Three Heroes (76 page)

“A picture of Crag Wyvern? Hardly worth your effort.”

“A picture is a picture, and sometimes we piece one together for amusement. Have you seen such things?

Pointless in a way to cut a picture up so that someone else can put it together, but engaging all the same.

This picture is part of Wyvern’s life, and that interests me. As do you, Miss Kerslake.”

“I?” she asked, a sudden tension in her belly.

“You. You are a striking woman. I pointed out to Wyvern that you resemble a Renaissance angel.”

She looked at him, tempted to laugh. “And what did he say to that?”

“He recognized the truth, of course. Too beautiful to be a man. Too strongly featured to be a beautiful woman ...”

Jane came to remove her soup plate, which gave her time to think. “I could take that as an insult, Mr. de Vere.”

“Now, would I be foolish enough to insult you with two ardent defenders to hand? Your looks are very attractive.”

His words gave her an excuse to look away, at Con and David talking together as if they were just two gentlemen. “Two ardent defenders?”

“Definitely. So I suspect it would not be wise to set up a flirtation with you.”

She looked back. “But why be wise, sir? I don’t have much opportunity for flirtation these days.” She leaned her elbow on the table and put her chin on her hand to gaze at him. “And you know, you have much of the look of an angel yourself.”

A genuine smile fought to be free. It was so long since she’d played this game.

“Too beautiful to be a man?” he murmured, both wariness and amusement sparking in his blue eyes.

“But very attractive, even so.”

His lips twitched. “And what, I wonder, do two fine angels do together in private moments? Shall we find out, Miss Kerslake?”

Slowly she lowered her arm and sat straight. She could not afford even the most playful entanglement. “It would doubtless not be worth the bother, sir. I assume angels pray.”

“Or dance on the head of a pin. Easy to fall, wouldn’t you say?”

She turned aside in an instinctive retreat, and found herself looking at Con, who had probably heard every word. The conversation switched so that she was talking to him.

“De Vere isn’t the earl, you know,” he said pleasantly, but with cool eyes.

“Goodness, I must have been confused for a moment.”

His smile widened as his eyes chilled. “He is heir to a pleasant estate in Derbyshire, however, unless his disapproving father disinherits him. Worth your effort, perhaps, if you’re not absolutely set on Wyvern.”

Now she was smiling as falsely as he was, and praying that the other two men weren’t listening. “Do I have a chance at Wyvern?”

He froze, looking at her, not smiling at all, and she wondered why she’d fallen into such a destructive exchange.

“Play your hand, Susan, and find out.”

It was a challenge. A challenge to seduce him again in case he could be swayed? Surely he knew she would not do that.

No, perhaps he didn’t...

She wanted desperately to speak to him directly, to talk about the past, to try to recapture the friendship and trust they’d once had. He was still angry and distrustful, however, and with reason, and she couldn’t imagine how to change that.

Not with words, that was sure.

“And you, my lord,” she said, directing most of her attention to her plate, “what ambitions do you have?”

“Ambitions,” he repeated, in the same polite tone. “I am ambitious for peace, Miss Kerslake.

International peace, and personal peace. For simple country days, and comfort for those I love.”

She looked back at him, relieved that they’d found a safe subject. “Your mother and sisters.”

“And Lady Anne.”

Her throat tightened. She was trying to accept the idea of his chosen beloved, but it was hard. She prayed that the hesitation of her fork had not been visible, but the delicious lobster became like clay in her mouth, heavy and liable to choke her.

She chewed slowly to steal time, then made herself swallow. There was nothing between them anymore, so why did the reminder that he was engaged to marry create a painful lump in her chest?

She took a sip of wine. “Will your future wife like Crag Wyvern?” It sounded reasonably normal to her ears.

“No. We are remarkably in tune, Lady Anne and I.”

“I see now why you do not plan to live here, my lord.” She felt as if she’d reached solid ground again after wallowing in a swamp. It was not ground she’d have chosen, but it was solid.

“Remember, I do not want to live here either.”

He was hammering the fact home, and she realized why. He was telling her that even if she somehow inveigled him into marriage she would still not catch the prize he thought she wanted.

Oh, Con, can we not do better than this?

She tried. “I do not like Crag Wyvern either, my lord,” she said plainly. “Perhaps Lady Anne and I will find ourselves in tune, if she ever does visit here.”

“Unlikely.”

She raised a brow.

“You are the housekeeper, Mrs. Kerslake. You and my wife would be unlikely to discuss such matters.”

It was so deliberately discourteous that Susan simply stared at him, and after a moment he looked away.

That gave her a chance to squeeze her lips together to fight back tears.

Only pain would make Con into this hurtful man, and some of the pain—most of it?—was her fault.

She caught de Vere’s all too perceptive eye on her, but that at least gave her an excuse to address a remark to him and switch the pattern of the conversation. She managed to force a bit more of her dinner down.

She had never expected this meal to be enjoyable, but she hadn’t expected torture. Despite David and a stranger as safeguards, she felt as if she were being forced to walk on broken glass.

It was David who found a topic for four-sided conversation—a discussion of the role the newspapers should play in the setting of public policy. None of them had strong political leanings, so they could debate it warmly without friction. She could have kissed him. She didn’t know whether he’d been aware of what was going on or not, but she was certainly coming to appreciate that he was a person well able to deal with the world, and not her troublesome little brother anymore.

Another end. A good one, but an end. Except possibly in the matter of the gold, David didn’t need her anymore. It hurt a little, but it freed her. She could leave, and if Con was going to bring his bride here, even for the briefest visit, she would make sure to be elsewhere by then.

She’d never thought Con’s marriage would hurt so much. She’d never realized how deeply she still cared.

Was there anything she could do to try to reclaim the treasure she had carelessly thrown away?

No. She must not think that way.

Though she was the only lady, she assumed she should behave in the conventional way and was glad of the chance to escape. At the earliest excusable moment she rose to leave the gentlemen.

All the men rose too, but Con said, “I don’t think any of us wishes the freedom to get drunk and tell risqué stories, Miss Kerslake. I plan to move into the courtyard to enjoy port and brandy in the evening air. Please join us.”

There was a distinct edge of command to it.

So she was not to escape so easily. Very well. She would advance with bravado. “With pleasure, my lord. I enjoy a good brandy.”

“And I’m sure the brandy here is very good.”

He flicked a glance at David, who responded with a bland smile, but she was suddenly sure that Con had guessed. He knew David was Mel Clyst’s son, after all.

Would he move against David as a form of revenge? Though it seemed alien to the Con in her heart, she sensed that this man held darkness enough to do it.

Con turned toward the doors into the garden, putting a hand on his chair back for a moment. Perhaps he had drunk a little more than he should have. How many bottles of wine had been served? She couldn’t be sure, nor how much of it he had drunk, but she prayed he wasn’t intoxicated. That tipped many a man

—or woman—into doing and saying things they otherwise would not.

He flung open the doors into the courtyard. The enclosing walls cast shadows, but it was not yet dark. “

Bring the decanters and glasses,” he said to no one in particular, and strolled out along one of the stone paths toward the central fountain.

Susan noted that someone had turned on the water, probably trying to do their best for the new earl.

Despite the unpleasant design of the fountain, the gentle splashing was soothing. She felt a desperate need for something soothing.

Susan looked back, but David said, “Go on. De Vere and I will play servant this time. Would you rather have tea?”

She made a lightning calculation. Tea would be so blessedly normal, but she knew she’d feel absurd attempting to preside over a tea table out beside the lewd fountain.

“I will drink brandy with the rest of you,” she said, and followed, but slowly. She had no intention of having a tête-à-tête with Con by the fountain.

She also had no intention of showing how uneasy all this was making her. She’d drink her brandy, which she did enjoy, and then she’d politely say good night. And nothing short of a direct order would stop her from finding her rooms and staying in them.

Tomorrow, she resolved, pausing to inhale the perfume of some hyacinth, she would begin her retreat.

There was nothing here for her or Con but pain. He was tied here for life, so it was for her to leave.

It wouldn’t be hard to find someone to fill in as housekeeper, and in her remaining days she would conduct a thorough, clearheaded search for secret rooms, compartments, or other hidey-holes for the gold. If only she’d done that sooner, but she’d been so sure that the earl would have stashed the gold carelessly, and for safety’s sake, she hadn’t wanted even the servants to know when she took it. Now, with Con here, it was more dangerous, but she would do it. Even if she didn’t find the money, she needed to know that she had done her best.

“Another insect?”

She started, and looked up to see that Con had walked back to her side.

“Insect?” Susan asked.

“Wasn’t that what you paused to study this morning?”

Perhaps she, too, had drunk too much. It took her a moment to realize what he meant, and then she became freshly aware of him studying her from his bedroom window, of him being naked from the hips up—and invisibly, from the hips down.

Despite his clothes, her mind filled with the image of his splendid torso, and the dragon that apparently marred it.

She gathered her wits. “Oh, yes. But not now. Now I am simply enjoying the scent of the wallflowers.”

She saw him inhale. “So English. Spain and Portugal are full of smells, and some of them are even pleasant. But not like the scents of an English garden.”

It was so honest, so ordinary, so tender even, that she breathed it in as she had the perfume, holding on to the moment as if she could stop time. She didn’t even dare to look back to see what had happened to David and de Vere.

Then she realized she had to say something. The only thing that occurred to her was prosaic. “The garden needs a gardener. It was Mrs. Lane’s pride and joy. I’ve done my best, but I do not particularly have the gift for it.”

“You’re not a gardener?”

“No.”

Did he feel it as meaningfully as she did, that he didn’t know, and that he’d asked?

“Are you?” she asked.

“God, no. Though I appreciate a wholesome garden when I find one. Imagine Crag Wyvern without this.

”

He turned to look around, and she did too, seeing it with different eyes. It was quiet in the failing light, but during the day the garden buzzed with insects for which this was their entire world. Even the birds didn’t seem to leave it. A world, a wholesome world, within the Crag. Without it, the place would truly be dead and rotten.

There was even the musical splash of the fountain to add to the magic.

He walked toward it and she followed, not so nervous now. A glance showed David and de Vere coming, decanters and glasses in hand, talking animatedly about something.

Almost a normal moment.

In Crag Wyvern.

Astonishing.

Then she almost bumped into Con because he’d stopped dead.

“I want this removed,” he said.

She followed his gaze. “The fountain?”

“I want the figures out of here. Tomorrow.” His eyes turned savagely to hers. “If you don’t see why, Susan, you have been eaten whole by the dragon.”

Shaking under that attack, she looked at the fountain, really looked at it. The maiden writhed beneath the dragon as always. The beast pinned her arms with its claws and spread her legs with its lower body.

She thought it horrid, but she’d learned to ignore it. The water was rarely turned on, however, because then the cistern in the roof had to be refilled. When it had been gushing water she hadn’t looked at it clearly.

Now, however, she did.

The dragon’s huge phallus spewed over the captive bride, some liquid filling her screaming mouth, more pouring off her outstretched, piteous hands.

After a horrified moment, she turned away. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She still heard the music of the water, but now the image made it foul.

He was right. The garden was the healing heart of Crag Wyvern, but by creating the dragon’s bride fountain, the mad earl had introduced a blight.

“I don’t know how it’s constructed,” she said, “but I’ll find out what needs to be done to remove it.

Tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in very different voice.

She looked and saw a different man, less dark, less hard, closer surely to the Con she remembered.

“Sorry?” she asked, wondering if he was going to apologize for some of the darts he’d thrown at her tonight.

“You aren’t my housekeeper at the moment, are you? I shouldn’t be giving you orders.”

She suppressed a sigh. “It doesn’t matter, my lord. It should be done.”

Her brother and de Vere were close, but Con moved away from the fountain. “There are benches beneath the lime tree, I think. We’ll sit there.”