Charlotte Louise Dolan

by Three Lords for Lady Anne

  “To my regret, none of the three families are presently in London, and since you requested an immediate report, I have postponed traveling to their country residences to inquire further into the particularities of her employment with them.”

  The man paused to consult his notebook again, and Bronson surreptitiously looked at his watch. Much more of this man’s pompous attempt to sound self-important, and the runner would find himself out on the street with no one paying him to go anywhere and speak to anyone.

  “I have had more success with tracing her origins, however. She has been using an alias—”

  At that word, Bronson lost all his detachment and boredom and listened to every word the runner was saying.

  “She is in reality Lady Gloriana Hemsworth, daughter of the fifth Earl of Faussley. In case you are not familiar with him, m’lord, he was shot in a duel some twenty-odd years ago.”

  “I know of the man,” Bronson replied.

  “It would appear that he was caught out—’

  “You do not need to continue. I am well aware of the details of the earl’s manner of life.” As well as his reputation and what he had done to acquire it. Bronson picked up his pen and again wrote out a bank draft, this time sufficient to cover not only the runner’s fee, but also his travel expenses. “I will expect written reports from you weekly, and I will not be satisfied with untoward delays in this investigation.”

  Without bothering to ring for Daws, Bronson showed the runner out personally. Hellfire and damnation! Faussley’s daughter ensconced in Wylington Manor. It did not bear thinking about. And Creighton, who was responsible for putting her there, was on his way to join her. Curse the man for the fool he was.

  While preparing for bed, Bronson brooded about the news he had learned this evening. Based on Mr. Black’s description of her physical attractions, plus his own knowledge of Creighton’s taste in women, added to her bad blood, Bronson was amazed that the woman had managed to fool her previous employers. Or perhaps she had not fooled them at all.

  More than likely, she had managed to obtain and keep her positions by assuming a horizontal position when in the presence of the master of the house. His lips curled into a smile when he contemplated what was in store for her once he took charge personally at Wylington Manor.

  It was too bad that English law discouraged branding whores, but with his connections in government, he could probably arrange to have her transported. There was a shortage of women in Australia, so she would probably adjust easily. She might even prosper on that continent, but there was nothing Bronson could do to prevent that, except curse her black heart.

  * * * *

  “Excuse me, my lady.”

  Lady Letitia looked up from perusing the morning paper and saw her butler standing deferentially beside the table. “Yes, Owens?”

  “There is a person here to see you.”

  “At this hour? Is it not a bit early for morning callers, or am I mistaken about the time?”

  “I do not think this is a social visit, my lady.”

  “Then who, pray, is this person and what is the nature of his business?”

  “He says his name is Mr. Black, and as to the nature of his business, he purports to be a Bow Street runner.”

  “Indeed?” Lady Letitia stifled a laugh. “Then by all means, show the rogue in.”

  “Madame?”

  “Come, come, Owens, show this Mr. Black in. And then tell Cook I am having a guest for breakfast. Be sure that she sends up a bottle of port and a thick beefsteak, rare.”

  With a very un-butlerish mutter, Owens went to do as he was directed, and only minutes later he returned and announced with exaggerated formality, “Mr. Black is here, my lady.”

  “Felix, you rascal!” Lady Letitia clapped her hands in approval.

  “Behold, my dear, you see before you what the well-dressed runner is wearing this year.” The Honorable Felix Sommerton, younger brother of Viscount Sommervale, held his arms out to the side and pirouetted gracefully around so that Lady Letitia could admire his costume.

  His trousers may have been brown at one time, his waistcoat was mouse-colored, and the buttons on his jacket were totally mismatched. Over it all, despite the clement weather, he wore a greatcoat that looked as if it had started life in a noble household but had sunk to a mean estate.

  “But you are dressed perfectly for the part. No one would suspect that you are an imposter. I admire your resourcefulness.”

  Having displayed his “finery,” Felix took a seat next to his friend. “My only regret is that I have waited so long to find my true calling. Would that I had known twenty years ago how entertaining it is to be a runner.”

  “Do not take all the credit, my dear. Please keep in mind that you were not required to ferret out any of the information you passed on to Lord Leatham. I provided you with your script, if you please.”

  “And you must not belittle my triumph. Is an actor less worthy because his words have been given to him by the Bard himself? Is Kean any less a Hamlet because he struts and frets upon the stage for only a few short hours? Life’s but an illusion, my pet, and I am become the master of illusion.”

  “By that I take it you have succeeded?”

  “Can you doubt it? And you are wrong when you assume that I have no talent for digging up evidence. For your information, I tested the effectiveness of my disguise by spending one whole afternoon trailing the suspect, Mr. Creighton Trussell.” Pulling his well-worn “occurrence” book out of his pocket, he read aloud, “After leaving his club, the suspect went directly to the house of a certain Mrs. Pierce-Smythe, a widow from Yorkshire—”

  “Let me see that!”

  Before he could stop her, Lady Letitia snatched the little notebook out of his hand. “This is a laundry list.”

  “Got it from my valet. Went to buy a notebook in a stationers, but they were all shiny and new. Wouldn’t have fit with my role as experienced runner. But tell me, pray, are you going to feed me now that I have danced to your tune?”

  She reassured him that his breakfast had already been ordered, but her mind was not on his continuing prattle.

  So Trussell was seeing Mrs. Pierce-Smythe, she mused. This was the kind of unexpected coincidence that kept her self-appointed job as matchmaker from being boring.

  Perhaps she should go down to Devon herself, just to make sure her plans did not go awry? But no, she had too many other irons in the fire. Such as introducing dear Felix to Amelia Carlisle, who had finally become bored with provincial life and allowed herself to be coaxed back to London.

  Chapter Four

  It was a quiet Sunday afternoon and Anne was sitting in her room catching up on her correspondence.

  Dear Aunt Sidonia:

  Things have settled down here very nicely. Having done their best on the day of my arrival to lose me on the moor, which achieved them nothing but an hour and a half of brisk exercise, the twins have come to accept me wholeheartedly. I find them quite the most intelligent of any of the children I have ever taught, and I believe even you would find them of interest to talk to. In some ways they are wise beyond their years and seem almost like small adults, but at other times I am reminded that they are indeed still quite young children. They have both been blessed with a more than adequate supply of natural wit and gumption, although I have noticed Andrew is the more aggressive when it comes to debating a point of logic, and Anthony is the quickest to react to a physical challenge.

  The servants have not been as easy to manage, but in general they are beginning to toe the line ...

  She became aware that she was no longer alone and looked up to see the twins standing beside her.

  “Excuse me, Anne, but we have been thinking.”

  “Yes, Andrew?”

  “We thought perhaps we might write letters to the other governesses,” Andrew explained, “and apologize for the tricks we played on them.”

  “If you think that might help?” Anthony added.

&nb
sp; “It is certainly a start in the right direction. Would you like me to give you some notepaper?”

  “Yes, please,” they said in unison.

  She handed them each several sheets of stationery. “Andrew, you may sit at that little table by the window, and I think if you pull up another chair, Anthony, there will be room for you to write there, too.”

  The boys hastened to comply with her suggestion, then discovered almost at once that they also needed quills and ink, which Anne was also able to supply. For a while there was no sound in the room but the scritch-scratch of the three pens.

  There is one groom who has been the most open in his resentment of my taking authority in the management of the household, but as someone has seen fit to give him two black eyes as well as assorted bruises, I do not think I shall have more trouble with him. And no, I was not the one who administered the thrashing. My days of fisticuffs are long behind me, as I have found words to be more effective weapons ...

  “Did you need something else, Anthony?” How long he had been standing by her shoulder, she did not know, but she shifted the papers on her escritoire so that he could not see what she had written. He did not, however, appear to be interested in the letter she was composing. Andrew was also staring at her intently from his seat by the window.

  “We were wondering ...” Anthony looked at his brother, as if needing support, and Andrew crossed the room to stand shoulder to shoulder with him.

  “Are you having trouble figuring out how to express your apologies?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Are you worried that I shall read your letters and find out the extent of your mischief? You need not be. I am no more in favor of reading other people’s mail than I am of eavesdropping.”

  Again it appeared that she had not guessed what was bothering them.

  Finally Andrew spoke again. “You can tell us apart—which one of us is which,” he said bluntly.

  “Can’t you?” Anthony made it into a question.

  She nodded. “You are Anthony, and you are Andrew.” She did not bother to ask if she had identified them correctly. She knew she had, although she could not pick out a single physical difference that made it possible for her to do so.

  Anthony reached out a hand and touched her shyly on the shoulder. “No one else has ever been able to do that except Nanny Barlow.”

  “And Uncle Creighton fired her after our parents died.”

  Fired? Anne thought to herself. They had said their first nanny was gone, but fired? To the boys she asked merely, “Can none of the other servants?”

  “Nope,” Andrew said.

  “Surely your guardian and your uncle can tell you apart?”

  They shook their heads.

  “But your parents could when they were alive?”

  They continued to shake their heads.

  Merciful heavens, had no one spent any time with them at all? Or had they just not cared? “If none of the adults can tell one of you from the other, then how do you know which one of you is which? What I mean to say is, someone must know because someone must have told you.”

  “When we were born, our father was afraid we might get accidently switched, so he tattooed the bottom of my foot, to be sure that I inherited the title and the estate, since I am twenty-three minutes older than Tony. I’ll show you.” Andrew sat down on the floor and pulled off his right shoe and sock, then held his foot up for her inspection. “#1” was crudely tattooed on it in blue.

  To say that Anne was appalled was putting it too mildly. Enraged was not even adequate to express her feelings. Merciful heavens, it was unbelievable, that one little boy should have had his worth as a human being reduced to twenty-three minutes, to being the next in line for a title, was the stupidest thing she had ever experienced in her life. And the damage to the other little boy, who could only conclude that he was not worth even that much ... and then to have put a mark on the child as if he were a piece of china!

  “Anne, don’t cry.”

  She had not even been aware that tears were streaming down her cheeks until Andrew said that. In seconds, both boys were in her arms, and it was impossible to tell who was hugging whom the tightest.

  The tears were over as quickly as they had begun, and when she was again able to talk, Anne decided that she had to show the twins the same trust they had shown her. “If you will promise never, ever to tell anyone, I will tell you a secret of mine.”

  Without hesitation they promised.

  “My father was an earl, so I should really be called Lady Gloriana Hemsworth. And there is more you should know,” Anne continued. “When I was about five, my father died, and some relatives came and took my mother and me to live with them. They did not know us at all or care about us in any way. They merely wanted to be able to brag that they had a real countess and an earl’s daughter living with them.”

  The twins looked at one another, then they both laughed. “I think having an Indian living with us—”

  “Would be more fun than having an earl’s daughter.”

  “Yes, well, you are stuck with the earl’s daughter,” Anne retorted with a smile.

  “Lady Gloriana.” Andrew said tentatively, as if trying it out. Then he laughed as if he had made a joke.

  “Lady Glo-o-o-o-or-r-r-r-r-iana.” Anthony made it sound even more ridiculous, then dodged her attempt to tickle him.

  Later that night when she was lying in bed reviewing the day’s activities, Anne brought out her mental list of defects in Lord Leatham’s character and added to it the fact that he had not been interested enough in his wards to get to know them as individuals.

  The list had become quite long since it seemed as if every day she discovered something worse about him to add to it. So far, however, she had not been able to discover a single redeeming virtue that Lord Leatham possessed. Lord Least-in-Sight, she felt would be a more appropriate name, and so she decided to call him in the privacy of her own mind.

  * * * *

  His employer was up to no good, of that Wyke was sure. Having pockets to let and being forced to borrow the Reverend Goodman Thirsk’s shabby one-horse gig to drive from Tavistock to Wylington Manor should have put Trussell in a disagreeable mood. Indeed, simply being in the country was usually enough in and of itself to guarantee foul temper on Trussell’s part. Instead, he was smiling to himself and even occasionally chuckling out loud.

  The valet had no intention of interfering with whatever dishonest machinations Trussell was plotting. On the contrary, while being careful to keep himself technically innocent of any wrongdoing, Wyke was not about to pass up an opportunity to make a little extra from Trussell’s misconduct.

  Until recently, Wyke’s opportunities had been limited to little more than small change. An occasional bottle of brandy had gone out the back door or a tradesman had paid a small surcharge to be informed when Trussell was in the funds so that he could present his bill in person with some reasonable expectation of being paid.

  To Wyke’s delight, when the lusty widow, as he had dubbed her, had come upon the scene, she had been amazingly free with her brass. Not only had she been prepared to come down heavy to secure Trussell’s “services,” but she had also been willing to pay Wyke handsomely for private information about his employer.

  Wyke had been more than happy to oblige. Revealing the existence of Trussell’s mistress, for example, had netted him the equivalent of two years’ wages. Rather than squandering his windfall the way his employer had done, Wyke had prudently invested all his misbegotten gains in the Funds, and he was well on his way to having a tidy nest egg, assuming the widow’s purse and Trussell’s stamina both held out.

  Having debated long with himself as to whether he should inform the widow of Trussell’s flight from London, he had finally decided to do so. But it had also occurred to him that she would undoubtedly pay more if he gave her ample opportunity to become truly frantic before he revealed where her hired lover had bolted to.

  I
f pushed, he could insist that he had not known their destination before they arrived, and so had felt it best to delay writing her until he had more concrete information. But he doubted she would feel obliged to quiz him about the delay.

  Wyke could only hope that she would not decide Devon was too far away and abandon her blackmail attempts. Perhaps as an added inducement, he ought to mention that there were other titled bachelors in the neighborhood? Only as a last resort, he decided, since other than Thorverton, all of them were either still too young or already in their dotage.

  Of more immediate importance was discovering what kind of deviousness Trussell was planning that was making him so cheerful. Although one could not get blood from a turnip, or riches from a man who was standing up to his neck in the river Tick, assuming that his employer could indeed come by some funds dishonestly, Wyke discovered in himself no particular aversion to trying a spot of blackmail himself— anonymously, to be sure.

  * * * *

  “This is going to be a wonderful summer,” Anthony said.

  “The best summer of our lives,” Andrew affirmed. “Tomorrow can we go over to Thorverton Hall and see the new colts and fillies again?”

  “You may send a note over this evening and inquire if it would be convenient for us to visit.” Anne and the boys were taking tea in the garden after a long day of fishing. Besides the usual scones with whortleberry preserves on the side, the pasties, and the pink-iced buns, in the center of the tray was a large bowl of fresh strawberries and clotted cream.

  “Someone has discovered my Achilles’ heel. Who told the cook we wanted strawberries and cream again? Is one of you trying to see to it that I become so stout I am unable to move?”

  Neither of the twins would admit having had a hand in it, although both of them were grinning their heads off.

  “What’s an Achilles’ heel?” Andrew asked.

  “Have you never heard the story of Achilles?” Anne helped herself to a large portion of the fruit and cream, then began to relate the story of the invincible—almost—Greek hero. By the time she finished her story, nothing remained in her bowl but one fat, luscious strawberry. Ah, well, she thought, all good things must come to an end.