A Gentleman of Means

by Shelley Adina

  “Really. Enlighten me.” She was operating in a sort of cloud now, while part of her mind tried to sort back through the year past to see if what he said could possibly be true, and the other part wondered where on earth her brain had been not to know what the English government seemed to know.

  The Secret Service Bureau. Any other woman would have fainted with the shock by now. Perhaps she ought to consider it.

  “Mr. Meriwether-Astor was also responsible for supplying a known seditionist with a weapon which he subsequently used to attempt to shoot down the Prince of Wales’s airship as it passed overhead.”

  “Oh, now, that is simply beyond the pale,” Gloria snapped. “Dad cannot be responsible for what people do after they buy his weapons. That is strictly upon their own heads.”

  “The weapon was made to look like a telescope. In reality it was an air cannon, built to specifications for one purpose only. We believe we can prove conspiracy to commit high treason. Set alongside the French invasion, we are faced with two attempts in one summer to bring down the monarchy, both equipped by your father. You must see that it cannot be permitted to go on.”

  She supposed it couldn’t. What was wrong with Dad that he was never satisfied? She had seen it coming, in her own small way. Seen how one company was not enough—he had to be buying up smaller munitions works and looking to the horizon for—

  “The maps in his office,” she said faintly.

  “What about them, dear?”

  “I always thought they were for decoration. But they’re not. France, the southern half of England, the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias, the Levant … these are the locations you speak of. I suppose the Californias were next. He—oh, no, that cannot be possible. He cannot start wars in other places simply to sell munitions, can he?”

  Her eyes held a silent plea. When Barnaby remained silent out of respect for her feelings—for of course a reply in the affirmative was the only logical one he could make—she looked away.

  She had always felt she had never been good enough for her father. Not a boy, not smart, simply kept on sufferance because she was the only heir he had. But now …

  Who wanted to be good enough for a monster?

  Even the thought of carrying his name for another moment burned her, as though it were a brand, marking her as belonging to him. As being like him. As having the same blood in her veins.

  She didn’t. She couldn’t.

  But how could she escape her parentage? It would be so difficult that escaping from this house would be child’s play in comparison.

  “What am I to do?” she whispered. To whom the question was directed, she did not know. God, perhaps? Tears filled her eyes, almost as though she had learned of the death of someone who had once been close to her.

  Barnaby was silent for several long moments. Then, “Might I offer a suggestion?”

  “For what?” Where was her handkerchief? She checked both sleeves, and before she could use her luncheon napkin, Barnaby had pressed his own handkerchief into her hand.

  She would not cry. Her father did not deserve her tears.

  “You asked what you might do,” he said gently. “It is time for action, and there is indeed a way in which you might assist us further.”

  “I am already bait,” she said after she had blown her nose. “Do you require me to wriggle on the string?”

  His eyes darkened, as though she had hurt him, but his gentle tone did not change. “If you wrote to your father under some pretext—any pretext save the one we were just discussing—it would hasten his journey here.”

  “Hardly. If he did not bother to provide a ransom, hearing from me will not change his plans.”

  “Ransom? We demanded none. Your disappearance, we hoped, would be enough to compel him to come to England, especially since we made ourselves rather obvious at Gibraltar.”

  There had been no ransom demand? Well, no matter. That still didn’t erase the French invasion or the prince’s airship. In the face of that, any finer feelings she might have cherished on his behalf were dying like a rose under the blast of winter.

  “One last thing,” she said. “What of my friends in Venice—the ones who boarded the Fancy with me? If they had not attempted the rescue, would you have abducted them, too?”

  “Of course not. We should have conveyed them to the dock and pretended to obey your father’s order to take you out to sea until the floods subsided. That they acted so precipitately …” He looked away for a moment. “I have many regrets, Gloria, and their fates are numbered among them. I hope you will believe me.”

  She nodded, and after a moment he cleared a space at the table and provided her with stationery and ink.

  Dad,

  I suppose by now you have realized that my disappearance was deliberate. I am writing to tell you that I am going to be married. I am eloping to Gretna Green on Saturday with Captain Hayes, of Haybourne House in Somerset. Yes, the man formerly in command of Neptune’s Fancy.

  By the time you receive this, it will be too late, but even if it were not, nothing you could do would stop me. I am in love with Captain Hayes, though he is not a baron, and we are going to be blissfully happy together.

  Your daughter,

  Gloria

  She looked up to see Barnaby reading over her shoulder, his face scarlet. “If—if it makes a difference—which of course it does not—I am the son of a duke, though sadly, on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  “Do you wish me to add that?”

  “No. Dear me, no.”

  “He will never fall for it, duke or no duke,” she told him, folding up the letter and pressing her mother’s diamond ring into the wax that sealed it closed—a habit her father was well aware of. The letter could come from no one else.

  It took him a moment to reply. “We shall see. I—I did not expect this as a pretext, I must say.”

  “It will bring him on the run, so I have fulfilled my duty to Her Majesty. Shall I send it to the house in Paris, or to his personal airship?”

  “I can procure a pigeon to send to the airship.” The color was fading from his cheeks now. “It will perhaps be most efficient.”

  He went out of the room to give the order, and when he returned, she had risen to her feet.

  “Do you think—” But her throat closed and choked off the rest, as if there were words too terrible to be spoken. She walked to the window, staying carefully behind the velvet drape.

  “Yes?” he prompted softly.

  “Do you think … the man with the pressure rifle …”

  “We do not know his weapon, only that it was a most peculiar bullet.”

  “Hollow, with an external propulsion mechanism, and containing acid?”

  She had surprised him again. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because it was fired from an Astor fifty-five caliber pressure rifle. Dual barrel, double trigger, with a range of one hundred yards.”

  “Good heavens. If you can tell me who fired it, I will commission you into Her Majesty’s service myself.”

  Her lips attempted to flicker into a smile, but she did not have the strength. “It is the only firearm that can accommodate that bullet. My father makes them.” She paused, then, “I cannot tell you who fired it. But is there a chance, no matter how small, that my father might have hired someone to perform the deed?”

  She didn’t know how she got the words out. All she knew was that her voice had dropped to a whisper of misery. Captain Hayes made a single sound of distress and in the next moment, had gathered her into his arms.

  How long she stood in that warm embrace, losing her control utterly and sobbing into his lapels, she did not know. But when someone cleared his throat, she sprang away as though she had touched a Tesla coil.

  “I beg your pardon, Captain Hayes, Miss Aster,” the butler said, gazing at something over their heads, “but several tubes have arrived.”

  Barnaby’s consciousness seemed to come back from a long
voyage. “Thank you.” He took the curled envelopes from the silver tray and seemed to find them extremely interesting, which suited Gloria just fine.

  She had to get out of here. For her own sanity, if nothing else. For only a madwoman would enjoy the embrace of a man who had lied to her from the moment he had laid eyes on her—who had abducted her, locked her up, and was even now using her as bait to capture a wanted criminal.

  Only a madwoman would feel cool air on her arms and miss the warmth that, for one brief moment, had seemed to offer safety and respite. Only a madwoman would care for a scoundrel, no matter his patriotic credentials and ideals.

  And Gloria Diana Meriwether-Astor was not mad.

  “Good heavens,” Barnaby exclaimed. “I declare, the world cannot possibly become any stranger than it is—and yet—”

  “What now?” she asked, since the butler had departed and someone had to say something.

  He handed her a square of creamy stationery with a crest at the top—a raven with a twig of holly in its claws.

  Captain Hayes,

  It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to the neighborhood, as I understand we have both served Her Majesty in a similar capacity, and we are a mere ten miles from one another. I trust that you and your household are well.

  My housekeeper tells me that a young lady is numbered among your visitors, and suggested that I extend my welcome to her also. I am hosting a ball on Saturday, and would be honored by your company. The occasion for celebration is the safe arrival of friends from Venice, of whose return from the art exhibition we had been in some doubt. I hope that I may soon have the pleasure of introducing them to you. The moon will be full and you and your friends may travel in safety.

  I remain your servant, sir,

  Ian Hollys, Bart., R.A.C.

  “How peculiar,” Barnaby said as she turned it over, as if the direction could tell her something more. “Never met the man, and he is inviting me to a ball as cordially as if we had indeed served together.”

  Gloria gathered her scattered thoughts the way a small child picks up jack-straws—slowly, and with dogged precision. “Perhaps you met at some military function and don’t remember.”

  “Perhaps I did. I’ve certainly heard of him. I didn’t know he lived in these parts. Decidedly peculiar way of expressing himself, don’t you think? Very poetic. Perhaps it’s all those years of flying in foreign skies with the Dunsmuirs.”

  “Barnaby, if you will excuse me, I must go lie down,” she said desperately.

  “Why, of course.” He was immediately all solicitude. “The revelations of this morning would lay a fighting man flat, let alone a young lady. Please, allow me to—”

  But she evaded his proffered arm and fled, the invitation hidden in the folds of her skirts. She took the stairs to the room she had been given as fast as her flying feet would go.

  Captain Hollys.

  Claire.

  Oh, thank God, thank God.

  For she had understood the message perfectly, as soon as she’d laid eyes on Ian’s holly crest. She’d seen that crest before, stamped upon his luggage, and upon the pocketbook he carried in his coat. The safe arrival of friends from Venice. They had survived. And not only survived, but were even now a mere ten miles away!

  Gloria flung herself down next to her bed, clasped the invitation between her hands, and gave thanks to the Almighty that He had kept them safe, and that their deaths would not be laid to her account.

  When she rose, it was with renewed spirits and fresh determination. The moon will be full and you and your friends may travel in safety.

  Peculiar indeed. From her bedside, she could see the southern sky, where the waxing moon would rise. In three days, when it was full, her friends—her flock—would come to set her free.

  She would be ready. And waiting.

  18

  “We simply do not have enough people.” Claire clutched her head in both hands, her gaze on the map in her lap, which Ian had sketched on the back of an old menu plan that probably dated from his mother’s time. She released her hair with a sigh and looked about her. “I cannot be a member of the walking party, lest Captain Hayes should recognize me. Alice cannot leave Hollys Park lest somehow Terwilliger should find her. Ian must be here to guard Alice—”

  “I don’t need guarding. I’m probably a better shot than he is.” Alice took another sandwich.

  “That is emphatically not true!” the captain exclaimed. “I challenge you to some target practice in the orchard.”

  “Done,” Alice said. “After you lead the walking party to Haybourne House.”

  “Ian cannot go to Haybourne House,” Claire explained for what must be the fourth time. “If Captain Hayes’s eyesight is even half as good as Lizzie’s, he might have seen Ian and Jake in the diving bell. We cannot risk it, and while Jake may patrol forest and road safely in the dark, Ian is better used here. Oh, why did I leave Lizzie and Maggie behind?” she moaned. “They are so good at providing distractions.”

  “Because they have a job to do in Munich, and you all three know it,” said an unexpected voice from the hall. A voice so familiar that for the space of a moment, Claire’s heart stopped.

  Impossible.

  “Is there any chance of a cup of tea?” said Andrew Malvern, walking into the library where they were all gathered, attempting to come up with a workable plan for Gloria’s rescue. “I have been on an airship, a train, and a wagon behind the most recalcitrant nag you ever saw, and I am famished.”

  Claire could not speak. Her mouth opened, and though she poured him a cup of tea, put milk in it, and handed it to him, still no words came out. Her heart, having resumed its normal operation, now proceeded to speed up to the point that he must be able to see the pulse point in her throat, beating like the wings of a bird.

  How …?

  “Thank you, Claire,” he said, and scooped up a piece of Mrs. Boatwright’s excellent fruitcake, which had been doused in so much whiskey that a spark from the fire would set it alight. “Do not look as though I am a vision from Hades. I received a note from Alice yesterday requesting my assistance. And though I could not imagine how I might be useful, I threw as many of my completed, er, projects into a valise as it would hold, and set off.”

  Alice? Alice was the engineer of this betrayal? How could she?

  Her questions must have been quite clear on her face, for Alice blushed up to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry, Claire. But we needed him—both for brains and brawn.”

  She must recover, and quickly, before everyone began to feel awkward on her behalf and it had a deleterious effect on the task set before them. “On the contrary,” she said at last, “I see the logic in it. We were just discussing the deployment of our resources.”

  “Which we will take up again in a moment,” Ian said. “Let the poor man have his tea. Boatwright, will you see that Mr. Malvern’s bags are taken up? And we might put him in the Turkish room, in the guest wing.”

  The butler bowed and withdrew, but not before refreshing Andrew’s tea and offering him grapes and sandwiches.

  “Capital,” Andrew said at last, with a sigh of satisfaction. He took them all in, his gaze passing over Claire with no greater or less cordiality than he showed anyone else. “Now, then. Where are we?”

  She passed him the map while Ian briefed him on their situation, including the strange behavior of the mysterious gunman. “So while we deeply appreciate the addition to our numbers,” he concluded, “I am afraid you must be content with the position of mastermind. You and Claire are both known to Captain Hayes, so you must not set foot on the Haybourne estate under any circumstances.”

  Andrew studied the map, where the house and its river were indicated, as well as the two bridges over the water. The post road and the stone wall had been drawn in by Tigg and Jake, along with an X that indicated approximately where the gunman had been concealed.

  “We must divide into three groups, then,” Andrew finally said. “Ian and
Alice will stay here, Tigg and Jake will provide a perimeter in case the gunman returns, and Claire and I will perform the rescue.”

  Claire and I! How easily he said it—as if such a thing would be just as easily accomplished. Claire could imagine nothing so dangerous to her composure—to say nothing of her heart—than to be walking through the forest in the moonlight with Andrew, gunmen nothwithstanding. She had barely begun to keep his face out of her mind’s eye for two minutes at a time, and now here he was in the flesh, looking every bit as competent, every bit as warm and kind, as ever he had in the sitting room at Carrick House.

  Oh, no. This was too cruel. What had she ever done to Alice to deserve this? How was she ever to endure the finest torture a woman could be subjected to—yearning endlessly for the man she herself had pushed away?

  Andrew tapped the penciled image of the house set in its cup of hills. “You say there are three men at least inside, in addition to Captain Hayes?”

  Tigg nodded. “There were three in the drawing room before the shot, and the two ladies. It was also clear that they were armed. One of them dove for the side of the window, and came up with a rifle. They expected an attack of some kind. They were prepared.”

  “Or a rescue, maybe,” Alice suggested. “I wonder if they think her father and an army of mercenaries are coming?”

  Claire stared at her, grateful to have something to think about besides the shape of Andrew’s fingers as they handled the map. “Alice, I wonder if you might be right. They cannot have known about this mysterious gunman—and yet, who stages firearms beside the windows?”

  “Ned Mose used to,” Alice said. “Behind all the curtains, just in case, and one next to the door.”

  Of course.

  “Tigg, why did you say nothing of this yesterday?” Ian asked him. “This changes the entire light upon the situation.”

  “I just thought of it,” Tigg confessed. “If Gloria doesn’t have a price on her head—and we can’t imagine that she does—then why else bring in men who have clearly seen action and arm the house?”