Sharon Sobel (32 page)

All attention was for the scene being enacted high on the balcony above the dining hall, where two men seemed to be struggling with a third. One suddenly recoiled and brought a dark blue sleeve up to a bloody nose. The other grappled with his assailant and pushed him back over the unsteady balustrade. A green cap fell like a leaf to the floor below, revealing a dark head and a familiar profile.

Lark’s cries were lost with those of the others, though hers were surely more sympathetic. Ben Queensman lay over the balustrade, his attacker trying to send him after his woodland cap. She could not see Mr. Queensman’s face, but she could see Mr. Siddons’, and knew that desperation, frustration and anger would make this a fight to the death. A voice started screaming, “Ben, Ben!” and several minutes lapsed before Lark realized the voice was hers.

Later, in a private moment, Ben Queensman would confess that he heard her above everything else and was thus given the strength to fight back. Lark rather doubted it, but knew that was when the tide changed. His body twisted against that of his enemy, and he suddenly seemed to have power above him. She saw him pummel Siddons’ face with his fists and take advantage of the man’s momentary blindness to slip out of his hurtful grasp. And then he was saying something, provoking a genuine fury and a renewed attack.

Mr. Siddons rushed him, but Mr. Queensman deftly sidestepped and could not grasp him in time to save him from breaking through the delicate balustrade.

For one extraordinary moment, frozen in time, Gabriel Siddons seemed to fly high above them, his expression more triumphant than fearful. And then he was gone, drawn by gravity to a wretched end. Lark heard the thud of his body in a room that had grown eerily silent.

She heard, but she would not look. Utterly sickened by the hideous death of a man who would have yet had her dead, she turned away to gaze instead into the bloodshot eyes
of the king himself. Realizing the full extent of what her heedlessness had wrought, she drew back in horror.

“Quite a little hero, are you not, my boy?” the king said, sounding a bit drunk.

“Your majesty, I am so sorry—” Lark scuttled on the floor, oddly aware that her legs did not seem to work. Knowing not what else to do, she made some effort at a bow.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, boy, for you have saved your king’s life. Very few men could say such a thing, and even fewer boys. I know not your name, but I know what it shall be. You shall be known henceforth as the Earl of Brighthelmstone, in honor of the town in which you rose to glory. It is an ancient title, with lands and honor attached, and I would have them yours for what you have done on this day.”

“Your majesty, I am humbled by your beneficence, but I cannot accept—”

“I will not be swayed,” the king interrupted and thrust out a thick lower lip.

Suddenly Lark was aware they had an audience, and she watched as the king raised his arms so he might be lifted up by his guards. At the same time she felt herself grasped under her breast and pulled to her feet. But her injured legs would not hold her, and she fell against a hard, damp chest.

“Oh, Ben,” she began as he turned her around into the shelter of his body. “I thought you were dead.”

“So I might have been but for your interference. And so I might have wished myself if anything had happened to you.”

And before she knew what he was about, she felt his warm lips on hers and his arms pressing her even closer.

So she would have liked to stay forever, but the sudden applause of the king’s guests reminded her abruptly of their audience.

Ben Queensman recovered almost immediately and, still holding her, managed to bow before his king.

“Your majesty, it is Benedict Queensman at your service. I apologize for the closeness of the encounter.”

George IV looked surprised and oddly amused. “I do not believe you need apologize, for all has ended well. I will confess to surprise, however, when I thought I knew you rather well.”

Lark felt Ben Queensman’s body stiffen beside her. “Your majesty?”

The king made a snorting gesture at Lark, the disguised girl he had just made an earl.

“I did not know your tastes ran to boys, sir. I will tell you I do not approve of that sort of thing. And certainly not in public.”

Lark felt the very moment that the king’s words hit home, and she looked up into Ben Queensman’s face to see his reaction. She expected indignation, apologetic explanation or acquiescence.

She did not expect laughter.

She heard it bubble up in his throat like some great well-spring, before it showered down on all the confused guests around them.

B
enedict Queensman did not think he would ever grow weary of the subtle delights of sight and sound that graced Seagate in the early-evening hours. The echo of waves rushing against the cliffs below composed their own melodies through the ancient dungeons of the original keep and rose up throughout the rooms of the large house. Fading sunlight danced off the sea and reflected images onto the walls. And the servants, left with only one significant task for the day, were perfectly content to move along at an easier pace, speaking to each other and to their master in hushed tones.

It was the time of day, Ben fancied, when a man might be rewarded with time to be alone with his wife and family and discuss the day’s events. Or perhaps sit in companionable silence and not say anything at all.

In fact, Ben now shared this most rarefied moment with a member of his family, and as all had seemingly been said in the three days since the Great Event at the Pavilion, he and his elderly cousin sat quietly, each to his own thoughts.

Lord Raeborn tapped his wineglass nervously, making little pings in discordance with the music of the sea.

Ben studied him and realized he must only think kindly upon his cousin, though he would be the means of destroying Ben’s fondest hopes of happiness. But Raeborn was good and just and revealed a great forbearance, as not a single word had yet been said about the scene in the king’s dining hall in which the lady Larkspur had been kissed a little too passionately by the man who would soon be her cousin twice over. Indeed, the older cousin demonstrated a good deal more forbearance than the younger.

For no accusations had been brought forward.

Ben was not privileged to know if, in private conference, Lark had already explained everything to Raeborn, from her indecent but flattering garb on the night of the ball to that illicit kiss before a frankly fascinated audience. He did
not know if she had explained away her miraculous recovery or her apparent collusion with the physician whom Raeborn trusted. He only knew she planned to return to London with Janet Tavish, and was likely to remain there.

He would see her at the wedding of their friends, and at her wedding to his cousin. But necessarily, they would grow farther apart.

He swirled the sherry in his glass, and understood—for the first time in his life—why some men turned to drink as a balm against misery.

“I have a large favor to ask of you, my boy, and I am searching for the words that would shed a more generous light on it than the ones I currently cast.” Raeborn spoke gruffly, looking at the opposite wall. The pinging ceased.

“Indeed, my lord? You may be perfectly frank with me. I will not think more or less of you for the grammar you employ.”

Raeborn seemed to laugh, but then Ben realized he hiccuped.

“It is a most delicate matter. Concerning a lady.”

“Might she be a lady I am privileged to know?”

“Only too well, I believe. It is the lady Larkspur.”

“I see,” was all Ben said, but his expression would have betrayed the enormity of his feelings. Here it comes, he thought. I will be made to answer for my most injudicious actions and will be asked to pay for them, as I must.

“I believe you may not,” Raeborn continued, apparently oblivious to his host’s distress. “You undoubtedly are not aware she has been engaged to be married on several occasions, the most recent occurring—and ending—only days before I offered for her myself.”

“I know something of it, my lord. By all accounts the men, with the exception of yourself, were dishonorable knaves—not at all deserving of her.”

Raeborn looked distinctly uncomfortable and loosened his cravat.

“That is precisely my difficulty, my boy. I fear I am about to join their ignominious band.”

“My lord?” There was just the hint of censure in Ben’s words, tainted by his uncertainty of what was to follow.

“I am compelled to jilt the chit as well, for I have decided I cannot marry her.”

Ben thought a tidal wave had descended on Seagate, so deafening was the rush of water in his ears. He shook it off, realizing the storm waged from within.

“Do you fear the scandal?” he asked in a voice not like his own.

“Oh, scandal be damned. I am too old to worry about such things. But I am also too old to play the fool, and I am thrice the age of the chit.”

“You believe Lady Larkspur will not suit?”

“I am convinced of it. But more to the point, I believe another lady would suit me better.”

Suddenly, Ben felt practical and far more worldly than his senior relative.

“Then by all means you must act in accordance with your best judgment,” he began, trying not to feel traitorous. “It is your happiness, after all, and you would not wish to be saddled with a burden.”

Raeborn squinted at Ben and nodded thoughtfully.

“You agree with me that Lady Larkspur would be a burden? I knew not what I was getting into when I offered for her. I only saw her beauty and thought how pleased I would be if such beauty were mine. And then she seemed ripe for the taking, having just been spurned by that wretched fellow.”

“I believe you mean Hindley Moore.”

“Just so, my boy. Well, he treated her badly, and I took pity on her. Her family is quite excellent, though the mother is allowed to do anything she wishes. Paints or something.”

“Something, indeed. She is regarded as a talent, my lord.”

“So she may be, but I should not wish for my own wife to display her work anywhere, or call base attention to herself.” Raeborn resumed pinging the glass. “I was assured by her father she would be most compliant. The girl, of course, not the mother.”

Ben looked down into his glass again, smiling too warmly. The sherry no longer held the slightest temptation.

“The girl has disappointed you, my lord?”

“I need not point out her faults to you, boy, as you were witness to them yourself. The whole disguise business was enough to cause pain to the most tolerant soul, and her abuse of the king is a calumny she might never live down.”

Ben tried hard to control his glee. “Do you really think so, my lord? The king commends her for a hero and does not seem to mind the deception responsible for saving his life. If he did, he surely would not have offered the earldom to the man she would marry. Who, I believe, is you.”

Raeborn shook his head. “It is not enough to tempt me. I have all the title I need, and I lack only Elizabeth Hathawae to make my happiness complete.”

“Miss Hathawae?” Ben heard with pleasure the not unexpected news. “You wish to marry her?”

“I should have married her thirty years ago. Instead I sought a titled lady, and then watched as the true love of my life was loved by one even loftier than I. I should not speak of such things. But do you know of whom I speak?”

Ben nodded sagely.

“Betsey has waited too long to be a wife. I only hope I may spend the rest of my life proving my worth as a husband to her.”

“I wish you all the best, my lord. She is a wise and witty lady.” Ben was about to add “feisty” before realizing it might not be an asset that Raeborn would find admirable. “But what is it you wish of me? Surely you do not require my services as a go-between for Miss Hathawae and yourself?”

Raeborn preened in his seat, somehow managing to look twenty years younger. “I can manage that myself, thank you. But there is the other, somewhat more ticklish matter that I am reluctant to handle. I thought I might ask for your assistance there. Strictly in a professional light.”

“I will do whatever service I might, my lord.”

Raeborn clapped his hands together. “I should like for you to break off my engagement to Lady Larkspur.”

Ben saw the delicacy of his position at once. “I am a physician, not a lawyer, my lord.”

“But you are the lady’s physician, and you know her in a professional way. Surely you are capable of explaining the business dispassionately to her.”

“I rather doubt it,” Ben said under his breath.

“What is it you said, my boy? Will you not provide this service for me?”

Ben sighed deeply and closed his eyes. The sound of the water lapping against the walls of his home calmed his agitated spirit.

“I will do as you say, my lord,” he said. “But there is one matter complicating the business.”

Raeborn waved his hand dismissively. “If it is the matter of the settlement, I should—”

“It is not that, my lord. It is only—I may declare for her myself.”

Raeborn’s eyes widened in apparent disbelief, though Ben could not guess why. After all, the gossips in Brighton had been talking of little else but how the lady was compromised in full view of local society.

“You need not do so, my boy. Is it the title you wish? I assure you, you shall be Raeborn when I have retired to my sepulchre. Dear Betsey and I surely will have no children, and her son—you are aware she has a son?—will receive some compensation from his father. You need not marry just to become the Earl of Brighthelmstone.”

“Nothing was further from my thoughts. Surely you know me well enough to understand that such considerations are not compelling for me. I wish to marry the lady for her own qualities, and because I do love her. Forgive me.”

“How could I not? You have given me an excellent escape from a difficult entanglement. But you love the lady, you say? Do you not think her headstrong?”

“She proved headstrong enough to save a king’s life.”

“Willful?”