Chapter Eighteen

D espite his words, Nat didn’t want her to let go of his hand. The feel of her holding his was like a balm on his tortured soul. She’d said he could tell her anything, and he’d himself revealed some of his innermost thoughts with few restrictions. Even now, he wasn’t sure why he’d done that. The darkness hiding their faces, the peaceful quiet after the hubbub of the ball, the gentleness in her voice, and the honesty with which she’d confided in him her own dark secret, all had contributed to loosen his tongue.

Outside the confines of the tiny world they’d found themselves in, the owl called again, but from a different tree. Or was it a pair of owls, calling to each other as they hunted? He didn’t know enough about birds to be sure.

There was more he wanted to say, but even though she’d said he could, had invited his confidences in fact, these were words he couldn’t speak, about secrets he’d kept locked in his heart too long to reveal.

The silence stretched on, not awkward, but companionable and reassuring.

At last, she tightened her fingers around his. “Perhaps, Major, we should return to the ball, as you said, in case anyone remarks upon our absence and jumps to untoward conclusions.”

She was right. His mother would be the first to point an accusing finger, and it would not be at him, but at Miss Fairfield, accusing her of being an adventuress. Instinct told him that Caroline’s character was of the most upright and noble, and the thought of what his mother might say about her infuriated him. “Please don’t call me Major,” he said. “I’ve left all that behind me and want no reminder of it.”

“Mr. Treloar, then?”

He shook his head. “That is too formal for two people who are to become more than mere acquaintances. No. Call me Nat, as Hetty does, if it doesn’t offend you. I much prefer my friends to use that name.”

“And do I count myself as one of them now?”

He nodded. “I would be honored if you did.”

He couldn’t see her smile, but he sensed it.

“I should like that. And perhaps you might call me Caroline? Although I fear we should not indicate such familiarity in front of your mother.”

“Wise words.”

She stood up, so he followed suit. Her height, which was above the ordinary for a woman, brought her closer to him than any other woman he’d met, and here, standing in the complicit darkness of the summerhouse, he felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms and kiss her. He’d not felt like that for such a long time. What woman would want to kiss a monster like him? One that couldn’t see the blemish. One that when she had seen it had not stared, nor looked away in shock. One who’d confided in him her own secret in exchange for his—or the part of his he’d felt able to share.

But he didn’t do any of that.

Instead, he let her release his hand and turn toward the door. He saw her smile in the dim moonlight, her face a pale oval. “I think if we are lucky, no one will see us return.”

He followed her back through the garden, the moonlight illuminating their way to the terrace and bestowing on her figure an ethereal hint of fairyland. He caught her up at the top of the steps, made brave by her compassion, his hand on her arm. “Will you do me the honor of dancing with me, Caroline?”

She turned to face him, her eyes dark pools. “Inside?”

He shook his head. “No. Not where we can be seen. I’ve had my fill of drawing stares, and I’m sure you have too. And my mother would be bound to comment. Out here, where none can see us.”

She hesitated, studying his face, and he studied hers. Was he wrong? Had he read her feelings for him incorrectly? The urge to take her by the hand and pull her into his arms almost overwhelmed him. But just because she was polite and kind didn’t mean she would want the attentions of a man as scarred as he was. A monster. He drew a steadying breath. No doubt it was the lack of female company that had rendered him so vulnerable to the charms of his cousin’s rather blue-stockinged governess. She was like Julia in no discernible way, so how could he be feeling like this? He pushed that intrusive thought out of his head. He mustn’t think of Julia.

“What dance do you think we can do, all by ourselves?” Her tone was slightly wry, and she was right, because most dances required, at the very least, several couples to perform them correctly. But he’d thought of that.

“The waltz.”

A little gasp escaped her. “I know of it, of course, but have never danced it.” She chuckled. “My mother, and I am sure yours as well, would deem it far too scandalous to perform. Where did you learn it?”

“On my travels. It’s a dance favored by soldiers.” And the women who chased after them, but he wasn’t going to say that. “And easy to learn.”

Caroline pressed her lips together. “I’ve seen it danced. You are right. It does not look hard to accustom oneself to. The steps are not so complicated as other more respectable dances.”

“So, will you?” He held out his hand, giving her the opportunity to turn away if she so wished.

She didn’t. Instead, she set her hand in his and took a step toward him. “I think I should like to learn this dance, although it all depends upon if you are a good teacher. If not, I fear such close proximity might lead to me trampling on your toes. I trust you are suitably forewarned.”

He smiled, for once unconscious of the fact that only half his face responded. “Then ignore the music from within the ballroom, and let me guide you. All you need to do is follow my lead.”

“Very well.”

He took her right hand in his left, and put his own right on her waist. Beneath the thin satin of her gown, he could feel the firmness of her stays, oddly provocative, as though intent on suggesting to him how good it would feel to get her out of them. He pushed that thought away. “Now, put your left hand on my shoulder.”

She did as she was told, with less than a foot now separating them.

He smiled down at her. “I shall step forward with my left foot, like this, careful not to take too large a step, and you must step back with your right or it will be me trampling on your toes, and I am a sight heavier than you and have solid shoes on. Then, together, with our other feet, we will step to the side, so, then bring our first foot to join the second. One, two, three. An easy rhythm. Allow me to guide you.”

She picked up the dance quickly, her lithe body swaying in his arms as they danced around the terrace together to his muttered count of “one, two three” to start with. How long it was since he’d danced with a proper young lady in his arms. How long since he’d held Julia like this. Of course, Miss Fairfield was not Julia in any way. Too tall, too old, too robust. Julia had been delicate and dainty, like the doves on the rooftops in Lisbon. The doves that had reminded him of her in bittersweet memory.

Caroline danced with an energy the delicate Julia had never possessed, a lack of energy that had been her downfall. Sorrow welled up inside him alongside guilt. If only he hadn’t wanted a child… but he had, and she had died. Because of him.

Nat came to a halt. “I cannot dance any longer. I’m sorry. Go back inside and leave me out here with my dark thoughts.” He released his hold on Caroline. “I am not fit company this night.” Turning away from her, he stumbled down the steps and into the darkness.

*

“Caro!” Ysella’s voice bit into Caroline’s jumbled thoughts. “I wondered where you’d got to. It’s growing chill out here. Why don’t you come back inside with me before you catch your death?”

Caroline, who’d been staring into the dark garden where Nat had disappeared, heaved a deep breath and pulled herself together before she turned, a smile fixed on her face. “Of course. I only came out here for some fresh air. July can be such a hot month for the vigor of dancing.”

Ysella linked her arm through Caroline’s. “Did I see someone else out here talking to you?”

Should she tell her friend the truth? Somehow it felt wrong to do so. Whatever it was she’d shared with Nat, it didn’t feel like something she should divulge. Ysella, being such a flibbertigibbet, might be inclined to broadcast it—inadvertently of course. Two years of marriage and motherhood had probably done little to curb her friend’s natural tendencies, which Caroline knew well of yore.

“Oh, no one important. I was just politely bidding him goodnight.”

Ysella raised her delicately etched eyebrows and pushed open the doors into the ballroom. A wave of heat, music, and voices, hit them. She laughed. “You were never a good liar, Caro.”

“Then do not ask me to tell you something I’d rather keep to myself.”

Ysella tugged her round. “Then there was someone with you! A gentleman, I’d wager.”

Caroline sighed. When was Ysella not ready to lay a wager on something? “Please don’t ask. I know you want to. Just believe me that it was nothing improper.”

Ysella snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “As if I’d suspect you of anything improper. Anyone less likely to venture into impropriety I’ve yet to meet.”

If only Ysella knew the truth about how Caroline was suspecting her employers of murderous intentions. If anything was improper, that was, as she had no proof as yet that it was true, and yet she still adhered to it.

She smiled sweetly at her friend. “Well, there you have your answer. Nothing of great note. Just two people exchanging words.”

Ysella narrowed her eyes, as though preparing to do battle.

However, to Caroline’s relief, Sam, accompanied by a gentleman in spectacles of perhaps early middle age, approached, wending his way around the edge of the room and avoiding the enthusiastic dancing of the many couples in the relatively small space afforded them.

“Caroline. Where’ve you been? I have someone who would like to meet you. A fellow scholar. May I present Mr. Richard Penlee. I mentioned I knew you and he was most keen to make your acquaintance.” He turned to the gentleman in question. “Allow me to present Miss Caroline Fairfield, the lady of whom I was speaking.”

Richard Penlee, a man of Caroline’s own height, executed a smart bow. “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Miss Fairfield. Mr. Beauchamp has been extoling your virtues to me and I’m fascinated to meet a young lady with so deep an understanding of Virgil. Perhaps we could take a walk around the dance floor and discuss some of the finer points of his work?”

Caroline caught Ysella’s open-mouthed expression and flashed her a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Penlee, I should be very pleased to do so.”

Mr. Penlee’s discourse on Virgil’s Aeneid occupied Caroline until supper was served and Hetty came to reclaim her so they could go in to eat with her mother. Which came as quite a relief to Caroline. At the table in the dining room, Caroline tried to search for Nat without appearing to do so but didn’t see him. Was he still outside in the garden by himself or had he repaired to the card room again? Not all the gentlemen had come in to eat, the hardened players having stayed to continue their games. Gambling was the order of the night for many.

However, he did return for the drive home in the dark, although he sat quietly beside Trefusis, who appeared somewhat the worse for drink, staring out at the dark countryside as it passed the carriage window. Caroline had no further chance to talk to him and would not have, anyway, in front of Mrs. Treloar and Trefusis.

Once back at Roskilly, with the hint of a sunrise already on the horizon, Trefusis departed in the direction of the land agent’s house, and Old and Young Pascoe drove the carriage round to the stables.

Once inside, Nat departed into the library without a backward glance for anyone, and Caroline bade Mrs. Treloar and Hetty a polite goodnight, which might better have been a good morning. She stifled a yawn as she walked along the nursery corridor. It was going to be difficult to get up in just a few short hours and teach Yves anything meaningful.

Not wanting to disturb his sleep, she took her shoes off and tiptoed into the nursery itself. Yves lay tucked up snugly in his bed, his golden curls on the pillow giving him the somewhat erroneous look of a cherub. The door into Bridget’s room was closed, but whether she was in there or not, Caroline had no idea. She tiptoed to the bed and bent over Yves. Was she really checking he was breathing? Had it gone this far?

His chest rose and fell with reassuring regularity. But how long would it be before Bridget, or whoever was paying her to do this, as paid she must surely be, chose to up the dose of laudanum, thinking it not efficacious or swift enough, and added more of the drug to Caroline’s hither-to innocuous bottle? Caroline bit her bottom lip. She had to do something soon to save Yves from the danger his family represented.

She tiptoed out again, closing the door with a soft click, and returned to her own bedroom. No Patience to help her, but getting out of a gown was easier than getting into it, so she could manage on her own. Before very long she was lying in her own bed, trying to fall asleep.

But she could not.

Thoughts tumbled around in her head, foremost the conundrum that was Nat Treloar. Everything about her situation here at Roskilly suggested that she should not trust him. He appeared to be the only one who stood to gain from Yves’s death. He was a ruthless soldier who’d fought in a long war and must be accustomed to killing. He’d said himself he’d committed what he termed atrocities, so would the killing of a child be beyond him? Probably not. He possessed a gigantic chip on his shoulder about his own disfigurement. And he appeared to have a short fuse about anything that he disagreed with or didn’t like.

Yet she liked him.

She didn’t want to like him, but she did, however hard he made it for her. His sister, on the other hand, was easy to like, with her winsome ways and innocence. She was like a younger version of Ysella, of whom Caroline was so fond. Mrs. Treloar, though, was a woman surely no one could ever like, unless of course they were after something, which Trefusis surely was. And yet, even if Trefusis was deluding Mrs. Treloar into thinking his interest was in her when really it was Hetty he was after, what good would that do him with Nat next in line for the inheritance? No, she had to absolve Trefusis of any guilt in this. The only suspects were Mrs. Treloar… and Nat.

Yet even after the ball, Nat remained a mystery. He’d confided in her what had happened to him, which must have been difficult, but instinct told her there was more he hadn’t divulged. More secrets held close to his heart. Was one of them a desire to inherit his grandfather’s title and possessions? Or was he innocent of all her suspicions and was it only his mother she had to protect Yves from? She rolled over in bed, restless and angry that she couldn’t get her thoughts straight. She needed to know what Nat was hiding to exonerate him. Perhaps he would tell her, one day, but she didn’t have time to wait. What she needed right now was help to save Yves, and she couldn’t go to Nat, because he might not want to give it.

So, who could she approach for help?

She rolled over in bed, racking her brain. Who was there in this house she could trust? Bridget was clearly in the pocket of Mrs. Treloar. Patience was little more than a child. Miss Hawkins was miles away in Penzance and she had no way of contacting her. What of the other servants? Dickon liked Yves and played football with him, so, surely, he must be worth trusting, but he would be ineffectual against his superiors, accustomed as he was to obedience. Mrs. Teague had a fondness for Yves as well. Aunt Agnes was too old and frail and far too confused to lend any help, although she, too, seemed fond of Yves.

She sat bolt upright in bed. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Yves’s grandfather, Sir Hugh Treloar, whom she had yet to meet. He might be bedridden, but he was nominally in charge of Roskilly. Surely he must be fond of his little heir. She could go to him. Tomorrow. She’d find a way to see him and tell him everything. But only if she felt she could trust him.

She lay back down again, calmer now than she’d been for days.