The Mysterious Heir (12 page)

But, for a wonder, Elizabeth did not flush. She only smiled and admitted that as Anthony was already in her debt for over a hundred pins, she did not think it fair that she played with him again.

They played cards till Owen nodded off his chair and his mother bade her maid bring him upstairs to bed. They played on till Richard Courtney excused himself and begged to retire, pleading a letter he must write. And they continued to play and laugh and say more outrageously silly things to each other till Elizabeth noted how far down the candles had burned, and then, over all their protestations, smiled and
excused herself on the grounds that it grew so late she could no longer tell one suit from another. When she had left, Isabel, Anthony, Lord Beverly, and the Earl soldiered on, but much of the zest had left the party. It was not long then till Lady Isabel, with many winsome smiles, said she must see to dear Owen. And Anthony, seeing at last how advanced the hour was, and how disinclined his companions were to further play, yawned and set a time to ride into town on the morrow with Lord Beverly and took himself off to bed.

“There, I told you,” Lord Beverly said with satisfaction as he had his customary late-evening drink with the Earl, “the chit needed a bit of getting accustomed to the place. That's all.”

The Earl did not need to ask him what he was speaking of; Elizabeth's transformation from shrinking shadow to vivacious companion had been too complete and too obvious to comment on.

“Perhaps,” the Earl commented softly.

“Perhaps?” Lord Beverly yelped. “That's coming it too strong, Morgan. It is. Why, you sound suspicious of her. I can't believe what a devious fellow you've become.”

“It's merely,” his friend said, smiling, and, Lord Beverly noted with relief, finishing his cordial and rising to leave without attempting to have another, “that the lady has a cousin. And a cousin she would most dearly love to see named heir. And she is excellent, as you know to your regret, at covering her hand at cards, at least.”

“There's no talking sense with you, Morgan,” Lord Beverly grumbled. “You see plots in every pretty pair of eyes. Well, as to that, I suppose you're going to have the interviews tomorrow. What time do you want me to have young Anthony back for a grilling?”

“What?” the Earl asked absently, pausing in his slow tread toward the door and leaning on his walking stick as he looked distractedly at his friend.

“You said you were going to get down to serious talk with each of the fellows. Don't you remember, it was just last night you said you were done with the lot of them and wanted to get the thing over with.”

“Oh, as to that,” the Earl said thoughtfully, remembering that he had indeed just last night scowled at his friend and said that he was through observing his company and disgusted with the lot of them. For he had learned nothing from their actions, he had said: Owen merely was a stout little boy who ate more than was good for him, Richard was disinclined to string three words together, and Anthony sauntered about as if he already owned the place and was wondering whether to change the color scheme in the morning parlor. So he had planned to call each of them into his study to interview them as though for the post of being Earl of Auden. Then, he had vowed, he would make his decision and send them all packing.

“As to that,” the Earl said with a slight grin, “you were right, my dear. It is early days yet. And one doesn't interview for an heir as if one were choosing a parlormaid. I shall try to learn more of them while living with them, just as you suggested.”

Lord Beverly looked after his friend in wonder as he made his halt way from the room and toward his own bedroom. But long moments later, as the Earl finally achieved his own door, and opened it silently, another door slowly closed. The watcher relaxed at last, seeing that the Earl had not stopped off at any other door, and that he had entered his room alone. Relieved but still anxious, the silent spectator paced for a while, and then sat to pen a letter, and only then the last wakeful guest blew out the candles and went off to sleep.

7

“I'm off to Town today,” Lord Beverly said, mopping up the last of his egg with a bit of his muffin. “Don't suppose I can persuade you to come along?”

“Why, Bev, it was you,” the Earl replied, “who lectured me about how boorish it was to leave my guests to their own devices. Never say you want me to desert them now?”

“Ha,” Lord Beverly grunted, spotting a particularly appealing bit of pastry, and deciding his breakfast was not, after all, quite done. “Much they would care this morning. Anthony is a good lad, but he sleeps his mornings away. And Isabel don't stir till the sun is high. Little Owen spends his mornings in the kitchens, and as for that glum fellow Richard, it don't matter if he's abed or in the parlor, for all that a person can get out of him. There's no one would miss you, Morgan.”

“Alas. Too true, but unkind of you to remind me,” the Earl said gently.

“Not what I meant,” Lord Beverly said through a mouthful of sticky bun, “but you're just being thorny again. Meant that you could slip out in the mornings, and no one would
care.”

But the Earl didn't seem to be listening to his friend; he was instead gazing out through the glass of the long leaded windows. Lord Beverly saw the object of his attention, a slight figure in green wandering far down the terrace, stopping every so often to bend over some bush or bloom.

“Aha,” Lord Beverly said sagely, swallowing the last of his breakfast. “So it's Anthony's coz you're not willing to
leave. Can't blame you. She's a delightful female, just as Anthony said. Caught your interest, has she? It wouldn't be a bad thing, Morgan. She's gently bred, the family's well-set-up, and she's a fine-looking girl.”

“Don't start posting the banns, Bev.” The Earl smiled. “I was only wondering if her delightful mood of sociability extended to this morning or if she had merely dipped into the port too much last night. Such a turnabout might be due more to spirits than mere spirit. And a morning stroll through the gardens clears the head.”

“I wash my hands of you, Morgan, I do,” Lord Beverly snorted, rising and brushing crumbs carefully off his waistcoat. “The poor girl shows a little enthusiasm and you have her deep in her cups. There's no pleasing you. I suppose you'd rather have had her sitting mumchance, instead of being the merry soul she was last night?”

“I would rather,” the Earl said, rising with his friend, “know why a little shadow suddenly began to radiate light and charm.”

“Why don't you just up and ask her while you're at it?” his friend said in disgust.

“An excellent idea,” the Earl said, taking his walking stick from the side of his chair. “I shall.”

While Lord Beverly stood and watched in amazement, the Earl bade him a good morning and made his slow way out the doors and into the gardens, toward Elizabeth's distant figure.

Elizabeth had seated herself upon a stone bench and had been contemplating a towering wall of riotous magenta rhododendron blooms when she heard the Earl's approach. By the sound of his walking stick, as careful in its slow tap upon the flagstones of the garden walk as a third sure foot, she had known it was he before she had even turned her head. So she sprang up and said nervously, as soon as the Earl came abreast of her, “Good morning. I know it's a shockingly early hour to be up and about, but the sun was so bright and the day so fine, I simply could not stay abed.”

“No need to apologize,” the Earl said with amusement. “My other guests are London born and bred, and I doubt Gabriel's trump could wake them before noon. The only way
they ever see the sun rise is from the other side of the day.” The Earl stood and smiled down at her, and Elizabeth nervously sought a safe topic of conversation, for the fact that she rose so early out of necessity, rather than habit, seemed to her to be trembling on her tongue, awaiting one moment's inattention to slip out.

“The flowers are so lovely…so pretty,” she began, only to see a slightly glazed look coming into her companion's eye. The polite inclination of his head made her realize what a ninny she was beginning to sound, so she paused and said with rather more force, “But actually, the sheer number of them is rather intimidating. It makes one feel belittled. And instead of admiring them, I get the nervous inclination to hide from them. It's almost the way one feels on a starry night. I begin to feel insignificant against the weight of their magnificence.”

“Would you like a pair of shears?” The Earl laughed. “I'm sure that if we go at it with a will, we can get them down to reasonable size in no time. Though,” he said with a measuring look, “I'm not at all sure my head gardener won't have to be forcibly restrained from coming after you with shears as well. For they are his pride. No, don't look so stricken. They are overwhelming. I quite agree with you. So did my brother, poor chap. He had no use for them at all, and was a bit of a horticulturist himself. His garden is off to the back a bit. Should you like to see it? I can't tell a radish from a rose, but it was his consuming interest and I've kept it up for his memory's sake. It's only a short walk away,” he added, seeing her hesitation.

“Oh, yes,” she said, but added nervously, trying to broach the subject of his lameness in some polite way, “That is, if it isn't too much trouble for you to go so far?”

“Oh, my hobble,” he said with a grin. “But it's a fine clear morning. The thing has a will of its own, and is much improved today. It's the way of these old wounds,” he said, beginning to walk with her, “that they clear up for a spell so that you think you've exaggerated the whole matter, before they pounce upon you and remind you of their presence again. Actually, the surgeons can't seem to see why the thing
persists, but it does. But I assure you,” he added, puzzled at why she was coloring up so at the mention of his lameness, and trying to set her at ease, “other people make more of it than it deserves. It isn't life-threatening, you know, only an annoyance.”

But he noticed that discussion of his impediment seemed to cause her to blush redder than the mass of flowers she had been discussing, so he left off the subject and engaged her in easy conversation about the history of Lyonshall as they strolled on, while privately he wondered why she thought lameness so embarrassing a subject.

She was, he noted, looking particularly fine this morning, her complexion clear, her hair shining in the morning light, her slim figure graceful and pleasing to look upon as they made their way down to the back of the grounds. Once off the subject of his health, she seemed at ease and was as charming a companion as she had been the night before, as he laughed and chatted lightly with her.

A slightly puzzled look came into her eyes when he paused and gestured with his walking stick.

“Here is my brother's garden,” he said, watching her closely. “Now, as you've roundly insulted my famous blossoms, I'd like to know what you think of this bit of land.”

He stood and watched as she walked slowly down the formal garden's path, peering at each shrub and vine. Here there were few flowers, and the garden was planted in neat concentric circles radiating out from a central sundial. Each plant and bush was tagged with a small marker. The overall effect was neat and spare, for while some trees and hedges lay at the outer edges, only one huge willow dominated the whole. Compared with the lavish bloom in other regions of Lyonshall's grounds, the garden was almost disappointingly sparse.

“Rue,” Elizabeth said slowly, “and rosemary, fennel, pansies, and crowflower, and columbine, daisy, and common thistles… Oh, I see. How clever.” She smiled. “It's a Shakespearean garden. Your brother must have been a scholar. ”

“He was,” the Earl said, relaxing and watching her as she walked bemused through the paths. “And he would have
been pleased that you caught on so quickly to his little conceit. Bev used to infuriate him by claiming that if Shakespeare had had enough funds, he would have put a few orchids or some more eye-catching blooms into his plays instead of ‘such a lot of rubbishy shrub.'”

The Earl settled himself upon a bench and watched as Elizabeth completed her tour of the little garden and came back to him.

“But it's a lovely idea,” she exclaimed, taking his lead and sitting beside him, after looking to see that there was no other seat about. “And I wish we had such at home.”

“Are you a great gardener, then?” he asked.

She dropped her gaze and began to pluck at a thread on her gown. “Why, no,” she said weakly, thinking about the small utilitarian kitchen garden at the back of her house in Tuxford. “There just doesn't seem to be that much time in the day for such an occupation.”

“How does a young lady fill her days in Tuxford, then?” he asked idly, and then noted with amazement that she dropped her head and began to inspect her slippered toes in momentary silence.

Elizabeth thought of her day, which consisted of rising early, trotting off to the shop, where she usually made herself busy taping and stitching feathers and flowers to the tops of ladies' bonnets, when she was not showing or selling them to assorted females, till sunset released her to go home and help prepare and serve the evening meal. She faltered and then in low tones, “Oh, you must know how it is. One never gets round to doing the things one ought. But,” she said, raising her head at last and looking at him levelly, “how tiresome it is to speak of oneself. Your brother, I take it, was a scholar?”