“He said—he asked me not to tell you.”
“So. You’ll think he is there, and I would never expect him to be there. But where will he really be? I think he disguises himself during the day from those of us who recognize him.”
“But why?” Emma’s voice barely cleared her throat. “Why would he hide himself? What does he want? Who is he?”
“The man who controls the secrets of Aislinn House.” The implacable voice shook finally. “He is Ridley Dow’s uncle far, far too many times great. He is Nemos Moore.”
Seventeen
That evening Gwyneth read to the twins:
So charming were the unexpected visitors to Sealey Head that in no time at all both Mr. Blair and Sir Magnus Sproule were possessed of the same idea: they—at least the highest-ranking among the strangers—should come ashore and be given a sumptuous dinner. Exactly where the necessary succulent viands were to be found in the desperate and impoverished town, neither of them knew. Somebody probably had a pig left. Or a sheep. Surely Lord Aislinn hadn’t drunk up his entire wine cellar. There must be cabbages around somewhere. And leeks. And—
But, alas, the handsome man they assumed was captain, since he did most of the speaking, told them apologetically. For various reasons, neither captain nor crew could leave the ship. The reasons were vague: things were hinted at, allusions were made to the nature of the cargo, to a distinguished unnamed presence, to the contract with the ship’s owner, a formality surely, but they had given their word of honor not to leave the ship until it was safely in port. You understand, being men of the world.
Indeed the two men did. They glanced down at the boards beneath their feet and understood that either a woman of unearthly beauty, or the heir to a great realm, or a hold crammed with gold and jewels lay just beyond eyesight.
But, the captain continued, there was no reason why he should not extend his own invitation to the dignitaries of Sealey Head. They should come to supper on the ship the very next night, and they would be given such a repast as they would remember for the rest of their lives. And they should, of course, bring their wives.
Mr. Blair and Sir Magnus Sproule agreed with alacrity. Such was the miserable fare in town the past months—thin fish soups, ancient bread and cheese, withered vegetables, hard, sour fruits—that they were already dreaming, as they clambered down the side into their boat, of rich creamy sauces and hot, bloody, peppered meat.
They hastened to shore, spread a general, appeasing word of their visitors’ peaceful intentions. And then they conferred in private with Mr. Cauley and Lord Aislinn.
The four of them were pretty much the extent of the dignitaries in town, besides the owner of the stationer’s shop, a most intelligent man who might even discern where the strangers came from. But he grew dizzy and was prone to fainting just putting one foot into a rocking rowboat; there would be no persuading him. The four of them it would be. Wives had been mentioned, it was reluctantly remembered. Wives should be brought, lest the omission be considered rude or suspicious. Lord Aislinn’s wife, having come to the conclusion that anything must be an improvement over life with her selfish, profligate, untrustworthy, misery-making libertine of a husband, had departed this vale some years earlier. He would bring his daughter, Eloise, he decided immediately, his eye brightening at the thought of a wealthy, charming husband who might be away at sea most of the time, leaving his possessions under the care of his father-in-law.
That determined, they hastened home with the news, causing four pairs of eyes to gleam with anticipation for the first time in months. And of the four, the eyes of Lord Aislinn’s daughter shone the brightest.
Gwyneth stopped. The twins, Pandora on the sofa, Crispin prone on the carpet with his chin on his hands, looked at her expectantly.
“Go on,” Crispin urged. “Tell what they ate at the feast.”
“She doesn’t find a husband, does she?” Pandora asked uncertainly. “Gwyneth, does this have a happy ending?”
“I don’t know. Which way would make it happy? That she does find a husband, or she doesn’t?”
“Well, she can’t marry one of them, can she? They’re wicked!”
“So,” Toland Blair murmured over a palm frond, “I’m beginning to think, is my eldest daughter. What have you in mind for those poor unfortunates?”
Gwyneth considered her plot and reddened slightly. “Nothing good, I’m afraid.”
“I think it’s a marvelous story,” Crispin said staunchly, sitting up. “Only I wish you didn’t write it in fits and starts. You should just finish it.”
“Well, I would if my writing life didn’t go in fits and starts.”
“Do you know what’s going to happen?” Pandora demanded.
“Yes. I think I finally have all of the pieces.”
“Speaking of invitations,” Mr. Blair said, rummaging around his desk. “Your aunt Phoebe and I have both been invited to the Sproules’—ah—what did they call it? ‘Evening affair, with supper and dancing, to meet Miss Beryl,’ ” he read from the card. “Phoebe is very pleased. Though it’s quite soon: they give us only two days to choose our dancing slippers.”
“I believe they were concerned about Lady Eglantine,” Gwyneth answered as vaguely as possible. Her father slewed an ironical eye at her.
“Ah.”
“May we go?” the twins demanded together. Crispin’s voice, sliding perilously into the upper registers, sounded so much like his sister’s that he blushed scarlet; his mouth clamped shut.
“Of course not.”
“But I am so rivetingly curious about Miranda Beryl,” Pandora exclaimed. “Please, Papa!”
“You weren’t invited,” he said pitilessly. “We’ll tell you all about it. And hope that it doesn’t end in the kind of disaster your sister’s story portends.” He contemplated Gwyneth in silence a moment, smoothing his mustache. “It can’t have been your extremely conscientious governess. Or that bland educational establishment in Landringham. I can’t imagine what it was that gave your mind such an aberrant turn.”
“Luck, I suppose,” Gwyneth said cheerfully, and went to put her papers away.
At tea the next afternoon, Aunt Phoebe could talk of nothing else—of shoes and silks and Gwyneth’s hair and the generosity of the Sproules—until the twins moaned in torment, and Gwyneth felt like joining them. Fortunately, Daria arrived with news that wrested everyone’s attention from the party.
“Mr. Dow is back at the inn!” she exclaimed almost as she entered. Her stricken eyes, very round and for once unblinking, kept them from instant, general rejoicing; held in abeyance, they all waited for the bad news. “He has had an accident! But—” She held up her hand, cutting short the immediate agitation. “He will be fine, I heard. He will attend our party.”
She waited; so did everyone else, trying to anticipate the next emotional hurdle.
Finally, Aunt Phoebe said, rather bewilderedly, “That’s wonderful news—I mean about—Gracious, child, what kind of an accident?”