An Unconventional Courtship

by Dorothy Mack

  “No, there is always that, of course. We cannot afford another mistake like last time. How is the arm, by the way?”

  “Fully healed, thank you, sir.”

  “That’s good.” The peculiar edginess coloured Philip’s tones once more. “You are certain he intends to leave today? That groom of his doesn’t suspect anything?”

  “No, sir. I scratched up an acquaintance with him like you suggested, just casual like, after I followed him to the tavern he frequents. I never told him the name of my employer, just dropped in nightly to chew the fat, so to speak, over a pint or two. He told me Lord Carberry was planning to set out this afternoon, no time mentioned, which is another reason I left at dawn.”

  “We could be in for a long wait, but we’ll have to be there in place. You’re sure you’ll recognize the crest?”

  “Not to worry, sir. I had a look at his lordship’s carriage one day on the sly. No one saw me,” Musgrove added in conciliatory accents at his master’s alarmed intake of breath. “You can’t mistake that carriage, a great blue ark it is.”

  “Did you ever find out what happened last week?”

  “Well, I didn’t dare question Summers, the groom, directly, you understand. But he did mention one night in the boozing ken that they should have been in Brighton already except for an ill-timed visit by some relative, an uncle, I think he said, of Lord Carberry’s.”

  “Nothing must go wrong this time, Musgrove. I must get that ring back.”

  Cleone had been growing more perturbed throughout this extraordinary conversation, and now she froze at mention of what must be the Henley ring. A nameless dread was seeping into her bones, but the sound of additional movement in the stall galvanized her deadened limbs into action. By the time Philip told his groom to finish rubbing down his mount while he gave his little brother a riding lesson, she was making her silent way out of the stable. Hearing Charlie’s tuneless whistle approaching from the direction she had come, she dodged around the far side of the building and circled it to return unseen to the path a few minutes later.

  Cleone retraced her footsteps at a much-increased pace from her stroll down to the stables. In actual fact, it required a stern discipline to keep herself from running headlong. Her thoughts were in a whirl, the one predominant idea being to achieve her bedchamber and the privacy in which to sort them out without being delayed by any unwelcome encounters with family or servants.

  She nearly made it. She had rounded the landing on the kitchen stairs and started up the second flight when Lord Altern’s voice halted her in her tracks.

  “Wither away in such haste, Miss Latham?” One all-embracing glance took in her startled expression as her head came up, the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, and the white-knuckled grip she applied to the banister railing. His attitude changed to one of concern. “Is something wrong, Miss Latham? Is there anything I can do?”

  Cleone forced a laugh. “Heavens, no, sir. You caught me in a moment of unseemly haste because I had just recollected something I forgot to do earlier. You see me on my way to repair the omission.” She threw him a bright smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and kept it pinned to her lips as she started up the remaining stairs, only to be disconcerted when he stayed squarely in her path. She came to a stop a couple of steps below him. Wariness looked out of her eyes, though her lips remained slightly curved as she waited for him to move aside.

  He did so, but not before a searching and serious look had almost reduced her nerves to screaming point. “I hope you know that it would be my most earnest wish to assist you in any way possible at any time, Miss Latham.”

  Cleone was shaken by the obvious sincerity in the dark-grey eyes that refused to release hers. She had to wrench her gaze away and discipline her voice to reduce its tendency to shake. “Th-thank you, sir. You are very kind.” She lowered her head and brushed past him with a murmured excuse.

  She must concentrate on Philip’s problems — she must! She must put out of her mind the memory of intent dark eyes searching hers with an intimacy she had never before experienced — she must! Cleone repeated these injunctions to herself like a litany until she had closed her bedroom door behind her, and gradually Philip’s affairs achieved the ascendancy. Trembling fingers that had been cupped to her hot cheeks fluttered upward to press against her pounding temples.

  What did it mean, that scene she had inadvertently overheard in the stable? On the surface there was certainly nothing sinister about the actual remarks exchanged between Philip and his groom, although it was curious that her cousin should be encouraging a friendship between Musgrove and another groom. The glancing reference to an earlier event that had gone wrong was puzzling, and the name “Carberry” had no significance to her. Then why had puzzlement slowly turned to a nameless anxiety that had nearly reached panic proportions by the time she ran into Lord Altern on the stairs? What mistake could they not afford to repeat? What had happened to Musgrove’s arm, and why was it essential to recognize Lord Carberry’s coach and crest?

  Cleone hadn’t realized she was pacing up and down the room in a state of agitation until her steps brought her to the window. In the far corner of the prospect visible from here, she could see young Charlie on his pony moving in and out of her field of vision. So the lesson was taking place regardless of whatever Philip had planned for later for himself and Musgrove. She closed her eyes and forced herself to go over everything she had heard in sequence, both to try again to make some sense of it and to discover just what had caused the rush of anxiety that had her acting like some demented creature. It came to her in an unwelcome moment of discovery that the reference to a crest and Brighton, juxtaposed with Philip’s urgent mention of his pledged ring, was what had upset her.

  Lord Altern had been held up on the Brighton Road, but the would-be robbers had shied off, perhaps because the crest on his carriage was not recognized. At first, Cleone boggled at carrying the preposterous thought to its logical conclusion, her loyalties and affections warring with her intellect. What she was thinking was impossible; it could not be! But Philip had sounded desperate just now when he mentioned getting his ring back; the inference had been clear that this Lord Carberry had the Henley emerald, which meant Lord Carberry must be the man to whom her cousin owed over nine hundred pounds. And most damaging of all, Lord Altern had reported wounding one of the men who had held up his coach, and Musgrove had apparently had something wrong with his arm the last time Philip had seen him.

  Cleone sank slowly down onto the chair in front of her small inlaid desk, her mind racing ahead to consider the incredible picture of her cousin as a highwayman. What did he hope to gain by such a monstrous solution to his problem? Did he intend to repay Lord Carberry with the man’s own money? If he took the emerald, he’d never be able to wear it in public again. If he didn’t take it and presented himself and the money to claim it, might not Lord Carberry suspect something anyway? Would any sensible person travel with large sums of money about him? She considered it unlikely, in which case Philip would be endangering his life to no purpose, even a dishonest one. In fact, robbery as a solution to his problem was so ridiculous a concept she dared to hope for a moment that perhaps he had succeeded in raising the money, after all, and had been merely questioning Musgrove about Lord Carberry’s movements in order to present himself to him at the earliest possible opportunity. No, that would not have been necessary. He had only to inquire in Brighton for Lord Carberry. Presumably he had given Philip his direction when they made their original plans for payment. Cleone could come up with no innocent purpose for Philip’s instructions to his groom in London, and she was sunk back in her gloomy thoughts when the luncheon bell rang.

  She bounded off her chair and headed for the dining room to waylay Philip before he went inside. He must be made to see the folly of his proposed action. This time, she would not be shunted aside; she would threaten to go immediately to his grandfather with the whole story if he did not permit her to help him. As she hurried toward
the dining room, Cleone was blaming herself for not having taken that action a week ago, the gift of hindsight having clearly shown it to be the proper course.

  She lingered just inside the saloon across the hall as long as she dared, but Philip did not appear. He must have gotten to the dining room ahead of her. Well, she would detain him by force if necessary after lunch. This ruinous course must be stopped. She stepped over the threshold and faltered. One look had been sufficient to show her that Philip was not among those present.

  Seeing everyone’s eyes on her, Cleone pulled her scattered wits together and took her seat, endeavouring to compose her features into a casual expression as she asked Lady Henley where her son was.

  “Evidently he and Bernard Ludlow made plans to spend the day together after church this morning,” Lady Henley replied. “Philip sent word that he wouldn’t be in to dinner either.”

  Cleone scarcely heard her great-uncle’s animadversions on the inconsiderate nature of modern youth, nor did she taste the few morsels of food she put in her mouth whenever she sensed someone’s eyes on her. Mostly she rearranged the food on her plate and tried to look normal while her brain refused to function. She could not yet fully comprehend that Philip was out of her reach. It was up to her to stop him! But how?

  The sound of her name brought her out of her painful reverie. Cleone stared blankly at Lord Altern while the silence lengthened. Obviously some reply was expected of her, but she had heard nothing beyond her name. “I beg your pardon, sir. I fear I was wool-gathering.”

  “I was saying that I shall certainly count on your presence, Miss Latham. Please do not allow any household responsibilities to prevent you from giving me the pleasure of your company.”

  She was still at a loss, and her cheeks warmed as she stupidly echoed, “My presence?”

  “At Lord Altern’s luncheon party in Brighton. Wake up, Cleo.” Cecily laughed, wrinkling her tip-tilted nose at her cousin.

  Cleone had quickly looked away from the intense speculation in Lord Altern’s eyes. Now her gaze left Cecily’s face but moved no higher than his cravat as she sought to infuse some warmth into her voice. “Thank you, sir. I shall be delighted.” She picked up her water glass and tried to concentrate on the topic being discussed, which was evidently Lord Altern’s invitation to the ladies of Bramble Hall to be his guests at a luncheon in a Brighton hotel, a partial gesture of thanks for their hospitality. She gathered date and place were as yet undecided, since Lord Altern was not very familiar with Brighton.

  Within a few seconds of listening to the plans being formulated, her thoughts had winged back to the crisis situation confronting her. What could she do to stop Philip from committing an act of folly that could ruin his life? Could she make some excuse to take out a horse and find him herself? Would she be able to find him? She could not very well ride about in circles calling his name. Also, how would she explain her absence for what could very well be a period of hours?

  The difficulties her creative imagination spawned with each passing moment increased the sense of panic that had nearly paralyzed her ever since the scene in the stables. Time was passing, and she was no nearer to formulating a course of action that promised to avert what could be a hideous scandal. Her eyes fastened on her great-uncle sitting erectly at the head of his table, his eagle nose and winged eyebrows emphasized as he leaned attentively to Lord Altern to listen to something that gentleman was saying.

  Much as it went against the grain to inform on Philip, she did not see how she could keep his grandfather in the dark about the situation any longer. Lord Brestwick could send all the grooms and footmen out to scour the area. At the very least, they could patrol the Brighton Road to prevent any attempts at a holdup.

  Cleone bit hard on her lower lip as she gazed at the proud austere visage at the head of the table. This would destroy any chance of a rapprochement between Philip and his grandfather. Lord Brestwick was not a man to suffer fools with even token patience. He had little tolerance for the growing pains of the young and made it quite clear that Philip in his callow state was a disappointment to him. She had taken all this into consideration originally in agreeing not to divulge Philip’s indebtedness to his grandfather. And this latest development was infinitely more serious than merely running into debt. After all, Jack had lived his whole life under a cloud. How she wished now that she had made Philip go straight to his grandfather a week ago!

  Lord Brestwick made some pithy comment that drew a deep chuckle from Lord Altern. The latter looked up and caught Cleone’s eye. The laughter stilled on his lips, and the look in his eyes kindled a tiny glow of warmth and hope where before there was only panic and dread. It was over in an instant; Emerald made some remark to the earl that brought his head around to hers, but Cleone sat very still, afraid any movement might cause the little ripples of hope to run away and become absorbed in the desert of her fears.

  It was unthinkable that she should involve Lord Altern in their troubles, especially since he was no longer planning to become a member of the family. But he had said only on hour ago that he would be happy to serve her in any way. She had not thought at the time that his words were a mere conventional expression of concern for her obviously agitated state. Though articulate and as capable as any worldly man of uttering the extravagant compliments that too often passed for conversation between the sexes, Lord Altern was not given to rash or casual expressions of feeling for others. On the contrary, she had become aware early in their acquaintance of a lack of real feeling in his attitude toward Emerald. She had been shaken by the sincerity in his manner this morning. As Cleone sat physically unmoving, a quiet conviction grew that Lord Altern would willingly come to her assistance.

  The crucial question was whether she could bring herself to embroil him in the Hardwickes’ affairs. It was patently unfair to him, but Philip’s need was so great she would ruthlessly sacrifice anyone’s convenience if it would prevent a final rupture with his grandfather or a scandal that would humble a proud old man. Perhaps there was nothing Lord Altern could do, but she must try to enlist his assistance as a last resort before going to her uncle with the whole sorry tale. At the very least he would advise her.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the green saloon after lunch, Lord Altern made a respectable pretence of writing a business letter, but his thoughts were with Cleone. They were not the mindless happy maunderings of a man newly in love, however, nor were they the resolute campaign plans of one who has yet to win his beloved’s regard. Lord Altern was frankly worried. Cleone had been desperately trying to maintain her usual composure at lunch, but love’s eyes are keen, and Jason had known that something had occurred to distress her. She had been distraught before lunch when they met on the stairs, but another element had been added later, and his instincts told him it was related to Philip Hardwicke’s absence. When she had questioned Lady Henley, stark fear had looked out of her lovely eyes for an instant before she brought her expression under control. Her subsequent inattentiveness had confirmed his impressions.

  Jason flung himself out of the desk chair, too disturbed to sit still any longer. As he paced the length of the saloon, his thoughts about Henley were murderous. He could cheerfully strangle that young cub for the worry he was causing his cousin. And tomorrow he would be leaving Bramble, going too far away to be of any assistance to his beleaguered little love. He cursed his foolishness at ever having succumbed to Emerald Hardwicke’s spurious charms and the false position he was now in because of it, not ready to admit, in an uprush of irritability, that he would never have met Cleone otherwise. Most of all he cursed his inability to help her. At least if she were located in Brighton, he could arrange to keep an eye on her, would be nearby if she needed him.

  An inspiration, full-blown at birth, stopped his impatient pacing in midstride. Jason stood motionless for the space of an expelled breath, considering various pros and cons, then made a lightning decision that he implemented immediately by crossing to the desk and drawing
out a fresh sheet of paper. It required a full half-hour to assemble his arguments and present them on paper with as coherent a picture of his feelings as he could distil, and when he had read the sickening effusion that was the result, he came close to tearing it up. An image of Lady Pendleston’s sweet face stayed his hand. Aunt Bess would understand and forgive. The unshakable conviction that she would also help brought in its train a sense of peace that lasted until Cleone’s image ousted that of Aunt Bess from his consciousness.

  It was all very well to come up with a promising plan for the future, but his instincts told him the immediate present was fraught with unpleasant possibilities that might preclude his continued access to Cleone in the future. He must find a way to make her confide in him before he left Bramble tomorrow. A black scowl descended on his brow when he recalled that he had never yet been able to hold a sustained conversation of over two minutes’ duration with Cleone under this roof. His brain was plotting to devise a way to entice her out from under her ancestral roof when a knock sounded at the door.

  The footman who entered at Jason’s bidding walked up to the desk and bowed. “Miss Latham said I was to put this note into your lordship’s own hand, sir.”

  No expression marred the perfection of his trained impersonality, but Jason sensed the man’s interest in the missive he was handing over.

  “Thank you, Henry. Is Miss Latham expecting a reply?”

  “She said not, sir.”

  “Very well, then, you may go.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Jason waited until Henry had bowed himself out before ripping open the sealed envelope. It took no more than a minute to master its contents, brief as they were.

  Dear Lord Altern,

  You did me the honour this morning to say you would be glad to serve me, should I ever need your assistance. If you truly meant this and if you will pardon my presumption, I should like to discuss a private matter of some urgency with you. I shall be going into the peach orchard shortly to pick some fruit for dinner.