A Conformable Wife: A Regency Romance with a spirited heroine

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “You forbade me to speak to you again, I know, but good God, ma’am! How else can I convince you that I’m sincerely sorry? Impossible to explain oneself in a letter. If only you would grant me a few minutes alone with you…”

  She swallowed and managed to speak, keeping her voice steady by a strong effort.

  “That will not be necessary, sir. I accept your apology.”

  “But you can’t bring yourself to forgive what I said? I understand,” he replied in tones of deep mortification.

  There was no time for more even had she been sufficiently in possession of her wits to think of anything to say.

  She watched his retreating figure across the room and felt a wild impulse to run after him, to tell him that she forgave everything.

  But such conduct was forbidden by propriety and pride alike.

  Captain Barclay had decided that morning to make one of his frequent trips to Bristol. He would have liked to feel that he would be missed by Mrs. Fordyce but knew he could not indulge himself with any such hope. That fellow Dyrham or any one of the lady’s other admirers would do equally well to keep her company, he thought bitterly. The only consolation in his frustrating situation — if consolation it might be accounted — was that so far she did not appear to favour any other above himself.

  The captain did not allow himself to brood over his unfortunate love affair for long. The morning sky was clear and the early October air exhilarating; his horses took him at a spanking pace along the good turnpike road, which was lined with trees slowly shedding their gold, brown, and russet leaves to make a crisp carpet for travellers afoot.

  Arrived in Bristol, he left his curricle at The Bush, a hostelry in Corn Street that supplied excellent dinners, and then set out upon his accustomed leisurely tour of the docks and waterways. His heart lifted when, reaching the drawbridge, he was greeted with the nostalgic sight of tall masts all along Broad Quay. He loitered there for some time, turning a keen eye on the ships and their rigging before watching the men cranking hand cranes to lift the cargoes ashore. There were kegs of wine from France, Spain, and Portugal, sugar from the West Indies, and bales of cloth brought by coastal vessels from other parts of Britain. The kegs and bales were loaded on to horse-drawn sledges or pack horses to be conveyed to the many Bristol warehouses and to places farther afield.

  When he had looked his fill at this bustling scene, he moved onward to that part of the wharf called The Grove, where there was a dock for larger ships, and here, for a while, he watched the Great Crane at work, an ingenious mechanism erected on fourteen cast-iron pillars and powered by treadmills. He fell into conversation with an officer from one of the merchantmen and eventually invited him to take a glass at the Llandoger Trow in nearby King Street, his favourite port of call in the area.

  Dusk was descending as they went into the tavern, which was already crowded. They managed to find two seats in a nook not far from the door and were soon pleasantly occupied in an exchange of seafaring talk, tankards in hand.

  The Llandoger was a timbered, low-ceilinged building with several small rooms opening out of each other, all dimly lit; a haze of tobacco smoke clouded the atmosphere, for several of the customers were puffing away at clay pipes. From time to time, Captain Barclay gazed incuriously about him, but on one such occasion his glance suddenly sharpened and remained fixed for a moment.

  Two men were sitting in earnest conversation close together on one of the window seats at the other side of the room. The intervening space between them and himself was thronged with other customers, but intermittent movements in the crowd brought them now and again into view. In spite of the dim light and haze in the room, Barclay recognised one of the men instantly as Colby.

  It was no more remarkable that Colby should have decided to pay a visit to Bristol and look in at the Llandoger Trow than it was for Captain Barclay to have done so, but anything concerning that gentleman was always a matter of interest to the captain. Whenever a gap in the crowd permitted, his eyes returned to the pair, and he soon decided that Colby was keeping some unexpected company. The man beside him was certainly not a gentleman, nor did he have the look of a seafaring man. His sharp-featured face had an unpleasantly shifty expression, and his dress was rather like that of an impecunious clerk from one of the warehouses. What could the elegant, well-turned-out Colby possibly have in common with such a man? Business, perhaps, thought the captain, but what kind of business was likely to be conducted in the tap-room of the Llandoger Trow?

  The captain’s sharp eyes observed Colby quickly withdraw a small package from his pocket, and the second man as stealthily transfer it to his own. It was the work of a few seconds only, and no one less keenly interested than Barclay would have noticed the manoeuvre. A few moments later, he saw that Colby had risen and was shouldering his way through the crowd toward the door. The captain quickly turned his back in that direction, confident that he would escape the other man’s notice.

  The man to whom Colby had been talking remained in his seat for a short time after his companion had left, then, before leaving the tavern, rose to exchange a few words with the landlord. The captain cast a swift, appraising glance over him as the man passed on his way to the door. Certainly an odd business, all this.

  Chapter XXIV

  On the following morning Barclay and Aldwyn chanced to meet in Milsom Street.

  “By the way, Aldwyn,” said Barclay, after they had been chatting for a few minutes, “I’ve something to tell you I think you may find of interest. Saw a friend of yours — ours, you might say — while I was in Bristol yesterday.”

  “In Bristol, were you? Thought I missed you in the Pump Room. By your tone, I collect the friend you mention may have been a horse of a very different colour. Miss Dyrham, perhaps? Or Colby?”

  “Your second guess scores the bull’s eye. Colby it was, in the Llandoger Trow in King Street. Often go there myself for a chat with other seafaring men, but wouldn’t have thought it was his touch. Especially not in such devilish odd company.”

  Aldwyn raised his brows.

  “Well, always up to the mark, Colby, ain’t he?” said the captain. “Not the chap to hobnob with the lower orders. But there he was with a seedy individual, tall, thin man who’d got a cast in his right eye, talking in a mighty intimate way, as if their business had some importance. Saw Colby pass the other man a packet of some kind, too; furtive about that, to my way of thinking. Seems the seedy character was known to the landlord, though, as they exchanged a few amicable words after Colby had left the tavern.”

  Aldwyn looked thoughtful. “Yes, that is certainly interesting, in view of what I already know about Colby.”

  “May be nothing in it,” admitted Barclay. “I don’t mind owning to an obsessive curiosity over Colby’s concerns, of late. You know my reasons well enough. Thing is, I’d like to have more information about the fellow. He’s too much of a dark horse for my liking.”

  “Mine, too,” agreed Aldwyn emphatically. “Do you know, Barclay, I’ve half a mind to — well, I’ll be damned!”

  The exclamation escaped him at sight of a curricle proceeding along the street toward them in a press of traffic. Barclay’s attention alerted, they both watched the driver of the equipage feather-edge neatly around two other vehicles so that he could let his horses out a little. This achieved, he passed by at a fair rate without noticing the two men on the pavement. His female passenger was similarly oblivious, laughing up at the driver in approval of his expertise.

  “Talk of the devil!” said Barclay. “Colby and Miss Melville! Neatish pair of bays he’s got there,” he added approvingly.

  “To hell with his bays!” exploded Aldwyn.

  “Just so,” agreed the captain. “Well, must be on my way. Got an appointment with my tailor. Devilish bore. I’ll see you again, my dear chap. Tell you what, are you doing anything this evening?”

  “Nothing of importance. My sister and Giles are spending the day with some of his relatives and will be d
ining there. Wanted me to accompany them, but the prospect didn’t appeal.”

  “Don’t blame you for that. Join me for dinner, then, at my place? Pot luck, you know, but I dare say you won’t mind that. Shall we make it six o’clock? Earlier, if you like.”

  “Six will do nicely.”

  “Good then. Till dinner, old chap.”

  After the captain had gone, Aldwyn strolled aimlessly up and down the street, lost in thought. He was intrigued by what Barclay had told him. What kind of business would anyone of Colby’s cut be likely to have with a down-at-heel man in a waterside tavern? Likely some kind of barter, since a package had passed between them. Like the captain, Aldwyn felt an overpowering interest in anything concerning Colby; there was something havey-cavey about that man, and the sooner his subterfuges were brought into the light of day, the better for all concerned. It was not only, he persuaded himself, that Henrietta Melville was implicated.

  Suddenly his mind was made up: he would try his hand at investigating the business. He strode purposefully back to the house and ordered his curricle brought around to the door. As his sister and brother-in-law were not in, he suffered no delay beyond what was needed to change into driving clothes.

  He took the road for Bristol, driving at a spanking pace, which caused his groom to cling on to the dickey seat grimly at times. Arrived in the town, he made for King Street, where he alighted and handed the ribbons to his groom with instructions to await him at the Bush hotel.

  There were few customers in the Llandoger when he entered, and a quick, searching glance assured him that the man described by Barclay was not among them. This did not disappoint him, however, for he had scarcely expected such good fortune. In truth, he had entered impulsively on this venture with no clear plan of campaign, trusting to his wits to serve him should anything helpful transpire.

  The landlord appeared promptly, and Aldwyn ordered a tankard of ale. He leaned against the counter as he drank, engaging the landlord in casual conversation meanwhile. After a few minutes, he decided to broach the real business of his visit.

  “A friend of mine was in here yesterday evening with a man who seemed to be known to you — tall, thin individual with a cast in his right eye. Can you direct me to that person? I’ve a message to pass on.”

  The landlord’s face, which was of a healthy, ruddy colour, paled slightly, and his eyes shifted uneasily to a point immediately behind Aldwyn. The latter turned his head sharply and saw that a man had approached soft-footed to his elbow. He was a head shorter than Aldwyn, but more thick set, and it crossed Aldwyn’s mind that he would make a powerful adversary in a fight. He was wearing a dark coat of undistinguished cut, serviceable brown breeches, and boots. In spite of the man’s ordinary appearance, however, to Aldwyn’s military eye he conveyed an impression of assurance and authority.

  “And what might be the nature of that message, your honour?” the stranger asked softly, so that no one but themselves could hear.

  “That I will reveal to the man I am seeking,” replied Aldwyn curtly.

  The other nodded. “Just so. I think, sir, you and me could do with a bit of a talk. If you’ll be good enough to step this way. Landlord, see to it we’re not interrupted.”

  Aldwyn hesitated a moment before following him through into a small, empty room. Having gestured toward a bench against the far wall, the man seated himself beside Aldwyn.

  “Keep an eye on the door from here,” said the other. “Always put your back against the wall, take my tip. Now, sir, who might you be?”

  “I might be anyone,” replied Aldwyn stiffly.

  The other chuckled. “Ay, well said, but you ain’t, sir. You’re quality — that much is easy to tell — and been a military or naval officer not so long since, I’ll be bound. Also you’re a bit o’ a sportin’ cove: good muscles, in spite o’ that natty tailoring, and a handy bunch o’ fives, I’d opine. But none o’ that gives me your name.”

  “You’re an observant fellow,” said Aldwyn, “but can you give me any good reason why I should tell you?”

  “Plenty, and never doubt that I’ll know the answer, choose how. I’ll also want to know why you comes in here askin’ after felons,” replied the man grimly.

  Aldwyn’s eyes glinted. “Felons, you say? You mean the individual I’m looking for is a criminal?”

  The man considered him carefully for a moment. “Ay, well, mebbe you needs to ask that, and then again mebbe you doesn’t. First, we’d better know who you are — and then who’s this friend of yours who came here last night.”

  “You’ll learn my name when I discover your authority for demanding it!” snapped Aldwyn, but already he was beginning to have an inkling of the man’s identity.

  The other nodded. “As you say, sir.”

  He eased a short, thick truncheon from his pocket, displaying the Crown stamped on its head before returning it smartly.

  “Jack Trimble, sir, Bow Street Runner, and here’s my warrant, too, should you be disposed to doubt my bona fides, as they say.”

  He produced a warrant card signed by the magistrate at Bow Street. Aldwyn nodded and drew out his own visiting card.

  “Suspected something of the kind,” he said, handing over the card.

  The Runner studied it, then consulted a notebook which he took from his pocket.

  “Aldwyn Court, north of Frome in Somerset,” he said.

  “Proprietor Lord Aldwyn — your parent, sir? — and a Justice of the Peace. Ay.” He returned the notebook to his pocket, closing Aldwyn’s card inside it. “And how,” he continued sternly, “does it come about that the Honourable Julian Aldwyn has a friend who hobnobs with felons, eh, sir?”

  “The fact is,” replied Aldwyn, “he’s no friend of mine, though it seemed expedient to tell the landlord so, in order to gain the information I required.”

  “Which is, sir?”

  “The man I falsely described as a friend of mine is a gentleman who goes by the name of Colby,” began Aldwyn.

  Trimble cocked an eyebrow. “You have reason to suspect that’s not his real identity?”

  “Indeed I have, for when I encountered him previously in London, he was going under another name.”

  “Ah, London,” said the Runner in a satisfied tone. “Tell me what you know of this cove, sir.”

  “Precious little. I came here today in the hope of discovering more. However, I’ll put you in possession of such facts as I have. About ten days ago I came to Bath on a visit to my sister, Lady Barrington, who lives in the Circus. I found this fellow Colby had recently arrived in the town and had quickly moved into the first social circles, although no one knew anything about him. I recognised him as a man I’d been warned about when I paid a visit with some friends to a London gaming house. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the same man, though for the life of me I was unable to recall the name under which he was going at that time.”

  “I might just be able to assist you there, sir. But go on, please.”

  “Naturally, I’d no desire to see my sister and her friends imposed upon by a wrong ’un. I issued a timely warning, but it had little effect. The fellow’s plausible enough, and a great favourite with the ladies,” he added with a hint of bitterness.

  The Runner eyed him shrewdly and decided there was most likely a female in the case. “Yes, go on.”

  “A genuine friend of mine chanced to be in this tavern yesterday evening, one Captain Barclay, a naval man who resides in Bath. He noticed Colby sitting with the man I was inquiring about just now. He, too, has little trust in this Colby, so he took some interest in the pair. They seemed an ill-matched couple, yet were talking very intimately together, and at one point, a packet of some kind passed between them. They were pretty furtive about that, so the captain said when he told me of the incident.”

  “Just so. A smallish packet, that would be?”

  “None of this seems to come as a surprise to you, Mr. Trimble,” remarked Aldwyn, studying the other intentl
y.

  “No, sir, can’t say as it does. So do I take it that you came here in hopes of meeting your man Colby’s companion of last night and interrogating him?”

  Aldwyn nodded. “Seemed a slim chance, but worth a try,” he acknowledged. “Well, I’ve revealed to you what little I know, but so far you’ve given no information in return, and I strongly suspect that you’ve a deal to tell. You referred to Colby’s companion as a felon?” He looked inquiringly at the Runner, who gave a knowing wink.

  “Name of Ned Bly. A known receiver of stolen goods; fence is what we calls ’em. He was apprehended this very morning on account of information we received from a pawnbroker.”

  Aldwyn whistled. “Stolen goods, b’God! Then do you mean that Colby —?”

  “Suppose you describe this Colby, Mr. Aldwyn, sir. Just so’s there’s no slip-up, as you might say.”

  Aldwyn proceeded to do so, and the Runner appeared satisfied.

  “Ask the public to describe anyone and ten to one it’s no help at all,” he commented. “But you, sir, you know how to use your eyes. You’ve got this cove off pat, as you might say. Slight Irish brogue, too; that tallies. Does the name Clavering mean anything to you?”

  “Clavering. Yes, that’s it!” exclaimed Aldwyn. “That’s the name mentioned to me in London! Damned if I could ever call it to mind before, try as I would.”

  “There’s quite a tale to our Mr. Clavering alias Colby,” said Trimble thoughtfully, “and seeing as I’m satisfied about your bona fides, sir, and what’s more you may be of some assistance to me in the pursuance of my inquiries, as they say, I’m minded to make you cognisant of it.”

  “I’d be devilish obliged if you would. As for any assistance, you may count on me, right enough.”

  “He first came to our notice when a complaint was laid against him at Bow Street by a wealthy London merchant,” began Trimble. “Seems he’d been courtin’ the merchant’s widowed sister; after her money, as the family was quick to see. They put a stop to it, or the silly widgeon would’ve wed him, so what does he do but clear out takin’ her jewels with him, worth I dunno how many thousands. I was hired to track him down and recover the loot, a guinea a day and expenses. I’ve been on the job for a month now, so you can tell my client’s well breeched, eh?”