Page 26

Half an hour later, Cressida had sailed to shore and hauled the launch back into the boatshed, collecting her boots on the way.

The tide had by now gone out a little but she only had to drag the launch a short way across the pebbled shore and above a tideline of stinking ochre-yellow seaweed to the doors of the boatshed.

A splash echoed in the half moment before Cressida realised that the yacht hadn’t tacked again.

The tide was high, so rather than sailing to the running mooring that MacGuigan had now vacated, Tait must be running the yacht up the loch-head and sailing right down to the iron gates of the garden itself, where a trench filled at high water among a network of beaches and natural inlets.

And someone else was swimming to shore. Watching between the tangle of birch branches, she glimpsed a dark head and a pale arm slicing the water.

One of the passengers had climbed overboard, striking out up the loch towards the house: Byron .

Of course he would make an entrance, sure of his audience as ever.

In the water, his limp had never mattered.

With a swift glance out towards the loch, she took the path back to the house at a brisk pace, pausing only at the sound of a wet scrabble as Byron hauled himself ashore, and now faintly laboured breathing as he scrambled up the rock face to her right.

Climbing hand over hand, he let out a satisfied gasp, as if he’d just spent his seed.

Not someone who was used to moving in silence, but when had he ever cared to do that?

She recalled a long winter weekend at Newstead as a new bride, wandering alone in overgrown gardens glittering and white with hoar frost. At the sound of footfalls, she had on instinct stepped away from the narrow cinder path, crouching behind a lichen-covered wall.

A fair-haired under-gardener hurried away from the potting shed with flushed cheeks, still adjusting his plain linen necktie.

Moments later, Byron had followed with languid carelessness, because it made no real odds to him if anyone found out that he had been rutting his own staff.

You ought to be a damn sight more careful of Greenham’s reputation, let alone his neck , Cressida had hissed at him, climbing back over the wall. What if it hadn’t been me?

He’d laughed, linking his arm through hers. But who on earth else would be hiding behind a wall in my garden like a naughty little girl escaping a thrashing?

She’d found herself unable to explain even to him why she’d hidden at the sound of approaching footsteps; an echo from a nightmare had accompanied her on every long, dark night since that morning in the dusty library at Rosmoney when she had sat beneath her father’s desk, waiting and waiting for him to come home.

You wouldn’t understand, George , she’d said at length, fixing her gaze on the hard-pruned rose bushes lining the path, sugared with white frost.

He’d grinned at her, irresistible as ever, even though he did not understand and never could.

Oh, come now, what’s really the matter, Cressy?

Never mind my silly little peccadillos. Am I such a bad host that you are driven to entertaining yourself with solitary walks, or has Greville been neglecting you again?

Honestly, the boy has no sense whatsoever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Without a sound, Cressida now edged away from the narrow path into deeper cover, concealed by bracken.

Gaining the path at last, Lord Byron rose from the undergrowth like a male Venus Anadyomene, dripping seawater, a sodden lawn shirt clinging to the well-muscled expanse of his chest and belly, breeches plastered to his thighs.

He wore a simple knotted scarf in lieu of a cravat, and soaking dark hair sent runnels of water down his neck.

She remembered very well just how much effort it cost to maintain his appearance, but it was a job well done

And as Cressida watched in silence, George Byron smiled up at the summer night: the only man save Greville Nightingale and Arthur Lascelles who knew where she had really been in all those lost years.

In truth, Byron was just as capable of ruining her this summer as she was of ruining him, and for her, this time it would be for ever.

And then he turned the full force of his attention to her, droplets of water clinging to the ends of his dark lashes like so many tiny pearls.

Byron stepped closer and then cupped her face between his hands in a movement that felt so natural tears started to her eyes. ‘Cressy, you look like hell. Do you think I’m here for the good of my health?’

He released her, genuinely offended by the state of her appearance.

He spoke as if the entire adventure with MacGuigan had never happened; she brushed away the fact that Lord Greville Nightingale had just taken a bullet for her.

‘Cleveland might be good value, but you know very well I find Annis Bute an untenable bore. She’s bloody fashionable, but it sticks in my craw to give her the satisfaction of my coming here.

’ He allowed himself a delicate shudder.

‘I was all for crying off but I came because I like you, Cressida, and by God you do need my help, but throw me a rope. Never mind what in hell’s name you were doing out on the loch just now, but you’re alone and unescorted on a loch-side path at six o’clock in the evening, looking like a baggage-train trull. What are you thinking?’

Cressida digested the fact that Byron had come here, in his own mind, to revive her reputation, when officially she had agreed to come here to engineer the opposite fate for him.

Lascelles was always finding new ways to demonstrate not only just exactly how much of a shit he could be, but also how low he could really make others stoop.

‘You came here because Caroline Lamb won’t leave you alone and you’re starting to find it embarrassing,’ she said, ruthlessly, as Byron fell into step beside her.

‘You’re probably getting a bit bored of her, too, aren’t you?

I’ve always suspected she’s not nearly as wicked and adventurous as she likes to make out. ’

He laughed, shaking more seawater from his hair.

‘You’re terrible. Terrible and accurate.

Caro has a habit of sinking into a vocal petit mort at almost the first touch, and it’s predictable after a while.

A word to the wise, though – if you want anyone to really believe you’ve been sauntering around the Levant with a train of servants carrying every last bandbox, don’t deal with gunshot wounds as easily as you’d pin up someone’s flounce, or put your own boat away in Scotland.

Everyone in our circle knows your father taught you to sail, but even Rosmoney left that sort of thing to his servants.

’ He turned to her with another disreputable smile. ‘Do you remember that night in Madrid?’

‘Who could forget drinking champagne in an enemy-occupied city?’ she asked, lightly.

She had leaned on the cupola of the sun-warmed bell tower of the Cathedral, he standing behind her, hemming her in with one arm on either side of hers, and the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck as they looked out across the burning city. ‘And was that a threat or a warning?’

He turned to her now with genuine hurt. ‘Do you really believe I’ve the smallest wish to hold that over you?’

I believe that most men forget all honour when their own is called into question, and especially by a woman.

‘Of course not, don’t be a fool.’ She leaned into him.

He frowned but relaxed at her touch, exuding a faint scent of brandy and starch. ‘What were you doing out here, anyway? Are Annis’s prosy guests too much for you already?’

Cressida smiled, making the usual calculation of what percentage of the truth she could afford to give away.

‘You know what these house parties are like – there’s no avoiding anyone at Drochcala.

I walked Lilias Tait home. The silly girl feared a hobgoblin on the path, although I think she was more likely to encounter a drunken pack-trader if anything. ’

As she’d expected, Byron was far more interested in himself than a female he’d never heard of, and made no comment.

They neared the edge of the lawn where the formal gardens encircling the house gave way to a woodland loch-side path.

‘I hope you don’t mean to go into the house in that state?

’ he said, cocking one arching dark brow at her.

‘It’s all nothing but soap bubbles, Cress – form is what matters and very little else.

’ He looked her up and down, taking in her damp skirts of lavender silk, her dishevelled curls and her grass-stained boots.

‘Before you ask, I’ve got two hundred in bank-notes but it won’t get you very far if you don’t look the part.

What do you mean to do, set yourself up in Paris or St Petersburg?

I warn you, if you’ve annoyed Lascelles’ masters, they could get at you in either place and from what I hear they likely will. ’

‘New York, in fact,’ Cressida said, crisply.

Lascelles could afford to be so indiscreet with his closest friends; he and Byron and their friends must trust one another with their lives and their reputations, after all.

She couldn’t imagine placing such trust in anyone on earth, except perhaps Ines, with her youthful conviction that Cressida would manage everything.

‘And when the money runs out, what next?’ Byron spoke with bored scorn, but she dared not let him feel the lash of her tongue when she needed him so much; she would not be safe until those bank-notes were safely sewn into her reticule.

‘I’ll be a rich man’s wife or mistress by then.’

Byron looked at her with a flash of something approaching compassion in his cold, weary blue eyes. ‘You’re already a man’s wife. Is a second son’s portion and Greville’s wages not enough to keep you in style?’

‘Between you and Annis it feels as if I must take orders from an entire army about what I need to do to be considered acceptable again,’ Cressida said.

‘And don’t worry, I’ve no intention of presenting myself in my cousin’s drawing room like this.

Do go inside, though. Annis will be beside herself about supper. ’

He sketched her a mocking bow and Cressida sighed, giving him her hand.

He raised it to his mouth like a connoisseur, brushing her fingertips with his lips so that a flash of heat shot up her arm.

She withdrew then, stepping away, unable to help herself enjoying the outrage in his eyes.

He’d got far too used to having those who piqued his interest exactly where and when he required them, but it was always better to leave him wanting.

He left her then without a backward glance, making his careless way across the lawn, soaking wet breeches clinging to his magnificent arse and thighs; over the years, he’d perfected a slightly rolling gait to disguise his limp.

Cressida turned upon an instinct, her gaze drawn southward across the lawn she’d crossed with Kitty just hours before.

It felt like days, even though she could still taste the champagne.

Here, scythed green lawn dissipated into ferns and wild fuchsia among the Scots pine and silver birch that grew between the house and the loch, the boathouse just visible.

The boathouse hadn’t been painted since she was a child, still a dull rust-red.

Eventually, civilised garden lost the battle and the grass itself gave way to a tough, wiry cousin that thrived on a twice-daily soaking at high tide.

Here, in the space between land and sea, the two bow-backed white pack-ponies grazed among the pines: in the stalking season, they bore deer carcasses, but for now they had nothing to do and one of them was lame, favouring a hind leg.

And as Cressida watched, Lord Greville Nightingale emerged from between the trees in his shirtsleeves.

Even from this distance she saw how untidy his hair was.

Had they lost the wind coming down the loch?

It would be so like him to take the oars, so bloody annoyingly competent.

He stopped where he stood, watching the lame pony move towards him.

Greville went to her, ducking his dark head to whisper into her tufted milk-white ear, then ran a hand along her flank and moved behind her, kneeling to lift up her back foot.

The knife was already in his hand, the hoof swiftly doctored – a stone, perhaps.

As she watched, he began walking up towards the house and Cressida realised he’d seen her and known she was there all along, but had chosen to ignore her presence.