Fully awakened, her conscience nagged her and gave her no peace, calling her a stupid little fool for her thoughtless agreement to so damaging a plan as Susanna had suggested. Better by far to have stayed within the safe confines of Miss Pym’s school than to perpetrate such a deception.
Then there was the unfortunate effect that the Earl himself appeared to have on her. It seemed that the confusion he had thrown her into that day in Oakham was nothing compared to encountering him at close quarters. Lucille had led a sheltered existence, but none of the fathers or brothers of her pupils had ever made her pulse race in the disconcerting way Seagrave had affected her. His face had a disquieting tendency of imposing itself between her and the written page; the cadences of that mellow voice haunted her thoughts.
None of her reading could help her to understand this peculiar chemistry between them. She even caught herself daydreaming, an indulgence which both puzzled and horrified her. But none of her dreams of him could be in any way encouraging. He thought she was Susanna, after all, and even if he had met her under her own identity she did not flatter herself that he would have any time for a frumpish bluestocking. As for what he would think of her if he discovered her impersonation…She refused to allow herself to even consider that.
Fortunately for Lucille’s equilibrium, Seagrave did not appear again at Cookes, although his agent, Mr Josselyn, called with some long and convoluted legal papers for Lucille to sign. She perused these with intense concentration and made a list of points on which she required clarification. She then stopped dead, realising that it was not her place to query the lease, but Susanna’s. That inevitably made her recall the masquerade and she found herself out of sorts again. Normally she would have walked off her low spirits, but now she felt she could not even venture outside the gate of Cookes.
On the second day of enforced inactivity, Lucille threw her book aside in despair. It was Sunday evening and the church bells had been calling across the green. The shadows were falling now and all was still in the dusk. It was such a beautiful evening that Lucille was suddenly determined to go out. She put on her bonnet and coat, and slipped out of the front door.
The green was deserted and it was indeed pleasant to be outside now that the heat of the day had gone and the air was full of birdsong. Lucille left the shelter of Cookes’s gates and crossed to the duck pond, holding her breath lest anyone see her. But all was quiet. It felt astonishingly liberating to be in the open air. For a while she just stood and enjoyed the neat prettiness of the cottages about the green, their gardens bursting with verdant summer flowers, their white-painted walls reflecting the last rays of the sun. Then she walked slowly across to the ancient stone church, and paused with her hand on the iron gate, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to go inside.
The church, like the village, was deserted now that the evening service was over and the congregation dispersed. Lucille let herself into the green darkness of the interior, and sat in a worn wooden back pew, breathing in the mixture of flower scent and ancient dust. It was so evocative of her childhood with the Markhams that her breath caught in her throat. The familiarity was soothing in an existence that had become so unexpectedly difficult. She said a few heartfelt prayers before letting herself out of the door into the churchyard, which had become full of deep shadows.
The first intimation Lucille had that she was not alone came with the pattering of paws along the path, and then a magnificent chocolate-coloured retriever was before her, sniffing inquisitively at her skirts and pressing its damp nose into the palm of her hand. Lucille laughed at this shameless bid for attention, bent down, and fondled the creature’s silky ears.
‘What a beauty you are, aren’t you! I wonder what your name is…?’
The dog snuffled softly, rubbing its head against her hand, before turning, suddenly alert, its ears pricking up.
‘Her name is Sal, Miss Kellaway, short for Salamanca.’
The Earl of Seagrave had stepped out from the shadows of an ancient yew tree and was viewing Lucille with thoughtful interest. ‘She is not usually so friendly to strangers.’
Lucille watched Sal return submissively to her master’s heel, and smiled at the look of adoration in those limpid dark eyes. No doubt that was the type of gaze she should be perfecting in the interests of her impersonation. However, there was something about the clear evening, scented with herbs and yew, which made her rebel against the idea of acting a part. She looked up from the dog to see that Seagrave was still watching her.
‘Were you at Salamanca, my lord?’
‘I was.’ He straightened, coming towards her down the path, the dog now close at his heels. ‘It was my last battle, Miss Kellaway. I had been in the Peninsula for four years, first serving under General Sir John Moore and then under Wellington—Sir Arthur Wellesley, as he was to begin with. It was July when we came up against the French just south of Salamanca; July, just as it is now. I remember it well.’
Seagrave took a deep breath of cool, scented air. ‘It was hot, with the kind of oppressive, airless heat you can get in Spain in the summer. The land around was arid, dry as dust. The dust was everywhere…in our mouths, in our noses, in our clothes…We sat on the flat top of our hill and watched the French lines to the south of us, on the higher ground.’
His voice had taken on a still, reflective quality. ‘You may have read that the battle was a great triumph for Wellington. So it was. The French were cut to pieces with at least fourteen thousand casualties. It was carnage. I was wounded advancing across the valley between the two hills. We were in the range of the cannon and I fell with shrapnel in the chest and shoulder. So I was invalided out, and shortly after that I inherited the title and thought to stay at home.’
He stirred slightly and gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘My apologies, Miss Kellaway! It is unforgivable to speak of such matters to a lady. You must forgive me.’
Lucille shook her head slightly. She had become caught up in the tale, could almost feel the heat of the Spanish sun and taste the dust. War was an experience so far removed from the lives of most people that it was almost impossible to begin to imagine it. Many did not want to try, finding the contrast with their own easy existence too uncomfortable to contemplate.
‘I am sorry,’ she began, unsure what she was really apologising for, but aware that the undercurrent of bitterness which had touched his voice briefly was present in that still, shadowed face. ‘It must have been very difficult to adapt to civilian life after such experiences.’
Seagrave gave another harsh laugh. ‘Indeed it was, Miss Kellaway! After the immediacies of life and death, the delights of the ton, whilst entertaining, seem damnably shallow! But it is hardly fashionable to speak so! No doubt you think me most singular!’
‘No, sir.’ Lucille caught herself just as she was about to express her own preferences for reading and studying over routs and parties. The shock of realising that she had almost betrayed herself caused her to fall silent, her mind suddenly blank. It was impossible to be forever remembering that she was supposed to be Susanna.
‘I am glad to see you have overcome your aversion to dogs,’ Seagrave observed suddenly, watching as Sal lay down with her head at Lucille’s feet. ‘I thought you once said that you hated them.’
Lucille froze. Did Susanna hate dogs? She had no idea. Seagrave was looking quite bland, but she suddenly had an unnerving feeling that he was deliberately testing her. She shrugged lightly.
‘I do not recall…’
‘When you were driving in the Park one day last summer…or was it two summers ago?’ Seagrave mused. ‘Harriette Wilson’s dog bit your arm and I am sure I remember you saying you thought they were hateful creatures and should all be destroyed. You were quite vehement on the subject!’
Lucille