Lord of Secrets Page 4

  He hoped it was only a misplaced sense of kinship, these feelings he had for her. After all, as she’d pointed out to him just that morning, he’d lost a father too.

  With a grimace, David picked up his wineglass and drained it. Try as he might, he could never forget the day his father died. No, not died—that word was too polite, too commonplace. His father had blown his brains out.

  For some reason, he’d chosen a bright summer day to do it, a day of blue sky and birdsong. The tranquil country afternoon had seemed perfect for fishing, and in his nine-year-old enthusiasm David had escaped his tutor to go poking about the south garden, digging for worms to use as bait. When the shot rang out through the open window, literally only a few feet from his head, the report was so sudden and so loud he froze, his ears ringing and his heart racing out of time. His face felt wet. He looked down to discover blood spattering the front of his clothes. It was only in the next minute, as the servants burst in to his father’s study and raised a hue and cry, that he realized it wasn’t his own blood spotting his jacket, but his father’s.

  Even now, nothing about that day made sense. His mother had died of childbed fever, and his father had been the only strong, dependable authority figure in his life, the one person in whom he had absolute faith. Yet somehow, it appeared that this respected and admired demigod had either been a dangerous lunatic or had committed an atrocious crime against God.

  The ship’s steward appeared again at David’s elbow, recalling him to the present. “More wine, my lord?”

  “Thank you.” As the steward refilled his glass, David looked up the length of the table to where Miss Whitwell sat. Unexpectedly, her eyes met his. He braced himself for her look of wounded reproach.

  Instead she gazed back at him with—understanding?

  He looked away. No. More than likely, the poor girl was simply lost in a fog of grief. He’d sleepwalked his way through the days following his own such loss, and at least he’d had a home and position he could call his own.

  David reached again for his wineglass. In the aftermath of his father’s suicide, everyone had spoken to him in hushed tones, from the servants who passed like ghosts around him to the coroner’s jurymen who descended on the house the next morning. His uncle Frederick soon arrived to take up residence as his guardian, bringing with him tender, sad-eyed Aunt Celeste. I trust you will not disgrace us both by crying, his uncle had said somberly as they stood waiting to join his father’s funeral cortege. You must be a man now.

  David’s father was no sooner in his grave than everyone seemed determined to forget the shameful circumstances of his death—indeed, to forget that he had ever existed at all. David was moved from his cheerful bedroom overlooking the deer park to his father’s large, gloomy apartments, rooms of dark corners and unsettling shadows. Where before he’d been styled Lord Comstock, everyone addressed him as Deal—his father’s title, or so he’d still considered it at the time. Adults, embarrassed by his loss and everything it implied about his father’s character, avoided looking him in the eye. Only his aunt had made any effort to speak to him as if he were not somehow tainted.

  Now Miss Whitwell was experiencing that same hell—the shock, the grief, the bewildering sense of lost security, the stilted manners of the people around her. True, her father had died peacefully in his berth rather than scattering his gray matter about the room, but there was still something nightmarish about losing a loved one in the midst of an ocean crossing. There was something nightmarish, too, about seeing the body dumped into the sea, consigned to the deep like so much kitchen rubbish.

  “What about you, Lord Deal?” Captain Raney called down the length of the table.

  David shook off his abstraction. “Hmm? I fear I wasn’t attending, Captain. Would you repeat the question?”

  “The other passengers were discussing their reasons for undertaking this voyage. I wondered if you might tell us yours.”

  David gave a self-deprecating smile. “I regret it doesn’t make for a very interesting tale. I’m merely returning to England after a brief stay in New York.” He went back to eating his dinner.

  After a moment, Captain Raney cleared his throat. “Yes, my lord, but might I ask what brought you to New York to begin with?”

  Every eye in the room was on him. Uncomfortable, David turned slightly in his seat to face the rest of the company. “A relative to whom I’d lent financial backing died, leaving me in possession of a newspaper there. I was feeling restless, and I took it into my head to see the enterprise for myself.”

  “Why were you feeling restless?” Miss Whitwell asked, her slim brows drawing into a pucker.

  He shrugged. “No particular reason.” In fact, his dog had just died, but it seemed a nonsensical explanation. Besides, it would sound trivial, complaining of a spaniel’s death when Miss Whitwell had lost her father.

  Poor old Burr. David still hadn’t grown used to walking into a room without having Burr jump up to greet him, wagging his stub of a tail.

  “And how did you find America, Deal?” Mrs. Howard leaned over the table, wearing a smile that seemed half challenge, half superior smirk. “Did you charm the locals with your gracious address?”

  “Charm them?” David set down his fork. No doubt Mrs. Howard considered herself entitled to be condescending just because she flirted with Captain Raney and had toadied to Lord Whitwell before his death. But attaching herself to such men added to her consequence, while she treated poor Miss Whitwell like a lackey. “I would certainly never make such a claim for myself.”

  Her smile thinned to a superior look. “But what did you think of America? New Yorkers can be every bit as genteel as you English, wouldn’t you say?”

  “The land was beautiful.” Goaded by the challenge in her eyes, David couldn’t resist adding, “As for the people of New York...I find some more genteel than others.”

  He’d meant the remark to sound light, offhand, but something of his irritation with her—and perhaps with himself, after the way he’d slighted Miss Whitwell—crept into his tone. Mrs. Howard colored.

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the table.

  David pretended he couldn’t hear it, and picked up his fork again. The silence stretched out. Dash it, why didn’t someone say something? He’d wanted only to escape the conversation, to become invisible again, but instead he’d called even greater attention to himself, insulting Mrs. Howard.

  Miss Whitwell turned smoothly to Captain Raney. “How many crossings does this make for you, sir?”

  Thank you. The awkwardness of the moment passed, and almost as one, the company around the table resumed their conversation.

  He could have kissed Miss Whitwell. No, not kissed her—but why had she come to his aid when he’d treated her so coolly earlier?

  What was he thinking? He shook his head. It wasn’t concern for his feelings that had pushed her to speak, but for Mrs. Howard’s.

  He looked the girl’s way again, watching as she spoke with the captain. There was a sweetness and naturalness to her gestures he found oddly captivating. He’d noticed her even before she’d come hammering on his door in her panic. It was strange, because he was usually careful to keep his eyes off of innocent young ladies, and there was a definite air of innocence about Miss Whitwell.

  She glanced down the table and caught him staring. Embarrassed, he looked away.

  The noise in the room had been escalating in volume as the three or four separate conversations going on around the table grew more animated. Wishing the dinner would end, David drained another glass of wine. For the most part he’d grown accustomed to keeping to himself, but tonight he felt dull and churlish. What would it have been like, accepting Miss Whitwell’s invitation and spending the entire meal at her side? Perhaps she would have talked more about her travels with her father, wearing the same fond, luminous expression she’d worn that morning. He smiled wistfully to himself. He would have liked that.

  Good Lord, he was thinking of her ag
ain. He darted another glance her way. Perhaps he should apologize to her before he left the dining saloon. A quick word of regret would cost him nothing, and he could keep his distance afterward. Then perhaps he could put Miss Whitwell from his mind.

  As soon as the meal ended and she rose to leave, he scrambled to his feet and started after her. “Miss Whitwell—”

  Trailing behind her cousin, she turned. “Yes?”

  Her cousin turned, too, to regard him through slightly narrowed eyes. The wariness in the young man’s gaze brought David up short.

  What was he doing, chasing after a delicately reared girl, paying her attentions the other passengers were bound to remark upon? He was sorry if he’d hurt her feelings, but there was no sense in drawing out the inevitable.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten your shawl, but I see you have it. Excuse me.”

  He sketched a perfunctory bow, then brushed past her and strode quickly toward his cabin. Just how much wine had he had to drink?

  Or maybe it wasn’t the wine. Maybe it was the enforced isolation of this sea voyage that had her so much on his mind. He understood now why sailors went half-wild on leave and why they had once considered it bad luck to have a female aboard ship. It was difficult enough fighting temptation on dry land, with a host of distractions to turn to. Doing it while isolated with a beautiful young lady weeks from port was positively maddening.

  David unlocked his cabin door, pushed inside and stretched out on his berth, not even bothering to call for his valet. If he closed his eyes, he was sure he could block out the wounded look on Miss Whitwell’s face when he’d rebuffed her friendly overture, block out the whole disappointing evening.

  Instead, he wound up wishing he hadn’t traded cabins with her. The scent of her still lingered in the room, lavender and French milled soap, only adding to the sensations making his head spin.

  Chapter Three

  Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,

  But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,

  When we would bring him on to some confession

  Of his true state.

  — William Shakespeare

  “...But I’m not sure the apple cider vinegar has done me a scrap of good.”

  Rosalie sat with Mrs. Howard, sharing one of the armless benches on deck, Mrs. Howard’s workbasket between them. She was taking in the sunshine and fresh air, listening to Mrs. Howard’s worries about her digestion—or, rather, she was supposed to be listening to Mrs. Howard’s worries about her digestion. Instead, she was lost in her own thoughts. Might it have made a difference to her father if she’d stayed with him on the night he died? Was there anything she could have done to save him?

  “Miss Whitwell, are you attending?” Mrs. Howard peered at her over the top of her spectacles. “I asked if you would mind assisting me. I’m having trouble threading this needle.”

  “Oh—no, not at all.” Taking the needle, Rosalie deftly ran the thread through and handed it back, wishing she’d thought to offer before she was asked.

  Mrs. Howard was quiet for the next minute, bent over the sewing in her lap. Rosalie gazed, unseeing, at where the sun’s rays sparkled on the waves. How did survivors go on when life took a tragic and wholly unexpected turn? Was it better to face the truth squarely, or to try to put it from one’s mind? She needed to build a new life for herself, but she wasn’t sure how to begin when her old life was all she’d ever known.

  But she was letting her half of the conversation languish. She shook off her reflections. “I’m sorry the vinegar isn’t helping. Have you been watching your diet? Whenever Papa’s gout would flare up, it was usually because—”

  Mrs. Howard broke in. “I need your assistance again, I’m afraid. I want to change the ribbon on this gown, but my sewing is so fine and the old thread is so dark, I need a pair of younger eyes to pick out the stitches. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, I’d be happy to.” Rosalie took the gown of copper-colored silk and examined the line of stitching on the trim. “When my father’s gout bothered him, it was—”

  Mrs. Howard interrupted her again, this time with an odd determination. “You should really make over a few of your own gowns, Miss Whitwell. Take it from someone who knows, men like to see a little décolletage. I’m persuaded you might nab yourself a beau if you’d only trouble to look a bit more sophisticated.”

  Rosalie kept her eyes on the sewing in her lap. She knew she wasn’t at all stylish, knew her girlish gowns and gauche manners were a sad trial to Mrs. Howard, who prided herself on maintaining a modish appearance. But Rosalie could still recall the first time she’d aspired to look sophisticated, and the memory never failed to bring on a shudder.

  She’d been barely sixteen years old, having only recently put up her hair, and as she and her father had disembarked in the busy port of Danzig, she’d felt dashing and grown-up in her fur-trimmed pelisse and plumed bonnet, her guidebook in her hand. A smart-looking young gentleman on the waterfront had smiled at her, sending her confidence soaring. She was still smiling back when a brewery wagon came through the crowd, turning into her path, separating her from her father.

  In an instant, a jostling tide of foot traffic swept her along. She stood on her tiptoes, searching for Papa, but she couldn’t see above the crowd around her. Lost, surrounded and frightened, she was even more alarmed when a florid dockworker took her roughly by the arm, speaking to her in a rapid stream of German.

  He’d tried to pull her toward a back street, and she still had no idea what might have befallen her if her father hadn’t spied her and come rushing to her defense, his umbrella raised in angry threat. Had the man meant to rob her? Kidnap her? Force himself on her? Though the experience had been as brief as it had been bewildering, it had nevertheless shaken her badly.

  No, she wouldn’t know how to go on, trying to appear sophisticated now when, inside, she knew just how green and out of her depth she really was. Living on ships and passing through strange ports, it had always been safer not to make too great a splash.

  But Mrs. Howard meant well, so Rosalie only nodded. “I’ll try to remember that, ma’am, once I’m out of mourning.”

  Mrs. Howard shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “And that’s another thing. I’m sure you don’t mean to be morbid, but of late you’ve been speaking of little else besides your father and your—your loss. You should know, dear, that such talk only makes the people around you uncomfortable. I mean, one never knows what to say at such a time, does one? Really, I can’t imagine what Captain Raney was thinking last night, bringing up your recent misfortune the way he did. Anyone with the smallest jot of sensitivity would keep to more cheerful topics.”

  Rosalie gulped. She’d been bearing up well, or so she’d thought, but now it appeared she was once again in the wrong, a dark cloud on Mrs. Howard’s otherwise pleasant afternoon. Part of her itched to say something in defense of her father and her grief, but if Mrs. Howard believed the mere mention of such a loss was morbid and insensitive, who was she to object? Rosalie had spent too little time in society to say with any confidence which subjects were really fit for polite conversation. Besides, she wanted Mrs. Howard to like her. She was only waiting for the right moment to bring up the possibility of serving as her paid companion.

  Apparently taking Rosalie’s silence for agreement, Mrs. Howard gave her an approving smile. She drew a length of ribbon from her workbasket, stretching it out to admire it. “For example, this yellow is such a lighthearted color, wouldn’t you agree? The kid gloves you wore on the day we left New York would look so smart with this shade. Though I don’t suppose you’ll be wearing those gloves again, at least not for the rest of this voyage...”

  Rosalie knew a hint when she heard one. “Would you like to borrow them, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Howard’s smile grew warmer. “Why, how thoughtful of you to offer! Thank you. My hands are nearly as small as yours, so they should just fit.”

  R
osalie concentrated on removing the last few stitches on the copper gown, wishing Mrs. Howard hadn’t taken a fancy to those particular gloves. Her father had bought them for her as a birthday present in Florence.

  Rosalie clipped the final stitch. “There.” She held up the result for Mrs. Howard’s inspection. “All finished.”

  “Goodness, child, you made quick work of that. You wouldn’t mind adding this new ribbon for me, too, would you? You’re so handy with a needle, it shouldn’t take you any time at all.”

  “No, I don’t mind.” It seemed the perfect opening to mention the possibility of employment. “I wonder, ma’am, have you ever considered engaging a companion? Not just as a confidante, I mean, but to help you with these little tasks, sparing you eyestrain and helping with your sewing and looking after your digestion and so forth.”

  Mrs. Howard frowned. “Where would I find someone willing to do all that?”

  “Oh, dear.” Rosalie bit her bottom lip. “I was hoping you might consider me a suitable candidate.”

  “Do you mean to say you’d be interested in the position?”

  For some reason, the ringing yes Rosalie should have given Mrs. Howard refused to form itself. “I thought we might discuss it.”

  “Oh my! And you the daughter of an English lord. Wouldn’t my friends in New York be green with envy!”

  In New York. Rosalie hadn’t realized how much she’d been hoping Mrs. Howard might wish to remain in England until that hope evaporated. “You definitely intend to return to America, then?”

  “Why, of course. You don’t imagine my daughters-in-law could manage without me, do you?” Mrs. Howard’s face turned pensive, and she tapped a finger against her pursed lips. “But how would my friends know you’re the daughter of a lord? They might take it amiss if I were to mention it outright, but Miss Whitwell sounds so very ordinary—and forgive me, my dear, but you don’t look very important. Perhaps I could introduce you as Lady Whitwell.”