A Dog in a Doublet Page 27

  The doctor had come and gone, visiting Mariah, who had apparently taken ill after the shock of losing two of her sons. She was heavily sedated for the moment, with only the hatchet-faced Miss Drebble tending to her needs, besides the doctor himself. Baden seemed to feel no great desire to sit with his ailing parent, and instead did his best to placate his fiancée, who seemed increasingly restive and dissatisfied. Norah had retired to her room with a bottle, and no one had seen her since, and Mr Brewer had been to ask Harry if he might give him a reference, as his master had died on the job, so to speak. Harry had taken quiet delight in suggesting he ask Norah, and closed the door in his face.

  It was late, now, though, and Harry packed the cards away. The squire was sitting by the fire, talking quietly to Clara, who looked tired and forlorn. Harry watched them from his seat at the table and wondered if he was warning her of what was to come. Was he finding a way to tell her that she’d have to abandon him and pretend she never knew or cared for him, if she hoped to salvage her reputation? His heart ached in his chest, a debilitating sensation that made his breath catch. He looked up in surprise to see Mildred reach out and cover his hand with hers.

  “Don’t you worry so,” she said, her smile as warm and gentle as her words. “Clarinda is a lovely, sweet girl, but she’s brave, too. Braver than I’ve ever been,” she said on a sigh. She glanced at Clara and her father with an affectionate expression and then turned back to him. “Everything will be alright. You’ll see.”

  Harry tried to return her smile, but his heart was too full of pain to make it work.

  “I had a son once,” she said, her eyes taking on a misty, faraway look. “He died,” she said, blinking away tears. “But I often think of him. He’d ... he’d be your age now. Perhaps you would have been friends if ... if things had been different.”

  “I’m sure,” Harry replied, trying harder at that smile, for her sake.

  She nodded, satisfied, and patted his hand. “Your father would be very proud of you, of how you’ve handled everything, I know I am. Such dignity,” she said with a sigh.

  She got up and moved away, and Harry closed his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself before rejoining the others.

  ***

  Harry went to bed once everyone else had gone up. There was little point in sitting up and dreaming of his plans for Stamford. It would go to Baden, after all. It was ironic, really. If Baden really had been the one to kill his own brothers, he’d not have to bother trying to figure how to knock Harry on the head, he’d have the job done for him.

  Nonetheless, he took care to lock his door; he doubted Norah wanted anything to do with him anymore, but he didn’t want any trouble, of any kind.

  With a sigh, he climbed into the great bed, leaning back on the pillows and remembering the first time he’d ever seen Stamford Place, rising out of the countryside like some fairytale castle.

  “Never seen anything like that before, my lad, I’ll wager?”

  He smiled to himself as he remembered Alistair’s brittle pride and wondered, not for the first time, what had made him the man he’d become. The stories he’d heard told of him as a young man were few, but spoke of a fellow who was carefree and easy going, boisterous and fond of low company and noisy parties. But something had changed. He’d changed.

  With sorrow, he realised it was a mystery he’d never solve now, and closed his eyes.

  ***

  He was dozing, in that soft drugging place between asleep and awake, and the little click of a well-oiled latch was not enough to disturb him. The feeling of a warm body sliding in beside him was likewise dismissed as part of a lovely dream. A dream where he was Lord Preston of Stamford and Clara his wife, slipping into bed with him and moving in close after a busy day on the estate.

  He sighed, imagining her small hands sliding under his nightshirt, her lips warm on his skin, her breath fluttering against his mouth ...

  He woke suddenly, surrounded in the warmth and desire that had built even while he slept.

  “Clara?” he mumbled, trying to regain his grasp on reality.

  “You weren’t hoping for someone else, I hope?” came an amused if rather tart voice he well recognised.

  He pushed her away from him with an oath, but she just chuckled and wound herself tighter to him. With a realisation that was part wonder part despair, he realised she was naked in his arms, and his body awoke to all the possibilities even as his mind recoiled at the idea harming her in any way.

  “Damnation, Clara,” he said, his voice low and angry and rather panicked. “How in God’s name did you get in here?”

  “It’s a secret,” she chuckled, the warmth of her breath whispering over his neck and wreaking havoc with his self-control. Oh God, her skin was like silk and her mouth more temptation than any man could stand.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he demanded, trying to push her off without hurting her and finding the movement of her body sliding against his the most exquisite torture imaginable. “Did you hear nothing I said earlier/ I’m as good as dead. Do you really think I’d do this? Now?”

  “No,” she said, her voice harder now but with that glint of steel that he couldn’t ignore. “I think you’d go to the gallows without ever showing me how you feel for me. You’d be noble and brave and you’d leave me never having known what it means to be with the man I love,” she said in fury. “Well, damn that, Harry,” she said, shocking him, not only by swearing but with the conviction behind the words. “I’ll do everything I can to keep you here with me, but, whatever happens, we were meant to be together, and I won’t let you deny that.”

  Harry turned her, pinning her to the bed by her wrists, using his weight to keep her still.

  “Oh, Clara, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, desperate for her to understand, and to help him. “I love you, and I want you so badly, it’s killing me, but I won’t have you like this.”

  “You can and you will,” she said, the words determined as she raised her hips, pressing against him in a way that made his blood sing beneath his skin.

  “And you think I’d risk siring another bastard like me?” he demanded, his voice harsher now as she failed to understand him and all he was afraid of. “You think I’d risk leaving you with my bastard in your belly, your future ruined and the son of murderer to raise? You think that?”

  He almost shook her, such was his anger and terror at what he might do as the desire to take everything she was offering him clamoured and made his body taut with need. She was quiet for a moment and then began to cry. He released her, his heart full of turmoil and regret as she turned on her side, away from him.

  “Clara,” he said, his voice gentler now, weary with sorrow. “Clara, don’t cry.”

  She turned then and he pulled her into his arms despite knowing it was last thing he should do. She raised her face, searching for him in the darkness and he found her mouth, kissing her, pulling her tight to him. “Oh, God, Clara,” he whispered, fighting the desire to give in, to lose himself in her, for a little while, at least.

  He pulled away again, stroking her face and feeling her cheeks wet with tears.

  “Not like this, please,” he said, his voice desperate. “I love you, Clara. I love you with everything I have. You stubborn, infuriating, beautiful girl,” he said, laughing even as his heart wept for them both. “I swear to you, I won’t give up. I’ll fight till the last, you have my word. But if Formby comes for me, you must turn your back on me.”

  She began to sob, shaking her head and denying that she would.

  “You have to, love,” he begged her. “Don’t let me go to the gallows worrying for your future. Don’t do that to me, Clara, I’m begging you.”

  She sat up, then, turning on him with fury in his eyes. “I’ll not let it happen. You’ll not hang. If I have to bribe every judge in the country, if we have to sell Stamford and use every penny I have - I am an heiress, remember,” she said in fury. “We’ll do it, Harry, do you hear me?�
� She got out of bed and he was granted the brief glimpse of her glorious form illuminated in a flicker of lightning as the storm rumbled in a disconsolate manner outside. It didn’t last long as she slid on her wrap, tying it around herself with sharp angry movements. Once dressed, she headed towards the panelled wall to the right of the bed and Harry saw with astonishment that a narrow, door-shaped panel was swung open.

  “What the devil!” he exclaimed, pointing at it in wonder. “How did you even know about that.”

  Clara sniffed, and for a moment he thought she wouldn’t tell him. Finally, she relented.

  “Beryl told me about it. She came to help me get ready for bed, seeing as I had no maid with me, and I didn’t want one of the three Graeae,” she added with a shudder.

  “And she told you how to get into my room?” he demanded, utterly bewildered.

  Harry cursed and wished he’d never expressed his thoughts on the three creepy maids, and decided he’d be having strong words with Beryl in the morning.

  “Oh, Harry,” Clara said, clearly impatient with him. “She knows we’re as good as married.”

  “She doesn’t know Formby is going to arrest me at any moment, though, does she?” he threw back at her.

  Clara simply rolled her eyes at him. “It’s a good job I love you, Harry Whatever-your-name-is,” she grumbled, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. “For you’d try the patience of a saint.”

  Leaving him open-mouthed with astonishment at the spectacular unfairness of that comment, she stepped through the gap, picked up the candle she’d left there, and closed the panelling behind her.

  “You’re no saint!” he hissed as the door slid shut without so much as a creak and he heard the muffled sound of her laughter as she went back down the secret passage.

  ***

  Harry sat up in bed after Clarinda had gone, but it was soon only too clear that he wasn’t going to sleep. His body ached, his mind full of the tantalising glimpse he’d been given into a world where Clara laid in his arms. With a sigh of regret, he hauled himself to his feet and pulled on trousers and a shirt, padding softly down to the kitchen on bare feet. The floor was cold under his toes and he regretted not having found some socks, at least. But if he couldn’t satisfy his desire for Clara, he could at least fill his belly. He was fairly certain Beryl had been making Banbury cakes, which were something of a favourite. So, holding the candle aloft, he hurried down the cold stone steps to the kitchen, and stopped in surprise when he found Beryl sitting up by the fire, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Can’t sleep?” he asked, raising one eyebrow at her.

  Beryl leapt out of her skin, almost dropping the empty teacup she’d been holding, and clutched at her heart. “Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, quite forgetting to my lord him in her consternation. “Oh, you didn’t half give me a fright.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, taking the seat opposite her and putting his cold feet up on the fender. “Bearing in mind that you told Clarinda how to get to my room. Thought I’d be occupied for some time, did you?”

  He felt sure she blushed, though it was hard to tell in the firelight. “Well,” she said with a sniff. “You’ll be married soon enough, and ...” She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, I know I oughtn’t have done it,” she said, her voice low. “But it breaks my heart to see the two of you, so much in love while this nonsense keeps you apart.”

  “Good Lord,” Harry said in amazement. “Beryl, I do believe you’re a romantic.”

  Beryl gave a sniff of disgust and folded her arms. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and then relaxed a little, sighing and looking at the fire. “I just wanted ...”

  “What did you want?” he asked, leaning forward.

  She reached out then, surprising him by taking his hand and squeezing it tight. “I just want you to be happy, Harry. Dear, Harry.”

  To his astonishment she gave a sob and then buried her face in her hands.

  “Beryl!” he exclaimed, quite at a loss for what to say or do. He slid to his knees beside her, not knowing what to do. “Beryl, what is it?”

  “Oh ... oh, Harry. I have to tell you something. I should have told you before, only ... only I didn’t know, and when I did ...” Her voice trailed off in a jumble of incoherent sobs and Harry stared at her, too bewildered to know what to say.

  After a little while, though, she seemed to compose herself and looked up at him, red-eyed and anxious.

  “What is it, Beryl?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Whatever it is, you can trust me, you know that, surely?”

  “Oh, Harry,” she said, reaching out and cupping his face with her hand. “You sweet boy.”

  “Hardly a boy,” he said with a huff of laughter.

  “No,” she said, smiling at him with pride. “A fine man is what you are, Harry, and your father, he’d be so proud of you.”

  “I doubt he even knew I existed, whoever he was,” Harry replied with a rueful grin.

  “Oh, he knew,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “We both knew.”

  Harry blinked, staring at her in confusion. “What do you mean?” he asked, hearing his voice sound oddly shaken.

  “He thought you’d died, though, Harry,” she said, her eyes glittering with tears. “We both did.”

  “Who did? What do you mean?” he said, snatching his hand away and staring at her as his heart pounded too fast in his chest.

  “Your father really was Alistair Preston, Harry. You are Viscount Stamford, and ... and I ... I’m your mother.”

  Chapter 32

  To come home by the weeping cross - to repent the failure of something

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Harry stared at her, too shocked to respond. He could see fear in her eyes and a fierce determination that he should believe her.

  “That’s ridiculous!” he said, incredulous, even as it struck him how much he wanted it to be true.

  “It isn’t, Harry,” she said, the words little more than a whisper. “You know it isn’t.”

  “Then ... where were you?” he demanded, surprised at how angry he sounded. “Where was my ... my father?”

  The idea that Alistair was really his father seemed to pulse in his heart, a truth that burst through his veins with equal parts joy and fury.

  “Where were you?” he repeated, getting to his feet and pushing away from her. He stood, fists clenched, staring down at her.

  “P-please, Harry,” she said, her voice broken. “You have to believe I didn’t want to give you up, and Alistair, he ... he didn’t even know.” She took a breath, steadying herself. “Your father was a very charming young man, Harry. Handsome, too,” she said, smiling at him. “I see him in you, the man he was. But he was reckless and dissolute and irresponsible. His father was always pulling him out of some scrape or other. Forever gambling and carousing, he was. The old lord was at his wit’s end ... and then he discovered that Alistair and me ... we ... we were having an affair.”

  Beryl wiped her eyes, looking away from Harry and staring into the fire, into the past, judging on her expression. “His father said it was the last straw, and he was sent away that same night. Banished, he was. Off to do a tour of Europe,” she said, her voice bleak. “And I was dismissed. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until after he’d gone.”

  Harry swallowed, imagining what choice would be open to an unmarried woman with a baby on the way. “I went back to my parent’s house, they almost threw me out, but I persuaded them to let me stay until the baby ... until you were born. My sister, your aunt, Nelly, had just married Joe, you see. He seemed a nice fellow, had a good job in London, and she agreed to take you if I sent money for your keep.”

  Harry felt a swell of pity for her, seeing the misery in her eyes and knowing it was genuine. He sat back down, pulling his chair closer to her. “Go on,” he said, his voice rough. “What then?”

  Beryl hauled in a breath. “I swear, Harry, if I’d
known how they treated you, I would ... I would have done something ... found a way ...” She dissolved into tears, sobbing so hard that her plump shoulders shook.

  Harry sighed and reached out, taking her hand and squeezing the fingers. She steadied herself, breathing deep for a moment before she spoke again. “It was impossible to visit you from here, London was so very far away and I couldn’t take the time off work,” she said, her voice low. “When I finally did manage to visit, you didn’t even remember me. Oh, you were a wild thing,” she said, shaking her head with such sorrow that Harry felt his heart squeeze in his chest. “So skinny, too. I came on your sixth birthday, though, do you remember that?”

  Harry jolted as he pulled a faded memory from his mind. The image of a kind, sad lady who had brought him cake and cried over him. He’d been puzzled by her and a little frightened too, but glad for the cake. Not that he saw any more of it once she’d gone. Joe saw to that.

  He nodded, not knowing what he was feeling, too overwhelmed to begin to make sense of it.

  “Joe told me you were dead,” he said, no emotion behind the words, he couldn’t allow that. He’d lose his dignity and cry like a baby if he let his feelings show now. “I remember that. Your mother is dead and gone.” He paused, trying to hold the swelling tide of emotion back. “You’d said you’d come and get me when you could and I told him so when he hit me. Joe said no one was coming, that you were dead and no one gave a damn,” he said, hearing the anger in his voice and tamping it down.

  Beryl sobbed, shaking her head with misery. Harry hauled in a breath, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “What then?”

  “Joe lost his job,” she continued, her voice low. “And I began to worry more and more, but I only got a half-day and I couldn’t get up to London. But I wrote to you every week and Nelly swore she read the letters to you. I kept them simple, as she never could read as well as I could.”

  She glanced at him and he shook his head. Her face crumpled again and Harry put his arms around her. “Oh, Harry,” she sobbed, clutching at him. “Oh, my son, my boy.”