Only a Kiss by Mary Balogh

22

Anger became a permanent state for Percy, though he kept it under control as he continued to mingle with his family and friends. He avoided being alone with Imogen. He had asked his uncles and his friends to keep an eye on her, and they did. Not that they had needed telling. Neither had the aunts and female cousins and younger male cousins, who had been informed about the situation, though they had not been shown the letter. They closed about her, the lot of them, like the petals about the core of a rosebud.

The bulk of Percy’s anger was directed against himself. He had put Imogen at risk in more ways than one when he had been self-indulgent enough to begin an affair with her. And making an open declaration of war against smuggling on his property had no doubt been rash and ill considered.

He deserved to be horsewhipped.

Unfortunately, he could not go back. One never could. He could not relive the past three weeks and make different decisions. Neither could he relive the past ten years. He could only move forward.

He missed Imogen with an ache of longing that was almost welcome. He deserved every pang and worse.

His determination to get to the bottom of things in response to that letter had met with some frustration. James Mawgan had a cottage up behind the stables, in a little cluster of such houses. He had not been home when Percy called there with Knorr on the Saturday afternoon. It was Mr. Mawgan’s half day, a neighbor had explained after curtsying to Percy, and he sometimes went to see his mam.

He was not there on Sunday either, a full day off for most of the outdoor workers. And on Monday he rode off early with another of the gardeners to see about getting some new bulbs and seedlings for the flower beds and kitchen gardens.

“Finally,” Knorr commented dryly, “the man is doing something to earn his salary. I’ll collar him when he gets back, my lord.”

After luncheon, Percy and a group of the younger cousins, including Meredith and Geoffrey, climbed to the top of the rocks behind the house, where they were rewarded with a brisk wind and scudding clouds across a blue expanse of sky and a magnificent view in all four directions. It would not have surprised Percy if someone had told him that on a really clear day one could see Wales to the north and Ireland to the west and France to the south.

And it had grabbed at something in him. His heart? Should it not be turning his knees to jelly?

Geoffrey was running along the top, his arms stretched to the sides, a racing yacht screeching into the wind. Gregory was in hot pursuit.

Evil could not be allowed to continue thriving here, Percy thought, like a cancerous growth upon the body of his own people. It would not be allowed.

Mr. Knorr was awaiting him in the visitors’ salon, Crutchley informed him when they returned to the house.

Mawgan was in there too.

“Ah,” Percy said as the butler closed the door behind him, “I trust you will soon have the flower beds blazing with splendor, Mawgan?”

“It is my plan, my lord,” Mawgan said.

“Good,” Percy said. “I shall look forward to seeing it through spring and summer and autumn.”

There! That was a gauntlet flung down between them. Whether he really would stay was uncertain. But it was as well that those who wanted him gone believe that he was planning to stay, that his resolve had not been shaken by any threat.

“Tell me, Mawgan,” Percy said, “Are you a strong swimmer?”

The man looked a bit mystified. “You have to be if you are a fisherman,” he said.

“But you could not save one man who fell overboard?” Percy asked. “I do not imagine the sea was particularly rough. As an experienced fisherman you would not have been out if it had been, would you? Certainly not with an inexperienced guest.”

“He fought me,” Mawgan said. “The silly bugger. He panicked.”

Knorr cleared his throat.

“And then he went under the boat, and hit his head,” Mawgan added.

“I thought that was you.” Percy looked closely at him.

“We both did,” Mawgan said. “I was trying to get him.”

“Who else was in the boat?” Percy asked him.

“My father, a few others,” Mawgan said vaguely. “I can’t remember.”

“I would have thought,” Percy said, “that every detail concerning that tragic incident would be seared upon your memory.”

“I hit my head,” Mawgan said.

“And while you were recovering,” Percy said, “Colin Bains volunteered to take the valet’s place and his father was first puffed up with pride at the prospect of having a son as batman to a viscount, heir to an earldom, and then suddenly, in a peculiar reversal of attitude, flatly refused to allow his son to go.”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” Mawgan said.

“Then Mr. Ratchett got you the job,” Percy said.

“He spoke for me,” Mawgan replied. “And Lord Barclay come to see me.”

“And when you returned from the Peninsula,” Percy said, “you were rewarded for your service with your present senior position on my outdoor staff.”

“It weren’t my fault, what happened to his lordship,” Mawgan said.

“Was it not?” Percy asked softly, and the man’s eyes met his for the first time. “Or were you sent to make sure that somehow, by fair means or foul, Viscount Barclay did not come home?”

And there went another gauntlet. There was really no going back now, was there?

They stared at each other. Percy expected incredulity, shock, outrage, some look of strong denial. Instead he got only the squinted stare, which finally slid away from him, and then the oldest answer known to man.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “My lord.”

“I am not at all sure how it was done,” Percy told him, “but I am sure that it was done. You were given your orders and you followed them. Someone must have had a great deal of trust in you. It was an important mission, was it not, but not an impossibly difficult one—far away from home, a war that was killing thousands of both high and low degree, no wind of blame to blow upon this particular part of Cornwall. The odds were high that it would happen anyway without any intervention on your part. But you had been there longer than a year, I understand. You must have been growing impatient and a bit anxious.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mawgan said again. “If you think I killed him, then you had better ask your— You had better ask Lady Barclay. The French took him and killed him. She was there. She will tell you.”

Your—?Lover, perhaps? It was the closest he had come to a slip of the tongue.

“Your orders came, I suppose,” Percy said, “from your uncle. But tell me, Mawgan, was he acting merely as an agent for someone above him? The head man, maybe, the leader of the gang, the kingpin? Or was he acting for himself?”

It seemed impossible, incredible, laughable—that dusty, shambling old man, surrounded by the estate books, forever writing in them in his meticulous, perfect handwriting, almost never leaving his study. But what other books and accounts did he work on in there? And he had not always been old, had he?

Paul Knorr had not moved since Percy came into the room. The clock on the mantelpiece, which Percy had not noticed until now, ticked loudly.

Was one allowed a third gauntlet? If so, he had flung that too.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mawgan said. “My lord.”

“In that case,” Percy said, “you had better return to your house. Mr. Knorr, will you ask Mimms, my personal groom, to accompany Mr. Mawgan, if you please, and remain with him? I have spoken to him—he will know what you are asking.”

When they were gone, Percy stared glumly into the unlit fire for a minute or so and then took himself off with firm step to the steward’s office. He probably should have summoned revenue officers, he thought. But how could one summon them for the mere whiff of an idea without even a shred of real evidence? He would be the laughingstock.

He supposed everyone concerned realized—or had been told—that if no one said any more than I don’t know what you are talking about in answer to any question on the topic, they were all perfectly safe. There was no evidence against anyone.

The only real error made so far was that letter to Imogen. For someone who was obviously very intelligent, it had been a stupid mistake. But it was not evidence.

He opened the office door without first tapping upon it.

The estate books were piled neatly on shelves and tabletops and upon one side of the desk. But surely half their usual number was missing.

So was the steward.

He had better not ever think of applying for a position as an investigator with the Bow Street Runners, Percy thought. He had been signaling his suspicions ever since Saturday afternoon, when he had gone knocking upon Mawgan’s door.

Ratchett was gone, and so were all the books and ledgers that were, presumably, not estate records.

*   *   *

They were down on the beach again, a large party of them, on a gloriously sunny afternoon that felt more like full spring than very early March. And everyone was merry after all the tensions of the day before.

Imogen still felt a bit numb with shock. Mr. Ratchett! Not only was he involved in the smuggling ring that had plagued their part of the coast for years, but it also seemed very possible that he was the leader, the ruthless organizer and beneficiary of the trade, the man who ruled his subordinates with a fist of iron but whose identity very few even of his own men knew or suspected. There was no proof that would stand up in a court of law, but the fact that he had disappeared and that he had apparently taken with him half the contents of the steward’s office was strong corroborative evidence.

He had been living among them for years and years, a seemingly harmless eccentric.

Imogen wondered if her father-in-law had had any inkling.

It was no wonder they had tried to get Percy to leave almost as soon as he had arrived. It was no wonder they had resorted to threats when he had not only refused to budge but had also declared war on the trade on his land.

Oh, how they had had everything their own way for the past two years, with only two unsuspecting women living in the main house and one at the dower house!

And it seemed more than probable that Mr. Mawgan had drowned Dicky’s valet. But what had upset Imogen more than anything else and kept her awake through much of last night, listening to the light snoring of Mrs. Hayes’s maid, was the equally unproven theory that James Mawgan was a trusted lieutenant of Mr. Ratchett’s army, perhaps even his heir apparent, and that it had been carefully arranged that he accompany Dicky to the Peninsula to ensure that he did not return.

But . . . it was a French scouting party that had come upon them in the Portuguese hills and captured them. James Mawgan could not have had anything to do with that. Could he?

He had been put briefly under house arrest yesterday. But with the disappearance of Mr. Ratchett there had been no grounds upon which to hold him, and Percy’s groom, who had been guarding his cottage, had been called off.

James Mawgan had also disappeared by the time Sir Matthew Quentin had sent for him later in the evening to question him further in his capacity as the local magistrate.

Percy had sent for him, and Sir Matthew in his turn had summoned a customs officer, who had arrived late in the evening. The three of them, as well as Mr. Knorr, had conferred well into the night. Meanwhile Elizabeth, who had come with her husband, had sat in the drawing room holding one of Imogen’s hands and listening to the story being told and retold and told again by everyone else who was gathered there.

The four men had spent the morning together again, conducting interviews both at the house and in Porthmare. The ladies, with a male escort, had buzzed about in what Imogen deemed pointless preparations for the ball in four days’ time. The servants had the mammoth cleaning chores well under way, and the cook had the menu fully organized.

Now this afternoon, at last, they were relaxing. Mr. Wenzel and Tilly had arrived at the house soon after luncheon, full of concern over the news. The three Soames sisters arrived soon after with their brother to see if the young people cared to walk with them. Mr. Alden Alton came on their heels, escorting Elizabeth, who had come to be with Imogen since Sir Matthew had not been able to deliver any very comforting news at luncheon. And everyone in the house was bursting for air and exercise. At least, the younger element was. The older people seemed quite thankful to watch Imogen being borne away, safely surrounded by a large body of exuberant youngsters as well as Mr. Welby, Viscount Marwood, Mr. Cyril Eldridge, and Percy.

A number of possible destinations had been suggested, but almost inevitably they had ended up descending the path to the beach like a long, slow-moving snake and then frolicking on the sand. Parasols were raised above bonnets while their owners chatted and giggled and flirted. Tall hats were pressed more firmly upon heads though there was not much of a wind, and their owners looked ruefully down upon boots quickly losing their shine beneath a thin coating of sand. Hector, with so many people wanting to throw items for him to chase, ended up chasing his stunted tail.

And yet, Imogen noticed, the scene was not quite as carefree as it might have appeared to a stranger. She walked for a while with her two friends, one on either side of her, each with an arm linked through her own. But a number of the gentlemen, without making it at all obvious, formed a loose ring about her and directed frequent glances to the top of the cliffs.

Mr. Wenzel, Imogen was interested to note, after showing her all due concern up at the house, was walking arm in arm with Meredith, a little apart from everyone else.

And then, almost as though the move had been orchestrated, both Elizabeth and Tilly moved away to talk with other members of the group, everyone else moved back a little so that the circle about Imogen became larger, and she found herself walking beside Percy. He did not offer his arm, and she clasped her hands firmly behind her back. They seemed suddenly isolated in a little cocoon of near privacy.

“I miss you,” he said softly.

She ached for him as she lifted her face to the blue sky and watched a couple of seagulls chase each other overhead.

“Dicky was not ever going to come home, was he?” she said. “It must be a hugely lucrative business. Mr. Ratchett, if it is indeed he, must be enormously wealthy as well as powerful. Please find him, Percy, and destroy his power and release all the people who do his bidding out of fear.”

“I will,” he promised, though they both knew his chances of fulfilling that promise were slim at best.

“Imogen,” he said, “save every waltz at the ball for me. Please?”

She turned her head and looked at him briefly. It was almost her undoing.

“I cannot do that,” she said. “Perhaps not even one. All these people—all of them—believe us to be lovers, and the dreadful thing is that they are right. Or were right. I have been justly punished. You will be leaving here after the ball, when all your guests leave?”

“Probably,” he said, “even if only temporarily. I want to take you to safety. I want to take you to London.”

“I will be going to Penderris next week,” she reminded him. “I will be there for three weeks. I would guess that George will try to persuade me to stay longer and that each of the others will try to persuade me to go with him. They are good friends.”

“And I am your lover,” he said. “Go there first, if you will, but then come to London with me and marry me. I rather fancy a grand ton wedding at St. George’s on Hanover Square. Don’t you? And I never thought I would hear myself say that. Come with me and marry me, Imogen, and let me keep you safe for the rest of your life.”

Unhappiness assailed her like a great ball of lead in her stomach, weighing her down, freezing her so that she no longer saw the blue sky and the sun. The two gulls, playing a moment ago, were now crying mournfully.

“I cannot marry you, Percy,” she said.

“You do not love me?” he asked.

She closed her eyes briefly as he stopped to pat Hector on the head and then squinted up at the cliff top.

“I am very fond of you,” she said.

He spoke the same shocking word he had uttered when he saw her letter. This time he apologized.

“But I would rather you hated me,” he added. “There is passion in hatred. There is hope in it.”

“You do not need to marry me,” she said. “I have friends.”

“Damn your friends,” he said, and apologized again. “I suppose you are talking about those Survivor fellows rather than your neighbors here. I am beginning to dislike them intensely, you know, Imogen. Does any of them love you? There are a billion degrees of love, I know. But you know what I mean. Does any of them love you? The way I love you.”

Her mouth was dry. Her knees felt weak. The struggle to stop herself from weeping made her throat feel raw with aching.

“To use your own word,” she said, “we had sex together, Percy, and it was good. It ought not to have happened, but it did and it was good. It is over now, though. I am fond of you. I always will be. But it is over.”

“You do not know how you tempt me,” he said, “to unleash upon you the full arsenal of colorful vocabulary I normally reserve for male ears only and that only on rare occasions.”

“Yes,” she said sadly. “I believe I do know. But you will return to London and you will soon forget me.”

“Well,” he said, “that calls for the least offensive and most unsatisfactory item in that arsenal. Damn! Double damn! And don’t expect an apology. Ah, I am sorry, my love. I truly am. I asked, you replied, and like a gentleman I should have started conversing politely about the weather. Forgive me?”

“Always,” she said.

“I will ask again,” he told her, “perhaps on the night of the ball. It would be a fittingly romantic setting, would you not agree, and we could make the announcement to our gathered guests. I believe you, you see, when you say that you are fond of me. However, I do not believe you have spoken the full truth and nothing but the truth. I shall ask again, but I shall try not to pester you. Which is precisely what I am doing now. Do you trust this weather? Or will we be made to suffer for it with storms and vicious cold for the rest of the spring? I never trust weather. It gives with one hand and then delivers a knockout blow with the other fist. If, of course, we pretend not to be enjoying the sunshine and warmth one little bit, then perhaps we can trick the weather fairy into giving us more of the same just to keep us miserable. Do you think? Are you a good actor? It is a dreadfully tiresome day, is it not? The sunshine forces one to squint.”

And, incredibly, she ended up laughing. He went on and on, all on the topic of the weather, getting more absurd by the minute.

And he was laughing too.

It cut like a knife, the sound of their laughter and the feel of it bubbling up inside her. It hurt that he loved her, that he believed she loved him.