Memoirs of a Hoyden

by Joan Smith

  What I really wanted to do was to catch Sir Herbert and the spies myself, to hand them over to Kestrel on a platter to repay him for his various slights. He thought I was a boaster, a claimer of accomplishments not my own. I’d show him. But how? The spies weren’t here, and even if they were, I had no weapon to stop them. The logical thing to do was to arm myself, and this meant entering the house again and finding where Longville kept his weapons. I thought of that rough branch of ivy and the steep crawl up to my room. Per­haps there was a door left open somewhere. But lights still burned in the kitchen, where the servants would be at work cleaning the dishes and setting out the morn­ing’s bread.

  I took one more look through Sir Herbert’s window, where Kestrel was just leaving, his candle still in his hand. He closed the door, and the room became invis­ible. The downstairs was in darkness now, save for the kitchen area. I had seen a French door at the far side of the house, leading to a hedged garden. Perhaps that door was off the latch. Back I went, peering into the shadows beyond, where nothing stirred but the wind in the leaves. I edged up to the door, put a hand out, and gently tried the knob. To my surprise and delight, it turned silently under my fingers. Did country folks leave their doors off the latch when they retired, or was this one left open on purpose to welcome a spy? I didn’t think Sir Herbert could be back downstairs yet, or Kes­trel wouldn’t be moving about so freely. I eased the door open and stepped into utter darkness.

  I closed the door behind me and stood a moment getting my bearings. What room would this be, and where situated in the house? More important, were there any weapons in the room? What I needed was a light. I took a few tentative steps, feeling around me for a table, hopefully holding a tinderbox and lamp. I thought I heard a sound, and stopped, ears cocked. If someone was coming, I must flee out the door. But the sound, if indeed there was a sound, wasn’t repeated. My fingers felt a sharp edge of wood. It was long, flat—a table or desk. I carefully moved my hand over it, hoping to feel the tinderbox.

  Then I stopped, my heart hammering against my ribs. I definitely had heard a sound! A very soft, secretive sound, as of a foot moving carefully over a carpet. I felt an intuition so strong, it amounted to certainty that there was someone in the room. I held my breath, try­ing to decide what to do. Unarmed as I was, escape seemed the best choice. Yet escape, if I was followed, would mean leaving the safety of a house for the danger of the outdoors.

  Sir Herbert—who else could it be?— would hardly put a bullet through me in his own house, where the sound would be heard by everyone. If only I knew where the door to the hallway was located! The sound came again—soft, a mere susurrus, a muted rus­tling as of pieces of clothing rubbing together. A jacket sleeve against a jacket, or trouser legs . . .

  For a split second common sense deserted me and instinct took precedence. I turned and bolted for the one door whose location I knew. I wanted only to es­cape—whether into greater peril outdoors didn’t matter. I had lost my bearings and bumped into the table. That moment’s delay brought my attacker down on me. A heavy blow struck my head, just above the left eye. I was hit so hard, a hollow echo reverberated in the room. It was the last thing I heard before the ringing started in my ears, and I fell into merciful oblivion.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  As I lay on the floor with my poor head pounding and reeling, I was dimly aware of other things going forth in the room. There was the sound of furtive footsteps hastening toward the door in the hallway. The door closed, and there was a scuffling outside it. My poor, addled wits deduced that Kestrel had been lurking nearby and caught my assailant as he left the room. I tried to sit up, and felt such a stab of pain in my temple, I let out a moan, then passed out stone-cold.

  The next time I was aware of anything I was on a sofa, propped up with pillows, covered with a crocheted throw, with a glass of something vile pressed to my lips. A man hovered above me, one of his arms holding me up to drink. He was trying to poison me! I raised a hand and batted the awful-tasting stuff away.

  An educated curse rent the air, and peering through the dim shadow, I recognized the features of Lord Kes­trel, glaring at me like a hawk. “Oh, it’s you!” I ex­claimed, and felt foolish for my forceful spurning of his help. Being held in his arms did nothing to help me recover my sangfroid. Though I have had many adven­tures and experiences, my amorous doings and Aurelia’s all came from the realm of fantasy. I really felt extraordinarily uncomfortable with a man’s arms around me. And to make it worse, I realized that the shadow in his eyes wasn’t anger, but alarm, or fear for my safety.

  “I thought someone was trying to poison me. What was that awful liquid?” I asked, to cover my gêne. I knew perfectly well I was blushing like a green cow, and hoped he would mistake it for the effect of the brandy. I realized now the burning liquor was that.

  The glare softened to a reluctant smile. At this close range, I noticed Kestrel’s lashes were very long. They were what gave his eyes that penetrating look—the pale gray eyes were emphasized by the dark outline. With a smile curving his lips, he appeared more attractive than before, and the embarrassment of being in his arms was intensified accordingly. “Brandy,” he said. “Are you all right, Marion?”

  I couldn’t control my eyes at that “Marion,” which slipped out unawares. “Other than a splitting headache and a suit now decorated with brandy as well as mud and dust, I seem to be intact,” I said breathlessly.

  He returned my head to the pillows, but with one arm still around me, which had the effect of drawing his broad shoulders in an arch around me. I remembered how he had looked that morning with his jacket off. At this close range, actually touching in places, I could feel his body heat. Belvoir’s “hard wall” of chest that comforted Aurelia in times of strife had been woefully inadequate. A man’s chest wasn’t like a wall, cold and impersonal. There was animal warmth, comfort. The lips were very close when a man had his arms around you. Close enough to touch. With his other hand, Kes­trel reached out and brushed the hair from my forehead. “You’re going to have a bruise there,” he said. His breaths fanned my cheek, heightening the unfamiliar excitement of intimacy. His voice was tender—for Kes­trel, I mean.

  My forehead was tender, too. I winced and moved my head aside. “Tell me, is there a lamp in this room? It seems a little brighter than before, but I don’t see any lamp,”

  “I have a candle here on the floor,” he answered. “I didn’t want to light the lamps and draw attention, but I had to see you. Do you want me to waken the servants and have a plaster put on this?” He gently touched the bump on my head as he spoke. It was the light coming from below that cast those haunting shadows on Kes­trel’s face, imbuing him with a charm not usually seen. Romantic was the word that came to mind.

  “Is it bleeding?” I asked.

  “No, it’s swelling a little.”

  The effect of the romantic light and Kestrel’s new attractiveness, his arm around my shoulder, and his fin­gers gently stroking my hair all conspired to make me as nervous as a deb. When nervous, I usually become curt. “If you’d stop pawing it, perhaps the swelling would go away,” I suggested.

  His reluctant smile widened to a derisive grin. “You have all the sentiment of a bandit, Marion Mathieson. Pawing indeed! You make me sound like a whelp—or a lecher. I can see you’re back to your usual competent self, and I can get on with my job. I’ll take you to your room first. Can you walk?”

  On this question, he finally removed his arm from my shoulder and his fingers from my hair, but a smile lingered in his eyes. A particularly bright, questioning smile.

  “Wait!” In my eagerness to get back to work, I reached out and grabbed Kestrel’s hand to prevent his leaving. A flicker of surprise shimmered over his fea­tures, lifting his eyebrows. His fingers closed over mine and squeezed. I felt a perfect fool, not knowing whether to return the pressure or wrench my hand away. The former seemed too forward, the latter too brusque, so I settled for doing nothing. I ju
st let him hold my hand as though it were an empty glove. “We have to talk,” I said.

  “We’ll talk later. Now I have to go after our quarry.”

  “I want to go with you. You haven’t told me anything yet. Did you see who attacked me?”

  “It was pitch black in the hallway.”

  “It must have been Sir Herbert. He was lurking in here, waiting to receive the letter from the spies.”

  “What were you doing here? And why have you changed your gown?”

  “I was outdoors taking a look around.”

  His face clenched like a fist, and his pale eyes spar­kled angrily. “Outdoors! Dammit, Marion, this isn’t some childish game. Those men are killers. You don’t even have a pistol.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I left my room. In fact, it’s why I came in here, to look for one. Would you happen to know where Sir Herbert keeps them?”

  “You won’t require one. You’ll be in your room, sleeping, and that’s an order! But before you go—did you see anything outside?”

  “There was no action going forth, so I peeked in windows instead. All I saw was Sir Herbert writing some letters, and you searching his study. Did you find anything?”

  “No, I still think Sir Herbert’s innocent.”

  “Innocent as an adder! Does this look as if he’s in­nocent?” I demanded, pointing to my bump.

  “He didn’t do that. He’s in his bedroom. I watched him go in.”

  “Well, you were obviously looking the other way when he came out again.”

  “No, he couldn’t have got past me without being seen. Whoever attacked you didn’t come downstairs in the past quarter of an hour. There was someone in here, waiting.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I didn’t follow him. You were groaning. I thought you might be dying.”

  “You mean you let the spies escape while you came in here to force me to drink brandy? Oh, really, Kestrel! Castlereagh ought to be fired, hiring such an incom­petent—” The murderous scowl on Kestrel’s brow brought me to a stop.

  “Next time I’ll leave you to die. It’s what you de­serve. Didn’t I tell you half a dozen times not to come here? Amateurs—a woman at that—cluttering up my work. I would have caught him if it weren’t for you.”

  “Did you notice which way he went? Out the front door? Downstairs, where?”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted. “I lost him.”

  I just shook my head at this story. “He’s been here, left the letters for Sir Herbert, and got away. It was Sir Herbert who knocked me out. Kestrel, we have to go after Longville. He means to turn that letter over to Boney. Either someone will come here for it, or he’ll go somewhere to deliver it.”

  “It can’t be Sir Herbert. He’s not the type to betray his country. He’s not short of cash. He has a prosperous farm here, and he loves every minute of it. What we’re looking for is either someone desperate for money, someone with a grudge against England, or a love of France. Sir Herbert doesn’t qualify on any score.”

  “If he loves it so much here, why did he go to White­hall?”

  “Because he’s a patriot. He wanted to contribute to the fight against Boney.”

  “If not Sir Herbert, then it’s someone in this house­hold. This is where the spies were heading. You said there isn’t another place nearby where anyone works at the Foreign Office. That’s where the leak starts.”

  “I have a few other ideas,” Kestrel mentioned ca­sually, but my most avid questioning didn’t add one iota to my knowledge.

  “And now you must go to your room,” he said. “I’ve wasted too much time.” He rose and kicked aside one of my gloves, which I had removed while looking for the tinderbox. “What’s this?” he asked, eyes alight. “A glove—a very small glove. It’s a lady’s!”

  “It’s mine.”

  He turned it over in his hands, noticing its sorry con­dition from climbing the ivy. “You must have used it to fight the pashas,” he said, and tossed it to me.

  ‘No, it was climbing out the window tonight that did the mischief.’’

  Kestrel turned his head slowly and stared at me as though I were a tiger. “Do you mean to tell me you clambered out the upstairs window? You might have fallen and killed yourself.’’

  “I might have, but I didn’t. I was fine till Sir Herbert koshed me with something. I wonder what he used.”

  I got to my feet, and when the room stopped spin­ning, I looked around for the weapon. Lying near the door was a riding crop. Kestrel picked it up and we looked at it by the light of the one candle, now residing on the table. It was a dainty affair, slender, with orna­mental brass rings embedded in the handle. You could tell to look at it that Sir Herbert wouldn’t be caught dead in a ditch with such an elegant trifle.

  “It must be Nel’s,” Kestrel said, frowning.

  “Her father probably picked it up in the hall on his way in to kosh me,” I said airily.

  “Whoever was here didn’t know you would come. He was here waiting for someone or something else.”

  “Perhaps Nel left it lying about. It’s not important. These other ideas of yours, Kestrel—”

  “My foremost idea is to lock you into your room. And nail the window shut,” he added grimly.

  With this little clue that he didn’t mean to take me into his confidence, I wasted no more time in argument. I just held my head as though I could barely stand the pain, and went upstairs, hoping to give the impression I was on my way to bed. Kestrel wore an extremely suspicious look as I walked past him. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “At the risk of boring you, Lord Kestrel, I have suf­fered worse torment in other lands and survived.”

  On this piece of noble hogwash, I left the room and darted upstairs to discuss developments with Ronald. Imagine my shock to find Miss Longville sitting on his chair, weeping buckets into his handkerchief. She was wearing a rather chic blue riding habit and chapeau cocked over one eye. From the condition of Ronald’s handkerchief, a monogrammed one I had stitched with my own fingers, I estimated she had been watering it for longer than a few minutes.

  I hardly knew what to say. “What on earth is the matter, Miss Longville?” I asked.

  She put the wet linen to her nose and bawled louder. Ronald gave a grimace that indicated she might notice I had changed my gown. I didn’t see much danger of Miss Longville having an attack of common sense when she was so distraught, nor did she. I went to sit by Ronald on the side of his bed.

  “Nel was going to run away,” he explained. “I heard footsteps and opened my door just as she was about to go downstairs. I convinced her to come in here and discuss the matter with me.”

  “She shouldn’t be here alone with you.”

  “You’re here!” he pointed out.

  “I wasn’t when she arrived.”

  Ronald batted it aside. “It’s the most incredible thing you can imagine, Marion. Her papa is forcing her to marry Alfred Harcourt. She doesn’t care for him in the least.”

  “The foolish man,” I tsked. The name Bernard Kemp was in my mind, and I decided to test it. “But where did you think to go, Miss Longville? Do you have someone who would take you in?”

  She lifted her tearstained eyes long enough to hiccough and nod an affirmative. “A relative?” I asked slyly. She shook her head no.

  “It’s another man,” Ronald informed me. “A Mr. Kemp. Nel thinks she’s in love with him.”

  “And are you quite certain Mr. Kemp loves you, Nel?” I asked gently. As Ronald was Nel’ing her, I decided to make free of her name as well. The unusual circumstances warranted it. It was all the style that night. Kestrel had called me Marion. I wondered what his Christian name was. The blue riding bonnet nodded vigorously.

  “Mr. Kemp is well to do, is he?” I asked, shaking my head to Ronald to indicate it was not the case. The blue bonnet remained still, save for a little jiggle as she hiccoughed again into Ronald’s linen. “I would want to make v
ery sure he wasn’t just marrying me for my money, before I threw my reputation to the wind by a runaway match,” I added.

  Two watery eyes were raised to Ronald in supplica­tion. And he, the gudgeon, smiled his encouragement at her. “Nel assures me the attachment is long-stand­ing,” he explained.

  “But is he attached to the money, or the lady?” I repeated. “Does Mr. Kemp have a fortune of his own? Or is he the sort of wastrel who ran through his fortune, and is now looking about for some guileless peahead to hand hers over to him?”

  “He made some poor investments,” Ronald said le­niently.

  “Is that French for saying he’s a pauper?”

  Nel managed to get her mouth open and answer for herself. “I have twenty-five thousand from Mama. It is my own money, and Papa can’t stop me from having it when I am married.”

  “No, nitwit, but he can withhold his own fortune,” I said frankly. “Longville Manor is worth five or ten times that. Do you mean to throw it all away for some devil-may-care lad who hasn’t enough respect for you to settle down and earn his living, if he has no money?”

  “Bernard isn’t a pauper!” she said proudly. “He has a fine curricle and the best jackets in the county. He is learning the shipping business.”

  “Then let him learn it, and earn a proper home to take you to before he marries you. Where did you and Bernard plan to live?”

  She moved her shoulders uncomfortably. It was clear as glass she hadn’t given the mere detail of a roof over her head any consideration whatsoever. “I must go,” she said, and began gathering up reticule and gloves.

  As she wore her riding habit, it occurred to me she might have been carrying a riding crop. But Ronald had encountered her at the top of the stairs, so she couldn’t be my assailant. “Is Mr. Kemp waiting for you some­where?” I asked. A crafty look settled on her plump, rather childish features.

  She turned, ignoring me, to speak to Ronald. “Thank you, Mr. Kidd. I know you want to help me, but I must do this. I will not be forced into marrying Alfred Harcourt. I can’t stand the man.”