Lady in Blue (32 page)

“Mebbe.” Mr. Peebles lifted a brow. “But you were seen to leave your club a little after three o’clock, and I’ve walked the distance to where you were found. A journey of ten minutes at most, even in the rain and foxed. You were not discovered until two hours later.”

Bryn shrugged, painfully. “No accounting for it. They had plenty of time to pick my pockets but failed to do so. Chances are they panicked. I hit my head, you know, when I fell. Most everything that happened is a blur.”

“We can only hope you recall more, when your health is restored.” Mr. Peebles regarded him closely. “Apparently you were engaged in a quarrel earlier that evening, with—”

“Giles Landry. What of it?”

“It seems rather coincidental that you were struck down shortly after. We thought it advisable to ask the baron a few questions concerning his whereabouts, but he has disappeared.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bryn said indifferently. “It’s no secret Landry hoped I would marry his daughter and pay off his debts. That failing, he has no doubt fled his creditors, but that is irrelevant to your investigation. I’d have recognized him, were he one of the men who attacked me.”

“Very good, milord.” Mr. Peebles closed his notebook. “You will let us know if something else comes to mind?”

“Certainly.”

When he was gone, Bryn lapsed against the bank of pillows with a sigh. He’d no intention of dragging Elizabeth’s father through the courts. That would shame her, and her new husband, and eventually their children. Besides, Landry was far from the reach of British justice by now, assuming he’d dredged up enough money to buy his way back across the Channel. And if he remained in England or ever came back, Bryn would find him and exact justice of his own.

The next day, he discovered that would not be necessary.

Max Peyton was permitted to call—for ten minutes only, because Clare insisted Bryn was still too weak to take up matters of business. But Peyton had not come about business.

“Landry’s dead,” he said, the moment they were alone. “Thought you’d want to know.”

“How?” Bryn regarded him angrily. “If you’ve taken this out of my hands—”

“Damnedest thing. The man had the audacity to apply again to me for a stake. Enough to leave the country and keep him going for a while. Sent a note and offered to sign his house over to me, rundown hovel that it is. I agreed to meet him at a gin hole in the rookery.”

“
You
killed him? Bloody hell, Peyton. Too many people involved in this mess as it is.”

“Not I,” Max protested. “All I did was accept the deed in exchange for a sheaf of banknotes. Oh, and I happened to mention that fact to five or six rather large brutes on my way out. From the racket, I expect they went after him like a pack of wolves. His body will turn up one of these days.”

Bryn stared at him in amazement.

“Past time you were free of the ungodly baron,” Peyton observed tranquilly. “He nearly managed to dispatch you, and where would I be if he came back to finish the job? I need your backing for my schools, Caradoc. You needn’t feel responsible for the man’s fortunate demise. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t turn him over to the courts. This matter could only be handled by unorthodox means, and with you laid up—”

“How do you know he’s dead?” Bryn interrupted.

“I know.” Peyton came to his feet. “Mind you, the most difficult task is yours. His daughter must be informed, and I leave it to you to invent a story suitable for her ears. Naturally the house will be transferred to her. The deed will have mysteriously disappeared, so she will inherit as a matter of course.”

Bryn was grateful and furious. He resented Peyton’s interference, which implied he was incapable of handling his own affairs. But he could almost hear Clare’s voice, reminding him that all his efforts to keep Landry under control had failed. “You are a ruthless man,” he said with mingled respect and irritation.

“More so than you, Caradoc,” Peyton replied urbanely. “And to think you once accused me of aspiring to canonization.” He crossed to the door and glanced back over his shoulder. “Had Landry killed you, I’d have torn him apart with my own two hands.”

Bryn thought about those words, and the indecipherable look in those tawny eyes, for a long time. Probably Max referred to his investment in their trading venture, which would have come to nothing if he’d died.

Or perhaps Bryn had somehow made another friend.

“About time you showed up.”

Bryn gave Florette a sour look as she entered the bedchamber. After returning to London with Clare, she had moved into Clouds while his recovery was in doubt but adamantly refused to visit until he sent a message demanding her appearance.

“It is not the thing,” she said in a calm voice, “for me to be here at all. Where are your wits, Caradoc?”

He regarded her with interest as she settled on a chair beside the bed. She had let her hair go gray and left off using kohl at her eyes and paint on her lips and cheeks. In a simple high-necked walking dress and unadorned bonnet, she might have been a tradesman’s wife or a country widow. There was no trace of the flamboyant faux-Frenchwoman he’d known for twenty years.

“You courtesans are damned high sticklers,” he said irritably. “You’ll take an earl to your bed but won’t set foot in his house. It’s been all I could do to keep Clare here at St. James’s.”

Florette set a corked bottle on the night table. “Maude Beales sent this over. It’s a restorative potion, and you are to take a spoonful three times a day.”

“The devil I will.” He grimaced. “Women hovering over me every time I look up, telling me to eat this or drink that. Witches, the lot of you.”

“I see you are back to your old self again. A shame, that, but even a grumpy Caradoc is better than no Caradoc at all. Now that you are recovered, I can return to Hastings and tend my cabbages.”

“East Sussex,” he observed dryly, “is rather a long way from the Loire Valley. Are you at last to be honest with me, Flo? Perhaps even tell me your real name?”

“Edna Halperth,” she said with a grin. “Too pedestrian for a high-flyer, don’t you think? Florette LaFleur had a much better ring to it. In Hastings I am plain Mrs. Edna Halperth, but I’d rather you address me as you always have, for old time’s sake.”

He pulled himself straighter against the bank of pillows, muttering an oath when the nightshirt and robe tangled under his buttocks. Among the many things he despised about being confined to bed was having to wear a nightshirt, even the one Clare had embroidered at the neck with tiny bears while she sat with him.

“Florette it is,” he agreed, looking her in the eye. “And if you are about to take yourself off again, let us speak plainly to one another,
for old time’s sake.
Why did Clare go into hiding because she thought I was to be married? She knows I intend to, one of these days. And she ought to have known I would tell her myself, not leave her to read about it in the newspaper.”

“She realizes that now. And is sorry she mistrusted you.”

“Yes.” He waved a hand. “She has told me so a hundred times. But the point is, she hared off to Sussex for no good reason. I’d have expected her to ring a peal over me after seeing that notice, and not blamed her for doing so. But even if it were true, if I
had
betrothed myself to Elizabeth Landry, what difference would it make?”

“Apparently a great deal, to Clare.” After a long moment, Florette released a sigh. “I’ll not tell you anything you ought to discover for yourself, except this one thing, because you are clearly too dull-witted even to conceive of the idea. She will not stay with you once you are married.”

“Why the hell not?” He glowered at her. “These arrangements are common. Almost necessary, with alliances made to join titles and secure fortunes even if the husband and wife can scarcely abide each other. Most every man I know keeps a mistress—or chases widows and opera dancers. And nearly every woman takes a lover, once she has given her husband an heir.”

Florette gave him a scathing look. “
Common?
Perhaps, in your circle of friends. But Clare is anything but common, and by now you ought to have realized it. You disappoint me, Caradoc. I’d not have entrusted her to you had I known you would persist in your stubborn assurance that you can have everything you want, regardless of the cost to others.”

Swallowing hard, he sank a few inches down the pillows. Apparently he was at fault, but he didn’t understand why. Clare had sold herself to him, proving she was not constrained by moral rectitude. And he was certain, or nearly so, that she wanted to stay with him. Why should a marriage of convenience, with perfect understanding on everyone’s part, change that?

The wound in his chest seemed to be on fire again. Probably because it was near his heart, which had begun to pound furiously. “Tell me what it will cost her, if I marry,” he said between his teeth. “I intend to give Clare everything she could possibly want. Make a home for us, and be with her except when I have obligations elsewhere. Those will be few. What has she to lose?”

“That, you must ask
her.
It is past time the two of you became acquainted outside the bedchamber.”

“She won’t talk to me.” He twisted a fold of blanket between his fingers. “Whenever I try, she closes up like an oyster.”

Flo came to her feet. “Try harder. And while you’re at it, think about what you want the most, because more than a little compromise will be necessary. On both parts,” she added, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Clare is a match for you in every way, including bullheaded obstinacy, and I only wish I could stay to watch the fireworks. But my garden needs tending, so I must go home. Besides, I am under strict orders not to tire you. You have my direction now and are welcome to visit any time you like.”

“I will, and soon,” he promised. “With Clare.”

“Nothing would please me more.” Flo gave him a sardonic glance from the door. “By the way, I stopped off at the Hothouse yesterday to see how things are going on. Rose told me you came by and that you were an arrogant, overbearing son of a bitch.”

“But you knew that already,” he said as she blew him a kiss and swept into the hall.

What a woman, he thought when the door closed behind her. If not for Florette, he’d never have met Clare. She knew exactly what she was about, bringing them together. Unfortunately, she’d left the rest up to him, and he had piled one mistake on top of another. Nearly died before having a chance to set things right.

The time for secrets was past, he resolved. Tonight, he would force Clare to tell him the truth about herself, and what she wanted, and why she left him.

With a groan, he reached for the bottle Mrs. Beales had sent, pulled out the cork, and managed to swallow a mouthful of the foul-tasting brew. He was going to need a restorative and a great deal of luck when he next confronted his mistress.

His beloved, he corrected mentally. Damn it all, Rose had the right of things. He
was
arrogant and overbearing. He should be concerned with Clare’s needs, not his own.

As punishment, he swigged another draught from the bottle and lay back to plan a conciliatory, humble approach. Think of what you most want, Flo had told him. Hell, that was easy.

He wanted Clare.

CLARE SAW IMMEDIATELY that Bryn was stronger after his visit with Florette. Certainly in better humor. Even Dr. Winslow’s poking and prodding an hour later failed to nettle him, and for the first time he was permitted a dinner he could actually chew.

“A bit more wine will be acceptable,” the doctor had told her, and with some pleasure she carried a decanter of port to Bryn’s room that evening. He insisted she drink with him, and because she was overjoyed to see him doing so well, she agreed.

He sat up against the mahogany headboard, pillows stuffed behind his back, cradling his third glass of port.

“Who is Jeremy?” he asked suddenly.

Her gaze flew from the handkerchief she was embroidering to his face.

“I’ve begun remembering a few things,” he explained. “Not a great deal, but when I was unconscious I kept hearing your voice. Mostly I could not make out the words, although I’m certain you said that name many times. And another, which I cannot recall.”

“Joseph,” she said softly. “Jeremy and Joseph.”

“Ah.”

When he failed to speak again, she returned her attention to her embroidery, but the bear’s ear wound up rather a long way from its head. Flo had lectured her, harshly, about the need to tell Bryn the truth about herself. And she knew she must, but she didn’t know how to begin. Most of all, she worried that he would pity her because she had traded her body for the twins’ schooling. Or feel guilty because he took advantage of her desperation, even though he had no way of knowing what she was about.

She wanted to wait until he was stronger. Why burden him with confidences now, while his health should be the only consideration? But she was only making excuses, a voice in her head insisted. Putting off the inevitable. Bryn’s strength was not in question. Only her own.

With deliberation, she put the embroidery hoop aside and folded her hands in her lap. Bryn was looking at her, his gaze warm and open.

“Tell me,” he said quietly.

And she did, from the beginning, faltering at first and then in a rush, to get it over with before she lost her courage. He interrupted only once.

“Ardis is the one who put the scars on your hands and feet?”

She hadn’t meant to tell him that, but she nodded. “I doubt she was ever in her right mind, after her lover abandoned her. When I was old enough to understand, I forgave her everything she did to me—and to the boys. She was cast off by her parents, and even when she found someone to protect her—my father—he died a few months later.”

“Leaving you to care for a madwoman and a pair of infants. Dear God, Clare.” His voice was filled with wonder. “I never imagined.”

“How could you?” She produced a smile. “And it was not such a trial, you know. Joseph and Jeremy are more than worth any sacrifice we made on their behalf. Including you, Bryn, because they have a chance at a good life thanks to your generosity. I only wish you could meet them, but that is not possible. If they suspected that I—” Unable to finish the thought, she curled her arms around her waist. “They must never know.”

“Of course not.” He held out a hand. “Come here, Clare.”

After a moment, she moved onto the bed next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “My name is Easter,” she whispered against his neck. “Easter Clare.”

She felt him chuckle, although he tried hard to suppress it. “Because you were born on Easter Sunday?”

“My birthday is in October.” She toyed with a button on his nightshirt. “Lamentably, Father took a fancy to the name. I have always loathed it.”

“Clare suits you. May I continue to call you that, or would you prefer—”

“Clare,” she said swiftly. “Please. Changing my name has been the only part of this masquerade I enjoyed. And for the twins’ sake, it is better that only you and Florette know my real identity.”

“Have no fear I will betray your secrets, butterfly. I am only glad you have confided in me.”

“At last, you mean.” She sat back. “Lying has been the least of my sins, although I hated every untruth even as I spoke it. But there seemed to be no choice. I never expected things to become so . . . complicated.”

“One night and you’d be gone,” he said with a faint smile.

She nodded. “But then I met Lady Isabella, and Elizabeth Landry, and the duchess. And Robert Lacey and Charley Cassidy and Mrs. Beales. Every moment I feared I would betray myself. And always, by lying, I was betraying the friendship they offered me. It would have been a great deal easier if people had not been so kind.”

Especially you, she thought, in the long silence that followed. He was regarding her with an expression unlike any she had ever seen. She didn’t know how to interpret the look in his eyes, focused so closely on her face, or the muscle ticking in his jaw.

Finally he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “What a nightmare this has been for you. I never knew. Never suspected, although I should have. Florette thought I would, when she gave you into my hands, but I have failed you.”

“Indeed you have not,” she said, with a return of spirit. “After our first two encounters, you have been wonderful to me. How absurd, to blame yourself for believing what I wanted you to believe. We did not begin well, Bryn, but above all things I hope we can part as friends.”

“Part?”
He seized her hand. “We are only just now finding each other. Dammit, Clare, the past is irrelevant, except that I have a great deal to account for. And I will make a future so bright that you will forget what you have endured all these years. Already I’ve been planning. We’ll build a house by the river where we had the picnic. You can call on Alice, come to London whenever you like, and visit Joseph and Jeremy at their school. I’ll see them admitted to Oxford or Cambridge, whichever they prefer. Eventually they will learn we are living together, but by then they will be worldly enough to understand. Men always understand these arrangements. And they will never know it was for their sake that you first came to me.”

If only it were so easy. She could not help but smile at his blind self-assurance, although her heart was breaking. As always, Bryn assumed he could bend the universe to his will. How could she tell him?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, squeezing her fingers. “Nothing has changed, except that I will deal better with you than I have done.”

“Oh, Bryn.” She closed her eyes. “I have made a promise. One I cannot set aside, however much I long to revoke it. When you are well again, I must leave you.”

The glass in his hand shattered. He looked down, to the spattering of port wine on the sheets and his nightshirt, mingling with the blood dripping from his hand.

With a gasp, Clare jumped up and hurried to the bell rope.

“Don’t,” he said from a constricted throat. “Not yet.”

She gave him an exasperated look and pulled the tasseled cord. “Hold still, Bryn. There are bits of glass all over the bed.”

Minutes later the bedchamber swarmed with servants. The top sheet, blanket, and counterpane were carefully removed, and two large footmen helped Bryn to a chair. Clare directed them to stand nearby, holding Argand lamps so she could see to tend the cuts on his hand. Two large trays were set on a table beside him, with basins, cups, towels, gauze, and other things he had dimly heard her request from the maids.