Love, Lies and Spies

by Cindy Anstey

  When the other ladies had settled and resettled on various seats, Juliana crossed the floor to the small grouping of chairs by the window. She perched on a red brocade seat that faced into the room, allowing her a full view of its occupants. It was as far away from the exuberant conversation of the girls, the stifling fire, and the repetitive discourse of the matrons as she could politely devise. She was close enough to answer any unlikely question or comment that might be cast in her direction, but not too close to create the discomfort of an uninvited guest.

  The gentlemen meandered about the room, joining the discussion of the ladies from various positions. Juliana was pleased to see that while Lord Bobbington did show an interest in Vivian, he was neither too besotted nor without enough sensibility to exclude Carrie. For their part, the young ladies demonstrated, by way of their posture and conversation, no distaste for the young gentleman. Juliana found herself feeling more kindly disposed toward Vivian.

  So entranced by the subtle dances of the dissimilar personalities of the room, Juliana was unaware that Mr. Pyebald had approached.

  “Let us hope for fine weather on the morrow. It is such a messy business to travel in the rain.”

  Mr. Pyebald’s address was of a benign nature, and yet he stood between her and the rest of the company—as if to cut her off from them. His predatory stance made her uncomfortable. When she realized that this discomfort was derived from a concern that Mr. Northam would misinterpret the relationship, she shifted slightly to see if his eyes were upon her.

  They were. She lifted her eyebrows slightly and curled the corners of her lips. It was meant to be an invitation to join them. His casual stare did not reply.

  Juliana turned back to Mr. Pyebald. She motioned to the seat across from her with her eyes, and she was pleased to see that Mr. Pyebald was not as obtuse as he was arrogant.

  “Yes, indeed, it is difficult to make time on muddy roads,” she finally replied.

  “However, the turnpikes do improve the closer one gets to London, but then the traffic increases as well; vicious circle.”

  Juliana sighed silently. This conversation was as interesting as boiled potatoes. She was trying to devise another method of luring Mr. Northam to the window when she heard a muffled step headed in their direction.

  “Are you to Town often?” Mr. Northam addressed Mr. Pyebald. He stood slightly to the side, as any well-bred gentleman should, not sequestering the lady but allowing her the company.

  “No, not really, not above four or five times in a calendar. My interests keep me in Bath for the better part of the year.”

  “Charming city, Bath. The upper crust there is quite up to snuff. Do you take the waters regularly?”

  “Whenever I can, but it is not frequent.” Mr. Pyebald flicked a speck from the knee of his cream breeches.

  “Your interests must be demanding. Whatever could keep you from the restorative qualities of the water and the charming society that surrounds them?”

  Juliana couldn’t help but wonder at the hard edge of Mr. Northam’s casual inquiries. She tipped her head in his direction to catch his eye, but he seemed not to notice.

  “This and that, nothing of consequence.” Mr. Pyebald waved his hand in the air. “Though the time is coming when I must keep to Lambhurst. There is much to running an estate of this size, all of which I must learn.”

  “Surely that is the purpose of your steward. A man such as yourself would prefer the company of the Ton to the birds and trees.”

  Mr. Pyebald laughed without mirth. “Perhaps you are right. And yourself? Do you frequently vacate your estate to your steward and enjoy the pleasures of Bath and London?”

  “Bath, not as often. But London is another matter. In fact, we are for Town shortly as, I have learned, are you.”

  “What a happy chance,” Juliana replied as was expected, and she found that it was, indeed, a welcome disclosure. The prospect of never seeing Mr. Northam again had caused a feeling of inexplicable discontent. It was agreeable to cast off that emotion before it had to be examined too closely. “Will you be there for the Season?”

  “That is our intent. But one never knows.”

  “A willow in the winds, are you, Mr. Northam? No desire to make plans?”

  Juliana wasn’t sure if she heard derision or envy in Mr. Pyebald’s tone.

  Mr. Northam smiled and then bowed. “As little as possible.” He turned without another glance in her direction and rejoined the group by the fire.

  “Not one such as we, eh, Miss Telford. We have plans aplenty.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Juliana had not been attending Mr. Pyebald’s scintillating words.

  “I have it on good authority—my sister as opposed to my mother—that there is already a possibility of procuring vouchers for Almack’s. Think on that, Miss Telford, the exclusive temple of the beau monde: the most hallowed of social clubs. Could there be anything more fulfilling to a young lady such as yourself?”

  Juliana could think of several things, but she was not about to enlighten the man. He was trying to entertain her in his own banal fashion.

  All too soon, Juliana heard Mr. Northam urging Lord Bobbington to make his good-byes. Their call had come to an end, and Juliana wished she could say the same. As the departing gentlemen stepped around the furniture, Juliana rose and moved farther into the room, ostensibly to fill their vacuum. With a nod, Mr. Northam crossed behind her, and she felt his fingers brush hers as he passed.

  With amazing deftness, she found a small object pressed into her palm. Juliana recognized the shape and slight crumple: a notebook. She held her hand slightly behind her skirt, hiding the notebook in its folds.

  It wasn’t until Juliana was once again in the echoing corridors of Grays Hill Park that she realized that along with the notebook, she had been handed a message.

  * * *

  SPENCER PACED BENEATH THE OAK AT ST. IVES HEAD. A light mist hung off the coast, filling the air with the smell of salty dampness. The sun had just come up over the horizon and was tinting the sky in pastel shades of yellow and pink. Whether it was to be a fine day had yet to be determined, but for now, at least, rain was not anticipated.

  Spencer took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had still not resolved Miss Telford’s role in this game of subterfuge. Her acquaintance with the Ryton family appeared tenuous, but was that just artifice? Maxwell Pyebald had adroitly prevented any quiet conversation between them yesterday and exuded an intimacy with her that could disclose an association of longer duration than that implied by Lady Pyebald. But then Miss Telford was a comely young woman; perhaps Mr. Pyebald had merely been demonstrating an interest.

  Miss Telford could be the innocent blunderer that she appeared to be. However, her willful disobedience of the dictums of her aunt might be not a sign of frustrated rebellion but a personality that saw rules as inapplicable to her person. If she were a blunderer and nothing else, she might make a fascinating accomplice. If, however, she were an adept manipulator, she might be his quarry’s decoy. He sincerely preferred the former explanation to the latter one.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, Spencer’s doubts rose with it. The likelihood of Miss Telford riding up the road lessened with each passing moment. He would have to devise another method to encounter her in London.

  Just as he had decided that his wait had been futile, Spencer heard the sound of movement in the bushes. He stepped behind the oak and into the obscurity of the shrubbery. He was relieved and surprised to see Miss Telford step out from the brush onto the road up ahead. Her russet coat was damp with falling dew, her limp bonnet askew.

  Spencer regained his casual position by the oak. “Miss Telford, what are you about?”

  She started slightly at his words and then frowned. She closed the distance between them as her brows became more deeply entrenched in their pucker. “Why do you ask, Mr. Northam? I was under the impression that you requested this interview.”

  Spencer smiled and nodded. “Yes
, indeed. However, I did not expect you to walk. It is a fair distance from Grays Hill.”

  Juliana’s expression lightened, and her brows spread back across her face. “Ah, but the household is all sixes and sevens, what with our departure at midday. Pressing Paul to either saddle a horse or prepare a cart would have been most selfish and unjust of me. I could do little else but walk.”

  “You might also not have come.”

  “Yes, I might not have. But I believe London is going to be very regimented. This might be my last taste of freedom for some time.”

  “Are you not looking forward to these elegant affairs, Miss Telford? For to hear you talk, one would suppose not.”

  “Well, I am approaching it, as I do most things, as an adventure. My vexation at the moment is derived from my expectation of no independence.”

  “You have had a peculiar upbringing, I believe, Miss Telford.”

  “Yes, thank heaven. You are quite right. My father has left me unfettered.”

  “Rather eccentric, is he?”

  “Oh no, well, yes. But not in the manner you mean. He is merely focused—we both are. My mother’s passing left him bereft, and as a result, he threw himself into research; it became his passion. The condition was quite contagious, of course. Now, we eat, sleep, and think Coccinellidae—”

  “I beg your pardon. You think what?”

  Miss Telford laughed. “Coccinellidae, lady beetles. We are studying their habits, their varieties, food sources, life cycles—any number of things. We have been doing so for a fair number of years and will likely be doing so for a fair number more. And while doing so, I have also been responsible for Hartwell. With that responsibility came independence.”

  Spencer stared at her for some moments before commenting. “You are not really eighteen, are you, Miss Telford?”

  “No, you might be right, Mr. Northam,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes directly. “I feel a good deal older.”

  Spencer considered her for some moments more until she shifted in discomfort. He swallowed, shook himself mentally, and asked her directly what he had intended to approach with subtlety. He no longer felt the need to hedge.

  “You found something in the grass last time you were here. Put it in your—”

  “Oh yes, I am so glad you brought it up. I made sure to bring it with me. It must have fallen out of your pocket when I carried your jacket over.”

  Miss Telford passed him the crumpled piece of paper with such an open expression that Spencer was flooded with relief. He hadn’t realized how desperately he had wanted her to be no more than what she appeared. To associate with a traitor did not mean that she shared in the betrayal. After all, turncoats hid their deeds from even their nearest and dearest.

  Spencer took the paper from her, purposefully touching her hand as he did so. He glanced up to see a slight flush spread across her cheeks. The shy look that accompanied it caught at his chest. The reaction startled him. He slowly and deliberately smoothed out the paper on his knee, concentrating on calming his suddenly accelerating heartbeat.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked.

  Spencer looked down at the paper. It was a playbill. He took note of the squares, circles, and scribbled order before answering. “I am afraid, Miss Telford, that I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing the Drury Lane Hamlet.” He saw a quizzical look form on her face. “This is not mine.”

  “Oh dear, I am sorry. I found it by the oak tree. I just assumed. That is, I thought. Well, then it is of no consequence.”

  Spencer turned to the tree, running his hand across the rough gray bark. He ducked under its lower branches for a closer look at the trunk. The tree was gnarled, bent, and old, and, yes, it possessed a burrow of a size in which someone might hide a message. He would have to replace the playbill after Miss Telford was gone.

  It was clear by the markings across the face of the theater program that it was being used to arrange a meeting—a convoluted procedure to protect their identities … or perhaps enabling two people to meet who would not normally. The playbill had to be seen in order for both traitorous parties to arrive at the same time and place … where the smuggled communiqué would continue its journey deeper into the heart of Britain. Yes, the playbill would have to be replaced.

  Spencer straightened and stuffed the paper into his pocket as if it truly were of no consequence. “You must be wondering why it is that I asked to meet you?”

  “No, indeed. I know perfectly well.”

  Spencer was taken aback. “You do?”

  “Yes. Did you not wish to know if I observed an impediment for Lord Bobbington in regard to his affection for Miss Pyebald?”

  Spencer frowned slightly and then nodded. “Yes, that is it exactly.”

  “Well, as best as I can tell, Miss Pyebald is without any fixed affections. Unfortunately, Mr. Northam, that would include Lord Bobbington.” As she spoke, Miss Telford leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner.

  Spencer enjoyed the proximity; he could smell the sweet scent of roses drifting around her and feel the radiant warmth of her skin. “Not to worry, Miss Telford. As long as there are no prior attachments, Bobbington might have a passing chance at winning her.”

  “Is that why you are to London? For I was rather surprised to learn that you are about to participate in the Season.”

  “As you surmised, it was a last-minute decision.”

  “Lord Bobbington?”

  “Exactly.”

  Miss Telford laughed, a delightful tinkling sound.

  “We must do all that we can to bring him and Miss Pyebald together,” she said.

  “My very thought. Could I be so bold as to…? No, that is pure presumption on my part.”

  “I cannot say yea or nay until you ask, Mr. Northam. Believe me, I do very little that does not suit me.”

  “Yes, I have seen the proof of that.” Spencer looked out across the road to the gray rolling water. The mist was pulling back farther, allowing the warm morning sun to reflect in the crests of the waves. “If it appeared that I had developed an attraction … that is, if I appeared smitten and visited … that is, as I know you are not setting your cap … what I mean is—”

  “Mr. Northam, worry not.” Miss Telford smiled kindly, deceived by his feigned discomfort. “I see what you are about. I will be the excuse needed to account for your and Lord Bobbington’s frequent presence in our midst. It will not show Lord Bobbington’s hand immediately, that is, not overtly. Oh, this is marvelous.”

  Clearly, Miss Telford was warming to the idea.

  “I can inform you,” she continued, “of which assemblies, routs, and balls we are to attend. I will keep an ear to the ground for any comments Miss Pyebald should make in his regard, and I will expect nothing from you other than a companion to whom I shall not have to be false.” Miss Telford smiled brightly and nodded with finality. “I cannot but wonder if they are a good match, but that is not for me to say. Love can make one single-minded.”

  “You are a matchmaker, Miss Telford.”

  “And you, sir, are a romantic and a devoted friend. How many gentlemen would do half as much for their comrade?”

  Spencer felt a flush of guilt wash over him and quickly suggested that Miss Telford hurry back before being missed. Her artless smile and wave tugged at his conscience, but only for a moment. The practicality of his suggestion was too obvious. He now had a confederate in the household, the delightful Miss Telford. He would not even consider the possibility that his proposition had sprung from a desire to spend more time in her company.

  CHAPTER

  6

  In which a sleepless night fills Miss Telford with doubts while Mr. Northam discusses the culpability of those in her party

  JULIANA STARED OUT THE COACH WINDOW. With the other ladies in the following carriage, her fellow travelers required neither attention nor conversation. Opposite her, Lord Pyebald napped and Uncle Leonard read—despite the swaying jerks produced by the less-than-smoo
th London Road. The scenery before her eyes was a picturesque but monotonous blend of fields and vales. It took little concentration to take her thoughts inward.

  Juliana found her mind dwelling on a handsome young man with an appealing smile. She recalled the conversation with Mr. Northam in which she had, rather emphatically, dispelled the notion that she was going to London to secure a match. It had been a wise dialogue seen in retrospect. Had she not truthfully informed him of her intention to retain her heart, he would likely never have thought to include her in this harmless plan to assist his friend. He was too much of a gentleman to infer an attachment where none had developed. Mr. Northam was resolved to remain unfettered as well; they were of a like mind.

  At first, Juliana would not even consider the possibility that falling in with Mr. Northam’s proposition sprang from a yearning to spend more time in his company. Still, there was no denying her lighter heart at the prospect. There could also be no doubt of her awareness of him as a gentleman, with his strength of character and appealing physique, but when she turned her thoughts on him, it was as a friend or comrade. She told herself so, over and over. Who would not admire the cut of Mr. Northam’s coat or the talent of his neckcloth? Or the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck or his ability to convey a deep interest with few words?

  By the time the small parade of two carriages and lone rider had left Ryton Manor four hours behind schedule, Juliana had changed her mind about the wisdom of the plan and Mr. Northam’s proximity … several times. Until at last she admitted to herself that Mr. Northam had, in fact, already imposed upon her. And yet knowing this did not worry her overly.

  It was a situation in which she knew the outcome. She had but two choices: to deny herself the delight she felt in his company and struggle to cast him from her heart before she was lost any further, or to enjoy what little time they had together, knowing that they would part as friends. The latter would leave her with memories enough to keep her warm for a time. It might also allow her to understand the strange predilection of those around her to enter a state that she recently believed held little enticement.