by Kate Archer
“Ah,” Lord Blanding said, “there is the turn. We are not far off now.”
As they trotted down a country lane, Lady Blanding pointed out all the remembrances of her youth—the old willow by a stream that saw many a picnic, the turn to old Mr. Chambers’ farm, that gentleman having provided Lady Blanding with a beloved dog, and even the church where she had first set eyes on Lord Blanding, he having visited an old aunt one summer.
The carriage turned onto a long drive and Sybil could see a house at the end of it. It was large and stately, comprised of brown stone with two long wings. Gardens laid out in paths fronted the house, with a charming stream running through the greenery and a massive stone fountain in the center. Far to the left, a large stable stood and to the right, what looked to be a highly manicured bowling green. The estate towered over the landscape like a sentry guarding its hills.
“Dartsfell Hall,” Lady Blanding said. “It looks as wonderfully imposing as ever.”
*
Richard had been imprisoned in Dalton’s house for four days. His friends had waylaid him coming out of a tavern and wrestled him into a carriage. He’d put up a fight, and a good one he thought, but it had not helped his chances that he had been remarkably free with pints of ale on that particular evening.
They’d explained it was for his own good. At least, Dalton had. The others had looked almost terrified of him, as if he were a dangerous creature who might break loose at any moment.
As well they should think that, for it was precisely what he felt himself to be. He was trapped, he was caged, but he would not be so for long. There was still plenty of time to make his way to Yorkshire and that was what he planned to do.
But first, he must break out of this house. He had tried the window, though he could see the glass was nearly a half foot thick. Even if he could break it, the aperture was far too small to fit himself through. If he could manage to break it, he might be able to call to a passerby, though it would need to be a rather brave fellow who would dare to breach the doors of Dalton’s house to let him out. None of his calculations mattered much, as the glass would not be broken.
While Richard stewed on what ought to be done, Dalton had ordered every comfort for him. There were stacks of books, trays of food, and plentiful bottles of wine no doubt meant to lull him into a stupor. Rather than drink himself into oblivion until such time that his friends saw their way clear to release him, he began to study the habits of the house.
He already knew that Bellamy and the footmen lived a rather high life under the auspices of Lord Dalton, that gentleman not caring one way or another what they did as long as it did not inconvenience him. Dalton kept the number of servants in the house low—Bellamy acted as valet and there was no housekeeper, only maids coming in during the day. A cook had been dispensed with too—on the evenings that Dalton dined in, a footman was sent out to a local tavern or cold meats were brought up from the kitchens. The small and informal staff suited Dalton, the master might do any sort of unsuitable thing, and his servants couldn’t care less.
For the first two nights, Dalton had gone nowhere, and Richard could hear him going up the stairs or down them and directing the footmen to fetch him this or that. Occasionally, Dalton would stop by his door and try to, as he called it, talk sense into him.
His captor would inevitably leave when Richard described the thrashing he would rain down upon him at the first opportunity.
On the third night, Richard began to notice a change. There was a flurry of activity, with footmen running this way and that. Then he’d been certain he’d seen Dalton leave in a carriage from his lone window, though it was a wavy and cloudy view through the thick glass.
After their master left, there was much levity in the house. If Richard was not mistaken, Bellamy and his footmen had broken out bottles of wine and made themselves comfortable below stairs.
To be certain of it, he rang the bell. All three footmen had come cautiously to the door, with Bellamy standing behind them. This, Richard was certain, they had been ordered to do in case he made a break for it.
Dalton was a fool; those fellows could never hold him back. He briefly considered trying his luck, but then decided he wished to be certain of his escape. Even now, Dalton might be lurking out of doors somewhere nearby to see if he would try it. The servants were wary. His instincts told him it was not the right time.
He ordered them to bring him a bottle of Canary, and then he let them be. He could see they were all vastly relieved by it, and that would serve him well when he made his move.
Now, on the fourth night, he’d heard Dalton leave the house two hours past. He’d had the good luck to overhear that his friend would meet with Ashworth at Lady Carradine’s notorious gambling parlor. If he knew the two of them as he thought he did, they would be at that lady’s tables until the early morning hours. The servants knew it too, and it sounded raucous below after two hours of drinking.
He rang the bell, and then listened to the silence that overtook the house. They might be somewhat wary still, but far too drunk to do much about it.
Richard listened to them stumble their way up the stairs while he casually leaned back in a chair by the window.
Bellamy slid open the small square peek hole meant to help them see inside the room before opening the door.
“Yes, my lord?” he said cautiously.
“I want a shave,” Richard said in the most offhand tone he could muster.
“A shave? My lord, would it not be best to wait until morning? That is the usual time.”
“It may be the usual time, but that footman of yours did not shave me close enough this morning. It itches and I won’t put up with it until the morrow.”
The small opening slammed shut and Richard listened to the four men argue outside the door. They certainly were loud enough, which he knew was a sign of too much drink. No doubt they thought they talked in whispers.
He was satisfied to hear their plan. Bellamy would shave him while the others stood guard. This was finally arrived at after they’d all held their hands out to determine who was the steadiest.
As if he had the slightest intention of allowing any of those drunken fools to get near him with a straight razor.
*
Lord and Lady Hugh welcomed Sybil and her parents warmly. Several other guests had already arrived and they were to have a small dinner, but first the Hayworths were invited to settle into their rooms.
They were led to the east wing of the house and given adjoining bedchambers. The rooms were elegantly done and Sybil particularly liked her own. Silk wallpaper in a subtle stripe lined the walls, the bedstead was piled high with fine linen, pillows stacked one atop the other, and a goose down comforter to chase off the chill that always lingered in a house built with thick stone. An oversized looking glass hung over a charming fireplace framed by enameled tiles depicting the various flowers of the area. But most beguiling, her view out of the massive windows stretched for miles of glorious countryside, lush green hills bursting with the vitality of summer.
Her maid, Betty, unpacked the dresses Sybil had traveled with and carefully folded the paper they had been wrapped in. Sybil said, “You arrived a day ahead of us. How do you find the staff, Betty? Do they treat you well enough below stairs?”
Betty, always having a lot to say for herself, but having the good sense to wait until a question had been asked, smiled broadly. “The butler, Mr. Jiminy, runs a tight ship. He’s got his standards and he’ll see to it them standards are met. Mrs. Trebold, the housekeeper, is a stern lady, but kind. Everything goes on respectful-like. Between the two of them, there’ll be no nonsense from any forward footmen. A mark of a good house, in my opinion.”
Sybil was pleased to hear it. Days before they’d set off, Betty had confided her trepidation over finding herself bossed about the place by as yet unknown persons. In her imagination, she had built the butler and housekeeper into veritable dragons who would treat her abominably. She had thought the w
hole thing very unfair, as a lady’s maid only ever really should be bossed about by the particular lady she served.
“Course,” Betty said casually, “once a person’s been welcomed at the servant’s table, a person might hear all sorts of things those servants speculate on.”
Sybil was well-used to Betty’s hints. Her maid had some little piece of gossip to relay but would not do so until she had been pressed. Betty generally liked to start those particular communications with something along the lines of, ‘you know how I hate to hear talk’ before gleefully sharing the tidbit.
“Out with it, Betty,” Sybil said good-humoredly, “I shan’t rest until I know what you have heard.”
Betty paused in her folding and said sadly, “You know how I hate to pass along gossip, my lady.”
“Indeed, you have a veritable horror of it. Now, what did you hear?”
“It is only this,” Betty said, sitting on a corner of the bed, as she was wont to do when engrossed in a tale.
Sybil suppressed a smile. She knew that at the end of the story, Betty would notice she’d sat down and jump up in alarm.
“It seems there’s a fella who has gone and caused the lord of the house no end of aggravation,” Betty said in a confidential tone. “They say he has pushed his way in and they could do nothing but let him, and Lord Hugh intends to trounce him on the lake.”
“Oh dear,” Sybil said. “I wonder if they refer to Sir John. I do not recall my father ever mentioning that gentleman in past years. Goodness, I wonder why anybody should push their way in?”
Betty shook her head vigorously, her cap coming dangerously close to saying adieu to her head. “No, my lady. It ain’t somebody already here. It’s him that’s coming, though nobody seems to know exactly when he’s expected. Mr. Jiminy says they are all to treat him with respect, but cold respect. They ain’t to make the fellow feel too welcome.”
“Heavens, I hope this gentleman does not make Lord Hugh too uncomfortable. Did they say his name? Perhaps I have heard of him.”
Betty scratched her head, once more giving her cap encouragement to depart. “I ain’t quite certain, but it was something like Lockworth.”
Sybil’s breath caught. Certainly, it could not be Lord Lockwood. The gentleman would have no reason to push into the Hughs’ house party.
“It was not Lord Lockwood, Betty?” Sybil said, careful to keep her voice steady.
“I can’t rightly say. I don’t recall any of them calling the fellow a lord. But then, when left alone below stairs, there are some servants known to be disrespectful when they have a mind, so I couldn’t rule it out. I’ll keep an ear out for anything else I can pick up, though it pains me to hear talk. Now, my lady, which dress will you choose for dinner?”
Sybil could hardly understand her own thoughts, but whatever they were, choosing a dress was not included.
In the silence, Betty looked down and realized she was once again sitting in the presence of her mistress. She leapt to her feet. “Bless me if I know how that happens,” she said.
Chapter Four
Lady Hugh was a considerate hostess and had sent refreshment to Sybil’s room. Betty had completed her duties and there was still an hour to pass before the gong would be rung. Sybil chewed on a biscuit and stared out the window, as if she might divine the identity of the mysterious gentleman by way of tree branches swaying in the breeze.
It did not escape her that her feelings upon considering that the gentleman might be Lord Lockwood had been of an extreme nature, though she could not precisely name them. They seemed a jumble of both anticipation and aggravation.
If it were indeed him, why would he come? Why would he, as Betty claimed, push in?
The lord had been intent on ignoring her at the Hathaways’ ball, certainly he did not come to see her.
A sinking feeling caused Sybil to feel as if the biscuit she worked on was sand in her mouth. Of course, it was not her this gentleman pushed his way in to see. Whoever he was, he most assuredly sought out Miss Mapleton.
Sybil had not yet made the lady’s acquaintance, but Miss Mapleton was already celebrated as the beauty of the north and would come out the following season. It would make perfect sense that a man like Lord Lockwood, as bold as he was known to be, must charge in to see Miss Mapleton for himself.
Sybil leapt up and peered into the looking glass. Despite wishing to see something other than what she always saw, there she was. Dark eyes surrounded by jet black waves of hair—she could be a pirate’s daughter as well as anything else. Standing on her tiptoes also served to remind her that she was short. Even if she had not had any of those less than wonderful attributes, she could have no hope of aspiring to the likes of Miss Mapleton. It was said the lady had hair the color of fire, blue eyes the depth of the middle ocean, and a grace about her person unmatched—her looks were such that a siren of the sea wishing to lure sailors into the deep might borrow them as a disguise.
“I am being very silly,” Sybil said softly. “What care I for Miss Mapleton stealing hearts from here to London? And, if one of those hearts belongs to Lord Lockwood, so much the better.”
*
Bellamy and his footmen had mounted Lord Dalton’s stairs amidst hushed whispers and cautiously made their way to Lord Lockwood’s prison. The butler carried a straight razor, while the others carried a basin of water, soap, and linens.
Richard had stayed in his chair, legs stretched out and appearing relaxed. He well knew from the war that winning a battle was at least half attitude, and the attitude he wished to convey at this moment was extreme ease.
Bellamy was bleary-eyed and his footmen not particularly steady on their feet. One of them in particular was almost green in the face, no doubt being a novice drinker and having underestimated the potency of Dalton’s wine. Richard was supremely satisfied to note that this collection of drunkards had not even remembered to close the door behind them, and they’d very stupidly left the key in the lock. It would not have affected his plan if they had been more organized; he’d have simply taken the key by force, but it was one less task to be accomplished.
He allowed them to go through the motions until the last moment. Hot linens had been applied to his face while he leaned back passively in the chair, then a soap, and then Bellamy raised the razor to begin.
Richard knocked it from his hand and sprang up from the chair. He swept up the straight razor from the floor in one easy motion.
“My lord!” Bellamy cried.
“My lord, nothing,” Richard said, wiping his face clean with a linen and waving the razor at the men. “Move there, by the window.”
The drunken men staggered toward it.
“My lord,” Bellamy said, “Lord Dalton will be quite displeased!”
As Richard made his way to the door, he stopped and turned. “He will find his butler and footmen drunk and locked in a room and one of his horses gone. Yes, I suppose he will be displeased. As for myself, I find I’m rather jolly over it.”
Richard shut the door behind him, turned the lock, and threw the key down a dark hallway. From the other side of the door, Bellamy called, “There really is no need to lock us up!”
“Oh yes there is,” Richard called back. “I’ll not give you the opportunity to send a message to your master.”
Faintly, from the other side, he heard one of the footmen say, “I said he’d figure that out.”
Richard smiled and jogged down the stairs. He stopped in the library to hastily write a note to his valet to pack his things and take them to Dartsfell Hall in Yorkshire. He would send a street boy to deliver the message, with promises of a coin at the other end. He did not dare go back to the Mayfair house himself, Dalton might come looking for him there, and if not him, the landlord might be lurking about, wishing to know why he had not been paid.
After rifling through Dalton’s desk and taking every pound and pence he found lying about, he tucked the note for his valet in his pocket and made his way to the cloak room.
His own coat still hung there, but he decided he much preferred Dalton’s new greatcoat. It was a glorious piece of tailoring with four capes and it would fit him well enough, if only a little long. Further, Dalton was exceedingly fond of it and it pleased him just now to deliver a sting. Satisfied that he had everything he needed from the house, Richard strode out the servant’s entrance toward his friend’s well-stocked stable.
The grooms were just as drunk as the footmen and seemed to have no idea Richard was supposed to be a prisoner in the house. He informed them that their master wished to have a horse brought to him at once and he was to take it. This, they accepted readily, as they were far too busy attempting to walk straight as they weaved to the tack room.
Richard had walked along the stalls considering his choices, and then settled on Khan—Dalton’s most spectacular piece of horseflesh. He smiled as he imagined his friend’s discoveries, one by one. His prisoner gone, his servants locked up, his pocket money stolen, his new overcoat absconded with, and his prize horse saddled up by his own grooms.
He walked Khan down the alley to the road, the horse’s soft clip-clops on the cobblestones the only sound. A carriage came around the corner and clattered past him, stopping in front of the house. Richard pulled short on Khan’s reins and peered around the side of the building.
Dalton leapt down from the carriage, along with Ashworth and two women with heavily painted faces and low-cut gowns.
Richard took in a breath. They had changed their plan. They had not gambled at all and had gone to the theater instead. He’d recognize those two ladies anywhere – Merry Childress and Annie Mott. There was a raucous night of drinking always to be had with those two charmers. Gad, Dalton was bold to do it with a man locked above stairs. At least, he’d think a particular man was locked above stairs.
As it happened, Richard had made his escape just in time.
