Love, Lies and Spies

by Cindy Anstey

  Carrie looked apologetically at Juliana and rushed after her dear mama. Aunt Phyllis marched down the block toward the milliner’s. She gained the store rather rapidly.

  Juliana sighed. She was not disappointed about missing the milliner. She didn’t need to purchase another bonnet—she already had more than she could ever use. But the stationer was just across the street from the milliner, and Juliana wished to purchase a notebook. She had found a collection of lady beetles under the leafing roses that needed to be sketched and their scurrying habits recorded.

  Perhaps she could slip across the street while Aunt was in the milliner’s. She glanced up at driver’s bench of their carriage. Mr. White stared back at her. His initial disapproving expression dissolved into that of a composed mask. Still, it was obvious. Mr. White would not turn a blind eye. He was too firmly entrenched in Aunt Phyllis’s camp. Juliana would have to remain by the carriage—if not actually in it—and return to Grays Hill empty-handed.

  Mr. White sniffed. He clearly disapproved of her ways. He hadn’t even offered to hand her in before he had climbed to his own perch.

  Juliana decided to take advantage of his breach by waging a slight rebellion. She would obtain her latest book from the back in among the packages. She would not sit upon her aunt’s pleasure but while away the time lost in A Treatise on Some Insects Injurious to Vegetation by Thaddeus William Harris. It promised to be an exciting read.

  The pile of parcels secured to the back of the carriage was much larger than she had anticipated; they had bought far more than she realized. The book she was seeking had inadvertently made its way to the bottom of the pile. The boxes were rather heavy and quite cumbersome, but at last Juliana had the tome in her grasp. She had no intention of allowing it to slip back into its hiding place, and she tugged with strength.

  More than the book broke free of the constraints. Several boxes flew across the sidewalk, and one landed in the middle of Balcombe Street. Juliana glanced around the folded hood of the landau. Mr. White was staring straight ahead in an I-see-nothing manner. He would not be put upon to retrieve the package.

  Juliana lifted her chin, stalked to the middle of the road, and bent to retrieve her cousin’s half dozen or so pairs of gloves. Suddenly, an arm whipped around her waist and lifted her off her feet. Without even so much as a how-do-you-do, she was yanked back to the sidewalk with her heels dragging.

  “My dear Miss, what the deuce do you think you are doing?”

  Juliana was much relieved to hear the familiar voice of the blue-eyed stranger complaining in her ear. She had no more time than to recognize the needless concern in his tone when a wagon, which she had not seen, barreled past them. It was a large, heavy wagon pulled by six very large, very heavy dray horses—with equally large, heavy hooves; twenty-four of them.

  Juliana swallowed with some difficulty as the wagon disappeared down the street. Perhaps she had been too hasty. There might actually have been a valid reason for his concern. It would not have been a pretty sight had she still been in the middle of the road.

  “I did it again, didn’t I?” Her question caught in her throat.

  “You did, indeed. How it is that you have survived to eighteen is beyond me.”

  His breath puffed out the small escaped hairs at the nape of her neck and sent tingles down her spine. She could feel his hard chest and pounding heart along the length of her back, and she almost leaned into him. She swallowed and placed her hand on the arm that was still wrapped around her waist. He released her instantly, and Juliana almost fell. The stranger quickly held out his arm for support, and two or three gulps of air later she was steady enough to stand on her own.

  Juliana looked around the street, expecting a multitude of eyes to be upon them, but there were none. All was as it should be. All were about their own business, and none interested in an event that never happened. There had been no accident, and the gentleman’s arm had been around her for no longer than a moment. It had only seemed longer.

  And now the gentleman held an armload of rough packages; they were scuffed and dented as if they had seen hard times. When he stretched out his arms toward her, Juliana recognized them as her aunt’s boxes. He had picked up the troublesome flying parcels.

  “Oh yes, thank you so much.” Juliana quickly divested the fellow of his burden.

  “Are you alone? I am surprised that your aunt would allow you to travel about without a chaperone.”

  Juliana laughed lightly. “For someone who knows me not, you understand my aunt quite well. She is but a block farther, seeking yet another bonnet to match my fair cousin’s complexion.”

  “The milliner afforded you no interest?”

  “I needed a breath of air.” She held up the book still in her hand. “I was hoping to read while I waited.”

  “Well, I should leave you to your reading then. You would not want to be caught talking to a stranger and cause any injury to your aunt. I presume that she is prone to apoplexy.”

  Juliana smiled and nodded. “Regularly.”

  “I shall continue then. Shopping can be tedious—though there is no helping it.”

  Juliana frowned slightly, noting that the gentleman was quite free of parcels. He must have sent his purchases on. She also discerned the direction toward which he was heading.

  “Excuse me. I do beg your pardon … I am quite loath to ask, but … well, are you going to the stationer?”

  “Stationer? Yes, of course. I need to get some … ink. Yes, ink. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I need a notebook for … well, notes. I was going to pick up one myself, but…”

  “Say no more. I shall return with it presently.”

  Juliana smiled her thanks and watched the gentleman cross the street. However, no sooner had he left her side than the voice of her aunt floated around the carriage, erasing the lingering pleasure of her encounter with the young gentleman.

  “It would not do, Carrie. There is nothing left to discuss.”

  “But, Mama, it was lovely.”

  “No, Carrie, it was overlarge. Much too flamboyant for an innocent. It smacked of vulgarity, as do you when you take such a pet over it.”

  “But, Mama.”

  “Do not Mama me. I—Juliana? Juliana? Where is Juliana, Mr. White?”

  “Here, Aunt,” Juliana answered, and stepped out from behind the carriage. “I am afraid I rumpled the parcels while trying to retrieve my book.”

  “Never mind, never mind. Just get in. You, too, Carrie. We are going back to Grays Hill. I am feeling rather peevish.”

  Mr. White jumped down from his bench and handed Aunt Phyllis carefully into the carriage. He also offered Carrie and then Juliana assistance, as if he would never do otherwise.

  Mr. White had just ordered the horses to walk on when Juliana saw her rescuer exit the stationer. He stared at her as the carriage rolled past. He lifted up a small notebook clasped in his hand, and Juliana glanced to her aunt. The older woman was glaring out the other side of the carriage, hand pressed against her temple.

  Juliana looked back; the stranger stared at her with a perplexed expression. She raised her shoulders slightly, hoping he would notice and understand the gesture.

  He did.

  Mimicking her shrug, the gentleman dropped his arm to his side. He continued to stare at her as the distance between them increased. He shifted his head slightly when another carriage passed between them and then resumed his stare. Eventually, they lost sight of each other behind the crowds of the milling populace of Lambhurst.

  CHAPTER

  5

  In which Miss Telford is officially introduced to Mr. Northam and they can conspire at will

  SPENCER WAS IN A PUCKER, and he didn’t know why. Well, at least he told himself that it was an unexplained mood, but the fact that his brooding increased every time he thought of the cliff-side miss made it evident that the cause was not as elusive as he wanted to pretend.

  How could he concent
rate on the complexities of his mission when his mind was constantly deviating to that lovely, heedless idiot? She was a danger to herself. Not that she wasn’t capable of handling herself—he knew that she was—but she just didn’t allow for the chaos of the world around her. She was too sheltered. Or was that an act?

  No, she had truly been in danger, again; that dray would not have stopped in time. She would have been crushed.

  The thought of her fragile, soft body assaulted by hooves and wheels caused his stomach to plummet. She needed someone to watch over her. It was outside of enough that she had professed an aversion to marriage. How else would she get to her aged years? She needed a robust, clear-thinking gallant to keep constant vigil over her.

  The possibility of volunteering flashed through his mind but was summarily dismissed. His words on the cliff had been heartfelt. He was not going to ever willingly step before an altar. No, it was not the life for him. An agent, such as he, needed to be unfettered, able to pick up and move on at a moment’s notice—a wife would frown heavily upon such comings and goings.

  Besides, there was the miss’s puzzling connection with the rendezvous point. She was an enigma as much as a concern. Was there any association between her and his quarry?

  “I am rather disheartened,” Bobbington muttered.

  Spencer echoed the sentiments, although not for the same reasons.

  “She has but arrived and now is rushing off to London.”

  “Yes, that is most disheartening,” Spencer sighed silently. He could have muttered the same sentiment referring to a different she.

  The return ride to Shelsley Hall from Lambhurst was more a plodding tramp along winding lanes than an invigorating chase through fields, which had been the manner of their arrival. The lacey yellow-green of burgeoning trees from which birds sang appeared to do nothing to capture Bobbington’s attention. Neither did the sweet smell of overturned earth, nor the nods and smiles of passing tenants. Bobbington seemed to be lost in thought. A lion dressed in a lavender bonnet would likely not have drawn his attention.

  Bobbington’s thoughts were not difficult to fathom. He had learned, somewhat inadvertently, that his darling Miss Pyebald was to soon quit the area and ply her charms in the sparkling assemblies and balls in London. She was to have her Season; the search for a suitable match was on. Bobbington was not pleased.

  “You must have realized that she would be presented. She is of an age, you know, or you would not have noticed her.”

  “Yes, but she has been ill. What can her family be thinking? Taking her to the city, where she might encounter any manner of deadly diseases.”

  “I am sure her family and relations would not put her in any danger. They will take care.”

  Bobbington harrumphed and fell into silence. It suited Spencer. It allowed him time to calm his wild thoughts, school his reaction to a soft, supple figure pressed against him, and refocus on the task at hand.

  “Bobbington?” Spencer’s thoughts had formed a safe enough question.

  His friend merely harrumphed again.

  “The pretty miss was in town. Did you see her?”

  “Just in passing.”

  “Did you recognize her carriage?”

  Bobbington pulled his brows tightly together for some moments. When he released them, he straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Well, I have been mulling that over.” He patted his bay gelding absentmindedly. “That might have been the Rumblys’ carriage … but no, the lead horse was too black, perhaps the Stamfords’. Oh no, I believe they have already gone to Town.” Bobbington swayed slightly as the gelding ambled down a knoll. “I have it. The Reeves family’s, yes, indeed. It was them; when I think upon it, I did recognize Miss Reeves. Childhood friend of Miss Pyebald.”

  Back to Miss Pyebald.

  “Are you certain? It is not just an association of your mind, being that you can think of none else?”

  “No, indeed.” Bobbington sniffed. “I shouldn’t wonder at our miss going to London, as it is said that the Pyebalds are to reside with the Reeves family in Town.”

  “Are they, indeed?”

  “That is the chatter.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just that Mrs. Reeves’s niece is visiting from Compton Green. Yes, there, you see, that must be our pretty miss. No … no, I must be wrong, for the rumor mill implied that the niece was rather peculiar, counting on her connections rather than her charms to secure a match. That could not be our miss, for she is quite enchanting.”

  Bobbington was entirely too susceptible to the female form for his own good. He would need a wife one day, although Spencer doubted it would be Bobbington’s darling Miss Pyebald. The mamas would object, strenuously. Both families needed an infusion of funds.

  “There it is,” Bobbington said with the intonation of an announcement.

  “There what is?”

  Bobbington’s thoughts had apparently gone off in a direction quite separate from Spencer’s.

  “I must pay Miss Pyebald a call. I must show her that she has imposed on me and that we suit. And I must do it before she leaves.”

  “Miss Pyebald is likely filled with excited anticipation of the pleasures of Town. She might not favor any suggestion that would prevent her from enjoying those delights.”

  “I cannot let anything keep us apart,” Bobbington said dramatically.

  “Bobbington, tell me of your moment. This shared intimacy that you believe has demonstrated a budding attraction.” Spencer watched his friend’s complexion deepen to that of a beet. “If it is of no true consequence, then you will make a great cake of yourself.”

  “I … I would rather not say, as I might have embellished a trifle. That is, I might have seen something more than was there. But I truly believe the possibility is strong that we would get on.”

  “Get on?” Spencer rubbed his hand roughly across his face. “Bobbington, you are not going to declare yourself. Wait until she returns—”

  “No, Northam. She is a beauty with a title. She shines everyone else down. She will be riveted long before she returns. I could not bear it. If I was there, in London, I could bide my time. But to while away my days in Lambhurst, imagining any number of swells of the first stare toying with her … well, it is too much to be borne. I must … I must to London. Yes, that is the way of it. You and I, we will partake of the Season as well.”

  Unless darling Miss Pyebald was off to London with brother in tow, it would not suit Spencer’s purpose at all. “It is not everything that it is cracked up to be.”

  “That is of little consequence. My darling would be there. I would be there, with a whispered word in the garden, a hand clasped in a dance.”

  The poor fellow’s romantic sensibilities were getting quite carried away.

  “We could get lost in the crowds,” Bobbington said dreamily.

  “Not with her mama around, you could not.”

  But it no longer mattered what Spencer said. Bobbington had seized upon the possibility and was running away with it.

  “It would make Mama prodigiously pleased … putting my oar in the matrimonial waters, as she would see it. She has been making very loud noises in that direction.”

  “Have you any blunt?”

  “Of course not. My pockets are to let. I will stay at your place, and I know you will spot me.”

  Bobbington knew him too well.

  Spencer was torn. His options were fewer the longer the conversation continued. He had to either convince Bobbington that they should remain in Lambhurst or tell him the true purpose of his visit. Both risked a heated reproach. Neither appealed.

  However, there was a third possibility. If his quarry were journeying to London as well, then Spencer could continue his vigil without showing his hand. Perhaps a visit to Ryton Manor was in order, after all.

  Now, if only he could prevent Bobbington from making an offer to his darling Miss Pyebald in front of the company. It would be a monumental task, far more difficult
than following the secret communiqué of a French spy.

  * * *

  JULIANA TRIED TO CRY OFF, citing a terrible headache. But it was not to be. The moment Aunt Phyllis discerned Juliana’s distaste for the visit, the lady became deaf to her excuses.

  “No, Juliana, the megrims is not improved with a calm, tranquil setting. Light company and gaiety, such as you will find in the drawing room of Ryton, will do the trick. We will visit as planned, and you will accompany us.”

  Juliana could say nothing after that. She was destined to endure the condescension of Lady Pyebald, who might or might not remember her, the mindless chatter of the girls, and the sly flirting of the heir. All the while holding the pain in her temple at bay. Juliana wondered if this London endeavor carried too large a price.

  At Ryton, the trio of Grays Hill ladies was, once again, led to the paneled drawing room, where the lady of the manor, her daughter, and her son awaited. This time, however, Lady Pyebald recalled Juliana’s association, if not her name, and did not glower at her entrance. It was a step in the right direction.

  “Miss Telford,” Aunt Phyllis repeated again, with a light careless air.

  When Juliana lifted her eyes from the worn geometric designs of the Bokhara carpet, she found herself being introduced yet again. The Pyebalds, it would seem, were not alone. When the gentlemen stepped forward to bow, Juliana altered her gasp into a gentle clearing of her throat.

  Two impeccably dressed, familiar strangers smiled back at her with reciprocal interest. It was with great pleasure that Juliana could now identify her blue-eyed rescuer as Mr. Spencer Northam and the sandy-haired gentleman as Lord Randolph Bobbington. Better still, they were now included in her social circle, and she could interact with them at will—under the steely eyes of watchful barracudas, of course.

  Suddenly, Juliana greatly regretted the pain in her head, which gave her an ashen pallor, and decried the overly frilled cut of her gown—another suggestion from Aunt Phyllis—and the offhanded manner of the other members of the party. It illustrated only too well her lack of consequence.