The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Lady Brougham’s eyes widened. She raised a hand to her throat. “You don’t think…?”

  Frederick met her gaze and forced his features to ease into what he hoped was a reassuring expression. “I don’t believe your husband or you are in any way involved.”

  Brougham made a choked sound—as if he’d been about to hotly protest being named a suspect, then realized he hadn’t been.

  Frederick returned his attention to Brougham. “I did, however, want to ask if, while in researching the book, you learned of anyone else who had an interest in it—anyone unscrupulous enough to not greatly care by what means they laid their hands upon it.”

  He and Brougham were both well aware that there were quite a few gentlemen of questionable morals who inhabited the shady edges of the ancient book trade. Consequently, Brougham did not dismiss the question outright but frowned in thought. Eventually, however, he shook his head and met Frederick’s gaze. “No. As far as I know, none of that sort were after this particular tome.”

  “You were at the auction—who else was bidding?”

  Brougham humphed. “Other than me and your man, there were a handful of flashy, young, would-be scholars—you know the sort, those who fancy themselves as erudite gentlemen, at least for this year—but I didn’t sense they were that put out, especially not when they heard the final price.”

  Frederick nodded. “Dilettantes.”

  “Precisely. Other than them, there was no one else.”

  “No one hanging back on the sidelines, waiting to see who the book went to?”

  Clearly thinking back, Brougham slowly shook his head. “I didn’t notice anyone, but ask your man—as he didn’t start bidding until it was just me left, he had more time to observe the onlookers.”

  Frederick nodded. “I will.” Then he grimaced. “But it doesn’t sound as if the book is high in anyone else’s mind.”

  Brougham shrugged. “The subject matter is rather esoteric.”

  Frederick nodded. “True.”

  Silence fell, then with determined brightness, Lady Brougham said, “Now you are here, I hope you will take tea with us. We can go into the garden and be comfortable, and I would like to introduce our children to you.”

  Frederick glanced at Stacie.

  Stacie caught his look and saw the hesitancy behind it, but she was fully in agreement with Lady Brougham’s transparent wish to foster a closer relationship. The two men were ridiculously stiff and stilted in each other’s company, yet she’d detected not the slightest true antipathy between them, and given their shared interests and Brougham’s genuine concern over the attacks, the pair would benefit from a closer association, yet apparently it required Lady Brougham and herself to push them together. She smiled, every bit as brightly as her ladyship. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  She rose with Lady Brougham, and together, they walked out of the drawing room. Neither looked back, leaving their husbands to trail after them as they would.

  Yet by the time she and her ladyship had progressed through a parlor and out onto a pleasant rear terrace, taken seats at the wrought-iron table there, and finally, looked to see how their menfolk were faring, the pair had their heads together and were deep in some scholarly discussion of musical theory.

  They joined the ladies at the table and consumed their share of the tea and cucumber sandwiches placed before them, but their minds barely deflected from the matter under discussion.

  And once they’d finished with their first topic, Brougham volunteered, “You were right about Jolyneaux’s treatise—once I read it through carefully, I saw the holes in his argument. Quite reprehensible for the journal’s board to encourage him to spout such nonsense.”

  “Indeed.” Frederick nodded, then looked at Brougham. “Have you thought of putting your name forward for the editorial board?”

  Brougham met Frederick’s eyes and, after a moment, said, “I will if you will.”

  Frederick’s brows rose, then he nodded. “Done. We need to get them back on track, at least as far as our specialties go.”

  And they were off again, diving into what, for all intents and purposes, was the arcane.

  Stacie understood perhaps one word in a dozen. She looked at Lady Brougham, who rolled her eyes and tipped her head toward the lawn. “Come and meet our children.”

  Three young boys had been playing farther down the lawn.

  With her ladyship, Stacie walked slowly down the gentle slope.

  Lady Brougham cast a glance back at their husbands, then smiled and faced forward. “I cannot tell you, Lady Eustacia, how pleased I am to see them talking. Simply talking and sharing their views. I’ve been trying to engineer such a meeting for years, but while Albury was unwed, the opportunity to even meet him was rare and usually not in company conducive to persuading him to call here.”

  Fascinated, Stacie regarded her ladyship. “Please—just Stacie.”

  Lady Brougham smiled back. “I’m Henrietta, and I do hope we can be friends.”

  “I hope so, too,” Stacie averred. “And in light of that, might I prevail on you to explain just what the situation was between our husbands that, apparently, inhibited them from interacting with each other before today?”

  Henrietta made a disapproving sound. “That’s just it—there never was any situation as such between them, no difficulty or anything like that. Well, other than their characters, I suppose.” She met Stacie’s eyes. “Has Albury mentioned that he and Brougham attended Eton together—in the same year?”

  “He alluded to it in passing.”

  “Well, because of that, they shared the same classes throughout their time there, and as far as I’ve gathered, both were fixated on music and history even then. Brougham’s primary instrument is the oboe, and Albury’s was always the piano, so not even in that were they in direct competition. Yet instead of their shared interest drawing them together and becoming a source of friendship, it became the source of a muted sort of rivalry. Nothing in any way violent or extreme, of course—just trumping each other over acquiring this book or that, as in this most recent instance. Their areas of interest intersect, but as I understand it, don’t overlap by that much that either feels threatened by the success of the other—and of course, they went to and remain affiliated with different universities, so even in that, they don’t personally compete.” She paused, then went on, “It always seemed to me that they were both, inside, stiff and standoffish with the other—with each of them waiting for the other to make the first move, which ensured that neither did.”

  “Ah!” Stacie saw the light. “Each wanted the other as a friend, but was uncertain the other felt the same way, so neither wanted to make the first move and risk being rejected.”

  Henrietta regarded her as if she’d finally found a like-minded ally. “That’s exactly it—you’ve put your finger on it.”

  They glanced back at the table on the terrace, where their husbands were deep in discussion. Stacie studied the sight. “I have rarely seen Albury so animated. He needs this as much as you suggest Brougham does.”

  “They should always have been friends.” Henrietta looked on the pair with fond pleasure, then met Stacie’s gaze. “Although I think it might well fall to us to keep them talking, at least in the short term.”

  Stacie grinned. “Nothing could be easier. We’ll simply have to organize some quiet dinners for just the four of us. Perhaps we can add their museum curator friend, Wiggs?”

  Smiling, Henrietta tipped her head in agreement, and they continued to where the children were playing.

  The rest of their stay went in meeting and being greeted appropriately by the Broughams’ three boys. Stacie was pleased to find that Frederick and Hubert had progressed to first-name terms as well. As soon as the children rushed off, the talk turned once more to musical matters. Both men seemed a trifle stunned by how very much they had in common; it was transparent that both had dispensed with the shields they had, apparently, kept high for well-nigh tw
enty years.

  Men! Stacie had to smile.

  By the time Frederick asked for the carriage to be sent for, and he and she rose to depart, and Henrietta and Hubert walked them to the door, it seemed clear, at least to both ladies, that the basis for an ongoing friendship had been laid.

  “Perhaps you might come for luncheon next time,” Henrietta suggested.

  “That would be lovely,” Stacie responded. “And we must, at some point, have you come down to stay at Brampton Hall.” She caught Hubert’s eye. “I’m sure Hubert will be keen to see Frederick’s collection.”

  Although interest flared in Hubert’s eyes and Frederick didn’t look at all opposed, neither man said yea or nay; instead, they exchanged a somewhat startled look, as if only then realizing that their wives had formed an alliance, possibly even more definitely than they had.

  As they shook hands and took their leave, Stacie couldn’t help but reflect on the irony that, courtesy of the attacks and whoever was behind them, she had made two female friends in as many days.

  The curricle, drawn by Frederick’s bays, had been brought around to the gravel before the porch. Frederick and she descended the steps, and he handed her up, then climbed up himself, and with last waves to the Broughams, who were standing on their porch, they rolled off down the drive and turned onto the road back to London.

  “Well,” Frederick observed, as he tooled the bays along the macadam, “while in the matter of learning who is behind these attacks, that was a waste of time, I’m…happy that Hubert and I had a chance to talk.” He glanced sidelong at Stacie. “We never really have, you know.”

  “So Henrietta told me. Clearly, you both needed a shove, and odd though it seems, this business of the attacks provided it.”

  “Indeed.” After a moment, he sighed. “While we were talking of music, it was easy to forget the reason we were there, yet we’re now left with the question of, if not Brougham, then whom?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Stacie, distinctly sober now, nod.

  “More,” she said, “I think we need to question whether getting their hands on the book is, in fact, the motive driving whoever is behind the attacks. You questioned that from the first, and I think you’re right. It’s not about the book—we need to think what other motives someone might possibly have.”

  Crack!

  Stacie shrieked and gripped the railing as the curricle lurched, then an even mightier crack rent the air, and the right wheel spun away, and the seat dipped precariously.

  Not again!

  Frederick tried to stand, catch Stacie, and fling them from the curricle, but this time, he’d been driving and was on the dipping side. He had a split second to decide—stay clinging to the seat and risk getting trapped under the wreck or leap into the middle of the road?

  His earlier imagined vision of Stacie’s lifeless body in the wreck of the gig swamped his mind, and he chose the latter. Wrapping his arms around her, he flung himself bodily back—away from the disintegrating curricle and onto the macadam.

  He clutched Stacie to him, trying his damnedest to land with her atop him, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a coach and four thundering up the road toward them.

  Then he landed on his back on the road. His shoulders thumped down; his head followed.

  Sharp pain exploded through his skull, and blackness engulfed him.

  Chapter 17

  They landed heavily, and Stacie lost her breath. For a second, she lay slumped on Frederick’s chest, then she managed to lift her head and haul in some air. She looked up—and saw horses bearing down on them, but before she could even open her mouth to scream, the coachman, shock written all over his face, was hauling on the reins and swerving the beasts to a stamping halt on the verge.

  Yells and calls reached her, but she couldn’t make sense of them. She looked down at Frederick, “Are you all right?” on her tongue, only to find his eyes were closed. She registered how deathly still he was just as his hands slowly slid from about her and fell, lifeless, to his sides.

  “Oh no!” She scrambled off him. Kneeling by his side, she patted his cheek. “Frederick?”

  Not so much as a muscle twitched.

  She stared at his chest. It rose and fell steadily. “Thank God.”

  She slid her fingers into his hair, reaching around his head, gently probing. She was dimly aware that the coachman and groom from the halted carriage had leapt down and run to calm Frederick’s beautiful bays; panicked, the horses continued to kick at and drag the broken curricle they couldn’t get away from.

  People came running, some from a nearby farm, others from the carriages now halting on the road behind them.

  Stacie’s fingers touched a good-sized lump on the back of Frederick’s head. Gingerly, she traced its outline; it was large and no doubt painful. She cast around, but didn’t have anything to cushion his head, so she shifted around on her knees, but his shoulders were too heavy for her to lift.

  She glanced up to find a wall of men closing around them.

  “Is he dead?” one asked.

  “No. But he’s hit his head, and I can’t lift him to get it off the road.”

  “Here. Let us help.”

  Several men crowded around, and all she could see were boots, trouser legs, and reaching hands. Then a hand darted in from the side, and silver glinted close by Frederick’s throat. Instinctively, she batted the thing—a knife?—away, and it vanished; when, shocked, she looked again, there was nothing—not even a hand—there.

  She couldn’t even be sure it hadn’t been some trick of the light.

  In the end, two kindly older men in the sober clothes of merchants took charge, urging the other would-be helpers back—sensibly calling on all to give the man air—then they helped her raise Frederick’s shoulders enough for her to ease her knees under so that, when the men let Frederick gently down, she could cradle his head in her lap.

  She bent over him and, again, patted his cheeks—more firmly, this time. “Frederick?” She hated the way her voice hitched. “Please, darling,” she pleaded, “open your eyes.”

  His brow lightly furrowed, a frown growing, then his lashes fluttered and rose. As she hung over him, upside down, he met her eyes, and she could have wept on seeing lucidity in his golden gaze.

  His frown deepened. He raised his hands and clutched his head. She leaned back, and slowly, he sat up; she helped support him.

  “Hell!” Frederick briefly closed his eyes, felt Stacie’s hand on his back, told himself she was reasonably all right, and ruthlessly stifled the terrified fury that had erupted the instant his wits had returned—pure panic that something had happened to her while he’d been unconscious.

  His head felt like it was splitting in two. He eased his lids up again, squinting, then, when the world remained steady, he drew in his legs and tried to stand. Hands—Stacie’s and an older gentleman’s—helped him to his feet. “Thank you,” he told them both.

  He draped an arm over Stacie’s shoulders and used her to keep his balance as, finally, he looked around.

  His horses were apparently unharmed and in the care of someone’s groom.

  Two coachmen were standing beside the remains of his curricle. On seeing him up and alert, they dipped their heads respectfully, and the older one said, “With your permission, sir, we’ll need to drag this clear of the road.”

  “One moment.” Keeping his hold on Stacie, taking her with him—as much to soothe his inner self as to ensure he remained upright—he walked the few steps to where the curricle had fetched up. “Was it the axle?”

  Both coachmen nodded.

  “Aye, sir,” the younger man said. “Split right through. Never seen anything like it in all my born days—not on a rig of this quality.”

  Frederick looked at where the man pointed and simply nodded. The coachman had never seen anything like it because he hadn’t previously seen what happened when an axle was sawn almost through and the carriage subsequently driven.

 
; The older coachman nodded sagely. “Aye.” Across the wreck, he met Frederick’s gaze. “Axles rarely break like that.”

  Lips thinning, Frederick tipped his head, indicating he understood the warning, then said, “You may haul it off and leave it. I’ll send men to get rid of it.”

  “Thank ye, sir.” The older man called for ropes and volunteers to pull the wreckage clear.

  Frederick tightened his hold on Stacie’s shoulders. “You didn’t leave anything in the carriage, did you?”

  She glanced down and seemed surprised to find her reticule still swinging from her wrist; she raised a hand and righted her bonnet, which had slipped askew. “No,” she replied. “It appears I have everything.”

  “Good.” Frederick turned to thank the others who had helped, but they’d already retreated back to their carriages. He turned and looked down the road. “There’s a decent inn at the base of this hill. We can hire a carriage to take us home from there, and the walk down will help clear my head.”

  She glanced up at him, concern etched in her eyes and face. “Your head still hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “Like the devil, but at least the pounding isn’t so bad I can’t think.” He steered her toward the groom who held his horses.

  “Lovely pair, m’lord,” the groom said, offering up the ribbons he’d fashioned into serviceable leading reins. “Doesn’t appear they took any harm.”

  “Thank you for seeing to them.” Frederick accepted the reins and passed the groom a shilling. “They’re my favorites.”

  The groom grinned. “They’d be my favorites, too, if I had ’em.” He bowed and returned to where his master’s carriage was waiting for the blockage to be cleared.

  Frederick and Stacie started down the hill with the bays trailing behind, jibbing every now and then, still unsettled by what had occurred.

  A horseman cantered up from behind. “Are you making for the inn?”

  Squinting up at him, Frederick nodded.

  “If you like, I’ll send the ostlers up to help with the horses.”