A Gentleman Never Tells (10 page)

“Oh rot,” he said lightly. “You’re just a damned suspicious bastard, Wallingford. What do you think it is? A collection of love notes from mathematical machines? Coded messages from one of those Oriental contraptions, with the . . . the beads and whatnot?” He twirled the first two fingers of his right hand in a helpless gesture.

“Whatever it is, you’re taking great pains to conceal it.”

Roland heaved a dramatic sigh. “Conceal it? You’re joking, surely? Have a look, then, if it means so much to you.” He turned and pulled out the book and tossed it at his brother’s chest. “If you can make heads or tails of it, I’ll give you a fiver.”

Wallingford shot him a malevolent stare and ran his thumb along the edges of the pages. “
Cahier de Mathematiques
, my arse,” he muttered, selecting a page. His eyes ran over the lines, left to right: one, two, three. A frown furrowed his brow. He lifted one finger and traced along the paper in a long deliberate motion.

He looked up. “I know what this is.”

Roland folded his arms and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, pretending to study the pattern of solid wood beams across the plaster. His mind hummed, constructing excuses and scenarios. “Pray enlighten me,” he drawled, in his most careless voice.

Wallingford snapped the book shut. “Chemical formulae, of course. Are you helping out Burke with his electrical batteries? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Roland’s jaw wobbled. “Batteries?”

“Yes. I, er, recognize the equations. Matter and force and . . . er . . . ether and so forth.”

“To say nothing of ions.”

“Ions, yes.” Wallingford held out the
Cahier de Mathematiques
with an air of assurance only a duke could muster in the face of such abject ignorance.

Roland took the book without looking at it and folded it into his hand, against his chest. His gut went hollow with relief. “Haven’t told Burke yet, of course. I want to surprise him in a few days. Walk into his workshop and rattle on about charges and sparks and all that. He’ll be absolutely gobsmacked, don’t you think?”

“Undoubtedly. But about the women . . .”

Roland took his brother by the arm and guided him to the door. “Look here, Wallingford. I’ve no head for strategy, no head at all. Makes my poor brain spin like a top. And I’m as soft as butter around the ladies. You know that. I could no more plot their downfall than I could plot against our own mother.”

“Yes, true. You
are
a damned old romantic,” said Wallingford, with patronizing affection.

“You see? So you make all the decisions in that regard, and I’ll . . . well, I’ll simply hover in the background, I suppose.” He smiled his guileless smile. “Sound all right?”

“Ah yes.” Wallingford patted his shoulder and reached for the door latch. “I’ll put my brain to use this afternoon, and spring it on ’em at dinner tonight. Ha-ha. Give that Miss Harewood and her damned goose down a bit of long-overdue medicine, by God.”

“Miss Harewood?” Roland lifted his eyebrows. “Goose down?”

“Yes. Well. Never mind. And look, Penhallow,” the duke added, with a final kindly look over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to crush you, but I doubt you’ve the right sort of head for mathematical endeavors. Leave all that higher-level thinking to Burke and myself. Stick to your poetry, that’s the ticket.”

“Yes! Quite! In fact, I’ve the most delightful sonnet in contemplation at the moment. Perhaps you’d care to hear it?” Roland offered.

Wallingford blanched. “Yes. No. Perhaps after dinner, old man. I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll look for you.” He bolted down the hallway.

Roland raised his arm. “Right-ho! See you then!” he called.

Wallingford’s hand rose up in the air, the last part of him visible as he disappeared down the stairs.

Roland waited another second or two, just to be sure, and slipped back inside the room and closed the door. He leaned against the old wood for some time, eyes narrowed into the abundant afternoon light, mind spinning with the precision of a finely tuned rotary engine. His fingers closed around the paper, crisp and sharp cornered in his pocket.

In the weeks since his arrival in Italy, he hadn’t given much thought to the situation back in England.
I’ll sort it out
, Sir Edward had promised.
Get to the bottom of things. Ferret out the troublemaker.
Roland hated that aspect of his work: the infighting, the politics, the pitting of one agency against another. It seemed so pointless, so wasteful. He much preferred the excitement and challenge of fieldwork. If Sir Edward wanted to ferret out the Judas in their midst, he was welcome to it.

Besides, Lilibet’s appearance had made dropping out of sight a great deal more delightful than he’d anticipated.

Ah. Yes. Lilibet. Darling girl. What would she make of the information in his pocket?

Roland pulled the paper free and unfolded it. The letters and numbers leapt up at him in perfect English, now that he’d deciphered the code. The message itself was short and direct, as Sir Edward’s communications tended to be, and produced a great many more questions than it answered:

Triangulation of evidence suggests possible source Earl of S in Navy office. Whereabouts of his wife and son currently unknown. Stay in place and await further instruction.

It seemed Lilibet’s appearance in Italy might not prove a coincidence at all.

NINE

T
he dining table, like the rest of the Castel sant’Agata, had been divided down the middle. Every evening, the ladies sat along one side, and the gentlemen lined up on the other, a configuration that proved ideal for sparring.

Lilibet, her spirits still in disarray from the disastrous exchange with Roland in the peach orchard, could hardly be bothered to ask for the salt, but the others had no such reservations. Alexandra had apparently been discovered delivering Mr. Burke’s post to his workshop this morning, and the duke was convinced that her motives had been sinister.

Abigail, of course, did not agree. “But that’s absurd. If you seduced Mr. Burke, successfully I mean, the wager would technically be a draw, wouldn’t it?”

Alexandra choked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Burke. “Yes, I believe it would.”

Abigail turned to Wallingford. “You see? You may put your mind entirely at ease on the subject of seduction, Your Grace. No reasonable person would contemplate such a scheme. Two advertisements in the
Times
! It wouldn’t do.”

The duke’s face reddened alarmingly.

“Dear me, Wallingford,” said Lady Morley. “You really must endeavor to calm your nerves. I fear you will bring on an apoplexy. Have you any medical training, Mr. Burke?”

Mr. Burke selected an olive. “Only a few rudiments, I regret to say. Hardly enough to loosen his cravat.”

“I am happy to be the source of such endless amusement. But you”—Wallingford stabbed his finger at Mr. Burke’s chest—“and you”—to Lord Roland—“have no idea at all what these women have in contemplation. From the moment of our arrival last month, they’ve been scheming and harassing us, in order to make our lives here so hellish as to drive us away entirely, and leave them the castle to themselves. Do not, Lady Morley, be so insulting as to deny it.”

“I should be very happy to see the last of you, Wallingford,” said Alexandra. “I make no attempt to hide the fact.”

Lilibet picked up her wine and drank. It was raw stuff, disagreeable. She set it down again and willed Alexandra to keep her tongue in check. From across the table, Roland was gazing at her. She could feel the tender weight of his stare, as if he were stripping her bare, piece by piece.

Wallingford spoke in a cold voice. “Very well, then, Lady Morley. I should like to propose an amendment to our wager. To increase the stakes, as it were.”

“Oh, good God,” said Mr. Burke. “Haven’t you a better use of your time, Wallingford? Reading some of that vast collection in the library, perhaps? It
is
what we’re here for, after all.”

Alexandra laughed. “He’s welcome to join our literary discussion in the salon. We should be pleased to hear an additional perspective, although I would suggest bringing an umbrella, in case of inclement weather.”

“No, damn it all! I beg your pardon, Lady Somerton.”

Why on earth did everyone think her the guardian of all civilized behavior? “Not at all, Your Grace,” she said dryly.

“My proposal is this,” said Wallingford. He leaned forward, his dark eyes keen beneath his furrowed brow. “That the forfeit, in addition to Burke’s excellent suggestion of an advertisement in the
Times
, should include an immediate removal of the offending party from the castle.”

Removal
. Lilibet’s limbs went cold. She clenched the stem of her wineglass and looked desperately at Roland.

He sat there as calm and insouciant as ever, his golden hair dipping in his forehead, the very picture of confident manhood. He shook his head and whistled. “Hard terms, old man. Are you quite sure? What if it’s
us
that’s given the old heave-ho?”

“You are, I admit, the weakest link in the chain,” said the duke, “but I believe I may rely upon Lady Somerton’s honor, if nothing else.”

“Really, Your Grace,” choked Lilibet. She felt as if she might faint. She tried to gather her wits, to say something that might save the situation, but her head was too dizzy, her stomach too roiling.

Alexandra broke in. “This is beyond absurd, Wallingford, all this talk of conspiracies and whatnot. I assure you, I haven’t the slightest intention of seducing poor Burke, and I daresay he has even less desire to be seduced. This is all about this business of the feathers this morning, isn’t it? You’re trying to have your revenge on us . . .”

Wallingford refilled his glass from the bottle on the table. The rawness of the Chianti seemed to trouble him not at all. “If I’m wrong, Lady Morley, you should have no reason at all to object to the increased stakes. Isn’t that so?”

Alexandra looked at Lilibet. Lilibet looked back pleadingly. Surely her cousin wouldn’t leap to Wallingford’s bait. Surely she had enough sense, enough compassion for Lilibet’s plight.

“Of course I shouldn’t object.” Alexandra spoke with care, picking her words. “Other than a sense of . . . of the absurdity of it all.”

Mr. Burke cleared his throat. “Really, Wallingford. It’s hardly necessary. I don’t see any reason why we can’t continue to muddle on as we are. A tuft of goose down, here and there, doesn’t much signify. And I’m fairly confident I can resist Lady Morley’s charms, however determined her attempts on my virtue.” He kept his face quite admirably straight.

Wallingford leaned against the back of his chair and allowed a smug smile to wear across his face. “None of you, then, not one of you has the fortitude to meet my offer? Lady Morley? Your competitive spirit can’t be tempted?”

“You always were an ass, Wallingford.” Alexandra shook her head.

Lilibet’s pulse began to resume its regular cadence against the base of her throat. Alexandra had it well in hand. Alexandra was thinking of something, finding some way to twist the duke’s words around, to turn the situation to their advantage. Alexandra would never risk the security of their presence here at the castle.

“Why not?”

The clear voice piped from Alexandra’s other side, innocent and ingenuous.

Abigail
. Not
Abigail
.

She went on, almost merrily. “I can’t speak for your side, Your Grace, but we three are simply going about our business, studying and learning just as we intended. If it amuses you to turn this into a game, to raise the stakes, consider the wager accepted. It means nothing to us, after all. Does it, Alex?”

Next to her, Alexandra traced the handle of her knife where it crossed her empty plate. Her knuckles were white. “No. No, of course not,” she said. Beneath the table, she patted Lilibet’s knee with her other hand. “Very well. We accept your stakes, Wallingford. Though it hardly matters, as your suspicions are entirely wrongheaded. In fact, your head
itself
seems to be wrongheaded at the moment, and I suggest you turn away from your wild speculations and put it firmly to work as you intended in the first place. We’re on Aristophanes ourselves, just now, and my dear Abigail has already reviewed it twice in the original Greek. I’m certain she would have some useful insights for you. Perhaps she can assist you with your alphas and omegas.”

With slow deliberation, Lilibet plucked Alexandra’s hand from her knee and dropped it in her cousin’s lap.

Wallingford prepared to rise. “My alphas and omegas are quite in order, I assure you, Lady Morley. And now, ladies, if you’ll pardon the unpardonable, I must excuse myself, and leave you to the far more appealing company of my fellow scholars.”

He rose and exited the room, leaving a queasy silence behind him.

Alexandra gave an uncertain laugh. “Now why do I have the distinct impression he’s just played us all for fools?”

“Well, well,” said Roland. “Amusing, what?”

Mr. Burke folded his napkin and rose. “I think it’s time I retired. Ladies, good evening.”

Roland heaved a reluctant sigh, but the constraints of etiquette were no match for him. “Yes, quite,” he said, rising, too. “Back to those jolly old alphas and omegas in the library. What fun. Ah, this really is the life, isn’t it?”

Lilibet considered herself a patient woman. She waited until the gentlemen had left, until their very footsteps had died away in the corridor, before pouncing on her cousin with all claws bared.

Metaphorically, of course.

“What the devil were you thinking?” she demanded, in a decidedly catlike hiss.

Alexandra and Abigail both started and stared at her. She couldn’t quite blame them. They’d never heard her say the word
deuce
before, let alone
devil
, let alone anything at all in such a tone of feline menace.

“My dear,” Alexandra said, “whatever do you mean?” She leaned aside to allow Francesca to pick up her empty plate.

“You both know exactly what I mean!” Lilibet turned to Abigail and thrust her voice into a singsong falsetto. “
If it amuses you to turn this into a game, to
raise the stakes, consider the wager accepted!
”

“Now, wait a moment, my dear . . .” began Alexandra.

“And you!” Lilibet stabbed her forefinger in Alexandra’s direction. “
We accept your stakes, Wallingford, though it hardly matters
. Hardly matters, you said!” She let her hand fall to the table in an angry fist. Francesca jumped, nearly dropping the stack of plates in her arm, and scurried out the door.

“Lilibet, dearest,” said Alexandra, laying her hand atop Lilibet’s like a soothing warm blanket. “You’re a dear, sweet, straightforward soul, and don’t understand the first thing about gamesmanship . . .”

“Gamesmanship!” Lilibet shot up from her chair and planted her hands on her hips. “Gamesmanship! Is it all just a
game
to you, Alex? Is it? Because I thought—I
rather
thought—it had something to do with my life! With Philip’s life!”

Alexandra rose warily and moved behind her own chair, placing her long-fingered hands on the scalloped edge at the top. “Perhaps I used the wrong word . . .”

“Perhaps you did! Perhaps you used the wrong strategy altogether! Because . . .”

She felt a hand on the side of her arm and turned to find Abigail standing there, grave faced, her brown eyes large and round against her pale skin. “Of course we understand, Lilibet. Of course we do. We all love you and Philip. But don’t we
want
the gentlemen to leave? Wallingford’s proposal plays directly into our hands.”

“But don’t you see? He aims to win
himself
. He’ll be trying to make us crack, so that
we’re
forced to leave.”

A thump sounded outside the door to the dining room. Lilibet froze, staring into Alexandra’s face.

Abigail went to the door. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just Francesca, bumping the corner with the plates.”

Alexandra tapped her finger against her arm and cast Abigail a significant look across the top of Lilibet’s head. “Perhaps it might be wise to discuss this in the kitchen.”

Lilibet looked back and forth between her cousins and sighed. “Very well.”

Philip sat at the broad wooden table in the kitchen, under the watch of the housekeeper and the maids, finishing his dessert. His gaze lifted from a plate of
panettone
to meet Lilibet’s and lit with joy. “Mama!” he cried, and flew into her arms.

She knelt to receive him and buried her face in his warm bread-scented hair. His small limbs clung to her with tenacious strength. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Have you been a good boy and eaten your dinner?”

The housekeeper rose from the table, smiling. “He is being such a good boy. He eat his lamb, his
fagioli
, his artichoke. He is growing
forte
, strong.” She flexed her white-shirted arm to demonstrate.

“Thank you, Signorina Morini,” said Lilibet, returning the housekeeper’s smile.

“Signorina Morini gave me an extra piece of
panettone
,” he whispered in Lilibet’s ear. “Is that all right?”

“If you ate all your dinner, of course it is, poppet.” She gave his hair a last tousling and straightened. “Darling, the grown-ups need to have a bit of a chat. Would you like to run along with Francesca and start your bath? Then I’ll be there shortly to read your story and tuck you in.”

“A bath!” he groaned.

From the corner of her eye, Lilibet saw Francesca heave a desperate sigh. The girl didn’t understand much English, but the word
bath
had become painfully evident to her over the past few weeks.

“Yes, dear. No foot-dragging. If you’re good with Francesca, I’ll read you an extra story tonight.” She cast her mind about. “The one about the bunnies. You like that one.”

“Mama. Not that one. You’ve read it over and over. It’s for babies.”

It took a certain amount of threatening, cajoling, and outright bribery, but eventually Philip made his way upstairs, his hand in Francesca’s, and Lilibet collapsed into a worn rush-seated chair at the table, next to Abigail.

“Such a darling,” Abigail said. “He told me the most delightful story this afternoon, during his lesson. Something about a picnic at the lake with a certain gentleman of our acquaintance.”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Lilibet sharply. “You’re to tell me exactly what sort of plot you’re hatching against Wallingford.”

“Oh, it’s very simple.” Abigail reached for the last remaining crumb of
panettone
on Philip’s plate and popped it into her mouth. “We’re to catch Penhallow seducing you and have them all thrown out.”

“What?” demanded Lilibet.

“What?” demanded Alexandra.

“
Che cosa?
” murmured Signorina Morini, from the far end of the table.

Abigail looked innocently about their faces. “Don’t you see? I’ve been needling the poor fellow—Wallingford, I mean—for weeks now, goading him into some sort of step like this. It’s perfect. If we catch Penhallow in flagrante, as it were, they’ll be honor bound to leave.”

Lilibet leapt from her chair. “In flagrante! With Penhallow!”

“Yes, with Penhallow.” Abigail lifted her hand, palm up. “Who else? Mr. Burke?”

“Certainly not Mr. Burke,” snapped Alexandra.

Abigail ducked her head, hiding a smile. “Yes, of course. I forgot myself. But you and Penhallow, Lilibet—it’s perfect! He’s desperately in love with you. Crook your finger and he’ll be at your side, doing whatever it is men do to seduce women. Tearing at your bodice, I suppose. And . . .”