by Jo Goodman
“I stand corrected,” Restell said. “It is not a dark mood. It is a black one.”
Porter Wellsley, sitting in the wing chair turned toward the fire, chuckled appreciatively. “You would do better to relate all of the particulars of your adventure to me and not attempt to include Ferrin. He is lost to us, I’m afraid, when he is engaged in matters of scientific inquiry.”
“Is that what he’s doing? Science?”
“Just so, though I don’t pretend to understand it. He’s a deep one, is your brother. It was the same at Cambridge. The darling of the dons and the bane of all of us with less talented upperworks. He was at his most content in one of the fusty old laboratories or the library. I was not the only one who despaired he would come to a bad end, blow up some damn fool thing or another. That’s what was in the wagering books, with substantial winnings to be earned by predicting what part of his anatomy he would lose to his experiments.”
“He has all his fingers and toes.”
“More’s the pity,” Wellsley said. “I wagered on the left pinky. I was his friend, you see, and I felt that making money from the loss of a larger appendage was rather beyond the pale.”
Ferrin made his selection from among the titles he was perusing and finally turned. “You would have wagered on the loss of my left bullock, Wellsley, if you thought I would be that careless.”
Wellsley shrugged. The grin he cast in Restell’s direction was somewhat sheepish. “He’s right. It was not misgivings that prevented me from making the wager but some understanding of your brother’s meticulous work habits.”
Restell laughed outright. “I am glad that I was sent to Oxford, then. Under no circumstances could I be mistaken for the darling of the dons. It would have been too much to follow in Ferrin’s footsteps at Cambridge. It is deuced difficult now, and I am only trying to secure a reputation as a gentleman about town.”
Ferrin looked up from his book long enough to roll his eyes.
Wellsley scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Mayhap you are too determined in the matter. Ferrin is two and thirty and has been at it for a time. There are those—Lady Gardner, for one—who would say he’s been at it too long. If you want to cultivate a rep such as your brother enjoys, you must not be so quick to avoid the clutches of all those females with marriage on their mind. Ferrin has always been careful to allow those young things and their mamas to hope that he can be caught. At least that is what I have observed as the trick of it. He is fascinating to them because he permits them to think he might be changed. I fear it is more of a balancing feat than I am able to manage. I am quite ready to be changed, while your brother is peculiarly content to remain a rascal.”
“I want to be a rascal,” Restell said feelingly.
“What do you mean you are ready to be changed?” Ferrin asked at the same time.
Restell, realizing that in his self-absorption he had missed something of import, echoed his brother. “Yes, Wellsley, what do you mean by that?”
“It means what it means,” Wellsley explained stoutly, if inadequately. When he saw that this was not going to pass muster with either Ferrin or Restell, he reluctantly elaborated. “I am all for the comforts of a married state. I think I will like to share the breakfast table with my wife.”
“Yes, but will you share the newspaper?” asked Ferrin.
Ignoring that, Wellsley went on. The broad planes of his face softened and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, while in no way remote, were certainly engaged in seeing something as if from a distance. “I will enjoy the tricks wives get up to: planning parties when their allowance is insufficient; buying parasols and ribbons for no reason except they are struck by a mood; flirting with other gentlemen to lead their husbands about by the nose. It has been on my mind lately that there is nothing at all disagreeable about it.”
Ferrin dropped his book. Although it was done of a purpose and fell only so far as his desktop, the thump was considerable and had the desired effect: Wellsley jumped as though shot through the heart.
“What?” he asked, glaring at Ferrin. “What was that in aid of?”
It was Restell who offered the explanation. “You were speaking such nonsense as to be perfectly objectionable.”
“Was I?” He looked to his friend for confirmation.
Ferrin’s mouth pulled slightly to one side, and he offered a nod reluctantly. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, dear.” Wellsley sighed. “I am over the moon, then.”
“I think that might be understating it,” Ferrin said dryly. He skirted his desk until he came to stand in front of it, then he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Might we inquire as to the name of the female who has put you there?”
The tips of Wellsley’s ears reddened. “I have not declared myself to her. You will understand, then, my reluctance to give you her name.”
Restell chose a small embroidered pillow from the chaise and pitched it at Wellsley’s head. “He might understand, but I do not. Are you afraid we will let it about? That’s not very trusting of you. I know how to keep a secret.”
“So do I,” Wellsley said, tossing the pillow back. “And that is by keeping it to myself. Is that not right, Ferrin?”
“That’s right.” Ferrin was prepared to say more on the subject for Restell’s benefit, but a commotion in the adjoining drawing room put a period to the half-formed moral lesson. Restell might have preferred it, Ferrin thought, to what surely was coming. “It is Mother,” he said unnecessarily. Restell was abandoning his negligent posture on the chaise for something more like a military bearing, while Wellsley was already on his feet.
Lady Gardner swept through the door thrown open to her by the butler and demanded, “Ferrin, is that rascal—. Never mind, I can see that he is.” Her eyes bored into her stepson.
“Take heart, Restell,” Ferrin said. “Mother thinks you are a rascal.” Ignoring Restell’s unamused glance, Ferrin pushed away from his desk and stepped forward to greet his mother. He took both her hands and kissed her cheek. “You are looking in the very pink of health, Mother.”
“Frankly, I am overset.”
“But you are in fine color.”
Lady Gardner removed her hands from Ferrin’s and patted her cheeks. “They are not too flushed?”
“No.”
“It is no thanks to Restell.”
“I am sure it is not.”
She looked around her son’s broad shoulders to dart a sharp glance at her stepson. He was standing stiffly beside the chaise. “He said he could not escort me to either Bond Street or the bookseller’s because he was calling upon Miss Martha Hopkins this afternoon. He knew I would approve of that. She is to have a dowry of six thousand pounds and shall come into a trust established by her late grandmother when she is twenty-five.”
“I am sure you do not mean to be mercenary.”
“Mercenary? Of course not. I mean to be practical. One must plan, you know, and I am credited with being able to see the long view. Restell’s prospects are not the same as yours, are they?”
“He will not be an earl,” Ferrin said cautiously.
She waved that aside. “That is the least of it. He will not have thirty thousand pounds a year. He will not have homes in town and in the country. He will not have lands in abundance nor tenants to work them. There will be no rents to collect or profits to be made from cattle and crops and investments.”
Restell’s weight shifted. He cleared his throat and made what he hoped was an acceptable offer. “I shall put a bullet to my head at once.”
Lady Gardner stepped around Ferrin and pointed a finger at Restell. “That is not at all amusing. Do you know with whom I spent the afternoon when you would not escort me?” She did not give him time to answer and neither Ferrin nor Wellsley—who thought himself well out of it—ventured a guess. “Lady Rivendale. I met her at Barkley’s and had tea with her. Mr. Nicholas Caldwell was her niece’s husband.” Restell’s blank look did not put him
in her good graces. She speared Wellsley with her glance. “I suppose you do not know who that is, either?”
“I believe Mr. Caldwell killed himself with a pistol ball to the head,” Wellsley said. “That was the on-dit at the time, though I have never speculated as to the truth or falseness of the rumor.”
“You do not often impress me, Mr. Wellsley,” Lady Gardner said. “But it is excellent that you have done so now.” She smiled at him warmly, further evidence of her approbation. This evidence vanished when she returned her attention to Restell. “Mr. Wellsley is quite right not to engage in rumor. I know it from Lady Rivendale herself that what was alleged is true. I can assure you that no one in that family finds anything diverting about it. Mrs. Caldwell was at your sister’s masquerade. It was one of only a handful of public appearances that she’s made since her husband’s death. Imagine how she would have reacted to hearing you speak so cavalierly about putting a pistol to your head.”
Ferrin watched Restell take his mother’s harangue on the chin. A lock of pale yellow hair fell over his brother’s brow, but except to shake it back, he did not move. The lecture was undeserved, but it was good of Restell not to try to defend himself. He had to realize that if he had provided an escort rather than shirking the responsibility, she would not be put out with him now.
“In fairness to Restell,” Ferrin said, “the subject did not come up at the masque.”
She rounded on him. “The subject did not come up now, either. He plucked it out of the air.” She touched her cheeks again. “I will have a drop of sherry, Ferrin, to calm my nerves.” Accepting Wellsley’s escort, Lady Gardner took the chair he had previously occupied and fanned herself lightly. “How would any of us know if we had said something untoward?” she asked. “Mrs. Caldwell is unknown to me even when she is not dressed as a Gainsborough shepherdess.”
Ferrin paused in pouring his mother the drink she requested. “A shepherdess?” he asked with considerably more casualness than he felt. “That does not narrow it at all, does it? Pray, what color were the ribbons on her crook?”
“Green,” Lady Gardner said. “I asked Lady Rivendale the very same question. I was assured they were green.”
Chapter Four
Boudicca’s spear stood in the corner of Ferrin’s study. He’d wondered earlier if Wellsley, Restell, or especially his mother, whose eyes were as sharp as a peregrine falcon’s, would notice it. None of them had. He suspected they were distracted by the absurdity of their own conversation, and for once he did not regret his presence or participation in it.
He had learned something valuable and unexpected: Mrs. Nicholas Caldwell was the friend for whom Boudicca had been searching. Ferrin picked up the spear, turning it over in his hand. It was every bit as old as he had suspected. He’d had that confirmed by taking it to one of his former professors who’d made a study of such things. It was from Sir Richard Settle that he heard the name Nicholas Caldwell for the first time. Caldwell was a student—some would say scholar, but not Sir Richard—of the Iceni people. Boudicca was their queen.
It did not stretch the imagination to suppose that Mrs. Caldwell had permitted her friend to borrow the spear, the torc, the brooch, and the bracelets to lend authenticity to Boudicca’s costume. Ferrin wondered how Boudicca would explain the loss of the spear. Mrs. Caldwell could not have anticipated her friend would be careless with an item whose value was better measured in terms sentimental and historical rather than financial.
He considered calling upon Mrs. Caldwell to return the spear but was uncertain this was the best course of action. She might not be willing to tell him anything about her friend, especially once the artifact was in her possession. Gratitude would not necessarily guarantee her cooperation. He also had questions as to what Mrs. Caldwell might know about her friend’s behavior. It was difficult to believe Boudicca would have spoken of their encounter to anyone, even a friend considered to be a confidante. Presenting his card at Mrs. Caldwell’s might raise questions that he was most definitely not prepared to answer.
Ferrin was acquainted with Lady Rivendale and had known before this afternoon that she was a friend to his mother. His own introduction to her had come some six years earlier in Lord Hardcourt’s card room. She was an accomplished player, one of the few women invited to sit at Lord Hardcourt’s table and make wagers. Her participation did not occasion notoriety as it would have a woman of less stature in society. The wags had it that the Countess of Rivendale was merely eccentric. It was Ferrin’s observation of the great lady that she’d rather have been notorious.
Ferrin could not recall anyone closely resembling the countess in form or feature at the masquerade. When he mentioned this to his mother, she confirmed that Lady Rivendale had not been present. A stomach ailment had kept her confined to her bed, and she had been most unhappy about it. According to his mother, Mrs. Caldwell had been encouraged by the countess to attend the masque in any event and had arrived unescorted.
Ferrin did not gainsay his mother on this point. Indeed, he could not be certain it wasn’t true, but Boudicca had expended some effort in looking for her friend, and it begged the question: Had they, in fact, arrived together? Given that Mrs. Caldwell was no longer often about in society, Boudicca was likely concerned that her friend had bolted. It did not present Boudicca in a flattering light that she had been so willing to set consideration for Mrs. Caldwell aside and seek her own pleasure first. But then, Ferrin recalled, Boudicca had not only taken on the mantel of a queen, she had cloaked herself in ruthlessness as well.
Ferrin replaced the spear in the corner. He had several such artifacts at his country estate in Norfolk. They were occasionally found by the tenant farmers turning over the ground in preparation of spring planting and always brought to him for inspection. Because his estate was situated in and around the same environs that Queen Boudicca and her people had once occupied, it was not difficult for him to make an educated identification. More Roman weapons were found than those belonging to the Iceni, but that was because in the end, by sheer force of numbers, the Romans had emerged as victors.
Not knowing the origin of the spear Boudicca had carried to the masquerade was what prompted Ferrin to seek Sir Richard’s expertise. That meeting had turned out favorably in two ways: the spear was identified as a weapon forged and used by the Iceni, and the name Caldwell had been brought to his attention.
Ferrin returned to his desk and sat down. He made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on the tips as he contemplated his next step. When information came to him from two unrelated sources and carried certain commonalities, he could not dismiss it as coincidence. Still, he knew himself reluctant to approach Mrs. Caldwell. It was quite enough dealing with his mother when she was overset; he did not want to provoke the same state of nerves in a widow who rarely left her home.
It seemed to Ferrin that Lady Rivendale was the answer to his every question, and a smile played about his mouth as a plan began to take form. He knew precisely how to engage her interest.
Cybelline gave a small start, waking suddenly as the carriage jolted. She observed that her fellow passengers were not affected in the same way. Nanny Baker was snoring softly, her head turned at an uncomfortably sharp angle toward the window. Anna did not stir in Cybelline’s lap. The rolling and swaying carriage had turned out to be superior to the rocker in the nursery for lulling the little girl to sleep.
It was nearing nightfall on their third day. Cybelline lifted the blind just enough to gauge the onset of darkness and saw at once they would have to secure lodging soon. She had hoped to reach Penwyckham today, but the countess had greatly underestimated the length of the journey. Her driver had tried to tell her the trip could easily require as long as a sennight, but she had misunderstood, thinking he meant to prepare her for the inevitability of a mishap with an axle, a wheel, or a horse coming up lame. Thus far, they had experienced no larger mishap than Nanny Baker becoming as sick as a midshipman on his first tour of duty, and sti
ll they were little more than halfway to their destination.
Nicholas had traveled some of these same roads on his way to Suffolk and Norfolk Broads, but she could not recall him complaining of either the length of the journey or of the lack of decent accommodations along the way. In truth, her husband was not one to complain, especially about things that could not be changed. What she did remember quite clearly was how excited he was at the outset of each excursion. Nicholas was unfailingly optimistic about where each journey would lead. “You will see, Cyb,” he’d tell her. “This time I will find a piece worthy of the Royal Society’s interest.”
Often, he did. Nicholas’s scholarly study was not limited to the Iceni, of which there were precious few artifacts to be uncovered. He also had an interest in the East Anglia kingdoms of the sixth and seventh centuries. Shrewd investments in shipping, particularly the China trade, supported Nicholas’s intellectual pursuits. It was in his role as barrister that he supported his family.
Cybelline’s thoughts wandered, as they had since the masquerade, to the problem of the missing spear. A rare find, one that Nicholas had been most enthusiastic about, the spearhead was in excellent condition as it had been protected from the elements for almost two thousand years by an unusual formation of stone around it. Cybelline knew she had acted unconscionably by removing it from the house. Nicholas had intended to sell it to a collector who would preserve it as well as the stone had, but he had not been able to bring himself to part with it. Now she wondered at her motives for taking it.
At the time she’d told herself that it lent authenticity to her costume and gave her the courage she needed to become Boudicca. That was true as far as it went, but as a complete explanation it fell far short of the mark. Was she really so angry at Nicholas for abandoning her that removing the spear—then leaving it behind—was an act of spite? Or was it because every glance at it reminded her painfully that Nicholas would never share his joy of discovery again?
