Tangled Reins

by Stephanie Laurens

  He considered the figure by his side. All was not well with his friend and, presuming from his silence on the matter that the cause was the younger Miss Darent, he did not like to add any extra burden to a brow already overwrought.

  The romance between Fanshawe and Cecily was not proceeding as his lordship had hoped. He had discovered his love had a definite mind of her own and having once taken an idea into her head could hold to it buckle and thong in the face of all reason. She had objected to what she termed his proprietorial attitude at the masquerade, leaving him feeling decidedly rejected. While she had relented later, allowing him to escort her to their carriage, she had remained coldly aloof.

  The two friends continued on their way, sunk in abstracted silence. They parted at the corner of Cavendish Square to retire to their respective chambers, troubled, for quite different reasons, over what the future held.

  Chapter Ten

  The Friday, Saturday and Sunday following the masquerade saw Hazelmere dancing attendance on Dorothea in a way that, had anyone still been watching, would have made them wonder at the power of love. Lady Merion was moved to make a number of rude comments to him when no one else was by, regarding the inadvisability of over-indulgence. Hazelmere listened politely and let the shafts fly by. He was thankful that his mother had returned to Hazelmere on Friday morning, archly refusing her dutiful son’s offer of escort, saying she knew how many other things he had on his mind.

  Keeping a watchful eye on Dorothea at the balls and parties in the evenings presented no great problem. He could with confidence leave her in the company of a great many friends, both his and her own. But from the time she returned from riding in the Park to the time she left Merion House for whichever of the evening’s entertainments she was to attend, her day was a mystery to him.

  On Friday he solved this by inviting her to drive with him in the Park in the afternoon. He almost committed the blunder of asking her to come out with him again on Saturday but, catching a glimpse of her face, realised that she was already becoming suspicious. She was quite capable of linking his sudden attentiveness with the incident at the masquerade. He returned to Hazelmere House and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to devise a means of keeping watch over her without being overly conspicuous.

  The only other person he would have consulted was Fanshawe, but he was still having troubles of his own. He had to have better information on Dorothea’s movements, but for some while the means of acquiring such intelligence did not present itself. It was only when a footman quietly entered to light the fire that the penny dropped.

  Summoning his butler, he asked, ‘Mytton, is there any connection between my household and that of Merion House?’

  Mytton, not sure what had occasioned this odd query, saw no reason to equivocate. ‘Young Charles, the footman, m’lord, is walking out with Miss Darent’s new maid.’

  ‘Is he, indeed?’ mused Hazelmere softly. He glanced up at his terribly correct and equally shrewd henchman. ‘Mytton, you may tell Charles that I wish him to find out for me, if he can, what Miss Darent’s plans are for the morrow. He may take whatever time he needs. But I must have the information before tomorrow. Do you think he could accomplish such a task?’

  ‘Young Charles, if I may say so, m’lord, is a most capable young man,’ responded Mytton gravely.

  ‘Very good,’ replied Hazelmere, repressing a grin.

  On returning home in the early hours of Saturday morning, he found that Charles had been every bit as capable as Mytton believed. Armed with Dorothea’s plans for the next two days, he was able to confine his appearances to her usual morning rides in the Park, to a ball on Saturday night and to the party she attended on Sunday evening. At the party, he found himself again under suspicion.

  ‘Just what are you about now?’ Dorothea enquired as they glided around the room in the only waltz of the evening.

  ‘I’d rather thought it was the waltz,’ returned Hazelmere, all innocence. ‘I’m generally held to be reasonably good at it.’

  Dorothea regarded him much as she would an errant child. ‘And I suppose it has always been your habit to attend such eminently boring parties as this?’

  ‘Ah, but you forget, my love! My heart is at your feet. Didn’t you know?’

  While the words were what she longed to hear, the tone left Dorothea in no doubt of how she should treat them. She laughed. ‘Oh, no! You cannot distract me so easily. You’ll have to think up a far more plausible excuse for your presence here, of all places.’

  ‘Is my being here so distasteful to you?’ he asked, feigning seriousness.

  Seeing the lurking twinkle at the back of the hazel eyes, she had no compunction in answering, ‘Why, no! I believe I would welcome even Lord Peterborough in such company as this!’

  He laughed. ‘Very neat, my dear. But why, if this party is so boring, are you gracing it with your lovely presence?’

  ‘I’ve no idea why Grandmama insisted on coming,’ she admitted. ‘Even she is not enjoying it, because Herbert and Marjorie are here. Thank heavens they leave for Darent Hall tomorrow. And Cecily! She’s been going around as if the sky has fallen.’ Fixing him with a direct look, she continued, ‘Incidentally, if you have any interest in that matter, you could tell Lord Fanshawe to stop encouraging her to think herself up to all the rigs, because she’s not. He has, and now she’s annoyed because he won’t let her do precisely as she wants. If he’ll only tell her quite plainly he won’t have it, she’ll stop. She always responds to firm handling.’

  ‘Unlike her elder sister?’ murmured Hazelmere provocatively.

  ‘Precisely!’ answered Dorothea.

  Hazelmere had the opportunity to deliver her message to Fanshawe the next day. Thanks to Charles’s continuing efforts on his behalf, he learned that Dorothea and Cecily were to attend a select picnic at the home of Lady Oswey, escorted by that pink of the ton, Ferdie Acheson-Smythe. Feeling he could safely leave Dorothea’s welfare in Ferdie’s capable hands for the day, he collected Fanshawe and they departed to watch a prize-fight on Clapham Common. As the sisters were going to the theatre that evening in company with Lord and Lady Eglemont, Hazelmere felt no need to attend this function either. It was the early hours of the next morning when their lordships, thoroughly pleased with their day away from the rigours of the Season and somewhat the worse for wear, returned to Cavendish Square and their beds.

  Ferdie and Dorothea departed Merion House on the Monday morning, expecting to pass a pleasant day at the Osweys’ house by the Thames at Twickenham. Cecily was querulous and moody, labouring under the twin goads of feeling, on the one hand, that she had treated Lord Fanshawe unfairly and, on the other, of not wishing him to order her life for her.

  Observing her elder sister, she wondered why Dorothea, much more independently minded than herself, acquiesced so readily to the Marquis’s suggestions. Noting the absentminded smile that hovered on her lips as she gazed unseeingly out of the carriage window, she concluded that her sister was obviously in love with Hazelmere. She, in contrast, had clearly mistaken her heart. For surely if she was in love with Fanshawe she would be perfectly happy to allow his judgement to prevail? But he had been horridly strict and old-fashioned about her impromptu acquaintance with some of the more dashing blades present at the masquerade. The sneaking suspicion that he had been right in telling her that acquaintance with those particular gentle men would not be to her advantage did not improve her humour. In an altogether dismal mood, she alighted from the chaise at Oswey Hall.

  However, the glorious sunshine, blue skies and gentle breeze—perfect conditions for a picnic by the stream in the bluebell wood—raised even Cecily’s spirits. Soon she was one of a group of chattering damsels busily comparing stories of encounters with the more eligible bachelors of the ton. Rather too old for such girlish pastimes, Dorothea settled by one of the Oswey cousins, come up to town from her home in west Hampshire to spend the Season with her relatives. Reticent and shy, Miss Delamere was grateful t
o the beautiful Miss Darent, who seemed happy to talk with her of country pastimes. Dorothea, who had not thought of the Grange for weeks, was quite content to make conversation on the topics that in years past had been her primary concern.

  No chaperons were present other than the indolent Lady Margaret Oswey. Settled on a pile of cushions in the clearing where the picnic was held, she had no wish to bestir herself. Consequently only those gentlemen who could be trusted to keep the line even while out of her sight had been invited. Ferdie was one of this select group. Lords Hazelmere, Fanshawe and friends were, of course, absent.

  After the repast Ferdie escorted two of the younger misses to see the fairy dell, so named because of the mixture of bluebells, crocuses and tulips which grew there. The dell was in the woods they had passed on their way to the stream, and was reached by a path which branched from the main one some little way back towards the house. Having exclaimed to their hearts’ content over the colourful carpet lining the dell, the two young things reluctantly allowed him to lead them back towards the rest of the company. Emerging on to the main track, one young lady on each of his arms, they were approached by a footman in search of Miss Darent.

  ‘She’s with her ladyship by the stream, I think,’ said Ferdie. Perceiving the letter on the tray the footman was holding, he asked, ‘Is that for Miss Darent?’

  Assured it was and had just been delivered by a groom, Ferdie, in benign mood, said, ‘Oh, I’ll take it to her if you like. Very good friend of Miss Darent.’

  As the footman had seen Ferdie arrive with the Darent sisters, he saw no reason not to leave the missive in his hands.

  Ferdie needed both arms to escort the young ladies back to the stream, so he deposited the letter in the inner pocket of his coat. On reaching the clearing, he relinquished his young charges but found that Dorothea had gone for a ramble with Miss Delamere. Ferdie spent the rest of the afternoon in a tête-à-tête with Cecily. As she had reached the stage of needing someone’s shoulder to cry on, he did not have an easy time of it. However, by the end of a lengthy discussion in which featured all the real and imaginary shortcomings of an unnamed peer with whom he was well acquainted, he felt he had made some headway in getting her to think of things from his lordship’s point of view, rather than only her own.

  Although he had enjoyed his day, Ferdie heaved a sigh of relief as the Merion carriage drew away from Oswey Hall late in the afternoon. After his difficult time with Cecily he completely forgot the letter for Dorothea.

  The next day this missive resurfaced. Dorothea and Cecily had sent a message that they would not be riding that morning. Ferdie assumed Cecily had had a difficult time the evening before. As Lord Eglemont was convinced she would shortly be his daughter-in-law, Ferdie’s imagination did not have to work overtime to understand that their visit to the theatre might have proved an ordeal.

  He was consequently breakfasting in languid style when his valet, Higgins, appeared at his elbow. ‘I found this in your coat pocket, sir.’

  As it was common for him to forget letters and notes and leave them in his clothing, Ferdie thought nothing of this and opened the unaddressed letter. Reading the lines within, he frowned. He turned the single sheet over and then back and read it once more. Propping it against the salt cellar, he stared at the letter as he finished his coffee. Then he refolded it and called his valet. ‘Higgins, in which of my coats did you find this?’

  ‘In the blue superfine you wore at Lady Oswey’s picnic yesterday, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Thought that might be it.’

  Ferdie dressed rapidly and set out for Hazelmere House, fervently hoping that his cousin had not already departed for a morning about town. Luck favoured him. The Marquis was descending the steps of Hazelmere House in company with Fanshawe as he entered Cavendish Square. Out of breath, he waved at them. Staggering at seeing the impeccable Mr Acheson-Smythe in anything resembling a hurry, they halted and waited for him.

  ‘Ferdie!’ exclaimed Hazelmere. ‘What the devil’s got into you?’

  ‘Never seen you move so fast in my life!’ said Fanshawe.

  ‘Need a word with you, Marc. Now!’ Ferdie gasped.

  Hazelmere saw that his cousin was looking unaccus-tomedly serious. ‘Let’s go back into the house.’

  They re-entered Hazelmere House and headed for the library. Hazelmere sat behind the desk. Fanshawe perched on a corner of it and both looked expectantly at Ferdie, who had dropped into a chair facing them. Still struggling to catch his breath, he drew out the letter and threw it on the desk in front of his cousin. ‘Read that.’

  Hazelmere, suddenly equally serious, complied. Then he looked at Ferdie, his face impassive. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Was supposed to be delivered to Dorothea at Lady Oswey’s picnic. Met the footman on the way and offered to take it to her. Put it in my pocket and forgot it. Higgins found it this morning and, not knowing what it was, I opened it. Thought you’d like to see it.’

  ‘So Dorothea never got it?’

  Ferdie shook his head.

  Fanshawe was totally in the dark. ‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’ he pleaded.

  Without comment Hazelmere handed him the letter. The message it contained read:

  My dear Miss Darent,

  I cannot imagine that the company at Lady Oswey’s picnic is quite as scintillating as that to which you have become accustomed. So, why not meet me at the white wicket gate at the end of the path through the woods? I’ll have my greys and we can go for a drive around the lanes with no one the wiser. Don’t keep me waiting; you know I hate to keep my horses standing. I’ll expect you at two.

  Hazelmere.

  Like Ferdie, Fanshawe had no difficulty recognising Hazelmere’s writing and signature and knew the letter in his hand was a hoax. Eyeing his friend with an unusually grim look, he asked simply, ‘Who?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ replied Hazelmere. ‘It’s the second.’

  ‘What?’ The exclamation burst from Fanshawe and Ferdie in unison.

  Laying the letter Ferdie had brought in front of him, Hazelmere opened a drawer and took out the note Dorothea had received at the Bressingtons’ masquerade. Once they were side by side, it was clear that the same hand had written both. Fanshawe and Ferdie came around the desk to study them over his shoulders.

  ‘When was the first one sent?’ asked Fanshawe.

  ‘The masquerade. That attempt would have succeeded to admiration except I returned to London a day earlier than expected. It was handed to Dorothea in the hall at Bressington House. She was surprised to find me already there. She’d believed the note. Hardly surprising, as it’s exactly the sort of thing I might be expected to do.’

  ‘You should have told me. We might have baited a trap!’ exclaimed Fanshawe.

  ‘We did spring the trap,’ Hazelmere answered with a fleeting grin. ‘Dorothea went out on to the terrace at midnight and I was in the shadows behind her. A voice, which neither of us recognised, called her towards the steps down on to the path. But then some others in the ballroom opened another door on to the terrace and whoever it was took fright. I wasn’t about to give chase and leave Dorothea alone on the terrace.’

  ‘And you saw nobody?’ asked Ferdie. Hazelmere shook his head, going back to studying the second letter.

  ‘Very likely she’d have gone to that gate if Ferdie’d remembered to give her the note,’ said Fanshawe.

  ‘No. She won’t be caught by that ruse again,’ said Hazelmere. ‘But what puzzles me most is who the writer of these missives could be.’

  ‘Got to be someone acquainted with you,’ put in Ferdie.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hazelmere. ‘That’s what is particularly worrisome. I’d thought it was one of those abduction plots at first.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have thought the Darent girls were sufficiently rich to attract that sort of attention,’ said Fanshawe.

  ‘They aren’t. I am,’ replied the Marquis.

  ‘Oh. Hadn’t thought
of that.’

  All three men continued to study the letters, hoping that some clue to their writer’s identity could be wrung from them. Fanshawe broke the silence to ask Ferdie, ‘Why do you say whoever it is must know Marc?’

  ‘Writing’s not his, but the style is. Just the sort of thing he would say,’ replied the knowledgeable Ferdie.

  ‘Can’t know you all that well. You never drive young ladies around, let alone behind your greys,’ his lordship pointed out.

  ‘With one notable exception,’ corrected Hazelmere. ‘To whit, Miss Darent.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fanshawe, finally convinced.

  ‘Precisely,’ continued Hazelmere. ‘It’s someone who at least knows me well enough to write a letter in a style that could pass for mine. Someone who also knows I have driven Miss Darent behind the greys, who knows I’m very particular about keeping my horses standing and who knew I was out of town and not expected to attend the Bressington masquerade.’

  ‘Therefore,’ concluded Ferdie, ‘one of us. Of the ton, I mean. At least as an accomplice.’

  ‘That would appear the inescapable conclusion,’ agreed Hazelmere. He continued to stare at the letters.

  ‘What’re we going to do?’ asked Fanshawe.

  ‘Can’t call in Bow Street,’ said Ferdie, decisively. ‘Very heavy-footed. Create all sorts of rumpus. Lady Merion wouldn’t like it; Dorothea wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ put in Hazelmere.

  ‘Quite so,’ agreed Ferdie, glad to have this point settled.

  ‘As far as I can see, the only thing we can do is keep a very careful watch over Dorothea,’ said Hazelmere. ‘She won’t be taken in with any messages, but, as we don’t know who’s behind this, we’ll have to ensure no one who could possibly be involved is given any chance to approach her alone.’