Chapter Seven

T he Vales were among the first to arrive at the garden party.

Alice almost fainted, for among them, strolling across the lawn toward her, flanked by the twins, was Cornelius.

He wore smart morning dress—buff pantaloons and a blue coat. It must have been the unexpectedness of his presence that made her tremble. There could be no other reason. Somehow, she forced herself to keep walking.

"Mr. Vale," she said, pausing to drop a slight curtsey. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Why?" the girl twin asked.

"You two are the surprise," Cornelius said. "To most of the world. Lady Alice, allow me to present my brother and sister, Lawrence and Leona Vale. Twins, Lady Alice Conway, the earl's sister."

The twins, who each had eyes as intense as Cornelius's but considerably more friendly, beamed at her while they bowed and curtseyed with unexpected grace.

"Will you excuse us?" Lawrence asked. "The countess is waving to us."

Eleanor was indeed waving from the pall mall lawn, where she was surrounded by other children.

"Of course," Alice agreed, and the twins dashed off.

"They're very excited," Cornelius said. "They don't really know anyone of their own age in Blackhaven."

"They will after today," Alice said. She swallowed. "I am glad you came. Does it mean you will read after all?"

"No, it means I shall listen."

"Still incognito," she said ruefully. "Which is your right. I'm sorry I lost my temper. I had no right to say what I did."

"Nor did I."

Remembering only too clearly what he had said—and how close he had been when he said it—heat seeped into her cheeks. But honesty conquered embarrassment.

"No, you were right. I should have called at the house. I have got into the habit of doing just what I like under the mask of being ‘original.' I did not think of duty, or your sisters' feelings, only my own determination to tell you off. Again."

"Well, you were right about that, too."

"Thank you for sending the book to Eleanor. It means a lot to her."

He shook his head. "That is what I cannot understand. That she would care so much never entered my mind."

She regarded him curiously. Although he would defend his rights—particularly to privacy—and he was not remotely overawed by rank, there was no arrogance about the man.

"Pride is not one of your sins, is it?"

He shrugged. "I have done nothing to be particularly proud of."

"Your poetry, for one."

His smile was crooked. "That is something I cannot help. It's only words, and if people like them, I am glad. They make no difference."

She gazed at him in consternation. He truly believed what he said. "You are wrong."

"My dear, your brother is likely to be a government minister soon, possibly even prime minister one day. My brother is a hero of Trafalgar and Lord knows how many other victories since. My other brother has been mentioned in military dispatches several times and honored for his bravery at Waterloo. In the grand scheme of things, scrawling a few lines of verse and telling a few farmers what to do really does not compare."

They had walked straight past the door into the great hall, where people were gathering around a table of refreshments. Alice did not mind, leading him onward toward the formal gardens.

"Actually," she said, "your scrawled verses make a big difference to the lives of individuals. There may not be mass glory, but it is the small things that make the difference to most people. As for managing the land, you do rather more than order about a few farmers. Improving the yield of the land benefits all of us. It is a battle in its own right. To say nothing of the battle against hunger and poverty."

His startled gaze met hers. "You have a grandiose view of what I do."

"No, you merely suffer from overachieving brothers. We cannot all be famous heroes or leaders of entire countries, but I don't believe it is they who make the real difference. It is the things you call insignificant, like words and art and music, that bring about important changes, that nurture the people and make men and nations great."

His eyes widened and he slowly began to smile. "You have thought about this a good deal."

"Of course," she said airily. "I have to justify my own ambitions. But there is truth there all the same."

"Perhaps there is. Even if there is not, thank you for saying it."

Warmth seeped around her heart as they walked on. She wished he would offer his arm. She wanted the physical intimacy of touching him, of feeling the muscle and sinew rippling beneath his coat sleeve. What was the matter with her?

*

She never failed to surprise Cornelius. He had not expected so passionate a defense, nor to find his view of himself adjusting accordingly. It was certainly true that turning Black Hill back into profitable land would save his family from ruin, and that he was the only one who could do it without a fat salary. That his poetry was good enough to change the world, he regarded with rather more skepticism. But if she liked it enough to say so, well, that sparked his soul with pleasure.

"Oh, goodness," she exclaimed suddenly. "It is almost time to begin the poetry. Come and see if it makes a difference to hear Helen reciting. She has a beautiful voice and reads with feeling."

Cornelius tried not to cringe. He didn't want to hear his words spoken, let alone with overt sentimentality. However, since he wished to remain with Alice, he accompanied her back to the great hall, where he was given a choice of wine or punch and greeted by Lady Helen.

By then, a shower of rain had driven most of the adults inside. Many were examining the paintings in the gallery above or milling in conversation while a trio of musicians played near the shining pianoforte.

"Will you play?" he asked Alice.

"She had better," Helen said severely. She cast a quick glance around the hall as though looking for someone in particular. "I'm going to the poetry room to prepare."

Cornelius followed the sisters into a passage, off which were several smaller salons. Entering the first, Lady Helen went straight to the lectern, where a familiar leather-bound book had been left open, several bookmarks sticking out.

"Simon Sacheverill sent it as a gift to our sister-in-law," Helen said, "because he could not come to read himself. I thought that was a kind touch. Do you like his poetry, Mr. Vale?"

"I enjoy poetry," Cornelius said awkwardly.

Alice snorted and picked up a book from the nearby table beside a list of readings and readers. "What is this?"

Helen giggled. "Look."

"A collection of poetry by Darcy D'Aubin," Alice read incredulously. "D'Aubin?"

"What is the joke?" asked Cornelius, who had never heard of the man. "Is he not good?"

"He's the son of Jimmy Daubin, the mill owner," Alice said drily. "I didn't know he had been published, but I would think a lot more of him if he didn't try to gentrify his name."

"Many writers have pen names," Cornelius said mildly.

"Perhaps, but this one does not seek privacy." She flipped through the pages.

"This is the same Daubin of Cloverfield?" Cornelius said.

"His only son, I believe," Helen said.

"I did not even know he had a son."

"And what a son he is," Alice said mischievously. "Prepare to be dazzled."

Since other people were drifting into the room, eager to speak to Alice and Helen, Cornelius moved to the far corner, where the light was gloomiest, and leaned his shoulder against the wall. Secretly, he hoped Alice would come and sit in the chair beside him, but she stayed near Helen as the room filled and the countess could be heard announcing that the poetry readings were about to begin.

He could see that Helen was nervous about reading, and Alice's support soothed her. He liked her kindness, brusque though it often was. What was it about her that so fascinated him? Surely he was old enough and certainly wise enough to know better. But he liked her dark, subtle beauty, her feminine curves beneath the flowing Grecian dress she wore. He remembered the scent of her as if she pressed against him…

A lady inclined her head to him, breaking the spell of his daydream. In fact, he came back to earth with a bump, for the lady was Cecily Morgan and with her was old Lady Morgan, the spiteful old besom. If she saw Cornelius, she gave no sign of it, so he bowed only to Cecily. He could not see Sir John, who was no doubt still in London or elsewhere dallying with his mistress.

For a moment, the bitterness returned. Why had Cecily not married Cornelius, as he had begged her? He would have been faithful to her…

But would he have been happy with her?

He almost felt guilty for wondering. He had carried her so long in his heart as a mere idea, he had never realized before that, whilst he had often been lonely, he didn't actually miss her .

Stupidly, he missed Alice, though they were nothing to each other and never would be.

Lady Helen's voice intruded into his thoughts, introducing the poem by Simon Sacheverill. Anxiety clawed at his stomach. He had never been forced before to watch other people's reactions to his work, and he was ready to hide himself in shame.

By ill chance, she read the lament he had written for Cecily when he realized he had lost her forever. He wanted to stick his fingers in his ears, and yet he found himself listening intently, for the poem still struck a chord in him. He pitied the poor man who suffered such torments.

Everyone did. With amazement, he watched the emotions glide over anguished faces, saw a few surreptitious handkerchiefs dabbing at watering eyes. And then he saw that Helen understood too. She read with feeling, but not a whit of sentimentality. Her voice changed subtly between the humor and the tragedy, grew soft and husky as if her throat had closed up.

So had Cornelius's. He was no longer gazing at Helen but at Alice, who sat with her face turned away from him, but he could still see her profile, the fluttering of her lashes as she blinked rapidly, fighting emotion, confusion…

As was he.

Everything he had ever written, everything he had ever felt, was about her .

Suddenly she turned her head, looking directly at him, her eyes full and yet blazing with laughter as she shot a glance toward the doorway. He followed her gaze to a fair, willowy man in an ivory coat, with flowing lace at his cuffs and his throat.

Darcy D'Aubin, I presume . Dazzling, indeed.

He caught Alice's eye once more and grinned.

*

"This is getting complicated," Lawrence murmured to Leona, realizing how many of his siblings' lives they were now interfering with.

"Do you think we should stop?"

Lawrence grinned. "No."

Although they were having a whale of a time and had already made several new friends—including Rosa Benedict, who was the daughter of a colonel turned botanist, a small German prince, and a whole gaggle of Gaunts and Winslows—they slipped away without regret. Family came first, and someone had to look after their clueless siblings.

Descending an old stone staircase, they found themselves just outside the great hall. As they wandered in, Leona grasped her twin's arm.

He saw immediately. Cornelius's friend Lady Alice was edging away from a male vision in white lace.

"Goodness, he's pretty as a girl," Lawrence scoffed.

"No, he isn't pretty at all," Leona said, in rare disagreement with her twin. "She wants away from him, and see how he gazes after her?" She shivered. There was something both cold and predatory about the man—and that was over a distance. God knew how awful he was close up.

"You're right," Lawrence said, frowning. "He'd hurt her if he could. Why? She's the earl's sister. Untouchable."

"Power," said Leona. "As you say, she's the earl's sister."

"And she needs rescuing," Lawrence said with the flicker of a smile. "We have just the brother for that."

Leona plucked at her lower lip. "Should we, though?"

"We'll have to time it well… But yes, we should."

As one, they made their way toward the dazzling gentleman, who was now surrounded by other ladies.

"Who is he ?" Leona asked a complete stranger in an awed voice.

"Mr. Darcy D'Aubin," came the lady's dreamy reply. "He's a poet."

"Of course he is," Lawrence murmured.

"Is he good?" Leona asked.

"Who cares, when he looks like that?"

Lawrence snorted, and Leona swallowed a giggle in order to thank the lady before they edged closer to their quarry.

Mr. D'Aubin took the adulation in his stride, and in time drifted in the wake of others to listen to the music at the other end of the hall. With the ease of practice, the twins surrounded him, one on either side.

"Mr. D'Aubin, your coat is beautiful," Leona told him.

He glanced down at her with a complaisant smile, then blinked to find himself addressing a girl with her hair loose and her hems still above her ankles. The smile faded.

"Love the lace," Lawrence said on his other side, taking a cuff gingerly between his finger and thumb. "So intricate."

"Isn't it," D'Aubin said discouragingly, brushing the boy's hand away as though it were an annoying wasp. "What do you want? And where is your mother?"

"Buried in a rather fine tomb in Bavaria. Sadly, she died when we were very young."

"I'm not surprised," muttered D'Aubin.

"That's not a very nice thing to say," Leona scolded. "Especially when we came to offer our services."

His lip curled as he spared her another assessing glance. "Come back in a year or two. Ouch!" he added, glaring at Lawrence.

"Sorry, I'm so clumsy," Lawrence said. "Comes from walking so close to you."

"Then don't. Shab off."

"We could ," Leona said. "But then we wouldn't be able to deliver our message."

He paused in the midst of an intended hail to Lady Launceton, and dropped back instead, frowning at Leona. Someone was playing the pianoforte. Leona glimpsed Lady Alice at the front of the audience, her face rapt and eager.

"What message?" D'Aubin asked with exaggerated patience.

"In the interval between this musician and the next," Leona said, improvising, "she would like to talk to you privately about a book."

A gleam entered D'Aubin's cold eyes. "Who would?"

"A gentleman does not bandy about a lady's name," Lawrence said pompously. "But… it's the one you were staring at like the cat with the cream."

D'Aubin's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to annihilate the impudent boy, but Leona spoke first.

"In the poetry room," she said, and she and Lawrence slipped away.

The next bit would be more difficult—and more dangerous.

*

Alice had recognized Lady Morgan the moment she entered the room before the poetry readings began. She had seen the silent yet meaningful greeting between her and Cornelius and suffered a foolish pang of jealousy that at least she could laugh at.

And then, as always, she had got lost in the beauty, the sheer feeling of the poem, which Helen read only too well. She had been afraid to look at him and kept her gaze averted—until Darcy Daubin had entered the room in all his splendor.

Only then had she glanced behind her, to share the joke with Cornelius. She saw the glistening of emotion on his eyelashes, a terrible look of raw pain and passion and loss. And suddenly she knew who the poem was about.

Lady Morgan was his lost love.

The pain of that took her breath away. Whipping back to gaze blindly at Helen, she wondered why the knowledge should hurt so much at this moment. She had always known the poem was a lament for his lost love, yet somehow the sight of her here in Blackhaven, apparently not so lost after all, threw her completely.

She still loves him. That is why she is here .

And he still loves her.

The rest is inevitable.

She found she was rubbing her hand against her gown, over the place her heart must be, trying to ease the pain. She forced herself to stop, to listen to the next poem, which spoke of the beauty of the land in a way that both touched and amused. She had always liked it, and Helen entered into the spirit of it perfectly. Alice could not.

She only pretended to listen to the subsequent poets, Mr. Fanshawe and Darcy Daubin, who both read their own works. She was desperate to escape, to run until she collapsed and could do no more than howl.

Why do I feel like this? It's not as if I want to marry the man. Any man!

Somehow, she forced herself to stay for the rest of the readings. And then it was almost time for the Scottish pianist Frederick Baird to be introduced. After his recital, there would be a short break, and then Alice would play before tea, followed by informal dancing.

In fact, the children were dancing now, in the marquee on the lawn to protect them from the rain. Perhaps she had time to go and watch or join in. It was bound to be a fun distraction.

However, she had only just reached the great hall when she walked straight into Darcy Daubin. Steeling herself, she praised his work—having heard barely any of it—and received a complaisant smile.

He moved closer, not enough to offend, but enough to make her uncomfortable. "I find the ladies love such poor morsels. But until now, I did not fully realize the truth within. I might have written them with you in mind. Would you do me the greatest of honors?"

"What?" she asked warily. She recognized predatory lust in a man's face. She had seen it often enough, but never with the strange sort of flat coldness in Daubin's eyes.

He bent his head, and she only just stopped herself jumping backward. "Accept the gift of my poor book of verse."

She could smell the wine on his hot breath, felt the rise of panic.

She moved away just a little too quickly. "How very kind. Of course, I would love to accept," she babbled. "Thank you! Will you excuse me? My sister needs me to introduce our wonderful musician. You must listen to him…"

And at last she was away from him, breathing normally.

Frederick Baird was a breath of fresh air—shy, down to earth, and wildly talented. And when he began to play, she lost herself in the music, even while she admired his techniques and tried to learn from him.

He received tumultuous applause and the eloquent gratitude of her whole family. He even said he would like to stay to hear Alice play. She fetched him a glass of wine, and then, on her second effort to escape outside, was waylaid by one of the Vale twins.

"Come," said Leona mysteriously. "A gentleman wishes to talk to you about a book."

Cornelius! Did he want to talk about his own book, or the one Daubin was presenting to her? Had Daubin made some indiscreet inscription to her?

She was not sure she could face Cornelius until her feelings were clearer in her mind. But, it seemed, nor could she stay away. She was already following Leona across the hall to the passage and back into the poetry salon she had been so desperate to leave.

A man stood by the window with his back to her. But it was not Cornelius. He was golden blond and he wore a pale ivory coat over exquisite lace cuffs.

The door closed with an ominous click, and Leona's footsteps sped along the passage beyond.