by Joan Smith
* * * *
At the castle Dauntry sat musing over her note as he sipped his morning coffee. The imperious tone of it annoyed him to no small degree. He was strongly inclined to ignore Cressida’s summons, but curiosity impelled him toward the dower house. What would she say about last night? Had she recognized him? That was the obvious reason for this curt note.
Yet he was sure she could not have positively identified him. He had spoken French—it changed the quality of the voice, and in the darkness she could not have gotten a good look at him. He would play dumb, display utter astonishment at her story just before delivering her a thumping lecture for having trespassed against his express orders. It was Lady deCourcy who was in the wrong here, and he would let her know it.
He called for his bay gelding and rode off toward the dower house. He met Cressida just past the turnoff to the cottage. Each recognized in the stiff pose of the other the signs of anger and intransigence. Yet despite his temper, Dauntry observed how gracefully she sat her mount, how at home she looked in the saddle. He admired a good horsewoman. He also admired the jaunty angle of her curled beaver. Her beauty lent a fillip to the coming confrontation.
“Good morning, Lady deCourcy,” Dauntry said coolly. “You wished a word with me?”
“I should like an explanation of why you are entertaining your company at my expense, sir.”
He hardly knew what she would say, but this assertion caught him off guard. “What the devil are you talking about?” he asked in confusion.
“I am talking about the woman in the chalet. Shabby treatment of a chère amie, Dauntry. If you cannot control your—appetite, I suggest you do the thing up properly and hire her some servants, for she will no longer have the use of my kitchen and servants.”
His brow furrowed in consternation. “Woman? What woman? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You admitted you have a woman there.”
“I said the cottage is used from time to time. It has stood empty the past two years. Amary—my friend—should be arriving soon, as a matter of fact. Are you saying there is already a woman there?”
Angry and confused as she was, Cressida still found a few seconds to conjure with that “Amary—” When had Dauntry taken that high flyer Amarylla under his protection? She had heard nothing of it in London.
“Certainly there is. Come along and I shall show you.”
They cantered down the road to the chalet without exchanging another word. Although Cressida was now convinced it was not Dauntry who was making use of her kitchen and staff, she was still out of reason cross with him. If the cottage had been unoccupied, he could have let her have it. Why did he bother bringing a mistress here at all, when he spent most of his time in town? Was the man a satyr? A gentleman of his age ought to be married and setting up his nursery. He gave a bad example to the younger bachelors.
They dismounted at the dower house and walked along the beach, up the stairs to the cottage, and around to the rear door. Cressida stopped a moment to point at the ivy, saving, “This, for your information, Dauntry, is not poison ivy, but plain old English ivy.”
Wrapped in conjecture, he did not reply.
When she climbed the stairs at the back door, Cressida saw the tray was gone. That, too, annoyed her. She looked a fool. “It was here this morning. Someone has removed it,” she said.
“May I know what you were doing here, trespassing on my property earlier this morning?” Dauntry asked, a black brow lifting arrogantly. “I specifically told you it was out of bounds.”
“We were walking on the beach and—stopped to have a look about.”
“At the back door. I see. Well, we must get to the bottom of this. I won’t have trespassers. Tory, I suppose, is the culprit.”
“But Tory said you—” She came to a pause. “Actually, she did not say you had told her to bring the trays, but when I said it, she let me believe it.” As she had let her believe Melbury was Mr. Brewster.
“I was the suspect from the beginning, was I?” he asked with something between a smile and a sneer.
“It is your house after all.”
“You would do well to remember it in future.”
“Never mind mounting your high horse, Dauntry. I admit I had no business here, but neither had my silver tray. Who could be here?”
“There is one way to find out.”
He took a key ring from his pocket, inserted a key in the lock, and opened the door. The house, though sound in structure, showed an air of dereliction by daylight. The curtains were fatigued and faded, the furniture dusty, and the air smelled of seaweed. Cressida was aware of how much finer and more comfortable the dower house was. She wondered that Dauntry would install such an Incomparable as Amarylla here.
As they went from room to room, small signs of recent occupancy were spotted, but a search of the house from kitchen to attic produced no one. There was a wineglass on a table in the saloon and a pitcher of water in one of the bedrooms. Only one bed was made up with linen. It had been slept in and not remade.
As they toured, Cressida observed that Dauntry was examining unlikely spots for a visitor to have left traces. He looked in drawers and shook out books, as if looking for a paper of some sort—the missing letter, no doubt. Was it possible Dauntry had been the other man at the chalet last night? The man was about his size, and Dauntry had been heading this way when he left the dower house. What business would he have with a Frenchie? Smuggling, very likely. She could not believe it was anything worse; spying, for instance. His character was good.
In the study, the same one where Cressida and Beau had been incarcerated the night before, although nothing was said of that, they found a cigar butt in a saucer.
“A man was here!” Cressida exclaimed.
Dauntry’s frown dwindled to resignation. “Cousin Melbury,” he said. “I warrant he arranged with the servants to spend the night here when he called on you yesterday, and even convinced them to feed him. I shall have a word with Tory.”
“How would he have gotten in? There are no windows broken.”
“He must have snitched the spare key the last time he was in my study—or bribed one of my servants to get it for him. He is a formidable wheedler. And, of course, the servants have known him forever. They watched him grow up.”
“I would say he still has a deal of growing up to do.”
“Of course, but the ladies are always eager to oblige a handsome, charming rogue.”
Cressida stared. “I did not find him so handsome as all that. As to charming, his brash swaggering is not my idea of charm.”
Dauntry cast a sideways glance at her. “You have higher standards than I would have expected from your encouragement of the duke,” he murmured.
“I did not encourage the duke in the least.”
“Indeed? I had not thought the baroness would allow herself to be put upon by anyone. If you wished to discourage him, you could have done it, and put the poor fellow out of his misery.” And she could have discouraged Saintbury, too, instead of breaking his heart.
“Oh, but he enjoys his misery. It is half an act with him.”
“And it is all an act with you,” he riposted.
“Are you attempting, in your clumsy way, to read me a lecture, Dauntry?” she inquired in a thin voice.
“A word to the wise, my dear. You are picking up the aroma of a flirt.”
She flounced across the room, peering for further signs of occupancy, and found a glass holding an inch of ale in the bottom. Ladies seldom drank ale. She showed it to Dauntry. “Definitely a man,” she said, “and Tory let me believe it was a woman!”
Dauntry examined her with a dark eye. “You found it easy to believe she was my bit o’ muslin, eh?”
“Oh, no, Dauntry,” she said with a quizzing smile. “I was shocked with you. I made sure your women would be kept in a much grander style. Amarylla will not be content without a full staff of servants to bring this place into order. She will
require a carriage. She is accustomed to the best. I had not heard Everly had tired of her charms.”
Dauntry was not so well up on gossip as Cressida. He had not heard Everly was involved with the actress. “She tired of his, actually,” he said.
“I wish you luck of your bargain. She is monstrously expensive, from what I hear.”
“And worth every penny. Let us go.”
Tory was soon standing before them, clutching at her apron skirts and bursting into a frenzy of apologies. “I’m ever so sorry, your lordship. I expect I done wrong to let her ladyship think it was your friend that was eating the food, but when she suggested it, I leapt on it to protect Melbury. You know how Melbury is. He could work his way around a heart of stone.” She turned to Cressida. “Sure it was only a bit of gingerbread and bacon and eggs, milady. I did not think you would begrudge it to a starving man.”
“I do not begrudge it, Tory, but you should have told me.”
“Where has he gone?” Dauntry asked.
“I sent the footman to warn him the jig was up,” Tory admitted shamelessly. “He mentioned Bath.”
“Good riddance. If he shows up at the door again, send him to me.”
“I will, your lordship. I’m sorry, milady. I sent off to the castle for the pork jelly for Miss Wantage, as the poor creature is such a bundle of nerves.” She curtsied and backed toward the doorway.
Cressida’s cheeks felt warm at this speech. “Be sure you pay the cook for it, Tory,” she said. “I will not be pillaging Dauntry’s kitchen.”
“You can just give me the penny while I am here,” he said, chewing back a grin.
Tory left. “Don’t let me keep you, Dauntry,” Cressida said. “No doubt you are eager to be off to London to collect Amarylla.”
“I changed my mind.”
Cressida felt a rush of triumph. No, she had changed his mind, but he was too proud to say so.
“I shall send my groom off for her. I must remain here and get the cottage ready for her. As you so kindly pointed out, it is in no shape for company.”
Her eyes sparked angrily. “Don’t let me keep you from your dissipations,” she said, and flounced out of the room.
Chapter Nine
That afternoon Cressida received an invitation from Lady Dauntry inviting her household to an informal dinner at the castle that evening. She promised it would be a small, quiet do, in keeping with the baroness’s rustication. It made a pleasant diversion, as Beau was no longer available for company. Since the arrival of his yacht, she had scarcely seen him. He did not even come to the house for lunch, causing grim forecasts of sunstroke, starvation, and, of course, eventual drowning from Miss Wantage.
Cressida drove Miss Wantage into the village in the afternoon to exchange the vulgar silk threads for pastel ones. Miss Wantage could happily have spent the whole day in the drapery shop, comparing prices and quality, and pointing out to Cressida that Mrs. Flynn, whom Cressida had never heard of, had a gown made of that blue mulled muslin last year and it had faded shockingly.
“They are asking nine shillings the yard!” she exclaimed. “I am sure Mrs. Flynn paid only six—and well paid for it was at that price. It is not real Indian muslin,” she said, holding an end up to the light to check the closeness of the weave and the density of the threads.
"The embroidery supplies are over here,” Cressida said, trying to nudge her in the proper direction.
“Just look at this, Cressida!” was Miss Wantage’s reply. “The Indian muslin is fifteen shillings the yard! Did you ever hear of such a thing? Plain old muslin. Mind you, the green sprigged pattern is pretty. They do not carry the green sprigged in Bath.”
“Would you like a few yards, Miss Wantage?” Cressida asked. Perhaps that was why she lingered so long over the ells.
“I would not be caught dead in it at my age. We aging ladies must be a little careful what colors we wear.” Her eyes just glanced off Cressida’s pink sprigged muslin. “Mutton dressed as lamb, as my papa was used to say. If I were buying any material, I would buy a good merino for a winter suit. Not that I am hinting!”
Her pale fingers moved over to the winter materials, landing on a bolt of gray merino (at a guinea a yard). After much discussion, Miss Wantage was prevailed upon to take four yards as a gift. “And the extra half yard for errors,” she added. “One never knows, a sleeve might be cut wrong, and then where are you, with the source of the material miles away in Beachy Head?”
They moved on to the buttons (common), lace (that lot never came out of Belgium!), and needles. The worst to be said of them was that the eyes were too small. Finally they reached the embroidery threads, only to discover that Miss Wantage had “accidentally” left the vulgar bright ones at home, which did not prevent her from snapping up the pastel shades. A full hour later they left the shop to find the sky had darkened during their sojourn amid the sewing materials.
Miss Wantage shook her head. “I hope Beau has the sense to come in out of the rain, but I doubt it.”
It had begun sprinkling by the time they reached home, giving great pleasure to Miss Wantage, who had insisted on the closed carriage. Beau’s yacht was seen a mile out at sea, but as the wind was not strong, Cressida could not be convinced to either fear for his life or send a rescue ship out after him. At six Beau came bouncing into the saloon, his face ruddy and his hair looking like a haystack.
“By Jove, this is something like! Nick let me work the rudder. I brought us into harbor with a little help from Nick and the crew.”
“Who is Nick?” Miss Wantage inquired, for she mistrusted this name of ill omen.
“My captain, Nick Bolton. An excellent fellow. He sailed under Nelson, until he had his arm shot off. Nelson, I mean. Nick still has both of his.” He looked at the puddle of gray merino in Miss Wantage’s lap and said, “I say, has someone died?”
Miss Wantage cast a sad eye on him. “One ought not to make jokes about death, Beau. It is coming to us all, sooner or later.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“It is time to dress for dinner,” Cressida said. “We are invited to the castle, Beau.”
“I hope they have invited some ladies. The neighborhood is thin of ladies. I have not seen a pretty face since I arrived.”
It had been understood when Miss Wantage was taken on that she would perform as Cressida’s dresser. Until the present, her poor health had prevented it. She made a token offer now.
“Would you like me to try to do something with your hair, dear?” she said, looking uncertainly at Cressida’s raven tousle of curls. “The sea air is so hard on it, is it not? I really don’t know what could be done with it. A turban, perhaps.”
“I look a quiz in a turban.”
“I agree, it takes a well-proportioned face to do justice to a turban. I have a few spare caps with me, if you would like to borrow one.”
Cressida refused to take issue on the caps. “Jennet usually helps me dress.”
“Oh, the simpleton. That accounts for it,” Miss Wantage said, and walked languidly up to her room.
Beau grinned. “Now that Jeremiah has completely demoralized you, I want to say that I think your hair looks dashed nice, Sid. How do you keep your patience with that creature?”
“I try not to listen, but on this occasion I have been amusing myself by wondering how Dauntry will take to her slights. He was quick to condemn us for speaking ill of Miss Wantage. Let us see how much forbearance he has.”
“She’ll not blister him with that tongue of hers. She likes a marquess very well. He comes right below a duke. If she tries her stunts on him, he will give her a set-down in short order.”
Cressida’s mirror told her that her hair looked fine. She had Jennet brush it out and pinned a pearl brooch in the curls above her left ear. For a simple country party, she wore a crepe gown in pale green with a simple strand of pearls. Jennet brought her a perfect white rosebud, which she pinned at her bodice.
“Oh, so you are wearing that. It
is no matter. No one will see us,” was Miss Wantage’s forgiving speech when Cressida entered the saloon.
Lady Dauntry delayed dinner until eight for her party, but her guests began arriving at seven. The party from the dower house arrived at seven-thirty, to find the saloon well populated. Allan Brewster and his parents were there, as were the vicar and his wife and a sprinkling of country neighbors. Lady Dauntry introduced Lady deCourcy’s party to them. If Beau found the few young ladies present objectionable, one would never have guessed it from the way he went haring after them.
Lord Dauntry was present to play host. He was on good terms with his neighbors. The gentlemen spoke of farming and politics while the ladies caught up on the local gossip over a glass of sherry. Miss Wantage requested water.
“Have you heard from the honeymooners, Lady Dauntry?” Mrs. Simmons, the vicar’s wife, inquired.
“Not a word! I expected Tony would write from Haslemere, where they were to rest the first day after the wedding.”
“They have better things to do, hee-hee,” the vicar said.
Miss Wantage stiffened. “Indeed they would have,” she said. “There is a fine church there, if memory serves.”
The talk turned to other neighbors, finally hitting on another name Cressida recognized, James Melbury.
“I hear Melbury is off to Bath, Lady Dauntry,” a Mrs. Forrester said.
“I believe he mentioned something of the sort at the wedding.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Forrester continued, “the Anglins saw him at the Assembly Rooms there the night before last, chasing after Miss Addams.”
Dinner was soon called. Cressida had the place of honor at Lord Dauntry’s right side. She said in a low voice, “Melbury was seen at Bath the night before last. He could not possibly have been home by yesterday, when that man visited me, could he?”
“Only if he rode ventre à terre, which suggests someone was after him. That is not uncommon.”
