“Oddly, no.” It was meeting Judith that had begun it again, but she could never tell him that. “I received a proposal of marriage this morning.”
He held her gaze. “Did you accept?”
“No, I told him I would never marry.” She lifted her chin. “It was a relief to get it over with.”
His gaze fell to her hand as she covered it up once more with the uncomfortable, wet glove. “It doesn’t look much of a relief to me.”
She laughed and changed the subject. “What was Gayle like at school?”
“Popular. Entitled.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“I wouldn’t have noticed him except he took a dislike to me.”
“Really?” she said in surprise. “He seems very proud of you now!”
“He can afford to be. Then he was a schoolboy with something to prove against a supposedly cleverer, younger boy. Now he is a member of parliament, married to the sister of a wealthy peer, and I am merely someone’s secretary.”
“Position matters to him,” she said thoughtfully. “But he won’t work for it, like Gervaise, or like you. He’s looking for shortcuts.”
“Possibly.”
They rounded the rocks into Braithwaite Cove, hardly beating the tide. She could hear the waves crashing against the rocks beyond the cove. The castle loomed above them, and she was sorry the journey had ended. She wondered if he would stay on the beach and leave her to return discreetly without him. But he didn’t.
They walked up the path together, and he only left her at the side door of the castle, murmuring, “You will stick to the plan?”
“Of course.”
“And be careful,” he breathed as he vanished inside.
*
Maria spent most of the time until dinner in her bedchamber, reading the pamphlet Judith had given her. She could see almost at once why Michael said it was the best of her, for it was lucid, persuasive, even moving in parts. It was hard to believe the same woman who had spoken to her with such antagonistic contempt, such lack of basic understanding or interest, was responsible for this work. It didn’t sound like Judith.
It did sound familiar, though.
Thoughtfully, she closed it and rose to change. A knock at the door heralded not her maid but her younger sisters who had come to find out the latest news.
“Did Underwood really offer for you?” Alice demanded.
“What did you say?” Helen asked.
“Oh dear, you haven’t been asking everyone about this, have you?” Maria asked.
“Of course not,” Alice said with dignity, throwing herself on the bed. “Well, only Frances and Serena, who didn’t know anything about it. And Eleanor, who wouldn’t say. We couldn’t find, Gervaise. Or you. Where were you?”
“I went into Blackhaven to call on Miss Warren, Mr. Hanson’s betrothed.”
“What is she like?” Helen asked.
“I don’t know,” Maria said honestly. “There are too many sides to her. There is the woman I dislike and there is the woman who wrote this.” She tapped the pamphlet on her desk.
Helen picked it up and took it to the bed where they both sprawled to read it, while the maid bustled in to help Maria change her gown and dress her hair for the evening.
“She wrote this?” Alice said when the maid had gone. She was clearly as impressed as Maria, who nodded in reply. “Perhaps you’ve misjudged her.”
“I think perhaps I have.” And yet there was the matter of Gayle, and those cold eyes and…
“Perhaps she doesn’t like you because of Michael,” Alice mused.
Maria, still standing in front of the glass, spun around to face her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s betrothed to him. And he clearly likes you.”
Heat seeped into her face. “Not in the way he likes her.”
Alice studied her a little too closely. “Perhaps that’s why you dislike her.”
Alice had always been too smart for her own good. Or anyone else’s. “Don’t be silly,” Maria muttered. “He has merely been a friend to all of us, and I wouldn’t like him to make the wrong choice,”
Alice nodded, considering the matter. “I suppose it is not yet set in stone. We should meet her.”
Maria opened her mouth to discourage that idea.
“She sounds like Michael,” Helen pronounced.
Maria closed her mouth again and frowned at her youngest sister. “I thought that. And then I decided I must be imagining things. But he says it is her work.” She shrugged. “They are close. It’s expected they would share ideas, use similar phrases.” And styles? She almost wrote like Michael talked.
“Anyway,” Alice reminded her after the long distraction. “What did you say to Lord Underwood?”
*
In the drawing room before dinner, she noticed that Frances and Serena both kept looking at her, although neither, clearly, were prepared to draw unwelcome attention by interrogating her in front of Underwood and the Gayles.
Mrs. Gayle, however, had no such compunction. She moved from the sofa to take the chair next to Maria’s and enjoy, as she put it, a comfortable talk. Maria clasped her hands in her lap but, mindful of Michael’s observation on the beach earlier, she kept her nails away from the wound in her palm.
Mrs. Gayle talked about gowns and silk versus muslin for younger ladies, until everyone else was involved in other conversations. Then she said mildly, “You rejected my brother?”
“I told him I had decided not to marry,” Maria said. “And I value his continuing friendship.”
“Not to marry? My dear, you are seventeen years old!”
“Which does not make me a child,” Maria pointed out. “If I were, I would neither be out nor desirable as a marriage partner to anyone.”
Mrs. Gayle blinked.
“I expect you found that, too, when were my age,” Maria observed. “Everyone expects you to be as obedient as a child, but to behave otherwise as an adult.”
Mrs. Gayle’s mouth fell open, then closed again. “I suppose you are right,” she said doubtfully. “It did not enter my head.”
“How old were you when you married Mr. Gayle?” Maria asked, which served two purposes—distracting Mrs. Gayle from her questions about Underwood’s proposal, and leading her to discuss her husband.
“Nineteen,” Mrs. Gayle replied.
“Not so much older than I, and you chose a most distinguished man.”
“Yes, I did,” Mrs. Gayle agreed, then frowned. “Do you not find Underwood distinguished?”
“Most distinguished and charming. But he and I would not suit. Not like you and Mr. Gayle. Was he a member of parliament when you married him?”
“Newly so,” Mrs. Gayle replied. “And most proud of it. It was never enough for him merely to run his estates, hunt, and attend the ton parties.”
“He wished to serve his country in other ways?”
“In other ways also,” she replied. “Beneath that amiable exterior is burning ambition—for his country, as well as his himself and his family,”
“Of course,” Maria murmured. It might have been true. Either way, she had never had the notion that Gayle’s ambition was backed up by any great talent or intelligence. He was, she suspected, merely Underwood’s mouthpiece in the House of Commons. Perhaps he was rebelling against that, looking for his own independent position. “Then I suppose he must support Wellington in this renewed war.”
“While applauding his victories on the Peninsula,” Mrs. Gayle said diplomatically, “he believes another might have accomplished them sooner. In short, like many in his party, my husband finds the duke somewhat overrated in the country.”
“Does he speak up in parliament?” she asked with deliberately gauche eagerness.
“Oh, yes.”
“I expect he is a great writer, too.”
“Writer?” she repeated, baffled.
“Oh, you know, political tracts and pamphlets. I saw many in London.”
&
nbsp; “I have no idea,” Mrs. Gayle confessed. “I’m afraid I leave politics to the gentlemen.”
Which was, Maria reflected severely, part of the problem with the world. Perhaps fortunately, by this time, Eleanor was leading her guests into dinner, and Maria and Mrs. Gayle were separated.
Near the door, she met Michael’s gaze for an instant, but his only acknowledgement of the interrogation he must have observed was a faint twitch of his eyebrow above his spectacles.
At dinner, she was seated between Tamar and Underwood. She would have rather sat beside Gayle for several reasons, but in fact, Underwood was far too gentlemanly and worldly to allow a mere rejected proposal of marriage to create awkwardness. Conversation was easy, even amusing. At one point, she even found herself wishing she did love him, for life with him would undeniably be civil and entertaining. She doubted he would be faithful and further doubted that she would care. But it would make everyone happy. Except her.
Even without Michael to muddy the waters, she could never have married him. Adventuring in Europe with her talented sisters seemed the best option for her life. Unless she took to charity at home.
At last, the interminable meal finished, she happily followed Eleanor out of the dining room. Her mother beckoned to her.
“Ten minutes, Mama, and I shall be back,” she murmured, and hurried off to the staircase as though going to her own chamber.
She didn’t. She took the left-hand passage to the guest chambers, snatched up and lit one of the candles on the landing, and hastened along the quiet corridors to the room she knew to be Gayle’s. She put her ear to the door, listening for any sign of a servant within. She even knelt and glanced through the keyhole.
Satisfied, she turned the handle and found the door locked. Sighing, she delved into her reticule and extracted the key she had earlier taken the trouble to remove from the housekeeper’s set belowstairs and unlocked the door.
Chapter Sixteen
Over the few months he had been employed by the Earl of Braithwaite, Michael had noticed that politics was only discussed over dinner or port with particular guests. With his brothers-in-law, for example, or close friends. Which made it difficult to get Gayle to talk about politics. Inevitably, of course, the preparations for meeting Bonaparte in battle came up, and Michael prodded it into a discussion of British readiness.
“It’s a mistake,” Gayle pronounced. “They are not our best troops and, frankly, Wellington is not our best commander.”
“Poppycock,” Torridon said flatly. “You know nothing if you genuinely think that.”
“Of course, I believe you were in the Peninsula with him during your army days. It’s natural you feel some loyalty to the man, but if you look at it with the proper perspective of distance—”
“Distance?” Torridon interrupted. “What has distance to say to anything? I have studied military strategy since I was twelve years old. I believe I know what I am talking about. Wellington will whip those men into shape and, frankly, he is the only possible choice acceptable to our allies, as well as our troops.”
“What else would you do?” Michael asked Gayle. “Bring the troops home again?”
“Yes, I believe I would. There is unrest enough at home that we may well need them here to quell riots.”
“Leaving Boney free to roam across Europe at will? Again?” Torridon snapped.
“Some truce that would keep him within his own borders—” Gayle began.
“We are already committed to the legitimacy of the Bourbon restoration,” Braithwaite interrupted. “No one wants further war, but I see no other alternative than throwing everything at Bonaparte and relying on the commander who has proved himself repeatedly.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Gayle allowed, setting down his glass. “And perhaps it is the best thing for Europe. I am just not convinced it is the best thing for our country. Excuse me, gentlemen…”
As he began to rise, Michael swiftly refilled his and Gayle’s glasses. “A toast, first. To the confusion of tyrants!”
Amid laughter, Gayle could do no more than drink with everyone else, by which time Michael distracted him with a question about Wellington’s victories in Spain, drawing Torridon in.
Only when the subject turned, did Gayle again rise. Michael, unwilling to repeat his distraction tactics, which might then become too obvious, merely rose with him.
“Going to the cloakroom at the end of the passage?” Michael asked cheerfully.
“Actually, I was going—”
“Carry on, then. I’ll go up to my own chamber.” Almost shoving the startled Gayle toward the cloakroom, Michael sprinted around the corner to the side stairs, taking them three at a time. He had to warn Maria, if she was still in Gayle’s chamber, for he was sure the man meant to head there at some point before returning to the dining room.
He knew where most the guest bedchambers were. The trouble was, as Maria had pointed out, he didn’t know which was Gayle’s.
*
Maria searched as quickly and methodically as she could by the light of her one candle.
After a quick rifle through his clothing shelves and overcoat pockets, she looked quickly through the documents on the desk. However, these seemed only to be personal letters and a bill from his tailor. The desk drawers held nothing except a spare bottle of ink such as Eleanor left in all the rooms, and an engagement diary.
She drew out the diary and set it and the candle on the desk. Quickly turning the pages toward the end of April, she found Braithwaite Castle scrawled across the days he’d planned to stay. The date of the ball was marked, too, with a heavy underscore. And both yesterday and today at 5pm he had scrawled KH—King’s Head?
She turned to the next page for tomorrow’s engagements. 11am—CH.
She frowned over that one. Someone he was to meet? She squinted to see if she could make it say GH for Gideon Heath, but it really was a C. Perhaps he pretended to be a captain to outsiders to boost his own importance.
Or perhaps CH stood for coffee house?
She replaced the diary in the drawer and moved to the bed. Here, she looked under his pillows and felt under the mattress all the way round. Finding nothing, she knelt and peered under the bed. This was where he had stashed one of his trunks, so she drew it out and opened it. Inside was only a wooden box the size of a large document box or escritoire.
With some excitement, she drew it out and set it on the floor in front of her. But when she tried to open it, it held fast. It was locked.
Maria scowled. However, refusing to give in, she took a pin from her hair, stuck it straight into the lock, and wiggled it. The second time, she tried a little more carefully, but no one could have been more surprised than she when something actually moved and the lid lifted to her pressure.
Beneath the writing surface, it was packed with documents, two piles of handwritten pamphlets. Each pile appeared to hold different titles. She let out a little gasp of excitement, but there was no time, or even enough light, to read them properly, to find out if they were harmful. Since she suspected Gayle was not the sort of man to count such things, she took one from each pile, crammed them into the reticule at her wrist, then closed the box again. She wiggled the hair pin in a hopeful kind of way, but she was sure she could hear quiet footsteps in the passage outside, so she gave up, and laid it back in the trunk as quietly as she could.
Unfortunately, the hinges of the trunk screeched as she closed it up. Hastily, she thrust it under the bed where it had been before, and jumped to her feet, just as the handle of the chamber door moved. In some alarm, she sprang across to the door that connected to his wife’s chamber and darted through, leaving it just enough ajar that she could peer through the crack and see Gayle—or his valet—if they came far enough into the room. At the last moment, she blew out her candle and hoped the smell of it would not seep into the chamber beyond.
If Gayle was suspicious and checked, would he remember whether or not he had actually locked his documents
away?
Oh, the devil! He will remember he locked his chamber door! She wanted to bump her forehead off the door at her own stupidity. Fortunately, she refrained. Her heart thundering, she listened to the faint brush of feet across the carpet, saw the faint glow of a solitary candle growing nearer. By its dim light, a man came into view, his movements, his very posture, speaking of wariness. He turned to face the connecting door.
Maria wrenched it open. “Michael!” she almost uttered, except he whipped his finger up to his lips and darted through the door to join her.
“Gayle might be on his way up,” he said low. “I shoved him at the downstairs cloakroom, but he was hardly obliged to stay there.”
“Then I need to lock his door!”
Brushing past him, she sprinted across Gayle’s bedchamber, locked his door, and ran back into Mrs. Gayle’s room. There, she and Michael gazed at each other in silence. By the soft light of the candle, he looked mysterious, handsome and learned, and Maria couldn’t help a mischievous grin. She opened her reticule to show the pamphlets. His lips quirked in response, and he inclined his head with respect.
After a few minutes, Michael said, “I think he must have gone back to the dining room. I’d better go back, too.”
She relit her candle from his and walked across Mrs. Gayle’s chamber to the door. “How did you know which was his chamber? Did you hear the trunk hinges screech?”
“Is that what it was? If I hadn’t heard it, I would have resorted to battle plan B.”
“What was that?”
“Hide in the corner until he went into his room and hit him over the head with a candlestick.”
“That was a poor plan.”
“It was. You’ve no idea how glad I am I don’t have to use it. You’d better unload your reticule. It will burst open like that, and you’ll end up arrested for sedition.”
“I’ll hide them in my chamber and bring them to the library in the morning for you to read. Oh, and Michael, I saw his diary and he has an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning! He has marked it CH, which I was hoping was Gideon in poor handwriting. But I think it might mean coffee house.”
The Wicked Sister Page 16
