Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (31 page)

Somewhat to my surprise, Felicity emerged as a great help and comfort to me at that time. This came about from a simple question: she asked me one day at luncheon if it was true that I did not ride.

“Living in the city as I always have, there was little opportunity to learn,” I explained.

“Well, you no longer live in the city, cousin,” she reminded me, with a trace of smugness. “I shall teach you.”

I tried to demur. “I would be a terrible pupil; I cannot make such claims on your patience or your time.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry that I can’t teach you.” Her amusement made me wonder, abashed, if my doubt had been that evident. “Charles and Aminta will tell you that I am a fine horsewoman. Come, it will be fun; now that the house is empty, we shall need something to keep us from being dull.”

Aminta added her endorsement. “Felicity may look about as capable as a butterfly, but she is an excellent rider.”

“There, you see? Do say you’ll let me teach you. I promise that if after a fortnight you aren’t pleased with your progress I’ll not bother you any more.” She put her head on one side and shook her curls in her most cajoling manner, and I smiled and gave in.

In spite of Aminta’s commendation, I was surprised to find that Felicity was, in fact, a good teacher. She was unexpectedly patient with me, and quick to offer praise and encouragement when they were needed. In less time than I would have thought possible, I had become comfortable in the saddle. The day I was first able to ride to the village and back was a cause for celebration. I would probably never sit a horse with Felicity’s apparently instinctive grace, but for me it was a triumph.

Perhaps just as therapeutic was having something with which to occupy my time and my thoughts. Even on days when I spent more time falling out of the saddle than riding, I was less desolate now that I had something to distract me from the ever-present pain of losing Herron.

Felicity was not the only one who helped me through those first terrible weeks. Aminta and her husband frequently had me to tea in the nursery with their children, in whose presence it was impossible to be self-absorbed. Charles and I took to spending an hour or two every afternoon playing chess; while we spent most of this time in silence, again I found that focusing my thoughts on strategy was an effective antidote to grief. The duchess took me calling with her, brought Mrs. Prescott in to fit me for spring gowns, and engaged my aid in selecting hangings and furniture for the redecoration of the third floor. With a tact that I welcomed gratefully, she refrained form expressing any disappointment in her hopes of a marriage between me and her son. In fact, she only mentioned him once, to note offhandedly that he had taken to spending all his time in his rooms, and I knew that she had told me this so that my mind might be eased, knowing I need not fear a chance encounter with him.

As for Lord Claude, he produced what was perhaps the most unexpected and dramatic means of taking my mind off Herron.

One night after dinner I was startled by a knock on my study door. I had been reading—or, at least, had been moving my eyes over the pages of a book—and jumped at the unexpected sound. It was a strange time for a visitor; the family and few remaining guests would still be gathered in the drawing room. “Come in,” I said, trying to quell the faint surge of hope that rose in my heart.

It died of its own accord when the door opened to reveal Lord Claude. “Oh, good evening, sir,” I said, hoping my disappointment did not show.

“Good evening, my dear. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all.” This, at least, was the truth, and I shut the book and put it aside as he took a seat. For the first time in weeks, he seemed at his ease; I guessed that this was because my father was not present. Lord Claude invariably looked tense and strained around him, as if my father wore a black shroud and carried a scythe. I imagined that I probably looked the same way myself when near him. Indeed, it was partly to escape my father’s company that I had retreated directly to my room after dinner instead of lingering with the others in the drawing room.

“I know it is late for a visit, so I’ll not detain you long,” Lord Claude said now, with a smile that held something of its old charm. “In fact, I come as a messenger.”

“Oh?” I said, that idiotic hope bobbing up again, and he must have observed it, for he was quick to put me out of doubt.

“From Charles.”

“Oh,” I said again; then, belatedly, “whatever for?” Charles had never resorted to such oblique means of communicating with me before. Indeed, he had no need to; I had seen him just an hour ago at dinner.

“The fact is,” said my visitor, settling back into his chair and lacing his fingers comfortably across the front of his waistcoat, “Charles wishes to know if you would consider becoming his wife.”

I blinked at him. He continued to regard me with perfect composure; I, on the other hand, had never felt so confused. “Charles?” I repeated, my voice an incredulous squeak.

He permitted himself a half smile. “He knew his suggestion would come as a surprise. In fact, if I had less confidence in your self-command, my dear, I would have come armed with spirits of ammonia before broaching such a topic. But, however sudden, the offer is serious. My son wishes to marry you.”

“Why?” At this he did smile, and I put my hands to my head, trying to sort out my thoughts. “No, I don’t mean why, exactly, but—yes, I do. Why should Charles propose to me? He has never given the least indication that he is at all interested in me, that way.”

“Hasn’t he?” Under Lord Claude’s steady gaze I felt more discomfited than ever; all of a sudden I was forced to re-evaluate every meeting I had ever had with Charles in a new light. Could I have misread his behavior, been blind to the import of his seemingly platonic interest?

“Well, perhaps he was not very marked in his attentions,” Lord Claude conceded, as I did not speak. “But you must admit that he had every reason not to be.”

Of course. Until recently everyone had believed that Herron and I had an understanding—as I myself had believed. But I still had difficulty reconciling my amiable chess partner with this new vision of him as hopeful wooer. The idea seemed so farfetched, so different from the Charles I knew. This might be some ploy of my father’s to better his own ends, or at best a cruel joke on his spinsterish daughter. It might even be the duchess, with her penchant for matchmaking, who had conceived the proposal.

“Are you certain it was Charles’s wish for you to speak to me?” I asked warily.

His eyebrows rose as if he was injured, but then he sighed. “You have every right to ask me that, of course,” he said, his voice a subdued rumble. “You have not been able to trust me as you used to since your father arrived.”

“No,” I admitted. His shoulders bowed under the weight of the word, and I added softly, “but the blame is my father’s, not yours. The only thing I fear in you is my father’s hold over you, and that is not your fault.”

“You’re a kind girl,” he said slowly. “And an understanding one.”

“I know my father; that is all. Lord Claude… what is the real reason for his presence here? Can you tell me?”

I was horrified to see his face contract in pain, his eyes shutting as if he was unable to face his own knowledge. “I cannot tell you that, my girl. In any case, you would not believe me. And better for you that you did not.”

“I see.” I saw nothing, except that I should not force him further; whatever my father’s purpose here, it was one that seemed to tear at Lord Claude’s soul. “I… I suppose, then, that you cannot say when he will be going.”

He rubbed at the crease in his forehead, while his eyes slid away from mine. “It will not be much longer,” he said, and the words seemed weighted with a meaning I could not discern.

“Then we shall be free,” I exclaimed. “Surely we can endure him a little longer, if we know the time is short.”

Impulsively, I reached my hand out to him across the desk, and he took it. I smiled at him, trying to extend encouragement to him, and for a moment we shared that intangible kinship I had felt once before. Then he released my hand, and the moment passed.

“In any case, I can assure you that your father has had no hand in this proposal,” he said more briskly, straightening his shoulders; it seemed a relief to him to return to the topic of his astonishing errand. “Indeed, he knows nothing of it. Charles said he had spoken only to me.”

“Why did he speak to you?” I could not help asking. “Why did he not approach me himself? It is unlike him to be so—so squeamish.”

“Squeamish?” His father chuckled. “I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him you said so. It was his thought that, since he had not spoken to you of his feelings, you might appreciate some time in which to accustom yourself to the idea before being confronted by him. His intention was only to spare you embarrassment.” I felt ashamed of myself, even more so when he went on, “I thought it very considerate of him. If you had rather not face him at all, I shall be glad to convey your answer to him.”

“Oh, no, I would not ask you to do that,” I said hastily. “It would be unfair to Charles; he should be the first to know my answer.” Lord Claude’s frankly inquisitive raised eyebrows made me laugh self-consciously. “And no, sir, I do not yet have an answer. I need time to consider.”

I rose, and he was on his feet at once, never questioning my wish to end the interview. “Of course,” he said warmly. “Charles will understand perfectly. Only do not keep him on tenterhooks too long, my dear.”

I could not help but smile at the incongruity of the image his words conjured up: genial, unflappable Charles, wasting away in a pale languishing fever of love denied. “I’ll not draw out his agonies, I give you my word.” Then, as we reached the door, I thought of one more thing to ask.

“What do you think of his wish to marry me, sir?”

He took my chin in his hand. “I think,” he said, “that I raised a very bright son.” And, with a little shake of my chin, as if to chide me for a foolish question, he bade me goodnight.

I could think of nothing the next day except that baffling proposal. I had wondered if Charles’s manner toward me would be changed, if he would even (heaven forbid) ask me directly what my answer was. But he treated me with the same friendly courtesy he had ever shown me, as we conversed about the weather, my ride with Felicity, the new books to be ordered for the library. It was I whose manner had changed; I felt unnatural, awkward around him, suddenly conscious of hitherto unguessed possibilities between us. It was bewildering trying to divine what his thoughts might be, and making the pretence of normality; by the time dinner was over I was exhausted and glad to take refuge in the solitude of my room.

Once alone, however, I found my mind was still teeming with questions. I was too restless to retire, but nonetheless I changed my dinner dress for the comfort of one of my velvet dressing gowns. As always, it was a relief to shed my corset and take my hair out of its net and remove the pins. All the weeks of my new life had not accustomed me to wearing my hair up; often my head ached from the pins, or from the sheer weight of my hair, and it was always with a sense of release that I unbound it in the evening and brushed it out. This evening I brushed it for a long time, as I thought.

I could not help feeling slightly annoyed with Charles for not having made his offer in person. This was unfair to him; he was only being tactful and considerate of my feelings. Nevertheless, I felt somehow cheated. It was so difficult to take his proposal seriously, offered as it was through an intermediary; had he spoken to me himself, perhaps I would have been more convinced of his sincerity. Unless he had doubts himself about his choice, and had sent his father in order that he might have another’s opinion as to the wisdom of proposing to me? Perhaps he was being cautious.

As well he should be. The hairbrush stilled in my hand. He was, in fact, taking quite a risk in asking me to marry him, knowing so little about me. Having discovered me half naked in compromising circumstances, he had every right to entertain doubts about my suitability for marriage. And he knew of my attachment to Herron. Most gentlemen would never even consider proposing marriage to a young woman who had been so intimately connected with another man. No wonder if he had chosen to court me with such caution; it would not be like him to take so important a step impulsively.

But it occurred to me that I might not know Charles as well as I assumed. I knew he was kind, tactful, considerate; he had proved that beyond a doubt on the disastrous night of the ball. He was amusing, sometimes even silly, but undeniably intelligent and perceptive. He had never seemed prey to self-pity, even when he had been half crippled by illness. But of his feelings I knew little. Certainly I could not imagine what would lead him to pursue marriage with an obscure, undowried girl whose father was suspected of uxoricide. True, we did seem to get along well. But could there ever be between us what I saw in the duchess’s face when she looked at Lord Claude, or what I had felt for Herron?

Impulsively, I put the brush down on the dressing table and slid my feet into chamois-soled slippers. It was late, but not so late that he would have retired. Most likely he would just be returning from the drawing room. I peered around the edge of my door; a solitary maid vanished around the corner with a stack of linens, and then the hall was empty. I made my way to his room silently and, in my sapphire blue dressing gown, almost invisibly.

“Come in,” he called at my knock, and when I entered he swung around with a friendly smile, evidently in expectation of a valet, for it faltered when he saw me. To my dismay I saw that he was already undressing; his coat and waistcoat were discarded, and his hands had frozen in the act of unknotting his tie. I felt blood mantle in my cheeks, and realized too late how my own attire might be construed at such an hour. But his first words reassured me.

“You must have come to discuss my offer,” he said. “Won’t you have a seat? Please excuse my informal dress; I was not expecting to entertain.”