Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (17 page)

He did not answer at once. Looking past me at the painting, he raked his fingers through his hair. It was a habit of his when he was thinking deeply; I had seen him do this when he played chess with his father. “I certainly hope not,” he said at last. “Why do you ask? Has he spoken of it?”

“Yes—more than once. Often.”

He did not ask me when, and for that I was glad. “Does the duchess know of it?”

“I told her some time ago, but she seemed to think it was empty talk, a demand for attention.”

“But you believe it to be more serious.” It was not a question, but I nodded. “Well, you’re probably right to fear for him,” he said, looking at me with uncharacteristic solemnity. “He is certainly very troubled, however much his mother may wish to deny it.”

For some reason I found it comforting that, instead of trying to dismiss or explain away my fears, he took them seriously. I felt I had an ally, someone to help me try to hold Herron back from the abyss. “What can we do?” I asked. “We cannot allow him to—to harm himself.”

“If he is truly determined, there is little we can do.” Then, seeing by my face that he may have been too blunt, he added, “But I’m probably being pessimistic. If he had wanted to end his life, he has had plenty of opportunity before now.”

“That is true,” I said, and in spite of myself my spirits rose. Charles must have heard hope in my voice, for he half smiled. “Perhaps the threat isn’t so great as I feared. It may be that his fascination with death is after all an abstract interest, not a personal one, and he’ll leave it behind in time. I’ve heard of such things. I was too quick to take alarm; he may only be speaking hypothetically.”

“Perhaps,” he said, but there was doubt in the word, and he was frowning again. “If we knew what the cause of his despondency was, we would have a better idea of how to help him. I only wish I knew what was in his mind.” He shook his head, hard, as if to dislodge unpleasant thoughts. “We aren’t as close now as we once were, and I regret that; I would have liked to think he could talk to me about what’s troubling him. I can’t help suspecting it’s more than his father’s death. But you may have some idea of the cause,” he added suddenly, taking me by surprise: “He seems to find it easier to speak freely to you than to the rest of us.”

His forthright blue gaze made me drop my eyes; I could not tell him that his own father was a murderer in Herron’s mind.

Might that be the key to his rescue, though? If I could prove to him that his suspicions were unfounded, he might be freed from his misery. The thought restored me somewhat. It might be an impossible plan, but it was better to have something to do, some way to feel I was helping him, than to be forced to stand by and watch him wrestle with his demon alone. And surely there would be some way to convince him of his error, and then—then he would come back to us.

“He does seem to find that he can speak of his thoughts to me,” I said, evading his question. “It may be that he will wear out his fascination by talking about it, and he will not feel the need to act on it.”

“Let us hope so. In any case, having a confidante can only help him.” He paused, and his voice was gentle when he said, in unconscious echo of the duchess, “You are very good for him.”

I didn’t know what to say to this any more now than I had then. “I hope so. I try to be.”

Charles was the first to look away. His fingers tightened on his cane as he shifted his weight, and belatedly I realized that so long a period of standing must be exhausting for him in his condition. But he did not speak of his discomfort. “I hope Herron realizes how much he would be throwing away, should he act on his threat,” he said instead. “He has one thing at least that’s well worth living for.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“Your love.”

It was the first time a name had been put to my feeling for Herron, but I accepted it. Charles had recognized it before I had.

There seemed to be no reason to reply, and after a moment he offered me his arm. I took it, and we resumed our tour of the house.

The next day was unusually fine, and I was glad of this since I was to go with the duchess, Felicity and Miss Yates to take Christmas gifts around to the tenants. By mid-morning, under a pale winter sun, the carriage was drawn up to the door for us.

With our voluminous skirts and the crinolines worn by the duchess and Miss Yates, it was a surprise to me that we were all able to fit inside; indeed, the seat cushions were quickly submerged in a sea of tartan, since all of us wore dresses in that fashionable fabric, popularized by Her Majesty herself. When the hampers of food and the other bundles we were taking with us had been loaded, the carriage groaned on its springs. Lord Claude, seeing us off, laughed at us and said we looked like a gypsy caravan.

This was the first time I had visited any of the tenants’ cottages, and I was favorably impressed by them: clean, well-ventilated, and spacious, they offered more comfortable conditions than much of the housing I had seen in London. Several had new roofs. “That’s Lord Reginald’s doing, miss,” explained one woman. “In the last few weeks we’ve seen a lot of changes for the good.”

“Oh? The late duke did not maintain the cottages as well?”

We were gathered in the kitchen of the cottage, the hub of all household activity now that winter had come. Across the room, Felicity had warmed the soup we had brought and was feeding it to the youngest child, who lay coughing on a cot. The duchess and Miss Yates had discreetly tucked some new blankets around her and now helped to cajole the little girl into taking more soup.

“His Grace the duke was good to us, miss, don’t go mistaking me; but ’e didn’t take what you’d call an interest, like. If the ’ouse was in one piece, you’d not see him from one end of the month t’other. Lord Reginald, now”—my hostess beamed—“’e’s a lovely gentleman, miss. ’E’ll ask after me husband’s rheumatism and me vegetable garden. And ’e says we’re to have a new room built come spring.”

“How nice.” Such extensive refurbishing must be expensive. But it was obvious that the tenants were well pleased with their new landlord. I wanted to ask her more about her impressions of Lord Claude, but Felicity joined us then.

“Mrs. Downing, has the doctor been by to see Tilda? That’s a nasty cough she has.”

Mrs. Downing assured her that Lord Reginald had sent the doctor around just the day before, and he had declared her to be in no danger. I was impressed by this further evidence of Lord Claude’s attentiveness to his tenants. Whatever had been the cause of the old duke’s death, a great many people seemed to have benefited from it. Everywhere we went we saw and heard testimony to Lord Claude’s generosity. The gifts of food, wool, leather and candles we brought were almost incidental. Nevertheless, it was a new experience for me to take part in such gift-giving, and I enjoyed the chance to spend a morning as Lady Bountiful—or as one of her handmaidens.

“There!” exclaimed the duchess some hours later, relaxing against the coach’s cushions with a sigh. “I believe that’s everyone. I won’t be able to eat anything for the rest of the day, after having had so much bread and cheese and cider.” Most of the cottagers we had visited had pressed us to stay and eat a bite before continuing on our way, and the duchess had not wanted to disappoint any of them by refusing. Consequently we were all feeling a bit breathless, and I saw Miss Yates tug discreetly at her stays.

“I think a walk would do me good after eating so much,” said Felicity. “I had intended to stop in the village in any case. Would you like to join me, cousin? I only need to make a few purchases, and then we can walk back to Ellsmere. It isn’t far.”

I acceded readily, and the coach pulled to a stop to let us off at the top of the village’s main street. Felicity and I spent a contented half hour sorting through ribbons and other trifles in the shop; she laughed at my delight in the assortment of pretty things. “You must not have done much shopping before, cousin, if our little village store dazzles you so,” she commented.

“Not much,” I agreed.

She chattered blithely as we walked back to the house, telling me more about the families we had visited, exclaiming over the charm and comeliness of the children. Her knowledge of their lives impressed me: she knew just whose son had broken his wrist falling out of a tree, whose daughter had gone into service. I was beginning to realize that Felicity was not as flighty as she sometimes seemed.

“You seem to know them as well as your own family,” I commented after one anecdote.

“Well, they practically are family, after all. A very extended family.”

I unfastened my pelisse as the exercise warmed me. She was setting a brisk pace, careless of scuffing her boots or getting grass stains on her pantalettes, and in this too I was surprised. “Felicity, while we are on the subject of family, I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“How did your father and Herron get along before the duke died?”

She didn’t even have to reflect. “Famously.”

“Truly?” I said, taken aback. “I was under the impression that Herron’s father—?”

“Oh, Herron always worshipped his father, but I think he was a little awed by him too.” Nimbly, she sidestepped a puddle. “Now, nobody could be afraid of Papa.”

I turned this over. “So Herron was actually closer to his uncle than to his father?”

For the first time she hesitated. “I don’t know that I’d say that, exactly. But with the duke Herron was always on his best behavior. We all were! I think Herron found it much less of a strain around Papa. They used to go to the theater together and ‘take off’ the performances later for me and Aminta and Aunt Gwendolyn. But he couldn’t be silly like that with his own father.” She darted a sideways glance at me. “It’s only since the duke’s death that Herron’s taken such a dislike to Papa, if that is what you were wondering.”

“It was,” I admitted.

She gave a brisk nod. “If you ask me, Herron is feeling guilty. I expect he mourns his father so elaborately because, for all that he admired him so much in life, he had more in common with Papa—and he can’t forgive himself for it.”

This was so perceptive, and from so unexpected a source, that it halted me in my tracks. “However did you come to think of that?”

She laughed, unimpressed. “Oh, one gets to know one’s own family. Hurry up, or we’ll be late for lunch.”

“Just one more question,” I said, catching her arm. “Did the duke resent his son’s closeness to Lord Claude?”

“Was he jealous, do you mean? Heavens, no. How could the sun be jealous?”

* * *

That evening I decided it was time to confront Lord Claude.

I knew that he liked to retreat to his study before retiring; from the library, which adjoined his study, I could sometimes hear him in conversation with Charles or chuckling over something he was reading. The connecting door usually remained closed, as it was now—he chose to enter his study by one of the other doors rather than risk disturbing me—and I stood before it for a long moment before I could bring myself to knock.

I was not even certain he was there, and even less certain that I should be approaching him. What I had in mind was uncomfortably like a betrayal of Herron’s trust. But if I was to save him from his own suspicion I had to be able to offer some proof of his uncle’s innocence, and the only way I knew how to do that was to test him—by using Herron’s own evidence.

True, Herron had put his trust in me, had spoken freely with the understanding that his words would go no further. I could only pray that I would not destroy his faith in me by what I was about to do. But this was no war, I told myself; allying myself with Herron did not mean that I was in enmity with the rest of his family. Regardless of what he felt toward them, I could keep their interests in mind as well as Herron’s. And perhaps by speaking now I could do something toward helping both parties.

This was no time to argue the whole matter over again to myself, though. Before my resolve could weaken further I knocked. For a moment there was no answer, and I had time to wonder if all my rationalizing had gone for naught, but then Lord Claude’s voice bade me come in.

He was standing by the French doors, smoking; the sweet, fragrant smoke was heavy in the room. When he saw who I was he reached for an ash tray and made as if to knock the tobacco out of his pipe.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” I hastened to say. “I do not mind if you smoke. If I’m not disturbing you, I would like to speak with you about something.”

“Of course, my dear. You’re not disturbing me at all. Will you have a seat?” He indicated one of the leather-covered wing chairs by the fire. I was glad he did not want to hold our conversation across his desk, as he had once before; the formality would have made my undertaking all the more difficult.

He settled into the chair across from mine and regarded me benevolently. He wore a smoking jacked of mustard-colored velvet faced in red and consequently looked a great deal more dapper than in his usual drab suits. But his face showed signs of strain: I thought there were lines of anxiety now as well as laughter. When he spoke, though, the impression vanished, and I wondered if I had imagined it.

“Now, what can I do for you?” he inquired with a smile. “Do you need an increase in your dress allowance to see you through Christmas?”

“No, indeed; I have more than enough, thank you, sir. You’ve been most generous.”

He waved his pipe deprecatingly. “Nonsense, my dear. What can I do for you, then, if it isn’t money you need? Have you found a new edition of Virgil you’d like me to order for the library?”

“It isn’t a matter of something I need, sir, but of something that’s been troubling me. Someone, to be precise.” This time he did not make a guess, and I continued. “I have come to be greatly concerned about His Grace.” The title sounded foolish. “Herron,” I amended.

His expression had sobered. “I see,” he said slowly, tapping his pipe stem against his teeth without seeming to be aware of it. “I see. Anything particular that is concerning you?”

Now that it came to the point I found myself torn. It was not a betrayal, I reminded myself sternly; it was for Herron’s own good—for the good of all of us. “You know, I am sure, that he still finds it difficult to accept his father’s death.” A single nod confirmed this. “And a part of his unhappiness is that of any son who has lost a parent. But there is more than that. Something particular is eating away at him.”