chapter 3
There was a dead silence as both Laura and Merton gaped at the dog. The top of his square head was level with James’s waist—and James was a tall man. The animal’s muscular body was a mottled combination of black and yellowish tan, but the muzzle and face were entirely black, as if he wore a mask, and it rendered his eyes barely visible, giving him an even more sinister appearance.
James flicked his hand toward Laura. “Guard her.”
The dog stalked over—he was even more terrifying at close range—and took up a stance beside Laura, fixing Merton with his unswerving gaze. Color drained from the big man’s face and he dropped Laura’s arm. Shooting her a final vicious look, Merton whirled and strode away, not glancing in Sir James’s direction.
Laura’s stunned gaze followed him for a moment, then went to James. Gratitude mingled awkwardly with her years-old dislike. “I, um, thank you.”
Sir James gave a careless shrug and strolled toward her. As he drew close, she could see that purplish shadows were smudged beneath his eyes and his face was etched with lines of weariness. “I could hardly allow the churl to accost you. And he was annoying me.”
Obviously Sir James accepted gratitude as gracelessly as he did everything else. Laura looked down at the dog. Her gaze hadn’t very far to go. The animal regarded her gravely, the thick wrinkles above his eyes giving him a worried look.
“And thank you,” she told the dog. He accepted the compliment better than his master, giving a single wag of his tail as he continued to study her. Laura was someone who generally liked dogs, but this one made her a trifle wary. “May I pet him?”
“You’re wise to ask.” James might look older and more worn, but his voice was the same, delivering whatever he said in a cool, faintly ironic tone, dipping now and then into ice but never warming. She remembered it well; their last conversation had lingered in her thoughts for a long time. “But, yes, you may touch him. He’s not likely to bite your hand off.”
“Not likely? That’s reassuring.” She stroked her hand across the wrinkled head. He allowed her caress without losing any of his dignity—no tail-beating, rear-end-wiggling, hand-licking response from him. His calm steady gaze was a trifle unnerving. “Trust you to have a pet that terrifies people.”
She thought the noise James made was a chuckle. “Trust you not to back away from him.”
Had he just given her a compliment? It seemed unlikely. “What’s his name?”
“Demosthenes.”
“Demosthenes?” Her eyes flicked up to his. “The orator?”
“And seeker of truth.” James gave her a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes; it was the only kind she had ever seen on his face. “He has a knack for pulling the truth out of people.”
“Mm. I imagine he can be very persuasive.” Laura smiled.
James shifted and cleared his throat. “Miss Hinsdale . . . as I told that oaf, I’ve come to see your father. Is Dr. Hinsdale in?”
Unexpectedly, tears filled Laura’s eyes. She had not cried for a few days, but somehow now, at his casual mention of her father’s name, she was pierced all anew. She could see James’s eyes widen slightly, his faint but unmistakable pulling back.
“What—” he began, but left the sentence dangling.
“Papa died two weeks ago,” she told him baldly. No need to couch things in a genteel manner with this man.
Despair gazed back at her for an instant before the mask descended once again on James’s face. “I see.” His hand tightened on the head of his cane and he appeared to lean on it now rather than use it as a whim of fashion. “Well, that’s that, then.” He glanced away. “My condolences.” Then, awkwardly, “I am sorry, Laura.”
“Thank you.” The use of her given name startled her; he had not addressed her so since they were children. Though he was Graeme’s cousin, he had never been Laura’s friend. But there was a genuineness to his brief statement that unexpectedly touched her. “Would you like to come in?”
He looked as if he needed to sit down.
“Oh. Well.” James’s face was tinged with an uncertainty she had never seen in him. “Yes, thank you.”
He followed her into the house, pausing at the doorway. “Perhaps you’d rather Dem not enter.”
“Why?” She looked over at the dog. “He was my rescuer, after all.”
“He is also rather large, and he has a deplorable tendency to, um, salivate.”
As if to demonstrate, Dem shook himself vigorously, sending slobber flying from his drooping jowls. Laura laughed. Somehow it made the impassive dog less intimidating.
“I see what you mean. Still, he deserves a treat, don’t you think? I suspect we can handle a bit of a shower.”
Both man and dog trailed after her as she went into the kitchen. Filling a large bowl with water, she set it down on the floor. While Demosthenes lapped up water, she fished through a pan on the stove, coming up with a bone, which she placed on a plate beside the dog.
“You have made a friend for life.”
At James’s words, Laura turned toward him. He stood in the doorway, still perfectly straight, but there was something unutterably weary in his face. He was ill; that would be why he had come to see her father. It must be something dire to have led him here. Not, of course, that he would deign to tell her. She gestured toward the kitchen table.
“Won’t you sit down? Or perhaps you’d rather sit in the parlor.” Sir James was not the sort of man who visited in the kitchen.
“This is fine.”
“Would you care for tea?” She moved to the stove to heat the kettle without waiting for an answer.
“Thank you, no,” he replied, but when she set the cups down on the table a few minutes later, he took a sip.
It was exceedingly strange to be sitting at the kitchen table with Sir James de Vere, sharing tea. Laura cast about for something to say. “I’m sorry you came all this way. Can I help you, perhaps, or . . .” Laura trailed off.
“Thank you, no,” he said again, with as little emotion as he had earlier rejected her offer of tea. “It was a professional matter. Graeme suggested it. Clearly, he was not aware of your father’s passing.”
“No.” Laura shook her head. “I haven’t written his mother yet. It must be such a happy time at Lydcombe Hall, with the new baby. I hated to bring up anything sad.”
“I am sure Aunt Mirabelle would want to know, however. And Graeme.”
“Yes, she’s always been very kind to me. She and my mother were close friends.”
“I remember. I shall tell them, if you wish, when I reach Grace Hill.”
“Thank you. Pray tell her that I will write soon.”
Another silence fell. The dog’s crunching of the bone seemed inordinately loud.
“What sort of dog is he?” Laura dredged up another topic.
“A mastiff. He’s a good watchdog, though not as fierce as he looks.”
“I would think his appearance would suffice.”
James smiled faintly. “Generally.” He glanced around at the emptied cabinets and filled boxes. “What will you do now?”
“I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’ll go to my father’s relatives.” Laura could not entirely keep her distaste for that idea from coloring her voice, so she forced a smile to negate it.
“I am sure Aunt Mirabelle would be happy for you to visit, um . . .” He cleared his throat. Laura suspected he had belatedly realized the awkwardness of Laura’s presence in the house of the man who had once loved her.
“Yes, Lady Montclair is very kind, but the situation is—it hardly seems the time to intrude upon them. The new baby . . .”
“Of course. Well, I . . .” He pushed up from the table. “I should go.”
She stood up, as well, relieved to be rid of him—though she would rather miss the reassuring presence of the enormous dog stretched out on her kitchen floor, gnawing at the soup bone. For a moment her home felt warm again, as it had on so many nights when she sat with her father in this very room, talking about his research or an unusual medical case.
James hesitated. “About that fellow . . . will he return?”
“I feel sure he learned his lesson.” That was a lie. Merton would doubtless be back tomorrow; he wouldn’t give up the money her father owed him. But she wasn’t about to reveal all the miserable details of her life to James de Vere. She would simply have to manage to stay out of Merton’s clutches.
“But . . .” From the way he frowned, she suspected James didn’t believe her. He would probably also guess that the man had been hounding her for money. He had seen the small cottage and its rather shabby furniture. It made her cringe to imagine what his thoughts were.
“I’ll be fine.” Laura squared her shoulders, smiling determinedly. “Thank you once again.”
Her tone was dismissive, and after a moment’s hesitation, James bowed and took his leave of her, slapping his hand against his thigh to summon Demosthenes. The dog arose ponderously and followed him, bone still clenched between his teeth.
Laura stood in the doorway, watching her visitors depart. Sir James attempted to dissuade the mastiff from bringing his prize into the carriage, but finally he lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat and motioned for Demosthenes to jump in, bone and all. Apparently Demosthenes’s powers of persuasion worked on his master, as well. It was almost enough to make one like the man. Almost.
She shut the door and turned the lock. Drifting to the window in the parlor, she stood, looking out at their minuscule garden. But she did not see the tall spikes of purple irises or the riot of red roses climbing the trellis.
All she could see was Sir James in this room eleven years ago as he hammered the nineteen-year-old Laura’s dreams of a life with Graeme into dust. It was unfair to blame him. Sir James had not forced her to give up Graeme. He could not have compelled his cousin to marry an American heiress.
He had simply told her, as swift and sharp as a knife, that her continued engagement to the man she loved would ruin him. Graeme was too much a gentleman to break off their engagement himself, so Laura must do it. James had ripped aside the rosy veil through which Laura had been viewing the world those last few months and made her face the truth.
And for that, she could not like him. She had managed to avoid seeing him again, an easy enough task given that Laura was in London only infrequently and James scorned the social whirl. Time had covered the old wound. Passion subsided and memories faded. Her love for Graeme had not died, exactly, but it had settled down to present regard and a wistful memory.
Laura was truly glad that he had come to love his wife . . . though she was human enough to wish sometimes that his wife were not quite so stunning. She found it was possible to live a happy life without Graeme. For companionship, she had had her father—and indeed, what would the man have done without her there to see his socks were darned, his schedules met, and his meals cooked? As for the rest of the emotions she had felt during those brief months of love with Graeme so long ago: the heat, the yearning, the uprush of joy, well, she had managed without them.
Still, it was something of a shock to see Sir James, a painful relic from her past rising up to disturb her in the here and now. She wondered what disease was eating away at his vitality. However cold, he had been a figure of power, of strength—tall, leanly muscled, implacable. Something like his dog, now that she thought about it. It was strangely disturbing to see him ill. She could not help but remember when she had told him her father was not there and for a brief moment his face had been unguarded—and utterly hopeless.
Laura grimaced and turned away from the window. Why was she standing here thinking about James de Vere? She ought to be worrying about her own situation, which was decidedly bleak. Her father was dead, whatever pittance of income she had now gone. Even if she managed to sell all their possessions, it would not pull her completely out of debt. And the man to whom she owed money was a remorseless pig.
Sir James de Vere didn’t matter. She would never see him again.