A Bride by Moonlight (27 page)

“What did you want, Gwyneth, that your father refused?” he finally said. “I should like to know.”

She hesitated a heartbeat. “I wanted the dower house,” she finally said. “Rather, the loan of it, for my lifetime.”

“I didn’t know we had a dower house,” he replied, noting with some disquiet his use of
we
.

“It’s a fine old house with a pretty garden on the other side of the village,” said Gwyneth, her voice trembling with emotion. “I wished to remove there, and to take—or rather, to employ, Mrs. Jansen. As a lady’s companion. Papa and I quarreled horribly about it. But how could he expect me—” Gwyneth stopped, and shook her head.

“What?” he pressed.

Her lips were drawn in a thin line. “How could he expect me to live
here
,” she whispered, “with Diana as mistress of my home? Is it not bad enough Aunt Hepplewood dismisses my opinion at every turn? At least that is temporary. But Papa wished me to hand everything to Diana? As my stepmother?”

“If you want the dower house, Gwyneth,” he said, “then I’m happy for you to have it. Shall I speak to Duncaster?”

Again, she shook her head. “He won’t agree,” she said. “When the tenant left, I begged—”

Just then, raucous laughter erupted as Lisette and Hepplewood drew up behind them. Gwyneth turned around, and Napier with her. Even by moonlight, one could see Hepplewood was laughing so hard his eyes were tearing.

“God save us from fools,” Gwyneth muttered.

“No, Gwen,
listen
,” said Hepplewood, motioning her nearer. “I was just telling Miss Colburne—Lord, it’s just
too funny—
d’you remember that time we all jumped off the roof of the boathouse? Into the lake? And Anne tore that great, gaping hole in her shift?”

Gwyneth’s smile was muted. “Indeed, Tony, who could forget?” she answered. “Anne caught her seam on a nail and you got
quite
an eyeful.”

“I should say!” Hepplewood clapped a dramatic hand over his eyes. “To you and Diana, perhaps, it didn’t matter. But my boyhood innocence ended in that moment—and just look what
that
has led to.”

“Indeed, I joked years later that that was why you wouldn’t marry her,” said Gwyneth mordantly. “That a man didn’t have to buy a pig in a poke when he’d already seen the pig in its altogether. As I recall, she tossed a glass of madeira on me.”

“
Gwen!
” Hepplewood dropped the hand, his expression horrified. “Gwen, for God’s sake, surely you never did anything so cruel? Besides, I never said I wouldn’t marry her. I
never
said that.”

Gwyneth drew back, stiffening at the neck. “But you didn’t ask her,” she retorted. “You let her entire Season go by without so much as a word.”

Hepplewood, however, looked flummoxed. “Because, dash it, I
couldn’t
,” he said. “Not even with Grandpapa and Duncaster hanging over me like vultures waiting to pick a carcass. I just . . . Gwen, don’t you see? I
couldn’t
.”

“No, you simply
wouldn’t
.” Gwyneth had both hands on her hips now. “She was crushed, Tony. She’d been meant for you from the cradle and everyone knew it.
You
humiliated her, my boy. Not I.”

“The devil!” Hepplewood sputtered. “What did I ever do to Anne?”

“Nothing,” snapped Gwyneth. “That’s the very point. My sister whiled away her entire Season scarcely daring to dance with another gentleman because she was waiting for you. And when you didn’t come up to scratch, all society knew she’d been spurned. She had to accept that milquetoast Sir Philip Keaton at the last minute. To suggest
my
joke was her undying humiliation, oh, that’s rich, Tony. Truly.”

But Hepplewood had turned and was marching back up the hill. “The
devil
!” he said over his shoulder—apparently possessed of a limited vocabulary. “The devil take you, Gwen!”

Gwyneth, however, was more fluent, and began casting a variety of multisyllabic aspersions at Tony as she set off on his heels. Tony turned and began to walk backward, quibbling back in a dark undertone.

“So much for peace,” said Napier under his breath, “—and cotton wool.”

Lisette turned from gazing up the path. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind,” he muttered. “Would you like to stroll out to the boathouse?”

“Well, I would like
not
to have to go back up the hill with Gwyneth and Tony,” said Lisette. “Yes. The boathouse sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Napier offered her his arm, very certain that matters would not end with the boathouse.

Even on the water, however, one could still hear his cousins arguing in the distance. And it suddenly seemed to him that they were bent, the whole damned family, on sullying Burlingame with their petty quarrels and undercurrents of animosity.

It was a beautiful place, yes. But like a glistening apple with a rotten core, it felt suddenly distasteful to him.

The boathouse was an open octagon railed all around in an oriental style, save for two sides left open to land boats. In the low, open rafters someone had stored a single scull and a small skiff, but they looked little used. Napier led Lisette just inside, then spun her around, urging her back against one of the columns.

Her breath caught teasingly when he wedged one leg, pinning her. “Oh, my,” she murmured breathlessly. “What
can
you be thinking, Mr. Napier?”

“I’m thinking I should like to kiss you,” he said, lowering his mouth, “and you well know it.”

Humor lit her eyes. “Ah,” she said softly. “And I thought you’d decided me dull.”

“Oh, you’re a lot of things, my dear,” he rasped, “but dull will never be one of them.”

Then he kissed her thoroughly and she permitted it, opening willingly beneath him, both her hands flattening against his back then sliding inexorably lower. When she entwined her tongue with his, Napier felt that familiar surge—that inexplicable rush of desire and yearning and, yes, a little fear—just as he’d known he would.

But this time there was no desperation in it. The longing felt as enduring as it did unassuasive. There was no need to rush. Not when a man was already lost.

When at last he pulled away, her humor had turned to something else. Lisette’s lips were swollen with desire, her eyes wide and limpid in the moonlight. On a long exhalation, he set his forehead against hers.

“Lord, I needed that,” he said, “to get the vile taste of Gwen and Tony out of my mouth.”

She gave a thready laugh, and set a hand to his cheek. “You’ve been avoiding me again.”

He still stood with one hand braced on the column, his head bowed. “I have tried, Lisette, to show restraint,” he said quietly.

Her hand fell. “And you have,” she answered, “until now. Just be aware all that restraint gives Lady Hepplewood hope.”

“Hope? Of what sort?” But he shouldn’t have been surprised; Gwyneth had suggested the same.

“Hope that you’ve tired of me,” Lisette clarified. “Hope that she might still make a match between you and Diana.”

“Did someone tell you that?”

Lisette caught her lip between her teeth. “Diana did,” she finally said. “Yesterday.”

Napier gave a bark of laughter. “Still afraid of being saddled with me, is she?”

“Yes,” said Lisette, “and she is an utter fool.”

Napier looked down at her, searching her face, but Lisette had gone perfectly still.

Suddenly, she drew a quick breath and went on. “In any case,” she said, the words rushing forth, “I begin to think your great-aunt would marry that poor girl off to the village blacksmith given half a chance.”

“So I’ve risen in Lady Hepplewood’s esteem, then?” said Napier sardonically. “Until now I imagined myself ranked somewhere behind the boot boy.”

Lisette laughed, but almost at once the heavy silence fell again. On an inward sigh, Napier kissed her—on the forehead this time—then gave her his arm and led her in a sedate stroll around the pavilion as she looked out across the glistening water. But his mind was in turmoil, searching for something he really should not wish to find. Hoping, perhaps, for something that simply did not exist.

Lisette was an actress nonpareil, he reminded himself. She had to be. She could never have survived otherwise, masquerading for all those months as a hard-bitten newspaper reporter with a taste for vengeance—something he was pretty near certain she’d done.

Moreover, he greatly feared she’d lived—probably been
forced
to live—a similar ruse in Boston. Perhaps her latest role as doting fiancée was simply bleeding over the edges of her script. And driving him mad in the process.

“Well,” she said when his smile had entirely faded, “have you found your mysterious letter paper yet?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, though, for your efforts. Jolley has been mightily impressed.”

“Alas, I’ve run out of places to steal it,” said Lisette, “unless I start to pilfer unoccupied bedchambers. Well, everyplace save the late Lord Saint-Bryce’s study.”

“Indeed?”

“You must admit it’s tucked rather out of the way,” said Lisette defensively. “One would think a gentleman’s study would be in a grander location.”

“Marsh told Jolley that Saint-Bryce had his study moved upstairs when Bea was born,” said Napier. “His wife was not well, and he wished to be near the child.”

“I think I would have liked your uncle,” said Lisette a little wistfully. “But for whatever reason, his study is always locked when I pass by.”

“Locked?” said Napier. “That’s a little odd.”

She cut him a sidling glance. “I might take a hairpin,” she suggested. “I have, admittedly, never actually
picked
a lock, but I’m not above trying. It’s the most ordinary looking mechanism imaginable.”

“
No hairpins
,” he said darkly.

“Oh, good heavens,” she said. “What can they do, have me drawn and quartered? In any case, Napier, trust me. I’m too quick to be easily caught.”

“That,” said Napier grimly, “has certainly been my experience.”

She stopped, turning to face him. Even in the gloom, her face seemed to pale. “What, pray, is that supposed to mean?”

Napier was weary of the charade. “Damn it, Lisette, you know what it means.”

She arched one brow. “It sounds as if you hope to catch me at something,” she suggested. “But I thought we had a bargain?”

“Don’t twist my words.” He set his hands on her slender shoulders and gripped her hard. “And no, I don’t deny you’re good at what you do. Perhaps life has left you little choice. But are you ever going to trust me, Lisette? With anything other than your body?”

She shook her head; one swift, short jerk. “No,” she whispered. “And you don’t want me to. If you can’t think of me, Napier, think of your career. Your honor.”

He tightened his hold on her shoulders. “As if I haven’t already compromised both of those?” She tried to turn away, but he forced her back. “Lisette, I’m long past worrying about deniability. My God, I’ve climbed in bed with the Earl of Lazonby—the most devilish, duplicitous fellow imaginable—to protect you.”

At that, she went rigid. “No,” she corrected, “you climbed in bed with him to protect
your father.
And if you’ve begun feel guilty for that—if you can’t live with yourself—don’t blame me for the choice you made.”

She was right.

Damnation! When had his determination cleaved so cleanly he’d lost sight of his intent? When had her desperation become his?

“But perhaps you no longer need Lazonby’s good will.” Her voice was cold. “Perhaps you can prove your father’s fine standard of living was all because of Duncaster.”

He dropped his hands and pinched hard at the bridge of his nose. “This is not the conversation I wished to have right now, Lisette.”

“Nor I,” she said. “Nonetheless, it seems to be the one we’re having.”

“Then, no, it wasn’t just Duncaster’s money,” Napier snapped. “I’m not an idiot, Lisette. I told you I looked at those accounts. Besides, we both know Sir Wilfred told the truth about my father; a man doesn’t lie when he’s got a gun to his head and about to meet his Maker.”

It was no more than a turn of phrase, but it seemed to push her over some sort of edge. She made a pitiful sound; the faintest thing. Then she turned and sank onto one of the benches by the railing, her eyes wide.

He had hit upon the truth, he realized, or a part of it.

Certainly someone had got a confession out of Sir Wilfred—and the tool used to do it was more apt to have been the gun that shot him than any sort of gentle persuasion.

“Perhaps I can guess what happened, Lisette.” He stood rigid before her. “Because I know you. Because I know what you’re capable of. Especially when you’re angry and in pain.”

“Do you, then?” She licked her lips uncertainly, refusing to hold his gaze. “Well. My congratulations to you, Napier. Because I have no idea what I’m capable of. And I’m not sure I can even feel pain anymore.”

“Lisette.” Napier knelt before her, gripping her shoulders again. “Lisette, just
tell
me you didn’t—”

But she leapt off the bench and strode away, planting her hands upon a span of railing on the opposite side—away from him. She looked as if she were shaking. He had no wish to frighten her, but damn it, he had to
know
.

Was there even a shred of truth to Lazonby’s mad story? Or had Lisette simply shot a man in cold blood? And if she had, did it even matter to him anymore? He had the most dreadful feeling that it didn’t. That he’d do anything—lie, cheat, forsake his duty—
anything
to protect her.

He wanted suddenly to take the first train back to London, and shake the truth from Anisha. But that assumed Anisha knew the truth. That she’d been conscious, or even present. And it assumed he could get past her new husband—past Lazonby, who had every reason to want Sir Wilfred dead and every reason to lie—at least for as long as it suited him.

And then, yes, Lazonby might well turn on Lisette and blame her with the murder, for theirs was an unholy alliance. Jack Coldwater and the
Chronicle
had had ruined him in the court of public opinion, methodically and viciously, and Lisette had been behind it all.