured, aloud. It was a beautiful, melodious name. It suited him.) So what was there about the name that was so disturbing?

She had to search that newly restored memory for the answer. She knew she'd not seen him before the night of the accident, but she
had
heard the name. Where? How? In what connection? She remembered she'd come to this house to see him, but why?

Suddenly her mind made the connection. Good God! It wasn't the red-headed, stocky, rakish Charles Percy who had courted Cicely—it was her
Jeremy!
It was Lord Inglesby from whom Cicely had wanted an offer!

Her heart sank in her chest like a stone. The man she loved had wanted to marry her daughter! She'd opposed the idea from the first, but now that she knew him—how fine, how kind, how perfectly suitable he was!—she could not in good conscience stand in Cicely's way. Yet she felt ill at the thought of it... ill of jealousy... jealousy of her own daughter!

But wait, she thought. If memory served (though it had served her ill for a long time), Jeremy had not come up to scratch. Or had he? It was all so confusing. Had he wanted to make an offer to Cicely or hadn't he? Why were the details so blastedly vague?

As if in answer to the question, a memory flashed into her mind. A recent memory. She was climbing up the stairs to the turret room, with Hickham behind her carrying the easel. She was wearing her old smock, and she found a note in the pocket. An apology of some sort, from
him!
She hadn't bothered to read it, believing it to have been written by the man she now knew was Lord Lucas. But she wanted very much to read it now. She
needed
to read it. It must still be in the pocket of the smock, she realized. But the smock was hanging on the easel in the turret room.

Without a moment's hesitation, she leapt up from the window seat and, with shaking hands, felt for the tinder box and candle on her night table. She would go up to get the note right now, this moment. She could not bear to wait till morning.

The candlelight threw huge, frightening shadows on the stone walls of the winding stairs as she made her way up.

The familiar passageway was not at all familiar without daylight streaming down. And when she stepped over the threshold into the glass-enclosed room, she found it not quite dark but faintly frosted with an eerie light that made her gasp. Yet, though she shivered in fright, there was something beautiful about the room at night. The hide-and-seek moon was completely covered by a cloud at this moment, but the hiding place was made immediately apparent by the cloud's silvered edge. It was that rim of silver that gave the room its unearthly glow.

She set her candle down on her worktable and went to the nearest window.
Poor moon,
she thought, gazing out at the luminescent sky,
you're too conspicuous a creature to hide away successfully.

With a sigh, she turned back to the task at hand. She pulled the note from the pocket of the smock, unfolded it and spread it on the table near the candle. Her eyes raced over the words. It was the last sentence that smote her heart. She had to say the words aloud to convince herself that they were true: "
I
would be more grateful still if you would permit me to call on you at your convenience, so that I may try to win your permission to speak to your daughter on the subject of marriage. Yours most humbly, Jere—"