Mists of Moorhead Manor Page 12

  I struggled to whip up a bit of anger at his presumption and failed miserably, as he breathed into my ear, “A private word, Penny. In the bookroom, as soon as we’ve eaten.”

  Having no choice—he was the heir, after all—I nodded and tried not to flinch as, after filling a plate, he sat down next to me at table. I found his proximity overwhelming, making it difficult for me to swallow, even to breathe. I had tried so hard, told myself a thousand times that he was a useless popinjay amusing himself at my expense, and yet . . .

  We made desultory conversation about the abominable weather until the other gentlemen joined us, at which time Lord Hycliffe settled the matter of the picnic by declaring the trip to the gorge would be made on the first day of clear weather. “The ladies will be happy to hear it,” I murmured, forcing a smile, and excused myself, as if rushing upstairs to spread the word. I went, however, to the bookroom, as I had been told, and was sitting there, hands in my lap, when Exmere let himself in, closing the door softly behind him.

  He stood there, looking at me, a quizzical expression on his face, as if now that we were private, he wasn’t quite sure where to begin. So I spoke first. “Where on earth did a London beau learn Spanish, ancient Spanish at that?”

  He paced forward until he loomed over me. He folded his arms across his chest and asked, “What makes you think a London beau has never traveled?”

  “It has been years since young gentlemen were able to make the grand tour, and even then I do not believe Spain was included.”

  “A sad oversight.” Exmere shook his head in mock sorrow.

  “You are begging the question.”

  He dragged a wingchair into position opposite mine, sitting down so close to me our knees were almost touching. “There was a campfire one winter in Portugal,” he told me, keeping his eyes fixed to mine. “A girl was singing, and although I was far back at the edge of some trees, her voice was clear and lovely, traveling the distance with ease. Fortunately, I had someone with me who understood the nuances of old Spanish, so I got the gist of the meaning as well as enjoying the beauty of the song.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I have been haunted by both girl and tune ever since. What a surprise to hear the same song in the drawing room of Moorhead Manor.”

  Exmere had been in Portugal? At the army’s winter camp behind the lines at Torres Vedras? I had to ask. “The singer . . .?”

  “I had no idea, but my suspicions were roused the first night you sang. And after last night . . .” He shrugged. “I doubt even Wellington could produce two young ladies of similar age, size, and glorious voice.”

  It was like a house of cards tumbling down, every misconception on my part scattered in pieces around me. Not by the shock of discovering that Exmere had heard me sing in Portugal, but by the enormity of why he was there at all. I had assumed from what I had been told that he had spent the war in London, drinking, wenching, and gambling. If he had left the country, did the family even know . . .?

  “You were not part of the army,” I said carefully. “I would have known if the heir to an earldom were a serving officer.”

  “No.” He cocked his head to one side, as if considering the proper response. “I suppose you could say I was on my own private grand tour.”

  Dear God, he was a spy. “And when did you return home?” I asked, hoping his answer would indicate my imagination had soared into fantasy. That he had not spent at least part of the war years behind enemy lines on the Peninsula.

  “There was little need for my services after the army crossed the Pyrenees. With the French on the run, I came home. Early last spring it was, and I’ve been having a right good time of it ever since. Do not look so, Penny,” he added. “It’s not something I talk about. You know the English attitude toward spies. We’re quite sunk beneath reproach.”

  I nodded, my heart so full no words would come. As if I weren’t already quite shockingly in love with him, he now turned out to be a hero. For no matter what people outside the army might think, I knew how harrowing was the life of a spy and how very much their information had helped our long fight against Napoleon.

  “Penny? That night in Portugal I’d come down from the mountains to report, and I thought I’d never seen or heard anything so lovely as that young girl, lit by firelight, her glorious voice winging its way to where I stood.”

  “How long?” I murmured, the words a mere croak and not very clear, but he seemed to understand me.

  “What happened at Corunna appalled me. I had friends at Horse Guards and simply talked my way in. I was with Wellesley when he led our troops back to the Peninsula and I simply stayed on.” Suddenly, his gaze dropped to his boots. “I told the family I was exploring ancient Greece, but they all assumed I was searching for my mother.”

  Speechless, I steepled my hands before my face and quivered with waves of emotion I was too overcome to analyze.

  “Forgive me,” Exmere murmured. “I’ve overset you and I didn’t mean to do that.” He stood, pulling me up until my face was buried in his chest and my tears flowed onto his blue woolen coat. “Though I never found my mother, I have found a long-lost treasure and I do not want to lose you. So promise me, Penny, that you will be careful. All those instincts, so well-honed on the Peninsula, tell me things are not right here, that the deaths we have seen were not accidents. So keep sharp watch, my dear, as if you were in enemy territory. Do you understand?”

  He handed me his handkerchief, which I used to good purpose, finally managing a watery “yes.”

  “And when we are private, remember I am Robert,” he said. “Or Rob. We are friends, are we not?” And then he kissed me. Soft and lingering, as if imparting a message that could not be put into words.

  I melted, lost in sensation, heedless of right and wrong . . .

  Abruptly, he abandoned me, stepping back to select a book at random from the shelf and thrusting it into my hand. “Take this so you will look as if you were in here to choose a book. Now put a smile on your face and off you go before my dear sister starts roaring again. And do not let duty deprive you of the picnic. Tell Vanessa that Hycliffe insists you join us.”

  I almost gaped. How could he switch from sentiment to practicality in a matter of seconds? Miserable man. Clearly, our moments of nostalgia were over, almost as if they’d never been. And where I stood in all this I had no idea.

  Except I was invited to the picnic.

  Which would likely send Vanessa into another tantrum.

  I muttered trooper language as I climbed the stairs.

  The rain moved east, taking every cloud with it, leaving us with sun sparkling off lingering moisture on leaves and grass and beckoning the picnic party into carriages, followed by a wagon-load of servants and food. When I hesitated, anticipating the Durrant ladies’ objections, it was David who scolded in the same tone he sometimes used to Vanessa. “You are entitled to a bit of fun, Penny. You haven’t had time to yourself since the guests arrived. Miss Scruggs and I will contrive to keep our termagant in check.”

  Vanessa took a hard swipe at him, but he caught her hand with ease, grinning down at her. She subsided, a surprising blush tingeing her cheeks. “I am sorry, Penny dear,” she said. “Go and keep that horrid Daphne from monopolizing my brother. It must be our purpose to make certain she never rules the roost at Moorhead.”

  I huffed a sigh of relief. The new Vanessa was back, though now we were both the wiser, understanding that her full transformation was not going to be fast or easy. “I’ll do my best,” I assured her and caught David’s wink just before I turned toward the door. What a saint he was, although a slightly naughty one at times.

  I floated down the stairs on the prospect of an afternoon’s outing with the family. With Robert.

  I never stood a chance, of course. The moment the carriages were forced to stop—after the road became a rough track and finally dwindled to a footpath on which no carriage horses had ever set hoof to dirt—Lady Daphne grabbed Exmere’s arm, Lady Jocelyn fluttere
d her lashes at Huntley, leaving Mr. Blythe to escort Lady Rothbury. Lords Hycliffe and Rothbury had remained closer to home, determined on more masculine, or perhaps more indolent, pursuits than clambering down a steep path to view a series of waterfalls tumbling through a rock-strewn split in the earth. I was, therefore, left to make my way alone, as best I could, grateful to the mountains of Spain and France for teaching me how to go on without falling over my own feet. I was also aware that the climb back up was not going to be for the faint-hearted. We should all have a grand appetite after making our way back to where the servants were setting out our picnic lunch in the shade of some trees that had not yet lost all their leaves.

  I heard the rushing water long before I saw it. Somehow it sang a song of freedom, of unknown destiny rushing madly toward the sea. Where these fanciful thoughts came from I knew not, but when I finally found a place on the bank above the stream where I could look both up and down the deep gorge, watching the frothing water do its dance over the rocks, I realized every bit of the effort to get here had been worth it. I almost thought kindly of Lady Rothbury for suggesting it . . . and was struck by a pang of guilt as I realized why Vanessa had taken the suggestion so badly. To be deprived of this sight was a bitter blow.

  After numerous murmurs of aristocratic appreciation from Lady Daphne and her mother and squeals of delight from Lady Jocelyn, our party turned to the long climb back up the tree-shaded path. I noted, sourly, that by the time we were half-way up, Lady Daphne was leaning so hard on Exmere, he was practically carrying her. And then all the bad things came flooding back—visions of Robert, my Robert, struggling up the cliff with Nell Ridgeway’s body. And had he brought Mary Perkins home as well? For he was likely here at the time—he said he’d come home in early spring, and as his father’s deputy . . .

  I stumbled, my feet suddenly sliding back down the precipitous path, my hands grabbing for a bush, a rock, anything . . .

  I came down hard on my side, my hipbone hitting a rock with a crack that sent an agony of pain crashing through me. I lay still, gritting my teeth, cursing my overconfidence, my lack of attention. My stupidity. As the pain gradually lessened, I was simply mortified. For I feared someone was going to have to come and get me, and then there was going to be a very great fuss, little of it sympathy. At least not from the ladies present. They would be certain I created my mishap on purpose.

  I levered myself into a sitting position and waited. It was Robert who came for me, of course. As he bent over me, eyes anxious, I felt no little satisfaction in picturing Lady Daphne cooling her heels without her swain. Perhaps I had precipitated my accident, after all . . . And then I recalled why I had stumbled. Stabbed by the thought of a man just returned from the violence of the most dangerous kind of war. A girl dead . . .

  Robert was asking me if I had sprained my ankle, and I was sitting there with my head in a whirl, my stomach threatening nausea—and not from my injury.

  “Just a stumble, I think,” I finally managed. “The wind knocked out of me. If you help me up, I believe I can walk.”

  I winced as he put his hands beneath my arms and pulled me up, where I swayed so severely he clasped me in his arms. Anyone watching would undoubtedly assume I had staged the entire debacle simply for this moment.

  I did my best to stifle my groans as we slowly made our way back up the path, but my hip was sending shock waves of pain through me with every step. Pride, and a strong dollop of Ballantyne arrogance, demanded I remain stoic. Never let it be said I had tried to make myself interesting. But naturally my efforts were futile, as all the young gentlemen rushed to assist Exmere when they saw us emerge from the woods. I was quickly settled with my back to a tree, where I endured the most intimate groping I had ever encountered in my life. After Robert had ascertained I had not suffered any broken bones—though my blushes remained hot—a blanket was spread over my legs and food presented to me as if I were some fine princess who never lifted a hand for herself.

  Lady Jocelyn, bless her, was all sympathy. The same could not be said for her sister or her mother, who clearly thought me an encroaching nonentity who had dared draw attention away from themselves. Their stiff backs remained firmly turned in my direction. Even after the last jam tart and macaroon had disappeared and Exmere had carried me to the carriage, their silence hung heavy. On the return journey Lady Jocelyn’s attempts at conversation were quietly quashed by Lady Rothbury. I, the injured, had ruined their outing and was not to be forgiven. It seemed to have occurred to none of the ladies that my badly bruised body was screaming at me with every jostle and bump, every rattle of the wheels. The trip seemed interminable. At the end Robert had to lift me from the carriage and carry me to my room while Lady Rothbury swept her daughters away from such a disgusting display.

  Well, too bad for them. How could they know that pride alone would have kept my body moving if it could. But it could not. I had reached the end of my resources.

  The next morning, alas, I could not get out of bed. Dr. Biggs was called and prescribed a minimum of four days of bed rest to give my battered body time to recover. When David brought Vanessa in to see me, she could not resist a hint of satisfaction as she said, “Now you have an idea of what it is like.”

  Sadly, I nodded. Although I could only hope she did not endure the pain I was suffering at the moment.

  I hated my confinement, absolutely hated it. What was Robert doing? With me out of the way, was Lady Daphne making progress in her campaign to attach him? The news, imparted daily during visits from Vanessa and Lady Emmaline, was frequently not to be liking. Occasional visits by the Durrant ladies, condescending and supercilious, brought even sharper stabs of jealousy. Only Lady Jocelyn could be granted a genuinely kind heart. But with her sister and mother I came perilously close to losing my temper.

  Even worse were all the fears and wild imaginings that festered when I had too much time on my hands. I had seen what war could do to those who fought. And because I was such a fixture in our regiment and around conclaves of ranking officers, I had become invisible, hearing more than I probably should. Consequently, I had a good idea of the strain on those who acted as liaison with the Spanish guerrilleros, whose ferocity and thirst for revenge was notorious.

  Robert had likely witnessed atrocities no one would ever speak of outside the confines of the army, while being constantly aware that those same atrocities would be inflicted on him, if captured. War had unsettled more than a few minds, but not Robert, never Robert. He was so very normal. So good-natured . . .

  Yet how could it be normal for a man to be a spy for close on to five years and return home with such a sunny temperament? That in itself was not natural.

  No no no no no no! On my second full day in bed I could stand it no longer. I threw back the covers and coaxed my legs to move. The pain in my hip, I discovered, was at least less than the pain in my heart. Which was not saying much. I staggered to the window-seat, clutching at furniture along the way. Once there, my head and heart engaged in a wrestling match. I was overthinking a problem that very likely did not even exist. There had been two accidents, two women had died. There was absolutely nothing to link anyone at Moorhead Manor to these tragedies. I was using my own bad memories to create chimeras out of nothing more than mist. Tomorrow, I would get up and dress, resume my duties with Vanessa, smile graciously at all members of the families Wetherington and Durrant, and put all absurd thoughts from me.

  Including any capricious or unreasoning feelings I might have for Robert, Lord Exmere.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, as I had promised myself, I maneuvered my still sore and twingeing body out of bed and made use of the washbasin. Dressing, however, proved a bit more of a chore than I had anticipated. With a distinct lack of grace, I plopped down onto the chair at my dressing table, only to find some pale, fragile creature staring back at me. My arms ached as I brushed my hair, and it was necessary to pinch color into the wan cheeks reflected in the pier glass before I f
inally levered myself to my feet.

  Lying in bed was insidious, I told myself, weakening me more than the original injuries. I only needed to get back into harness and I would be fine. I started for the door . . . and wished I’d had the sense to ask for a stout stick. I firmed my lips, carefully setting one foot before the other as I made the vast journey from one side of the corridor to the other. Gratefully, I grasped the latch on Vanessa’s sitting room door, panting a bit as I pressed my forehead against the wood. After a few gulps of breath, I made my special rap and walked in.

  My legs nearly completed their threatened collapse when I saw Exmere engaged in conversation with his sister, who was seated close to the glowing fire. Four pairs of shocked eyes stared at me before everyone spoke at once.

  “Penny, how could you be so foolish?” Vanessa wailed.

  “Back to bed at once, young lady,” Maud Scruggs snapped.

  “Are you mad?” Exmere roared.

  “Sit before you fall,” David barked as he left Vanessa’s side to hustle me to a chair.

  “No!” Exmere growled, sweeping me off my feet. “Open the door,” he said to David, and out we went, straight across the corridor to my bedchamber door, which David swung open ahead of us. A toss of Exmere’s head and David made a hasty departure, disappearing back into Vanessa’s apartments.

  After kicking my door closed with a decided thump, Robert deposited me on my bed—with great care, I hasten to say—then bent over me, glaring, one hand on each side of my pillow. “You will stay in bed until the doctor says you may get up. Do you understand me, woman? There’s no need for martyrdom here—no Wellington to crack the whip, no French nipping at your heels, no need to march or die. You will stay confined until you are truly well enough to rejoin the household without falling on your face.”