by Cindy Anstey
Mr. Northam’s assurances that he would never consider any match between them would allow Juliana the freedom to enjoy the sensations of attraction. She could marvel at him and never fear that there would be any upset to her original plans. Yes, there would be disappointment in their final parting, but it would be for her and her alone. Juliana could think on it as an experiment such as she and her father might devise.
By the time Mr. Pyebald rode up to the coach window just north of Eastleigh, Juliana had found the peace that her countenance implied. Although she had seen nothing of the charming villages and farms that had slowly passed by her window, her smile suggested she had found tranquillity in the scenery. It was soon apparent that Lady Pyebald had not.
“My Lord,” Mr. Pyebald addressed his father. He had to call several times through the glass to awaken the man.
Juliana contemplated tapping his Lordship resoundingly on the shoulder; however, she could only reach his knee. That was too personal for her, and she dithered for a moment with indecision.
Fortunately, Lord Pyebald snorted and snuffled and then sat bolt upright. He heard the call again and unhooked the rope holding the window in place. It dropped with a thump.
“The ladies, my lady mother in particular, request that we find an inn for the evening. They say they can go no farther.”
“We are to stop at The Unicorn and Bugle in just outside of an hour. Surely they can wait until then.”
Mr. Pyebald nodded in deference, but his expression held excessive doubt.
“Very well, very well. Know you of any post inn of quality nearby?” Lord Pyebald rumbled.
“Yes, my lord, not a mile farther. I have had occasion to stay there in the past, and while it does not boast as large a stable as The Unicorn and Bugle, The Double Rose has a passable kitchen and clean rooms.”
“Fine.”
Lord Pyebald flicked his hand at his son, his fingers wagging limply. “Tell them; it will be so.” He tugged the rope and ended their short discourse.
“Lawks, never travel with women.”
While it appeared that Lord Pyebald had forgotten there was a young lady sitting across from him in the coach, Uncle Leonard had not. “You must excuse him, my dear,” he addressed Juliana. “The discomfort and cramped conditions never put any of us at our best.”
“What are you going on about?” Lord Pyebald tried to look affronted, but the strain of maintaining a glare was too much for his constitution. His eyes closed before the question was finished.
Juliana shook her head in disgust at the lethargic figure. The man was well into his cups; the flask of refreshment that he had brought along to alleviate the journey’s tedium lay empty on the floor.
Lord Pyebald suited his wife as best as Juliana could tell from such a short acquaintance. His form was as substantial as hers, particularly about the middle, his conduct did not approach intelligence, and while he was reputed to patronize the best clothiers in the country, he resembled a vagabond.
Uncle Leonard glanced up from the snuffling, snorting figure beside him. Juliana gave her uncle a worry-not smile that smoothed his folded brow.
Uncle Leonard was a kind, quiet gentleman. His features were somewhat disjointed: He had a large bulbous nose on a narrow, lean face; and his gray hair was sparse, but his side whiskers were thick curly red. He was a tall man who stooped, likely from the years of discomfort towering above the heads of others. In personality, he couldn’t have been more dissimilar from Aunt Phyllis; he was sensitive and understanding. It was from him that Carrie had inherited the tendency to self-deprecation—either that or it was from living with Aunt Phyllis through the years. One had to take culpability to maintain peace. Yes, poor Uncle Leonard, he was overrun by his wife.
As promised, The Double Rose was an easy distance from where the request to stop was granted, and not much of a detour from the London Road. No sooner had the coach pulled within the confinement of the stable yard than the vehicle’s door was flung open and Mr. Pyebald offered to help Juliana step down. It was a deference that both surprised and pleased Juliana: surprised, because one would have thought that he would have attended the second carriage containing the majority of the ladies before turning to her, and pleased due to her stiff limbs, which necessitated a hand down.
Once on the firm ground, Juliana felt a rush of blood to her extremities. She rolled her shoulders, placed her hands on her hips, and stretched her back. It was wonderful to move.
Before he stepped away, Mr. Pyebald gently took her right hand and bowed over it, holding her eyes in his gaze as he did so. His bold stare made Juliana uncomfortable. She frowned and tilted her head in puzzlement. Fortunately, the noises from the other coach drew his attention, and Mr. Pyebald excused himself. However, as the gentleman passed behind her, Juliana felt something slide across the top of her skirt, along the crest of her bottom.
Juliana jerked. Had Mr. Pyebald just touched her? On her bottom? It had certainly felt like an intimate touch. But, no, it was ridiculous. What a preposterous idea. Why would he want to, need to? The stable yard was spacious and almost deserted. No reason to pass so closely. It must have been … Juliana glanced around.
There were two saddled horses tied to a post in the corner, a mule drinking from a trough by the stable door, and a plethora of pigs, chickens, and dogs lazily milling about. The rain barrels were about the right height, but they were near the entrance. There was nothing nearby that she could have brushed against that would have given her the sensation of being touched.
That could only mean … no. Juliana shook the idea from her head. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Foolish, overtired, and too imaginative.
Juliana lifted her head and glanced around. Everyone was occupied, including Mr. Pyebald. No one looked her way. Juliana slowed her breathing and swallowed.
Mr. Pyebald was a gentleman, and she was in the company of her relatives. A man would not take liberties under these circumstances. Philanderers needed dark, shadowed rooms and deserted innocents … or so she understood.
“Are you coming in?” Carrie interrupted Juliana’s muddled thoughts. Her cousin’s face was pert but still showed signs of strain. The wrinkles on her soft brown cloak mirrored the multitude on Juliana’s dove-gray coat. “Or would you rather get some air?” Carrie’s question held a tone of appeal.
Juliana looked over to see her family and their friends, including Mr. Pyebald, headed toward the door of the inn.
“I would rather stay outside, even just briefly … to stretch and move about.”
Carrie nodded her thanks and then called over her shoulder. “Mama, Juliana and I will be there presently. We need some air.”
Aunt Phyllis turned. “I should say not. You will both come in at once.”
“I would be pleased to escort the young ladies, Mrs. Reeves, if you wish to be settled inside. We will walk to the main road but no farther.”
Aunt Phyllis glanced from Mr. Pyebald to her daughter and back again. “Thank you, Mr. Pyebald; that is very good of you to indulge my poor puss.”
Juliana rubbed at her temple. This wasn’t quite what she had in mind, but … she arched her back again, stretched her arms before her, and turned toward the road. Carrie skipped to her side, and they locked elbows.
“Oh Juliana, was it horrible?” her cousin asked quietly and quickly before Mr. Pyebald reached them. “All talk of shooting and horses? I think it highly unfair of Mama to insist that the carriage cannot seat more than four on a long journey. I am certain Vivian would not care a whit if we were crushed more than we already are.”
“Thank you for your concern, Carrie. But I am comfortable where I am. There is little conversation; I have time aplenty for contemplation.”
A dislodged stone, kicked forward with force, indicated the close proximity of Mr. Pyebald. But like a perfect gentleman, he remained a respectful distance from them, and Juliana began to relax. It had been her fatigue, nothing more. Her imagination had led her a
stray.
* * *
THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE FULL MOON SHONE THROUGH the multipaned window, casting deep shadows and filling the room with a ghostly blue tint. The inn was at last quiet. The rollicking voices from the common room below finally hushed, and the movement in the yard stilled.
While all the foreign noises beyond the door had kept Juliana awake for the first part of the night, it was the unholy sounds emanating from beside her that threatened to prevent Juliana from ever closing her eyes for the second part.
Both Carrie and Vivian snored. While Carrie wheezed and sometimes muttered, Vivian would have put an aged laborer to shame. The racket she made was long, loud, and never-ceasing. The small room echoed the cacophony. Juliana had no idea how Carrie could sleep.
Finally giving up, Juliana shifted to the side of the bed, a mere inch or two. She slowly drew back the counterpane and slipped her bare feet onto the cold floor. There was no point in staring at the ceiling anymore. Watching the shadows claw across the beams was fine for a few hours, but it had definitely entered the realm of tedium by midnight.
Juliana reached for her coat, hung on a peg behind the door, and threw it about her shoulders. She tossed aside the clothes lying on the roughly hewn chair and lifted it just above the floor. As quietly as possible, she walked to the window and placed the chair by the glass. She sat, wiggled to get comfortable, drew her legs up, and wrapped the coat around her knees.
It little mattered if sleep remained elusive. There was nothing to do while bumping and rocking on the tiresome road to London. She was not required to make scintillating conversation, not any conversation, for that matter. No arrangements needed her consideration, and no observations had to be made. It was almost as if Juliana were in limbo, simply waiting. Sleep became redundant.
Perhaps that was the problem, Juliana postulated. She had not done enough to tire herself out. She should have walked farther, ignored Mr. Pyebald’s insistence that the road had become crowded. Especially when he overstated the situation. There had been but one cart and two horsemen on approach. If he had desired his repast so desperately, he should have stayed behind.
Juliana stared out at the scene before her. The yard was a perfect stage of exaggerated shadows. The well-worn cobblestones reflected the light so truly that the shadows were chiseled, and yet nature was playing a game. For a bucket took on the proportions of a vat, the straw baling a mountain, and the creeping figure was—
Juliana looked again. She could not see the form that created the shape, but she could, indeed, see its distorted shadow. It looked like a man making his way to the gate in a stealthy, unnatural manner. It practically screamed to be noticed.
Juliana squinted uselessly and stared. She blinked and was rewarded with only marginal clarity. Then the man stepped out from under the cloak of darkness. His back was turned, but something in his build struck her as familiar.
He unbarred the gate, and as he stepped through, two other forms appeared. They gathered and slowly walked beyond Juliana’s sight. The gate was left unattended and open. Her heart began to pound.
By this time, Juliana’s posture was tense, and her feet had once again found the floor. Her nose almost touched the glass. She wondered if she should alert the house.
That man had left them in danger, exposed. Anyone could enter now and take advantage of a sleeping house. As soon as Juliana had convinced herself of the need to raise the alarm, the man returned to the yard. He rebarred the gate and slipped back into the shadows. Within moments the yard was again a perfect stage of exaggerated shadows. Nothing moved.
Juliana sat back down; she didn’t remember rising. She frowned and wondered about what she had seen. It took on less importance the longer she puzzled with it. By the time the lightening sky began to banish all the chiseled shadows, Juliana had convinced herself that the incident was of no significance and none of her business, and she had finally fallen asleep in the chair.
* * *
SPENCER STRODE SMARTLY DOWN THE POORLY LIT mews, taking short, shallow breaths, trying to inhale as little of the sour air as possible. He swung his walking stick in such a manner as to reveal any unsavory pile of straw-clinging excrement before encountering it with his highly polished leather boots.
Lawks, he had forgotten the stench of the city, in particular the narrow lanes between the great town houses of Mayfair. Had he not preferred to reach his destination surreptitiously, he would have traversed the wider, marginally cleaner, avenues of the square.
The corner of Spencer’s mouth curled up with satisfied amusement at the thought of his uncle’s reaction to a jaunt such as this. Uncle James would have joined Spencer in a trice, and plied him with queries from one end of the mews to the other, had he known of Spencer’s adventures. Perhaps one day Spencer would be able to reveal his true vocation.
Uncle James was Spencer’s guide through boyhood, the father figure that had been missing in his salad days. His sire, Theodore Northam, had yielded to the call of the netherworld while Spencer was just entering adolescence. Spencer’s mother had entreated her brother, James, to take Spencer in, if only for a little while.
It proved to be a tremendous gift—far from the banishment he had thought it to be.
James was a busy man, the second son of a great lineage who had turned to law to support his large vivacious brood. But he was also a devoted family man who, without reserve, included Spencer.
Spencer was not a dispirited child when he returned home to Norfield on the anniversary of his father’s death. For twelve months he had witnessed what a large family could be: the clashes, the support, the respect, and the frustrations, but most of all the underlying caring. His mother had tried to provide a similar atmosphere in their ancestral home, but to no avail. The halls of Norfield were quiet, the entertainment staid … the ennui extreme. It left Spencer at loose ends at the advanced age of eighteen. It was boredom as much as anything that set him on his present course, that and his well-intentioned uncle.
They had been dining at Brooks’s; Uncle James castigated him in a kindly fashion for his irresolute life. The mild tirade had been slightly irritating, but Spencer bore it without umbrage. Upon reaching the conclusion that, indeed, his life needed focus, though they had yet to divine in which direction, Spencer waved his uncle off and returned to the gaming tables.
However, as he watched his fellows throwing more blunt about than they could afford, a gentleman known to him only in the periphery approached. It would seem that Lord Winfrith had overheard the conversation with Uncle James and offered a solution.
Spencer was not indoctrinated into the clandestine underworld of the War Office immediately. It was a slow process—taking almost a full three months. His first assignments were light, with little enough to be done and accounted for. He merely needed to keep an ear open to the casual conversations of those about him for anything more than the usual Francophile, anything that could be fodder for the little emperor’s purposes.
As Spencer took on duties with more consequences, he found that his life lost its monotony. He no longer knew what to expect from day to day, and he found that exhilarating. He enjoyed a short but dangerous journey to Spain and more recently France, although enjoyment from that one was more in hindsight, after having succeeded at his purpose. His easy personality had carried him through many a troublesome situation, though, at times, it was merely by the skin of his teeth.
Spencer arrived at the Mayfair town house with his boots, thankfully, unsoiled. He rapped sharply at the back door with his cane. He nodded to Raymond as the butler wordlessly guided him through the kitchen, the little hall, and into the front of the house. The man’s expression displayed no surprise at Spencer’s unorthodox entry.
Lord Winfrith was awaiting him in the study with Mr. Bibury. This chamber was sheathed in the favored oaken paneling of the day and sprinkled with large furniture in deep greens. An insipid fire glowed beneath the tall mantel, and the gentlemen stared fixedly at the uninspired,
fading embers.
“Ah, there you are, Northam,” Winfrith commented, as if it had not been two months since their last meeting. “What say you to Bibury’s preposterous claim?”
Spencer entered the room with comfort and informality. They knew one another well. Bibury had been the one to indoctrinate Spencer into the grittier aspects of his occupation—such as knife play and surreptitious observation. Lord Winfrith had helped Spencer hone his French and taught him how to navigate the social world of the Ton while listening for traitorous rhetoric tied up in social niceties. While they were of a mind when dealing with governmental issues, they were as contentious a group as any of his majesty’s swells when dealing with the ordinary questions of the day.
Spencer took the glass of brandy that Raymond offered and waited until the door had once more sequestered the men from the world. “Which particular preposterous claim would that be?” He swirled the amber liquid around the glass, warming it before taking a gulp.
“That Lord Hart’s grays are Carfield stock.”
“Well, I must say, Bibury, that is mighty far-fetched. Lord Hart’s pockets have been cleaned out for some time. Next you’ll be saying that his son is no longer beetle-headed.” Lord Hart was a philandering dolt not known in Town for his intelligence, his horses, or his witty offspring.
Bibury shrugged, still staring at the fire. “Perhaps not.”
The gentleman sat silent for some moments before inquiring, “So how did you get away from Bobbington so quickly?”
“Usual excuse.”
“Ah, visiting your mama. How is she?”
Spencer leaned into the wingback chair and stretched his legs out before him. “Still at Norfield, actually. She seldom leaves the place … something that Bobbington seems to have forgotten.” His companions nodded.
“I thought avoiding her was your excuse to visit Bobbington in the first place,” Winfrith asked, trying to keep the subterfuge straight.
“No, no, escaping Lady Rayne. She likes to collect younger men, and I intimated that I was in the widow’s sights. Bobbington didn’t even blink when I laid my desertion of London at her feet. As to mothers, well, Bobbington understands them all too well. They do require a nominal visit every now and then to keep them happy.” Spencer smiled, distracted as Miss Telford came unbidden to his mind.
