The Secret Pearl (21 page)

And it seemed strange now to hear her own voice and to note that it sounded just as it usually did.

“A few questions revealed to me your morning habits,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “They are no secret.”

She took him to a back entrance, avoiding the great hall. She did not go for a cloak, though it was chilly outside. But she scarcely noticed.

“I will come quietly,” she said, walking on ahead of him past the kitchen gardens to the lawns beyond, leaving him to catch up and fall into step beside her. “I don’t know if you brought assistance. I don’t know if you plan to put fetters on me. I don’t know what the law is. But you will not need them. I will come quietly.”

Even the clouds were beautiful. Even the wet grass soaking its moisture into her shoes felt wonderful. And she remembered her first sight of Willoughby and her first weeks there. She remembered her buoyant feeling of hope and happiness. She remembered the visit to the Chamberlains and their return visit. She remembered walking this very lawn with Mr. Chamberlain, the children rushing on ahead with a ball. She remembered playing with the puppy in the paddock. And she remembered waltzing on a lantern-lit path.

“Murder is a hanging offense, Isabella,” he said.

“I know.” Her pace unconsciously quickened. “I also know, as do you, Matthew, that I am no murderer. What happened was an accident caused when I acted in my own defense. But of course that will be an irrelevant point when we both speak in court.”

“Poor Hobson,” he said. “He was merely stepping up behind you to prevent you from tripping over the hearth yourself, Isabella. It was unfortunate that you were in such a temper
because I had been forced to admonish you for your own good. He would be alive now.”

“Yes,” she said, “it sounds convincing even now, Matthew. And I was foolish enough to panic and run—the actions of a guilty person. What is the procedure? Am I to be bound?”

He chuckled. “You seem to have done well enough for yourself,” he said, “though you might have come home, Isabella. There was no need to lower yourself to become a governess. His grace seems pleased with your services, though. And so he should be, if he was willing to pay his man to sit at a certain employment agency for four days before he found a suitable candidate.”

She looked at him for the first time. He was still smiling.

“You are his mistress?” he said. “You looked high indeed, Isabella.”

“I am his daughter’s governess,” she said. “Or was. I am your prisoner now, I suppose.”

“And yet,” he said, “it would break my heart to see that lovely neck with a rope about it, Isabella. And perhaps it is true and you misunderstood the situation and thought self-defense necessary. Who am I to judge your motives? Perhaps it was an unfortunate accident after all.”

“What are you saying?” She had stopped walking and stood looking directly at him.

“The simple truth,” he said. “I want to give you the benefit of the doubt if I possibly can. You know I love you, Isabella.”

“I could play this game out to the end,” she said. “But I believe I understand you very well, Matthew. You will agree that Hobson’s death was an accident if I consent to be your mistress. Am I right?”

He held his arms out to his sides. “Why the harsh tones? Do you see a pistol about me?” he asked. “Chains? Ropes? Do you see a constable or guard lurking at my shoulder? Do you think I have searched for you all this time just in order to see you executed? Do you know me so little, Isabella?”

“Speak plainly with me,” she said. “For once in your life, Matthew, speak plainly. If I refuse to be your mistress, what then? Give me a straight answer.”

“Isabella,” he said, “I am a guest here. I came with an old friend of mine, Lord Thomas Kent, to spend a few weeks on an estate I have always wished to visit. It is quite splendid, is it not? You are a governess here—a happy coincidence. And of course we must speak of that unhappy death, whose mystery still has not been cleared up because you fled immediately after it. But there is no need to say everything that needs to be said between us at this very moment, is there? You are not going anywhere for the next few weeks, and neither am I.”

“No,” she said. “I did not think you would be persuaded to speak plainly. But I understand you very well for all that. I have, after all, known you for much of my life. I am to live with a threat hanging over my head. You will dangle me like a puppet on a string.”

“You have heard, I suppose,” he said, “that the Reverend Booth was, ah, disappointed in you? I believe it is the elder Miss Hailsham who is currently the fortunate recipient of his smiles.”

Daniel! Fleur lifted her chin.

“When we leave eventually, Isabella,” he said, “I think it would be as well to do so without airing our dirty linen, so to speak, before the duke and duchess, wouldn’t you agree? And I am quite sure that you would not wish to cause his grace unnecessary disappointment when you leave by raising false hopes in the intervening weeks, would you? You will, of course, be coming home, where you belong.”

“Don’t worry, Matthew,” she said, “there is no affair to put an end to.”

He smiled. “He makes a habit of strolling the back lawns in the early morning, then?” he said.

Fleur turned her head sharply to find that indeed his grace was walking toward them.

“Good morning,” Lord Brocklehurst called. “I find that your park has as magnificent prospects at the back of the house as before it.”

His grace was carrying a cloak over one arm. He shook it out and set it about Fleur’s shoulders without a word to her.

“My grandfather hired the best of landscape gardeners,” he said. “I trust you had a good sleep, Brocklehurst?”

“Indeed, yes, I thank you,” the other said. “And as you must have guessed, your grace, my feeling of last evening was quite correct. Miss Hamilton and I have a slight acquaintance and have been inquiring into the health of each other’s relatives.”

“Miss Hamilton,” his grace said, turning to her, “I will be giving Pamela her first riding lesson this morning directly after breakfast. You will bring her to the stables, if you please. You are dismissed for now.”

“Yes, your grace.” She curtsied without looking at either him or Matthew and turned to hurry back to the house.

There was to be some reprieve, then. It was not to be quite as bad as she had feared all night, and for two months before that. He was prepared to give her her freedom in exchange for what he had wanted for three years past. Except that in the past she had been able to treat his attentions with scorn. Now he must feel that he had a hold on her.

And who was she to say he did not? It was all very well now, in the relief of knowing that it was not to be today, to tell herself that she would throw his offer in his face when he told her finally that it was time for them to leave. It was well now to imagine herself telling him, her head thrown back, contempt in her eyes, that she would take the noose rather than him.

But would she when the time came?

And it was quite like Matthew, of course. It amazed her that she had not thought of it as a possibility before. He had wanted her badly enough. Was it likely that he would give her up to the gallows any more willingly than he would have given her up to Daniel?

Of course. She was foolish not to have thought of it.

She unbuttoned the cloak absently as she climbed the stairs inside the house. And then she looked down at it with awareness. It was her own cloak. It had been hanging in her wardrobe.

He must have sent a maid upstairs for it. He had brought it out to her and wrapped it about her shoulders.

And he had ordered her to bring Lady Pamela out to the stables to him after breakfast.

There was to be another day, then. Not chains and a long carriage ride and a dark prison cell at the end of it. Not yet, anyway.

Her step lightened and quickened. There was to be another day.

I
T WAS STILL TOO EARLY
for breakfast when the Duke of Ridgeway came inside with Lord Brocklehurst. There was still time to accomplish one more thing before eating and going back outside with Pamela.

He sent a servant to summon Lord Thomas Kent to the library if he was up. He must talk to his brother. Somehow, he could not take the coward’s way out and just say nothing.

He thought grimly of the night before. Unable to sleep himself, he had done something he rarely did. He had gone into his wife’s room very late. He had half-expected to find the room empty and the bed unslept in.

But she had been both there and awake. And feverish and coughing. She had watched him listlessly as he approached the bed.

“You are not well?” he had asked, touching his fingers to her cheek and finding it dry and burning. He brought her a cool cloth from the washstand, folded it, and laid it over her forehead.

“It is nothing,” she had said, turning her face from him.

He had stood looking down at her for a long silent moment. “Sybil,” he had asked quietly, “shall I send him away? Will it be less painful for you if he is gone?”

Her eyes had been open. She had been staring away from him. And he had watched one tear roll diagonally across her cheek and nose and drip onto the sheet. “No,” she had said.

Nothing more. Just the one word. He had turned away after a while and left the room.

Her maid had reported to him that morning that her grace had recovered from her fever.

He fully expected that after a journey of a few days his brother would be still asleep. But he came wandering into the library fifteen minutes after being summoned, his customary half-smile on his lips.

“This brings back memories,” he said, looking about him. “Many was the time we were summoned here, Adam, for a thrashing.” He laughed. “I more than you, I must confess. Is that why I have been summoned here this morning?”

“Why did you return?” the duke asked.

“The fatted calf is supposed to be killed for the prodigal’s return,” Lord Thomas said with a laugh. “You have not learned your Bible lessons well enough, Adam.”

“Why did you return?”

Lord Thomas shrugged. “It is home, I suppose,” he said. “When I was in India, England was home. And when I returned to England, then Willoughby was home—even if I am not welcome here. Sometimes it is not a good thing to be just a half-brother.”

“You know that has nothing to do with anything,” his grace said harshly. “We were scarcely aware of the half-relationship when we were growing up, Thomas. We were simply brothers.”

“But at that time one of us was not duke and afraid the other might waste some of his vast substance,” the other said.

“And you know that that was never my concern either,” the duke said. “I tried to persuade you to stay. I wanted you to stay.
I wanted to share Willoughby with you. You belonged here. You were my brother. But when you insisted on leaving, then I told you you must not return. I meant ever.”

“Ever is a long time,” Lord Thomas said, strolling to the fireplace and examining the mosaic lion on the overmantel. “It’s strange how I could not even picture this room clearly in my mind when I was in India. But it all comes back now. Nothing ever changes at Willoughby, does it?”

“You couldn’t leave her in peace, could you?” the duke said.

“In peace?” Lord Thomas turned around with a laugh. “You mean she has been in peace married to you for the past five and a half years? She does not appear to me like a woman living in wedded bliss, Adam. Haven’t you seen that? Are you still besotted with her?”

“She had accepted the fact that you were gone,” the duke said, “that you would never return.”

“Well.” His brother sank into a leather chair and draped a leg over one of its arms. “She does not seem unduly unhappy at my return, either, Adam. She is not as niggardly in her welcome as you are.”

“And what is she to do when you leave again?” his brother asked.

“Have I said anything about leaving?” Lord Thomas spread his hands. “Perhaps I will stay this time. Perhaps she will not have to do anything.”

“It is too late for you to stay,” the duke said curtly. “She is married to me.”

“Yes.” Lord Thomas laughed. “She is, isn’t she? Poor Adam. Perhaps I will take her from you.”

“No,” the duke said. “Never that. I doubt that would serve your purpose at all, Thomas. You will merely take her heart again. You will convince her again that you love her, that for you the sun rises and sets on her. And then, when you tire of the game, you will leave her. She will not guard her heart
against such an ending because she will believe in you as she did before and as she has done ever since you left.”

“I gather you must have played the gallant and taken all the blame.” Lord Thomas was laughing again. “She did not rain blows at my head as I half-expected her to do. You are a fool, Adam.”

“I happened to love her most dearly,” his brother said quietly. “I would have given my life to save her from pain. I knew she could no longer love me—if she ever had—and so I allowed her to think me the villain. But perhaps she already thought that. I came back alive, after all, and spoiled everything.”

“And you also married her,” Lord Thomas said. “You were rather fortunate, I suppose, that Pamela was not born with my mother’s red hair. You would have been the laughingstock. As it is, I suppose people only smile behind their hands to think that you came home like an impatient stallion to mount her in the hay without even pausing to change out of the clothes you traveled in or to remove your boots.”

“Yes, I married her,” the duke said. “You would not, so I did. I do not believe I would have been able to see her live through the disgrace even if I had not still loved her at the time. But you did not even have honor enough to stay away. Perhaps I should have insisted that she listen to the truth. She would be better able to guard against you now.”

“Well,” Lord Thomas said, jumping to his feet again, “you did not because you were ever the Sir Galahad, Adam. You would not have ridden off to war if you had not been. Perhaps I can put a son in your nursery before I leave again—if I leave. Perhaps he too will be fortunate enough not to have red hair. You seem somewhat incapable of begetting your own heirs. Or should I keep my eye on the governess’s waistline?”