Lavender Lies (Historical Romance) (12 page)

Julian's  eyes darkened. "I can best control the situation if I am close to her. Besides, she cannot very well reveal my identity without revealing her own. Either way we will have her." "I will await word from you, Your Grace." Julian turned and walked away, anxious to be on his way. There was no doubt in his mind that the Swallow lived in or near Williamsburg. He would never give up until he had her in his power!

9

Encroaching silence hung heavy in the dining room where Lavender sat across the table from her aunt. She had been home for two days now, and it amazed her how easily she had slipped back into her old routine. Her aunt neither questioned her absence nor asked why she had been away from home for over a week. Of course there had been the money Lavender had turned over to her aunt to make her absence believable. Brainard Thruston had instructed Sarah that money was to be paid to Lavender so Amelia Daymond would assume her niece did in fact work at the Public Hospital.

Lavender speared a tender piece of spotted trout with her fork, but declined to take a bite. Her mind was on Julian Westfield, so she did not see the look of irritation her aunt bestowed upon her.

"Well, missy, you can either eat that fish or not, but I do not intend to sit at the table with you if you have no regard for good manners. No lady of breeding would play with her food as you are doing."

Lavender saw the disapproval on her aunt's face. "I am sorry. I am just not hungry."

"I suppose you don't like the fish?"

"No, it's not that, it's just that—"

"1 have very little sympathy for anyone who is provided with a good home and abuses her benefactor by not eating that which is set before her. You are most ungrateful."

"I am not ungrateful, I—"

"I don't know what the world is coming to. We are at war with our one-time benefactor, you choose to ignore the food I furnish out of the goodness of my heart, and I have a lodger who disappeared without as much as a how-do-you-do, and I have no notion if he is even coming back."

"Did Mr. West take all his belongings away with him, Aunt Amelia?"

"How should I know? Do I look like the kind of woman who would snoop into her lodger's room?"

"No, Aunt Amelia."

Amelia scooted her chair back and came to her feet. "You can take the dishes out to the kitchen and wash them. When you have finished, you can clean Mr. West's room and see if he left anything behind. It's my guess that we will probably never hear from him again. I began to like him, even though I have suspected all along that he wasn't an artist. I wouldn't be surprised if he was a spy for the British. I knew he was too handsome not to be a scoundrel."

Lavender wondered if her aunt could guess how close she had come to the actual truth. Julian Westfield might not be a spy, but he had definitely come to Williamsburg for a reason. Lavender doubted that he would ever return to Williamsburg, and it was doubtful whether he had left any of his possessions behind.

The sun had gone down and night shadows fell across the town of Williamsburg before Lavender was free of her household duties and could go to Julian's rooms. Her arms were loaded with a pail of water, soap, cleaning cloths, and a flickering candle to light her way in the darkened hallway.

The house was quiet since her aunt had gone to bed, Nicodemus was in Yorktown, and Phoebe and Jackson had gone to their own quarters. She placed the pail of water on the floor to free her hands. When she inserted the key in the door, she heard the click of the lock, and the door swung open. She picked up the pail and moved into the room, feeling as if she were intruding.

Lavender had not been in this part of the house since the first day she had shown Julian to his rooms. Phoebe had always cleaned these rooms, since Lavender's aunt did not think it was seemly for a young unmarried girl to go into a gentleman's Chambers.

Lavender noticed how neat and orderly the room was but for the white, ruffled shirt that was thrown carelessly across the back of a chair and a pair of black boots that looked like he had just stepped out of them, suggesting he had changed in a hurry. Lavender could feel Julian's presence so strongly she could hardly breathe. Hesitantly she crossed the room and picked up his shirt, holding it against her cheek.

Even if he never returned, she would always remember the way his dark eyes flashed when he was displeased about something. She would also remember how those same eyes had once flamed with desire for her. How could she ever forget what it felt like to be held so tightly in his arms that she could feel each breath he took? A tear trailed down her cheek and she brushed it away. Now was not the time for remembering. She must put all her silly girlhood dreams aside.

Loneliness such as she had never known weighed down on her, and she wanted to throw herself on the bed and cry her eyes out. She was desperately in love with a man who had only contempt for her. Her proud spirit came to her rescue once again, and she sighed heavily. Even if the circumstances had been different and their two countries were not at war, she could never aspire so high as to love a duke.

Placing the shirt back on the chair, she lovingly ran her hand down the ruffled front. She knew so little about Julian Westfield, the man, and even less about, His Grace, the Duke of Mannington. Why was she so desperately in love with him? Most probably every woman he met had dreams of being held in his strong arms. He was a man who would inspire fanciful dreams in any young maiden's thoughts.

Lavender broke out of her daydreams when she spied a stack of canvas propped against the wall. Carefully she lifted one up and held it to the candlelight. She drew in her breath in admiration at what she saw. The painting was in bright greens, blues, and yellows. The subject Julian had painted was the kitchen cat, Dimitri, sitting in a curtained window, lazily looking out on the scenes of Williamsburg. The bold colors and long brush strokes were like nothing Lavender had ever seen before. Julian Westfield might be misleading people about his true identity, but there was no questioning the fact that he was a gifted artist.

In the distance, the sound of a horse clopping down the street brought her thoughts back to the task at hand. Leaning the canvas carefully back against the wall, she wondered if perhaps Julian would return for his paintings.

Leaving the candle on the night table, she moved noiselessly into the next room. She knew this would be the perfect opportunity for her to look for evidence that might tell her what Julian was doing in Williamsburg. Her eyes fell on the oak writing table, and even though the notion of snooping into Julian's personal belongings was distasteful to her, she reminded herself that she might find something important in the drawers.

On the smooth surface of the writing desk she found an inkstand and a small candle, which she lit. Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered up her courage to go further with her snooping. With a small tug on the brass handle, the first drawer slid open to reveal a box of Bristol soap, hair powder, and a hairbrush. The next drawer contained several snow-white cravats and a half a dozen equally white handkerchiefs. There was nothing here that divulged any knowledge of the man, other than the fact that he was methodical and tidy.

Absently she thumbed through the fine linen handkerchiefs and noticed that one of them had been embroidered white on white. Running her fingers over the silken threads, she admired the fine workmanship which depicted a unicorn and a swan against the backdrop of a shield. It had to be Julian Westfield's coat of arms! He had not been so clever, after all, for he had overlooked this one small detail. Of course, he had not expected anyone to go through his personal belongings.

Lavender was not sure what first alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. It could have been the shadow that came between her and the candlelight from the next room, or the sound of the creaking floorboards. Her heart stopped beating as she looked into the dark, smoldering eyes of Julian Westfield. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes now dark and accusing.

Lavender's hand trembled as she dropped the handkerchief back into the drawer and pushed it shut. Her mind was working fast, and she was glad the candle gave off little light so he could not see her very well. She adjusted the glasses on her nose and pulled the mobcap lower on her head. He still stared at her and she wished he would say something, anything, to break the awkward silence between the two of them.

"I . . ." She hesitated groping for words. "Your . . . room needed—"

"Cleaning?" he supplied. "Yes, I can see that the dust in this room would constitute the necessity of a midnight cleaning excursion. How fortunate for me that you were also straightening my desk drawers, Miss Daymond." His words were curt, his eyes smoldering with anger.

Her whole body felt tense as she watched him, fearing he had guessed her identity. Even if he had discovered she was the Swallow, joy sang in her heart at his return.

"I . . . my aunt asked me to clean—" she stammered, falling back into her role as the long-suffering Miss Lavender Daymond.

He moved back into the bedroom, then turned to face her. "I cannot imagine your aunt sending you into a man's room at this hour," he broke in impatiently.

She moved toward the outer door, taking care to keep in the shadows. "You left so suddenly, and my aunt did not know if you would be coming back since you left no word with her."

He removed his pale-yellow frock coat and tossed it on the bed. "I have paid for six months' lodging, and was not aware that obligated me to inform you or your aunt of my comings and goings."

Lavender's anger had been tapped by his audacity and arrogance, but she dared not allow it to show. It was essential that she play the spiritless drudge, and she must not project any strength of character. Ducking her head so he couldn't see her face, she took a hesitant step toward the door.

"I will just leave now, Mr. West. Phoebe can clean for you tomorrow." Knowing she must play the clumsy oaf to allay any suspicions he might have about her, she purposely tripped over the pail of water, and slipped down on the floor.

Julian growled his impatience as he held out his hand and helped her to her feet. "I am sorry, s-sir," she stammered. "I will. . . just clean this up." She would have dropped down on her knees, but he detained her. He did not see the hidden smile that played on her lips.

"Leave it. As you said, Phoebe can tend to it in the morning."

"But, sir, Aunt Amelia will not be pleased if I left without first soaking up the water from her prize pine floors."

With a guiding hand in the middle of her back, he steered her to the door. "Do not fret—" The irritation was back in his voice. "—I can promise you that if it will ease your mind, and get you out of my room, I will gladly go down on my knees and do the cleaning myself."

"But—"

Julian pushed Lavender out the door and closed it behind her. Lavender almost laughed aloud. He had not been suspicious of her at all. In fact, he had been so impatient to be rid of her tiresome presence, he had offered to scrub the floor himself. Laughter bubbled up inside her as she tried to imagine His Grace on his knees. Even in jest, this was most probably the first time in Julian's life he had offered to go down on his knees for any reason.

Her heart was light as she made her way to her bedroom. For whatever the reason, he had come back! She paused on the landing, reflecting on the danger to herself and others if her identity became known to him. It did not appear that Julian Westfield connected her with the girl he had been with at Cornwallis's gala. Still, she would have to take every precaution to make him believe she was the prim, dispirited maiden who was afraid of her own shadow. A smile lit her blue eyes, and she wondered how much longer she could go about knocking over water buckets just to make him believe she was clumsy.

The curtains stirred restlessly at the window, and a soft breeze touched Julian's face as his weary body relaxed into the soft feather mattress. He was dreaming that he walked in a moonlit garden where something exciting was about to happen that sent joy throbbing through his blood. He could feel a soft hand clasp his, and he looked down at the lovely face that smiled up at him.

"I have been searching everywhere for you," he said in a meaningful voice. "Why did you run away from me that night in the garden?"

Her beautiful eyes widened and she shook her head. "You must know I cannot stay with you."

"But I want you to. 1 want you to be with me always."

"I cannot."

Julian pulled her into his arms and held her tightly to him. "Why can you not be with me, my dearest love?" His heart was pounding so hard he could scarcely catch his breath. Lowering his head, he covered her soft lips with his own. His head was spinning wildly, and he felt as if his heart would burst with happiness. When she jerked away from him, he reached out to her.

"Do not leave me again. I have been in torment wondering what had happened to you," he pleaded.

"I must go. Do you not know why?"

"Nothing in this world matters to me but the love I feel for you."

Mocking laughter rolled off her sweet lips, distorting her angelic face. "I cannot stay with you because I am your enemy, the Swallow. Have you forgotten that I am responsible for the death of your brother? You are supposed to hate me—not love me."

"No." His voice was uneven. "How can I hate where I love?”

"But I do not love you," she taunted. "I will use you as I have all the others who have helped me obtain what I want."

Julian's head rolled from side to side against his pillow. Even with his dead brother standing between them, he reached out to her. "I love you."