Lord of Secrets (5 page)

Rosalie turned the speech over in her head. “I don’t think I can be that philosophical.”

He looked over his shoulder at her with a fleeting smile. “I never could be either, Miss Whitwell. But then, the words are spoken by one of the more sinister characters in the play. I believe we’re meant to take them with a grain of salt.”

“Oh.” Now he was probably thinking her green and ignorant—and with perfect justification, too.

He straightened. “Besides, even if the speech were meant to be taken literally, not everyone can comfort himself with thoughts of heaven. My father died by his own hand, and I have it on good authority Paradise was therefore barred to him. But at least you’ve no such cause for fear. Your father lived a good life to the end.”

“Yes—though I have a bone to pick with whoever told you such a vicious thing about your own father. Surely God is more merciful than that.”

The marquess studied her for a moment, then looked away and cleared his throat in what, in any other man, would have seemed a self-conscious gesture. “Allow me to apologize for my clumsiness last night. I’m unaccustomed to conversing with young ladies, and it took me by surprise when you invited me to join you and your cousin for dinner. I beg your pardon for having been so disobliging.”

What fine eyes he had, so dark it was hard to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. She’d hoped he hadn’t really meant to rebuff her. Now it appeared she’d been right, and poor Lord Deal suffered from the same unfortunate shortcoming she did, a tendency to become flustered and say the wrong thing.

Perhaps he’d be more at ease if they kept to small talk. “Thank you. We’ve had smooth sailing, don’t you think? We must be making good time to England.”

“I bow to your expertise in such matters. This is only my second ocean crossing, the first having been the voyage in the other direction.”

“Truly? In that case, I hope the journey wasn’t too tiresome for you.”

“Not tiresome at all. In truth, much about America intrigued me.”

The top of her head came barely to his shoulder, which meant she had to stand several feet back if she wanted to meet his eyes without having to crane her neck. “Such as?”

He smiled. “To quote Hamlet’s answer when Polonius asked him what he read: ‘Words, words, words.’”

She tilted her head to one side, regarding him in bemusement. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I’d wanted for some time to visit America. One could hardly have devised a more interesting linguistic experiment if one had done it by design—an entire nation, separate and now wholly independent, speaking the same language we do, but at a remove of more than three thousand miles. Think of all the differences in accent, grammar, vocabulary and even spelling it’s already produced.”

“You’re a student of language?”

“Only a very amateur one. While in the States, I made a pilgrimage to New Haven in Connecticut to meet the American counterpart to our Dr. Johnson, Mr. Noah Webster. He published his own dictionary some ten or eleven years ago, perhaps the first attempt at standardizing a uniquely American system of spelling and pronunciation.”

“It must have taken him years. When I was at school, we had to copy out passages from Dr. Johnson’s dictionary whenever we misbehaved. I never made it past the letter
C
.”

“Perhaps you misbehaved less than most.”

“No.” She laughed. “Quite the contrary. None of the other girls even got through
B
.”

He glanced across at her, and a look of almost boyish embarrassment crossed his face. “I’ve made myself sound wretchedly dull and pedantic, haven’t I? But language fascinates me, especially its history. In America, for instance, they say
fall
for
autumn
and
gotten
for the past participle of
got
, exactly as Shakespeare once did. The words have been preserved there, tucked safely away across the ocean, though they’ve since faded from use in England.”

“So you’re interested specifically in the history of English?”

“Yes, though of course our language has been influenced by a host of other tongues, from the Old High German of the Anglo-Saxons to the French of their Norman conquerors. One can even read the clash of those two cultures in the words we use today. While the conquered Saxon peasantry worked the land and gave the animals they tended good Anglo-Saxon names like
cow
and
pig
and
sheep
, their Norman rulers were enjoying the benefits of that labor, conferring French names on their food like
beef
and
pork
and
mutton
. As a result, our animals have one name, while their meat has another.”

“Oh. I never realized...”

“All the borrowing English has done has given it a richness of nuance no other language can match. We have both an Anglo-Saxon and a Latinate word for nearly every idea, with the Latinate generally giving the loftier impression, and the Anglo-Saxon the more direct. My favorite example comes from
Macbeth
. ‘Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.’”

Rosalie savored the words. They sounded so stirring when he spoke them, so poetic. “‘Making the green one red...’”

“Incarnadine.” He nodded. “I’m hardly the first man to say it, but Shakespeare was a genius—’not of an age, but for all time.’” The marquess smiled ruefully. “I have been droning on, haven’t I? I apologize for inflicting my eccentricities on you.”

“No, I’m most interested! I’ve been to several of the places where Shakespeare set his plays—Verona, Venice, even Kronborg Castle in Denmark. Do you speak any other languages, Lord Deal?”

“I do, though I’m interested principally in their influence on English. Greek and Latin, of course, but also French, Italian, German, Dutch, Spanish, and a smattering of Persian and Hindi.”

“All those?” She gaped at him. “You speak that many languages?”

“Well, I can read and write them, with varying degrees of fluency.” Again, he looked vaguely embarrassed. “I had the misfortune to inspire one of Brummell’s witticisms a few years back, when he remarked, ‘I’m told Deal speaks ten languages—just not to anyone we know.’”

Rosalie giggled. “Oh, dear. I suppose I shouldn’t laugh.”

“No, I don’t mind. I laughed myself, when I heard it from my valet.”

How comfortable she felt with him, talking amid the familiar sounds of the ship’s creak and the lapping waves—how much freer and lighter than before. For the first time since her father’s death she’d been feeling like her old self again, if only for a little while.

But beside her, Lord Deal had broken into a pensive frown. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday after your father’s burial service.” He slid one hand along the ship’s rail. “Indeed, it’s been so much on my mind I feel I must ask you another personal question.”

She waited, searching his face.

“You’ve said you mean to live with your uncle. What is it about him that your cousin considers...”

“Rackety?”

Faint worry lines appeared between the marquess’s brows. “Yes. I’ve no right to ask, I acknowledge, but I feel compelled to nonetheless. Is your uncle a gambler, a drinker, a womanizer...?”

“A bit of all those things, I’m afraid. But you needn’t fret for my sake. If I do go to live with him, I’m sure we’ll deal quite well together.”

“If...?”

“You didn’t overhear that part of my conversation with Mrs. Howard, then? I’m hoping she’ll agree to take me on as her companion.”

“Do you mean to say you consider working for her preferable to living with your uncle?”

The question might have been a mere gibe at Mrs. Howard, not very different from the one Charlie had made, if not for the concern written plainly on his face. So Lord Deal was a worrier. The discovery surprised her. Why did he pretend to be the cool, aloof figure everyone supposed him? A good deal more went on beneath his reserved exterior than met the eye.

“I think I could be useful to Mrs. Howard,” Rosalie said. “And I’d like to remain in one spot for a time.”

“Modest enough goals, I should think.”

“They seem quite ambitious to me, after nine years of travel. And my aunt and uncle lead a somewhat unsettled life.” Rosalie stole a glance at the marquess. She could have happily spent hours marveling at the perfection of his jaw—the strong, square lines, firm and sharply chiseled. When had he last had his portrait painted? Recently, she hoped, and by a skilled artist, one capable of capturing both his dark good looks and the compassion that lurked beneath his austere manner. “May I ask you a personal question of my own?”

“Turnabout is fair play, or so I’ve been told.”

“Why do you avoid society? At first I supposed you simply didn’t care for the company on board, but I’m told you have a reputation for keeping to yourself even in England. Do you really prefer to be alone?”

He looked away but managed a credibly offhand shrug. “I’ve found that the fewer people one has in one’s life, the fewer problems and worries one encounters.”

“I suppose that’s true, but it also means one has fewer friends and fewer happy memories to share. That seems a rather unrewarding way to go through life.”

He gazed out over the water. “I’m sure there are worse fates.”

“Yes, of course.” Rosalie knew she ought to let the matter drop, especially when the stiffness was creeping back into his posture, but the urge to learn more about him won out. “Then again, you’re a gentleman of title and property, with a duty to your family name. Have you never thought of marrying?”

He flashed her a look of surprise.

“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That—that came out sounding dreadfully coquettish! I wasn’t angling to fill the position, truly.”

He broke into an unexpected chuckle. “You may relax, Miss Whitwell. I doubt you’d point out the coquettishness of the question if you were really that calculating.”

Her cheeks burned. “Not unless I were so utterly Machiavellian I hoped to disarm you by calling attention to my wiles—which, I assure you, I’m not.”

His chuckle faded to look of admiration. “No, you strike me as one of the least Machiavellian ladies I’ve ever met.”

Even as he said the words, she realized he was giving her more credit than she deserved. A part of her
was
interested in Lord Deal, and in a more than merely friendly way. She’d never before found any man so powerfully attractive—or so mysterious. He could be remarkably kind one moment, and distant the next.

Her cheeks still hot, she looked down. “I expressed it clumsily, but I did hope to make a point. I can think of only two types who prefer solitude, the coldly misanthropic and the painfully awkward, and you strike me as neither—or, at least, there’s nothing at all awkward about you once you begin talking. I don’t know how you can be happy, keeping so much to yourself.”

He smiled wistfully. “How many people are really happy, when one comes right down to it?”

She gaped at him. “Why, lots of people. Charlie, for example. I was happy, looking after my father. My mother and father were blissfully happy together, and so were Charlie’s—”

“Shall I escort you to your cabin, Miss Whitwell?” the marquess said with an air of finality. “It’s nearly time to dress for dinner.”

* * *

Rosalie had hoped she and Lord Deal were on their way to becoming friends, but to her disappointment, he made no effort to further their acquaintance after the conversation on deck. Even when Charlie invited him to join their party for a game of Pope Joan after dinner—an offer Charlie made reluctantly, and only at Rosalie’s urging—Lord Deal responded with a vague, “Thank you, Mr. Templeton, but I shouldn’t wish to intrude on you young people.” Which, as Rosalie pointed out to Charlie, was quite ridiculous, since Lord Deal couldn’t be more than a few years older than they were, however more proper and sophisticated he might seem.

She smiled at the marquess whenever she caught his eye, and even stopped to speak to him as she left the dining saloon with Charlie or Mrs. Howard. Her attempts to start a conversation met with polite but unencouraging replies. The Marquess of Deal was clearly not in the market for a friend.

“It’s for the best, Rosie,” Charlie said, observing her downcast expression as he walked her to her cabin at the conclusion of one particularly discouraging evening. “We’re not used to moving in circles that grand. Besides, you like to mother the people in your life, while he seems the last man in the world who would allow any woman to fuss over him.”

She strove to hide her disappointment. “It’s not as if I had designs on the gentleman. He just seems so alone...”

Charlie frowned. “Now don’t go making a virtue out of the fellow’s disagreeable manners. If he’s alone, it’s only because he prefers it that way. You’ve seen how rude he is to everyone, and how he considers himself too good for us.”

“But that’s just it. I don’t believe he considers himself too good for us at all. I think he’s simply been on his own so long, he doesn’t know how to let anyone get close.”