The Charmer (28 page)

"Did her husband know?"

"Aye. Well, not at first."
He pulled a face. "Later 'e found out and 'e railed at her. One of the
maids said he shouted and said terrible things to 'er. Told 'er not to see none
of 'er village friends no more. Said she was above that."

Bloody hell. "What did she
say?"

"She said she would keep 'er
own friends. After that..." Warren shook his head and huffed.

"Did he..." God, it
hurt just to think it let alone say it. "Did he hit her?"

"Aye. The maids said he did.
Terrible thing, it was. None of us could believe it. She never 'urt no one.
And, well, we didn't know it until later, but she was with child. She lost it."

Orlando knew about the lost baby
and the damaged womb from Widow Dawson, but this...the reason for the loss was
new to him. He felt sick to the core and so very, very angry. An anger that
could never be vanquished because the perpetrator of Susanna's heartache was
already dead, and not by Orlando's hand.

If he did not need to speak to Monk,
he would have gone back to Stoneleigh and taken her into his arms. The need to
hold her, cherish her, and to take away her pain, was unbearable.

Yet he knew she would not let him
near. She no longer trusted him, and considering what he'd hidden from her, she
had every right. He had lied to her, bedded her, and engaged her affections for
his own amusement and purpose. Why in God's name
would
she trust him?

Perhaps she was right and parting
was the only option left to them now. It would certainly dampen the raw
emotions he felt when he was near her, and dampen them he must. Distance and
time, that's what he needed. It never failed to cure bruises of the body, so
why not of the heart too. His conscience may take longer to forget the ills
he'd bestowed, but he was growing used to carrying guilt of one kind or another.
It was an old companion.

Walking away from her would be
difficult, but not as difficult as staying. Staying would do neither of them
any good. Susanna needed to make her own way in the world as the heiress of
Stoneleigh and he needed to see new places, meet new people, have adventures
with his brothers-in-arms. Stay active and free from boredom and trouble it
caused.

The one good thing he could still
do for her was seek out a London shopkeeper to sell her wares to noble
customers. But first he needed to see the list Cowdrey had given her. If, as
Orlando suspected, the names were false, then Cowdrey would feel the sharp end
of Orlando's wrath.

His mind was awhirl as he waited
for Monk to leave the house. He helped Warren and the other lads in the
stables, remaining near the entrance to see who came and left. Every thought he
had returned to Susanna and the look on her face as she'd accused him of lying.
The churning in his gut grew worse. If he could take every lie back, he would.

But wishing was futile. Things wouldn't
have been any different to what they were now except perhaps it was easier for
her to banish him, easier for her to shrug off any feelings she may have
harbored for him. He could live with her hatred. Absolutely. It was much, much
better to bear her hatred than her love.

Love. Hell. Now he was beginning
to sound like Rafe Fletcher. Love might suit his good friend, a man who was
ready to settle into an unvarying life, but it would not sit well on Orlando's
shoulders. He wasn't ready. He never would be.

"What are you doing
here?" asked Monk, standing in the open doorway, blocking out the gloomy light.

Orlando leaned on his broom.
"You weren't at church this morning."

"Report me to the parish
then."

"Not worried about your
soul?"

"My soul went to Hell years
ago."

Another one. He and Cole should
become acquainted. What a fun evening around the fire that would be. "I'm
not here to save your soul or muck out the stables." Orlando returned the
broom to the corner. "Come with me."

He strode past Monk, out the door
and away from the house. Monk followed, his steps light on the gravel. It seemed
he was a man used to sneaking about.

"If you're taking me
somewhere to kill me, get it over with," Monk said. "I'm a busy
man."

Orlando stopped when they were
far enough from everyone and there was nothing but open spaces around them.
They could not be overheard. "I'm not going to kill you after the grooms
saw us leave together. How big a fool do you think me?"

"Are you sure you want me to
answer that?"

Despite everything, Orlando laughed.
"You sound like a friend of mine."

"Get on with it, Holt, I'm
busy." They stood a little apart, just out of each other's reach. Monk
crossed his arms and glared at Orlando from beneath his hat.

"Busy trying to steal the
plans from Susanna Lynden?"

The brief flare in Monk's eyes
told Orlando he had the man's attention. It was a small sign and most would
have missed it, but he was trained to look for such things. Monk was good at
hiding his emotions, but not that good. "What plans?"

"Don’t play the fool with
me. You're not."

"Ah, flattery. I hear you're
famous for it."

Orlando's fingers twitched with
the need to run him through with his blade. "Shut your mouth, or I'll shut
it for you."

"How can I answer you with
my mouth shut? You cannot have it both ways."

"You showed great interest
in the plans to build the structure over Susanna's orange trees. Why? What's
written on them?"

"Written on them? You saw
for yourself—"

Orlando's fist slammed into
Monk's jaw, but he eased back at the last. The blow didn't knock Monk down, but
it would leave a nice bruise. "Answer the bloody question."

Monk gave a harsh laugh. He
didn't touch his jaw. "You have a good fist, and you're fast. For a
gardener."

"How did Lord Lynden become
involved with Whipple?"

Monk's humorless smile
disappeared. "I don't know what you're talking about." He turned to
go.

"Yes, you do. And I'm going
to help you get the secret letter."

Monk paused, turned. "I can
get it myself."

If he could, he would have kept
walking.  

"I'll get it for you,"
Orlando said, "but first you have to answer one question and make a
vow."

Monk's brows shot up. "No
request for money? For payment of some kind?"

"Money holds no interest for
me."

"Then
you
are the
fool," Monk snarled, bitterness screwing up his mouth. "Money is
everything in this world. Everything."

Orlando shrugged. "If you
say so. But I'm not concerned with payment. All I want from you in return for
the plans is the answer to one question: have you been hired to kill
Susanna?"

He frowned. "No."

"You answered very
quickly."

"That's because I didn't
have to think about it. I'm telling the truth."

"Promise me you'll not harm
her."

"I have no reason to harm
her. If she gives me the plans."

"You'll get the plans. You
can give them to Lynden or Whipple, or whoever is afraid of their treason being
discovered. I don't care about that. I only care that Susanna is not your
target."

Monk folded his arms again.
"I have no target. My orders do not stretch to killing anyone, Lady Lynden
included. Although I've come close to wanting to slit your throat on
occasion."

"The feeling's mutual."
Despite his words, Orlando was beginning to like the man. "Who do you work
with?"

"No one."

"Ever killed anyone?"

"That would be against the
law, Holt."

Orlando tipped his hat.
"You're right. Good day, Mr. Monk. If I catch you breaking your promise,
I'll kill you. Understand? I'll deliver your letter to you when I have it."
He walked off, not toward the main road but across the fields in the direction
of Stoneleigh.

"Make it soon," Monk
said to Orlando's back. "Whipple's patience is thin and his nerves are
weak."

"He shouldn't have committed
treason then, should he?"

Crossing the fields was faster
than taking the main road, although muddier. It began to rain hard. Drips fell
from the brim of Orlando's hat, down his neck, and soon he was wet through. The
proud, grand structure of Stoneleigh was a welcome sight. The stone walls themselves
looked welcoming, the wings stretching like arms to embrace him. He could
almost smell Cook's broth and feel it warming his insides. Susanna would be
there too. Perhaps she would not walk away when she saw him. Perhaps she'd
forgiven him and come to realize he spoke the truth when he said he wouldn't
harm her. Perhaps she would not make him leave tomorrow.

Despite his earlier conviction
that leaving was the best thing for them both, the thought had him walking
faster. Then running. He ran across the last field, jumped the fence, and
didn't care when he landed in a puddle. Susanna would forgive him. He had the
rest of the day and all night to convince her.

He wiped the soles of his boots
on the steps leading up to the kitchen door and went to open it. Locked.

"Cook! Cook, open up, it's
me, Holt. My stomach's growling for a bowl of your broth."

No answer. He knocked.

"Go away!" It was
Hendricks's voice, but it took Orlando a moment to realize where it was coming
from. "Your things are in the stables."

Orlando stepped back from the
small porch and looked up. Rain splashed in his eyes, but he could just make
out the open casement window and Hendricks looking down at him.

"My things?" Orlando
called back. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you are to leave
Stoneleigh. This instant."

A dreadful foreboding pressed
down on Orlando's shoulders. He felt heavy, as if he were drowning in a flood
and couldn't swim up to the surface. "Where's your mistress? Where's
Susanna? What's she got to say about this?"

"The doors have been locked
by her orders. Leave now, Mr. Holt. And do not come back." The window
slammed shut.

Orlando stood in the kitchen
garden for some time. He didn't know how long. Minutes, perhaps, or hours. The rain
stopped at some point but he was dimly aware that it made no difference. He was
wet to the bone and so cold he'd gone numb. He stared up at the window then at
the door, willing them to open, for Susanna to appear.

She did not.

Did she truly expect him to
leave? Now? When danger was so close?

Did she not understand that he
couldn't
leave?

He sat on the ground near the
thyme and stretched out his legs. Some time later, as dusk threw itself over the
day, the coldness finally got to him. He shivered. The cut Monk had inflicted
on his arm ached like the devil. He drew up his knees and tried to make himself
as small as possible when it began to rain again.

But he would not move. Not even
to get his pack. It was better off in the stables staying dry anyway.

He rested his chin on his knees
and calculated how long it would be before the cold became unbearable. He could
watch the eastern side of the house from the stables, but it would be easier to
hear an intruder if he was inside Stoneleigh.

He rubbed his hands up and down
his arms but it failed to warm them. At least he was thinking again, and that
was a good thing. Except for when he thought about Susanna and why she'd
suddenly locked him out. He had no answers to that. He only hoped she'd armed
herself. He could not watch the whole house from the outside all of the time.
But he could patrol it.

***

"Why is he still here?"
Susanna paced the length of the great hall where Bessie and Hendricks had
joined her. Cook remained in the kitchen, preparing supper. Her two servants
had pleaded with her to stop pacing, to find something to do to take her mind
off Orlando, but she could not. "What's he doing now? Has he moved
yet?"

"Not yet, mistress,"
Hendricks said.

Orlando's reaction to being
locked out of Stoneleigh was not the one she'd expected. Her initial fear that
he would be furious had quickly vanished, along with her worry for her household's
safety. He was capable of breaking her door down if he wanted to get in and
harm her, yet he did not.

She knew it was the truth. It
made sense. His lies, the hidden knife, the fighting skills he'd displayed
against Monk. And then there were the attempts on her life—the blade thrown
from the trees as they drove home from church, and the intruder several nights
ago. If the note spoke the truth, and she knew in her gut that it did, Orlando must
have orchestrated those events which meant he was working with someone. But
who?

And why?

All these things crowded her mind,
yet she also knew that he could have killed her many times over. They'd been
alone together often and he'd not so much as laid a finger on her except in
passionate embrace.

Her stomach rolled. She wanted to
be sick. She didn't know what to believe any more.

"M'lady?" Hendricks
steadied her with a hand to her elbow. "Sit. You'll do yourself no good
worrying about him. He's not worth it."

He was right. So why did shutting
Orlando out in the freezing cold feel so wrong? Why was her heart tearing in
two?

"I'll build up the
fire," Hendricks said.

"No." Susanna continued
her pacing. "Leave it. And no candles." It had grown dark and was
raining again. Rain splashed against the windows and tracked down the glass in
rivulets. She folded her arms around her body, but it didn't stop another
shiver. She was cold, but Orlando must be colder.