A Bride by Moonlight (19 page)

“It might matter to the lady in question.”

“Perhaps—if there still were one,” he said on a laugh, his light mood returning. “Miss Willet is sensible of the honor I do her, but she does not love me.”

“I shall hope, Lord Hepplewood, that you are the one who’s wrong—for both your sakes.”

“Oh, Lord.” He cast his gaze heavenward, clapping a hand over his heart. “Not another romantic.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Perhaps, in the end, I am.”

“Ah, well,” he said evenly, letting the hand fall. “You’ll get over it like the rest of us—and if you mean to marry
that
hard-hearted misanthrope, you’d better. But enough of that for now. At present, I’m ordered to deliver you to the ladies’ salon.”

“Are you indeed?”

“Yes.” His smile looked more benevolent. “Diana and Gwyneth are preparing for their afternoon walk. I collect they mean to invite you.”

T
witchy as a stallion at Newmarket, Napier strode down the hill and out of sight of the gardens. When the stables came fully in view, he slowed his gait and stopped beneath the canopy of the gnarled apple trees that lined the path.

“Damned arrogant coxcomb,” he said, casting a glance back up at the arbor.

But it was not, in truth, the coxcomb who troubled him. Nor was it Anisha.

It was Elizabeth Colburne, whose scent still surrounded him and whose aquamarine, all-seeing gaze seemed eternally to haunt him. Her proximity—her vibrant energy, that innate, unaffected sensuality—Christ, this hell of his own making was going to singe him badly before they were through.

But Elizabeth wasn’t young—near twenty-seven if he reckoned it right. And with that air of worldly ennui, she certainly left one the impression she was a woman of experience. Yet despite all this, she seemed innocently unaware of her effect on him.

Could she be that naïve?

Perhaps she was just deliberately tormenting him. Perhaps fools simply got what they deserved. He gave an exasperated sigh; then, setting his back to one of the tree trunks, extracted Anisha’s letter and shook it open.

He needn’t have bothered.

“Damn it all to hell,” he said, his eyes sweeping down the page.

She was married.

Married to Lazonby, who did not deserve her and would never be worthy of her kindness. Or perhaps he was. Napier was no longer sure he was qualified to judge anyone’s character—Lazonby’s, perhaps, least of all. It was worth remembering that Anisha’s husband was the man his father had unfairly persecuted and imprisoned.

God, how it stuck in his craw to admit that, even to himself. To know that Lazonby had been innocent—innocent of murder, at any rate. As to the other—the womanizing and cardsharping—perhaps the man was no longer the scoundrel he’d been. Or perhaps he’d never been a scoundrel at all?

What if none of the accusations hurled at Lazonby had been true?

Dear God, it felt as if his entire life—all that he’d clung to, all that he’d believed in—was slowly turning upside down. He did not tolerate ambiguity with grace. Especially the kind Lazonby—and by extension, Elizabeth—had put into his head. The uncertainty about his father’s role in this awful tragedy.

And now he’d learned that a part of his family’s fine standard of living had come, not from hard work, nor even from old-fashioned bribery, but from
Duncaster
?

From the time he’d been old enough to understand what a viscount was—what
wealth
and
power
meant—Napier had resented these people—hated them, nearly, for how they’d cast off his father. And now he was left to wonder if Duncaster had paid for the very roof over his head. If Nicholas Napier had been duplicitous and venal.

And if Elizabeth Colburne was, in reality, a murderess.

He had no answers. He knew only that pride usually went before a fall, as his father had perhaps learned. Was it possible that, having grown accustomed to the luxuries Duncaster had so subtly provided his wife, Nicholas Napier had been unable to retrench after her death?

Napier’s shoulders slumped against the rough bark. God knew it was expensive to keep up a house in Eaton Square, and almost as expensive to dress and educate a son in the manner of a gentleman.

He did not know the truth. He would, in all likelihood, never know.

But he did know that the man he had so deeply disliked had just married a woman he greatly esteemed. However irrational, it was far easier to turn his wrath in that direction. So he did, shoving the letter back inside his coat—this time with a curse that was vile indeed.

“Gentlemen aren’t supposed to use that word,” piped a voice from high above.

Still leaning against the tree, Napier tilted his head back and looked up at the pink-cheeked face of Beatrice Tarleton. The height at which she sat left him a little cold with fear.

“I beg your pardon, Bea,” said Napier, clamping a hand to his hat to steady it. “I did not know a lady was present. Could you come down a little closer? Looking up makes me dizzy.”

Nimbly, Bea swung one branch lower, sending down a shower of dying blossoms. She was still far beyond his reach. “Mrs. Jansen says calling someone arrogant is naughty, too.”

“Mrs. Jansen is right,” he agreed. “But a lady generally makes her presence known to a gentleman so that he will know not to use such words in her hearing. Can you make your way all the way down, do you think?”

Bea seemed to consider it. “Why should I?” she finally asked.

“Because I’m going to the stables to choose a mount. I could use the opinion of someone who knows a little about the horses here.”

“I’m not allowed in the stables,” she said evenly.

She stood on tiptoe now, her armpits hitched casually over a branch no thicker than Napier’s wrist, her hands dangling loosely. Napier came away from the trunk and turned around, wishing he knew more about children—and wishing he could remember what it had felt like to climb a tree. To his grown-up eyes, Bea’s position looked precarious.

“How about this, Bea,” he said honestly. “You’re frightening me. I’m afraid you might fall. Or that you cannot get down at all. And I’m thinking I ought to run down the hill to the stables for a ladder. Or a wagonload of hay. Just in case.”

“Oh, poo.” Beatrice giggled. “I climb up here all the time. And no one ever notices.”

Napier was very much afraid that was the case: that while the child was by no means neglected, she was no one’s priority now—and in his view, a paid governess did not count.

He managed to smile up at her. “Then kindly indulge my weak nerves by coming down,” he said. “I am, after all, a guest—and guests are to be indulged.”

Bea blinked down at him. “Gwyneth says you aren’t a guest anymore,” she countered, dropping down another branch, and sending crumbles of bark raining down. “She says you are Grandpapa’s heir now. And that Burlingame will be yours. Is that why Aunt Hepplewood told us we must call you Saint-Bryce?”

She spoke offhandedly, but Napier could hear the worry that lurked behind the words. “Gwyneth is wrong,” he said. “Burlingame will never be mine. It belongs to the whole Tarleton family, and always will.”

Her face peeked from the canopy of curling apple leaves. “But Burlingame was going to be Papa’s,” she replied, “until he died.”

Napier held up one hand. “Come down, Bea, and let’s talk about that,” he offered. “I am just your cousin. Not your enemy.”

The girl eyed him warily. “When you came before, Papa said you were the police,” she said, “and that the police catch bad people. Do you?”

“I do have policemen and detectives who work under me,” he agreed, “though I’ve never been an actual policeman. But yes, I’ve helped imprison some bad people. That’s my job.”

She said nothing, but he could see her mind mulling it over. “Do all bad people go to prison?” she finally asked.

“If they break the law, yes, it is to be hoped so.” He extended the hand further, and softened his voice. “Bea, I am sorry your father is dead. More sorry than you can know. Will you come down and talk to me? Please?”

Her lip sticking out a fraction, the girl finally clambered down, clever as a little monkey, the branches trembling under her slight weight. When she reached the last, she swung off it handily, sailing to the ground in a billowing
whuff!
of petticoats and muslin.

“Thank you,” said Napier sincerely.

Beatrice looked up at him, her eyes blinking against the sun. “You’re very tall,” she said.

“I am, aren’t I?” he said. “My valet despairs of me.”

Beatrice flopped down in the tall grass, snapped off a piece, and stuck it in her mouth.

Left with little alternative, Napier joined her. “You must miss your papa terribly,” he said. “I did not know him well, but he seemed a cheerful sort of man.”

Beatrice heaved a great sigh. “He was,” she declared. “We did everything together. Papa said I kept him young.”

Napier regarded her gravely. “What sorts of things?”

She lifted both shoulders in an exaggerated motion. “Things,” she said. “We collected leaves. And birds’ nests. We went to the kennels to see the hounds sometimes, and he taught me to ride a pony. Sometimes, in his study, we would read or play dolls.”

Napier lifted both eyebrows. “Dolls?” he said. “I confess, your papa didn’t strike me as the type.”

“Well, I played with dolls,” she conceded, “while he wrote letters. He wrote a lot of letters, so that’s where the dolls lived. In his pantry. But I’m too old for them now, I guess.”

Napier considered it. “It sounds quite nice,” he replied. “I confess, my father and I spent little time together. He was rarely at home, and I was always at school.”

At that, Bea’s face brightened. “That’s why I have Mrs. Jansen.”

“She seems an admirable governess,” said Napier. “How did you meet her?”

“She was Gwyneth’s friend,” said the girl, “from school, I think. After Mamma died, Aunt Hepplewood told Papa to send me away for finishing, whatever that is. But Papa would not. So Gwyneth wrote to Mrs. Jansen. And I was
so
glad. I don’t
ever
want to leave Burlingame.”

“And you shall never need to,” said Napier swiftly. “Has that been weighing on you, Bea?”

Again, the exaggerated shrug. “What does that mean,” she asked, “
weighing
?”

Napier reached out and plucked a leaf from her long, blonde ringlets. “I mean, have you been worrying that you might be sent away?” he clarified. “Because you won’t be sent away, Bea. Burlingame will always be your home, for as long as you wish it to be.”

“Until I’m a hundred?”

“Until you’re a hundred and two,” said Napier, “at least.”

Bea giggled, sounding younger than her years. Then just as quickly, her face fell and her gaze narrowed in a very grown-up way. “Are you
sure
you aren’t going to marry Diana?” she asked, lifting her chin. “Mrs. Jansen says Miss Colburne is your fiancée and that you’ll marry her instead. And then you will come to live with us.”

Napier opened his mouth, then hesitated. It was one thing to lie to his meddling Aunt Hepplewood, but quite another to lie to a child who needed certainty; a child who would someday be dependant upon him for the roof over her head, and perhaps even her financial well-being. He had no idea precisely how her parents had left things, estatewise, or what provisions Duncaster might have made for the child.

A part of him wished he’d never laid eyes on Elizabeth Colburne and her wild red curls. With her cap of demure brown hair and her gentle manners, Diana Jeffers was going to make some man a lovely bride, even if she was a few years past the ideal age for marriage.

But then, Napier preferred mature females. And perhaps, had his judgment not been clouded by the taste of Elizabeth’s mouth. The feel of her long, lithe body beneath him . . .

Dear God.

Diana Jeffers really was out of the question.

He sighed aloud. “I think Miss Colburne is very beautiful,” he said, “and that we might suit, but nothing is certain until the vows are said. What do you think? Do you wish that I would marry Miss Jeffers instead?”

Bea tossed away her stem of grass, and stared at her lap. “No, I
don’t
wish it!” she said fervently. “Only Aunt Hepplewood wishes it!”

Napier regarded her steadily for a moment. “You sound awfully certain about that,” he finally said. “Miss Jeffers was meant to be your new mamma, I know, and perhaps—”

“
I
didn’t want her!” the girl interjected. “I never did! And Papa didn’t, either. I
know
he didn’t—no matter what he said. They were all trying to
make
him do it!”

Her words were so vehement, Napier didn’t know how to respond. He had little experience with children, and certainly no experience with a child like Bea. He thought again of her gaze, sometimes so solemn and so steady one might imagine her a decade older. But her laugh still held the innocence of youth.

He was glad of that. Deeply glad.

A little awkwardly, he took Beatrice’s hand in his. “Well, Bea, no matter who I marry,” he said, patting it, “nothing else need change for you. You will not have a stepmamma. Mrs. Jansen seems happy here. So don’t worry your head about the future.”

“All right.” Bea didn’t hold his gaze, but instead drew her hand from his grasp to pluck another stem of grass.

“Well,” he said quietly, setting his hands on his thighs. “Someone must be expecting you?”

“Only Mrs. Buttons,” she said. “She makes crumpets on Wednesdays, and we eat them with Mrs. Marsh in her sitting room. Sometimes Marsh comes, too.”

Napier had no idea why Bea would be permitted to dine belowstairs with the cook and the housekeeper. Nonetheless, such traditions likely provided the child a sense of continuity, and that could only be a good thing.

“I wish,” he said honestly, “that I could eat crumpets with you. But for now, Bea, I’d best be off.”

“Off to where?” she asked.

“To Marlborough, actually.”

Her head swiveled toward him. “What’s in Marlborough?” she said. “Why can’t you stay here? You’re supposed to, if you’re the heir.”