by Joan Smith
“Now, that is demmed odd!” he exclaimed. “They must have a family lunatic locked up there.”
“Very likely. Beau!” she exclaimed. “You don’t think they might have a family lunatic incarcerated at my cottage?”
“It would not surprise me in the least. I know Jennet went trotting over there at first light this morning.”
“Really?”
“I saw her leave the house.”
“Perhaps she was going only to get the eggs at the castle.”
“Then why was she carrying a tray? And besides, she did not go up the gravel road; she cut across the shore. Must have been going to the cottage.”
“Good God! Let us get the keys from Muffet and go up to the attic.”
Muffet’s key chain held many keys, none of which opened the attic door. Cressida went to the saloon and rang for her housekeeper to demand the key.
Tory handed it over with no argument and no discernible sign of reluctance. “I didn’t think Old Muffet would want to be climbing all them stairs to the attics. There is nothing but lumber up there,” she said.
“I thought I heard a wailing noise last night,” Beau said.
“That would be the wind, soughing through the loose windows. It sounds like a banshee some nights.”
“But there was no wind last night,” Cressida said.
“There is always a wind here on the coast,” was Tory’s reply. “The house is not haunted, if that is what you are getting at. The cottage is haunted, of course. Folks have seen and heard goings-on there of a dark night.”
“Indeed?” Cressida said. And Dauntry had denied the charge flatly!
“Was there anything else I could do for you, milady?”
“That will be all for now, thank you, Tory.”
Cressida and Beau darted upstairs, to find an attic much like any ordinary attic. Rooms of discarded lumber, trunks, and racks of old clothing gave off the musty smell of a room long closed up. There was no dust on the floor to reveal footprints. The attic space was divided into two large rooms.
“Obviously no one has been staying here,” Cressida said, looking all around and walking into the next room, which was much like the first.
Beau followed her, wedging his way past trunks and broken chairs and summer furniture to the window. “These frames fit like a hand in a glove and are nailed shut for good measure,” he said. “I should like to know how they let in any wind. Have a look at this, Sid.”
She joined him. He pointed to splatters of candle wax on the floor.
“That might have been there a decade,” she said.
Poking about the accumulation of objects near the window, he pulled a pillow and roll of blankets from behind a dresser. When he unrolled the blankets, the missing copy of The Lady’s Companion fell out at his feet. They exchanged an astonished look.
“I shall speak to Tory about this,” Cressida said, and took the magazine down to the saloon to summon her housekeeper once more.
“Are you done with the key, milady?” Tory asked.
“I shall leave it with Muffet. Do you usually keep the door locked, Tory?”
“I do, and I keep the key in my pocket.” So saying, she tapped her voluminous apron, producing the rattle of keys.
“Then how did this get up there?” Cressida asked, pointing to the magazine that now rested on the sofa table.
Tory’s nervous tongue flicked out. “Up there, was it?” she asked, stalling for time. “It’s Jennet,” she said, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “She is not quite right in the head. A regular knock-in-the-cradle. She slips away by herself when she is upset. But she’s a good worker, mind.”
“How did she get the key without your knowing it?”
“It would be when she washed my apron, along with the sheets for the spare bed, wouldn’t it? I must have left them in the pocket. I’ll speak to her. It won’t happen again, milady.”
It was clear to the meanest intelligence that Tory was lying. That nervous tongue betrayed her, but as her lively imagination could always find a reply to any question, Cressida released her with a reminder to keep an eye on Jennet.
“Lying in her teeth,” Beau said when they were alone. “She knows what is afoot, right enough. She is in it up to her eyes. She was hiding someone up there. Why, it could be a French spy for all we know, here on the coast. You should have asked her about Jennet and the tray.”
“She would only fabricate some story.”
“What will you do, Sid? Best report her to Lady Dauntry, eh? Or Lord Dauntry. A shame to pester the old girl.”
Cressida thought about it for a moment, then said, “No, I shan’t report her until I discover the whole. It may be perfectly innocent, a no-good son Tory has given a night’s lodging to, or some such thing. I have no wish to get her into trouble. And besides, a mystery will help to pass the time.”
“Until my yacht arrives,” Beau added. “Meanwhile, why do we not take a drive into the village?”
“Let us go riding instead. I need some exercise.”
It had been settled that they were allowed to use the trails on Dauntry’s estate. She meant to keep well away from the castle, lest she be accused of trampling the grass, or disturbing Lady Dauntry. Mounted on their bays, they forgot about the mystery while they put the horses through their paces, with the sun warming their shoulders and a breeze cooling their brows.
“Excellent riding! Trust Dauntry,” Beau exclaimed after he landed safely on the far side of a hedge.
After a good run across country, Beau suggested they ride along the coast road to enjoy the ocean view. A sheer cliff fell steeply to the water below. They looked out on a sea of molten copper, glimmering peacefully in the sunlight.
“It is a good thing the dower house has mooring facilities for the Sea Dog,” Beau said. “I believe the only place hereabouts with easy access to land is that cove on Dauntry’s estate. I wonder if it was used for smuggling.”
“I doubt Lord Dauntry would permit it. Too toplofty.”
“It would explain the man you saw at the cottage, though, and Dauntry’s not wanting you to go there.”
“You are suggesting that Dauntry is aware of the smuggling, that he condones it?” she asked, surprised at such an allegation. Dauntry was a pillar of the political establishment. Had he been a Tory, he would certainly have been a cabinet minister.
“I daresay he likes his brandy as well as the next fellow.”
“No, it cannot be that. That does not account for the other mysteries, the gingerbread disappearing and my magazine being in the attic, and Jennet going to the cottage this morning. Surely it is all tied together somehow. We must keep our eyes and ears open, and see what we can discover, Beau.”
“I mean to take a skim over to the cottage the next moonless night all the same, and see if a lugger don’t land its cargo. There must be some reason he is so bound and bent to keep you away. Either that, or he has a woman there.”
“I shan’t wait that long before investigating. I mean to go tonight.”
“Then let us take a spin into the village this afternoon to see what sort of a place it is.”
* * * *
Lord Dauntry was waiting for them in the saloon when they returned from their ride. They came in from the stable by the kitchen, thus not meeting Muffet, and found Lord Dauntry sitting at his ease, glancing through Cressida’s Lady’s Companion. Cressida stopped at the doorway and uttered an “Oh” of surprise.
Dauntry rose and bowed. Even in his buckskins and top boots there was no mistaking him for a country gentleman. The cut of Weston’s handsome jacket marked him for an out and outer.
“Thinking of becoming a modiste, Lord Dauntry?” Cressida asked.
“Merely an admirer of ladies’ fashions,” he said, setting the magazine aside. “I hope I did not frighten you, ma’am?” His dark eyes made a quick perusal of his tenant. That burgundy riding habit was becoming to her black hair and fair skin. Unlike the empire gowns, it showed her lithe figu
re off to full advantage. His eyes skimmed appreciatively over her small waist and the feminine flare above and below. Her windblown hair was partially covered by a riding hat fashioned in the style of a man’s curled beaver. Odd how the masculine hat only enhanced her femininity. Tilted rakishly over one eye, it lent her a hoydenish charm. Her cheeks glowed and her lips were open in surprise.
“Frighten me? You are not so intimidating as all that, milord,” she said, coming forward to greet him. They sat down and the visit proper began.
“Did you enjoy your ride?” he asked.
“By Jove, I should say so!” Beau replied. “Excellent riding.”
“You should have tried the west meadow. There is a ditch there that might amuse you,” Dauntry said.
Cressida noticed that he had been watching them, as he knew they had not been in the west meadow.
“To ride there, we would have had to pass through your park. We were afraid of trampling a daisy. How is your mama this morning?” she asked.
“Much improved, after a quiet night. If I may say so, you are also looking improved after your early night.”
“Thank you,” she said through thin lips. There, he was doing it again, giving her a compliment spliced with a complaint.
“I have not forgotten your little lecture, Lady deCourcy. You will not want to sink into a hermit after all. I have here an invitation from the vicar’s wife, asking you to tea this afternoon. The ladies of the parish usually meet one afternoon a week to discuss church doings while they mend altar cloths and so on. You will decide whether you wish to attend such a raffish affair.”
His eyes wore a glow of amusement as he handed her the folded note. The man was insufferable! Withholding the invitation to a moonlight waltzing party, and urging her to attend this boring tea party.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the note without indicating what her reply would be. For courtesy’s sake, she offered Dauntry a glass of wine, thinking he would refuse. He said he would prefer tea, if it was not too much trouble, and settled in comfortably. Cressida asked Muffet to bring tea.
“My nose tells me Tory has baked you the gingerbread she promised,” Dauntry said after Muffet left.
“There is something very odd about that gingerbread disappearing,” Cressida said, frowning.
Dauntry answered with a chiding look. “We have always found Tory unexceptionable. Our servants are accustomed to certain perquisites. Mama does not mark the level of the wine decanters, or salt the cooking sherry to prevent their drinking it. We must remember servants are people, too. Everyone reacts more favorably to kindness than to criticism.”
She lifted a well-arched brow and stared at him. “Now, that philosophy surprises me, coming from you.”
He willed down a blush and said haughtily, “If it is your custom to deny the servants a piece of cake—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she scoffed. “I am not a nip-cheese, to begrudge a servant a piece of gingerbread. There are other things going on here that you are—perhaps—unaware of.”
He blinked once. “Such as?”
“The magazine in the attic, for starters,” Beau said, and told him about their investigation, and the wailing overheard the night before.
“Jennet is a bit odd,” he said dismissingly, “but she is a hard worker. As to the sounds, I have never spent a night in an old house that did not squawk and groan.”
When Muffet brought the tea tray, Tory followed behind him, bearing a new gingerbread cake eight inches high, the top sprinkled with powdered sugar and decorated with glazed cherries.
“I made this especially for you, milady,” she said proudly, and stood by to observe the cake’s cutting and serving as if it were a child she wished to see properly launched in the world.
“It is lovely, Tory,” Cressida said, and made a fuss over her efforts.
While Cressida served the cake, Tory said to Dauntry, “Her ladyship thought she heard something in the attic last night. She was asking about ghosts. I told her the cottage is haunted by Lavinia.”
“Oh, yes,” Dauntry said. The two, Tory and Dauntry, exchanged a look that could only be called conspiratorial.
“What sort of ghost is Lavinia?” Cressida asked suspiciously.
Dauntry decided to tease her. “The fact is, I had a friend—a lady friend—staying there some time ago.”
“And did she die of boredom, or was it the gale on the balcony that did her in?”
Dauntry’s lips moved unsteadily. “The gale,” he replied. “You must know it is usually those who die a violent death who return to haunt. I promise you, Lavinia was never bored.”
“I remember the gale well,” Tory said. “That awful gale in the last century.”
“The last century! You were a precocious lad!” Cressida said, blinking in surprise.
Dauntry swallowed his ire and said to Tory, “Your gingerbread looks delicious.”
“It is your cook’s receipt. I know how to do more than make a bed and dust a room,” she informed his lordship. “I could run a whole house with no trouble at all.”
“Don’t let us keep you from your multifarious duties below stairs,” he said, smiling graciously.
“I’d best get a hand on Jennet, or there is no saying what the moonling will be at.” So saying, she bustled importantly from the room.
“Well now,” Dauntry said, “the cat is out of the bag. The cottage is nothing else but a love nest. Papa had it done up in a style to suit his chère amie. It is totally unsuitable to a lady. As you are not a deb, Lady deCourcy, I can admit that it is still used from time to time.”
His impassive face revealed not a shred of shame at this admission. It was Cressida who blushed.
Beau cleared his throat and said, "A great day for sailing. I wish my Sea Dog were here.”
“When do you expect it?” Dauntry asked, happy to quit the former subject.
“My captain was having the mainmast tightened. It worked itself loose of its moorings.”
The talk turned to sailing, after which Dauntry escaped.
“Liar,” Cressida said as soon as he had quit the door. “If someone had been blown off that balcony, they would have had it removed, or closed in at least.”
“It is as I’ve said all along; Dauntry has a lightskirt there.”
“Perhaps,” she said pensively.
It was by no means impossible—but it did not account for the other little mysteries that floated about the house.
“I shall decline this invitation from the vicar’s wife, as we have planned to go to the village this afternoon. Their scandal broth will all be of ladies who are unknown to me. I must be sure to call on her another time, as she has invited me, however.”
Beau went out to observe the wind and Cressida wrote to the vicar’s wife. At Dauntry Castle, Lord Dauntry sat mentally running over the local belles, wondering if he should import one of them into the chalet for the summer, to lend credence to the tale he had told Cressida. All things considered, he thought a female on the premises might be more bother than good. With the smugglers about from time to time, the situation might become even more complicated. Lady deCourcy was proving trouble enough. But he was by no means eager to see her leave the dower house.
He was pleased that the rumors he had set afoot about a ghost at the cottage had thrived. That kept the locals away, but he feared it would only prove an incentive to Lady deCourcy. He smiled to remember that Tory had devised an actual identity for the ghost. She had been wearing a very knowing look. Tory must have seen a lugger stop at the dock and assumed he was smuggling brandy. She would sell her soul to Satan to protect any of the family, but he was sorry she had put the date of the gale so far in the past. Lady deCourcy would think him an antique. Not that she had believed a word of it. The image of Lady deCourcy lingered in his mind long after he had forgotten the rest of the visit.
Chapter Five
Miss Wantage loved to visit the shops nearly as much as she loved complaining. Her hos
tess could usually be shamed into buying her some trifle. She was sorely tempted to recover her health when she learned of the projected trip to Beachy Head, but in the end sloth won out and she got no farther than to a chair by the window, where one look at the cold sea sent her back to her nice warm bed. Cressida’s generosity regarding material for a new fall suit could be appealed to another time.
Cressida and Beau were about to leave, when a rattle of the door knocker delayed them.
“I am surprised Lord Dauntry has not posted a Keep Off sign at the gate to protect us from callers,” Cressida snipped.
Before Beau could reply, a young gentleman’s voice was heard in the hallway.
“No need to show me in, my good man. I am no stranger here,” the brash voice said.
Muffet followed behind, wearing a face of deep disapproval. “Mr. Brewster to see your ladyship,” he announced.
Cressida looked at a young whelp rigged out in what perhaps passed for the highest kick of fashion in the provinces. His jacket was not by Weston. Mr. Weston would never have violated an ell of blue Bath cloth by wadding the shoulders out of all proportion as her caller’s tailor had done, nor would he have allowed brass buttons of such an enormous size. The caller’s tawny hair was artfully brushed over his forehead in the Brutus do. A pair of blue eyes darted about the room as if he expected someone to pop out at him.
“I am Allan Brewster,” he said with a jerky bow. “You must be Lady deCourcy. I have been waiting forever to meet you.”
“How do you do. This is my cousin, Mr. Montgomery,” she said, wondering if she should have Muffet eject the man. Muffet stood in the doorway, awaiting missy’s decision. She listened to hear what her caller had to say before giving Muffet the nod.
“I am Lady Dauntry’s godson,” Brewster said, which got him the offer of a chair. Cressida gave an infinitesimal nod of her head, and Muffet retired. “I live at the abbey just three miles down the road,” he added. She waited for an invitation to call on his mama, but she waited in vain. “So, how do you like the place so far, Lady deCourcy?”
“I just arrived yesterday. My cousin and I were about to go to the village,” she said, hoping he could take such a broad hint.
