by Kate Moore
It was well that he had met such a woman on the first night of his betrothal to Emily Radstock. Lady Ravenhurst had from the moment of his first observing her reminded him that happiness in marriage was an illusion.
His absence from their engagement party would give Emily Radstock just the excuse she would need to end their false betrothal.
“I’ll find her,” he said grimly.
Chapter Twenty
The husband hunter who seeks to know only that a gentleman is single mistakes her business. She must cultivate first a more general interest in men, and as husbands come in a variety of types, she must be willing to observe their habits as closely as she observes the habits of the handsomest young lieutenant or most dashing owner of a phaeton and pair. Does she prefer the husband who is a genial host, generally sociable to all he meets, ready to enter into conversation? Does she prefer a man of greater reserve, who may reveal his character only among his most intimate acquaintances? Does she prefer steadiness to passionate volatility? Or dry wit to infectious mirth? The wise husband hunter seeks to understand her preferences before she allows her heart to be engaged.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
By eight nearly twenty close friends and relations had gathered in Roz’s drawing room to celebrate Emily and Lynley’s engagement. Of the invited guests only Lady Silsden and Lynley had not arrived. His absence was as glaring as the absence of the green damask sofa, which had been pushed into the farthest corner of the room and partially concealed by a linen-draped table topped with a tall blue and white vase. More than once in the past half hour, Em had fixed a smile on her lips as her father looked at his watch and remarked pointedly on her fiancé’s tardiness. Her other relatives and friends were content for the moment to mingle and anticipate one of Roz’s good suppers.
Emily chatted with friends, reminding herself that a fortnight earlier she hadn’t wanted a husband, and she’d felt trapped in an engagement sprung upon her by an unconventional gentleman who lurked behind sofa backs.
She had wanted a husband once, but she acknowledged now, with the wisdom of her nearly twenty-nine years, that what she’d wanted in those first Seasons was not so much a husband as a giddy whirl of experiences and a license to shop for bridal fripperies in all the finest warehouses in London.
The husband’s role in this fiction was as her chief admirer. He was an opener of doors, a procurer of ices on hot days, a partner in the waltz, an appreciator of her wit. He had no thoughts or interests that fascinated her or called for her attention. He had no flaws or sorrows that required her sympathy or understanding. His outward attributes were such as would be universally admired by her friends. He needed only to be tall, handsome, and well positioned in the world.
Now, however, because she’d had a chance to glimpse a real man and not the figure of one in her imagination, she recognized the hollowness of her early dream. Lynley’s need to move in fashionable society as a spy had turned the tables on her. Tonight she had become the unreal figure, the bride-to-be who was not a woman with real feelings, but a ship’s figurehead or a statue come to life.
She straightened her spine and kept her smile in place. It was always good to acquire wisdom even at so late a moment in life as the eve of her twenty-ninth birthday, just a week away. Nothing was better to jettison along life’s journey than one’s illusions.
She was feeling Lynley’s absence because she would miss the spying when they dissolved their engagement, when she announced to the world that they would not suit. But they had one more spy adventure before them. She had been pondering how she and Lynley could contrive an excursion from London into the country to find the empty parsonage. She meant to put the problem before Lynley when they had a moment to themselves.
Her father reached for his watch again, and Emily glanced at Roz. They could wait a few minutes longer, but a dinner party once underway could not easily be put back. Belowstairs everything would be in motion. Timing was the essence of a good dinner. Soups and fish had their moment.
Roz looked calm and attentive to whatever Uncle Walter was saying, but her posture was unnaturally stiff, and she held a hand pressed to the small of her back.
It was a relief a moment later when Gittings announced Lady Silsden. The other guests parted, clearing a little space, into which Lady Silsden staggered, a figure in deep maroon velvet and pale gauze. Someone gasped. Phil stepped forward to offer his hand, but she waved him back. She pressed a palm to her heaving bosom, and drew a shuddering breath, looking around with unseeing eyes.
“What is it, ma’am?” Emily asked.
Lady Silsden’s gaze met Emily’s. “You’ve lost him, my dear,” she said. “He’s run off with Lady Ravenhurst.”
It was a blow. Emily would have liked a message, anything rather than being left behind. Hurt said he had played more of a double game than she realized. Maybe all along Lynley’s supposed spying had really been about Lady Ravenhurst, with her fragile beauty of the kind that made men rush in to protect and save.
Emily made herself take Lady Silsden’s cold hands and help her to a chair. Phil signaled a footman to bring a glass of wine. Roz sank back against the sofa cushions. Phil instantly turned to her, taking her hand and speaking in her ear.
Emily’s mind raced. Lynley would not pursue Lady Ravenhurst unless her movement pertained to the case. His betrayal should not wound her feelings so deeply. If he had left London, he betrayed Emily as a partner, not as a lover. He had heard something through the mysterious spymaster he worked for, perhaps.
“Don’t you see,” Lady Silsden pleaded. “He’s repeating his father’s folly. You must send someone after him. He must be stopped.”
“I believe that’s my office,” said Emily’s father quietly. “No rogue jilts my daughter.”
“Father, wait,” Emily said. “We don’t even know that Lynley has left London.” She glanced at Phil. “Do we?”
Phil looked sheepish. “He brought Sultan up from the country today. I’ll send to the stables to inquire if the horse is still there.”
Emily’s common sense reasserted itself. Lynley might pretend to be an imbecile, but of all the men she knew, he was the least capable of folly. She wondered who was circulating such nonsense. She encouraged Lady Silsden to drink her wine. “Now, ma’am, you must tell me how you heard this disturbing news.”
“It was that daughter of my friend, Lady Throckmorton. She sent me a message. She heard from Lord Barksted that Ravenhurst has taken to his bed.”
Emily wanted to laugh and cry at once. Sophia Throckmorton and Lord Barksted, a pair as indifferent to truth as the worst of London gossips, the one out of giddiness, the other, out of malice.
Phil, standing at his wife’s side, cleared his throat. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He looked around the room. “You don’t know Lynley, but I do. He would never serve my sister-in-law such a turn as this. I regret that we must delay our celebration of the betrothal, but we can delay dinner no longer. Please, let us eat.”
Gittings appeared and threw open the doors, and gentlemen began to lead their ladies to the dining room. Roz looked up at Phil with shining eyes. He helped her to her feet. She took a step and froze, clutching his arm, her eyes wide in surprise and shock. She shuddered and took a gasping breath.
“Roz?” Phil asked.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I believe my pains have started.”
“Shall we send for the doctor?” Phil asked.
“I’ll go,” said their father.
Roz shook her head and reached out a hand to Emily. “Stop. I have Emily.”
Emily took her sister’s arm. “And,” she said, “we have Aunt Sarah with us.”
Roz smiled. “Let her have her dinner, and then send her up to me. I think it may be hours yet.”
“Of course,” said Phil. “Hours.”
* * * *
&nb
sp; A cold wind blew, and shadows of clouds passing over the face of the moon made for a shifting, uncertain landscape. In spite of their journey earlier in the day, Sultan kept a steady pace. Lady Ravenhurst, traveling post, had stopped once to change horses. He and Sultan were perhaps two hours behind her and gaining as the weather grew bitter. He would not think of the dinner he was missing, or the embarrassment his absence would cause Em. Loving her had not been part of the plan, but with each outrageous thing she did, with each step as she followed his lead, he’d found himself in deeper. He had not really recognized what was happening until he’d pulled Barksted’s henchman from her back. It would be some satisfaction to find the papers and be done with the case he had shared with her.
Lynley found the parsonage of St. Agatha’s screened from the road by a stand of chestnuts and firs a couple of hundred yards from the church itself. A gravel carriage sweep passed in an arc in front of a plain, two-story, yellow stone house. From the road no light appeared, but a hint of smoke drifted on the wind to suggest that someone had lit a fire inside.
Lynley rode beyond the parsonage into the churchyard, dismounted and led Sultan round to the back of the church. He settled the stallion in a sheltered corner where the transept crossed the nave, made a couple of adjustments to his attire, and loaded his pistol. Every instinct told him that he had done the right thing in leaving Emily Radstock behind.
He approached the parsonage cautiously, choosing his ground to avoid giving any alarm from the sound of footsteps on gravel. A horse nickered from an outbuilding at the back of the house. Lynley stopped and waited several minutes. No one emerged, and the only sounds from inside came from horses, a pair of them, he thought. He opened the door and found a neat curricle hitched to a pair of bays. Someone was ready to leave.
He turned to the parsonage, passing through a little walled garden in the rear. Thin bars of light fell through a half-closed curtain over a bow window. He crept closer and looked in through the crack. The room appeared to be a study, lined with empty bookcases.
In front of a low fire a young man with golden hair and a strong resemblance to Allegra Walhouse sat facing another person hidden by the wings of an armchair. The man leaned forward, speaking to his companion in what appeared to be a savage manner.
Lynley saw no sign of weapons or servants. Time for the highwayman to make an appearance.
He circled the house and found a door in the front that opened directly on an empty parlor. From the parlor a passage led to the back of the house. He could hear the heated conversation as he stepped quietly along the passage, listening for any sign that he’d been detected. The study door was open, and Lynley paused to listen.
“You promised to take me away,” a plaintive female voice said. Lynley recognized the hurt voice as Lady Ravenhurst’s. She must be the party in the wing chair.
“What did you think we would live on?” the young man answered bitterly. “Your baubles?”
Lynley stepped into the shadows at the back of the room, pistol in hand. “I believe that’s my cue,” he said.
The young man jumped to his feet, his back to the fire. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
Lady Ravenhurst started. Lynley observed that although she was dressed for travel in a warm cloak and half boots, her hands and feet were bound, and a stout coil of rope secured her to the chair. A purple bruise on one cheekbone suggested that she had been beaten into accepting her bonds.
A brief spurt of rage passed through him. Apparently, in addition to betraying his country, the man meant to betray his lover. The lady’s situation was a complication Lynley had not foreseen. A fleeting thought that what he needed at the moment was Emily Radstock’s help passed in and out of his mind. He was alone.
“It’s customary,” Lynley said, subduing his anger, “in my line of work to relieve ladies of their baubles and gentlemen of their purses. As traffic is slow on the road tonight, I thought to try my luck here.”
The young man affected composure, but looked closely at Lynley’s pistol. It was the gun he’d wished he’d had at fourteen when his mother’s lover had laughed in his face. Its curved stock fit in Lynley’s hand. The adjustable hair trigger, roller bearings, gold-lined touchhole, waterproof pan, and patent breech made it a formidable weapon.
“A highwayman, are you? Have some baubles then and be off with you,” the young man suggested. He gestured toward two traveling cases that stood next to the door directly in Lynley’s path. Lynley glanced at the cases, noting that the trim and fittings marked one as belonging to a female.
“And leave a lady in such obvious distress?” Lynley moved closer without leaving the shadows. “As courtesy to ladies is the first principle of the highwayman’s code, I must ask you to untie your companion.”
“Well, I won’t,” said the young man mulishly. “She’s tied up for her own good.”
“Clive,” Lady Ravenhurst cried. “Don’t leave me.” She stared at him with wide, pleading eyes. She had the sort of delicate helpless beauty to which, Lynley knew, many men were drawn. His mother had had that sort of beauty.
“You must enlighten, me, Walhouse—it is Walhouse, isn’t it?—as to the advantage to the lady of being abandoned and bound in an unoccupied house. Are the cloak and boots to keep her warm when you’re gone?”
“Who the devil are you?” Walhouse kept his gaze on Lynley. “I’m not the villain here. Barksted is. He hounded her into this mad flight. No doubt her dolt of a husband is on his way.”
“Eager to wash your hands of her, are you? Your horses are ready, Walhouse. You may leave as soon as you release the lady.”
“I told you, it is better for her to be found tied up.” Walhouse sent a calculating glance toward the two cases and the door. There was a cold, contemptuous cast to his features. Lynley had seen that look before on the face of his mother’s lover. It was the look of a man who believed women to be the natural prey of men.
“Then we are at an impasse, I fear,” said Lynley.
“Oh very well, but you’re making a mull of the whole thing.” Walhouse turned to Lady Ravenhurst and began to undo the rope binding her to the chair.
“Clive,” she said, “you were going to take me to Paris.”
He pulled ruthlessly at her bound hands. “Only if you kept your end of the bargain,” he said bitterly.
“My end,” she cried. “I sent your gloves. Where could I send your other things? Your coat, your hat? Archer told me you were nowhere to be found. I didn’t hear from you.”
“Hush. Not another word. You’ll hang for treason if you’re not careful.” Walhouse pulled the last rope free from Lady Ravenhurst’s feet.
“Treason?” She looked at him with shocked awareness. “Ravenhurst’s papers. It was you. You stole them. You used me.”
“Ah, Pamela. Those papers were part of your charm. You’re expensive, you know, and your gaming debts had to be paid.”
Lady Ravenhurst shrank at the cruel words. “You deceived me. I depended on you.”
“Oh come, no harm done. You’ve had an adventure. You can go back to Ravenhurst, or you could before this fellow’s interference. You were better off tied up.”
“Go, Walhouse,” said Lynley. “You’re done here.”
Walhouse shrugged. At the door he reached for his case.
“Leave it,” Lynley ordered, his pistol leveled at Walhouse.
“Clive!” It was an anguished cry, and it made Walhouse check for an instant.
Lady Ravenhurst jumped up and threw herself after her departing lover, her feet tangling in her cloak. Lynley reached to arrest her fall, catching her by one arm. Walhouse seized his traveling case. Lynley just had time to fire. The doorframe splintered. Walhouse shrieked and then was gone.
The lady collapsed, sobbing at Lynley’s feet. He stuffed the spent pistol in his coat pocket and let her weep until there came a brief drumming
of horses’ hooves and a rattling of wheels on the road.
“He’s gone,” Lynley said. “Come, there’s an inn nearby where you can be safe and decide what you wish to do.”
He lifted her from the floor and led her through the passage to a door at the back of the house.
“My case,” she said, turning back just as he opened the door on the dark night.
“We’ll send for it,” Lynley said. He would not burden Sultan.
The wind had grown stronger, the clouds heavier, and the air noticeably colder. Lady Ravenhurst shivered at Lynley’s side. The missing papers were no doubt on their way to Dover, but Lynley did not think Walhouse would get far. His shriek revealed that either the bullet or a wood fragment had winged him, and the worsening weather would compel him to stop before he reached Dover. Once Lynley had seen to the lady’s comfort and security, he would continue the pursuit. Sultan was a match for any pair of horses in England.
“Come,” he urged again.
“You have no sensibility, do you?” she asked.
“None,” he agreed, pulling her after him into the night. She was right. Her inability to see her lover for what he was had worn out Lynley’s sympathy.
Beneath the rush of the wind in the trees, he heard the unmistakable clatter of a heavier vehicle turning onto the gravel sweep of the parsonage.
“Someone’s here,” Lady Ravenhurst cried.
Lynley pulled her along the rough path in the dark, the wind tugging at their garments.
Two men erupted from the rear of the house. One of them held a lantern aloft. Its beam caught Lynley and Lady Ravenhurst as they neared the garden wall.
“Found ʼer, Lord Barksted,” a voice shouted.
Lady Ravenhurst gave a cry and turned to look back at the house.
“Hey there, you. Stop,” the rough voice called.
Lynley kept going, but his companion stumbled. He halted, turning to lift her up. As he rose, a shot cracked, and a bullet plowed into his right arm just below the shoulder. He lost his hold on the lady, and she sank into the grass with a sob.
