by Cindy Anstey
“So how goes the hunt?”
It took Spencer a few seconds to realize that his colleague was not referring to Miss Telford. “Pyebald is our man,” he finally stated without trying to hide his distaste. “And his son. They may have been cloaked against the weather, but there could be no doubt of their identity. I watched the disembarkation myself, practically on Ryton’s doorstep. Quite a tidy job they made of it, too: brought a horse and cart and two men, used a strong English oak for leverage, and winched the crates right up the cliff. Took all of a quarter hour on a foggy dawn. Too well oiled to be anything but routine. Yes, indeed, our source was right about the how and where, even if he was a little havey-cavey on the when.”
“So your time was well spent.” Bibury continued to stare sightless into the fireplace. “The communiqué was hidden in the brandy.”
“Indeed, Pyebald is no ordinary smuggler. He is a traitor as well.”
“Knowingly?”
“I saw the marked crate. Watched him place it on the cart’s seat while the rest were stowed in back. Too obvious for coincidence.”
“I take it that the thing is now in Town or you wouldn’t be.”
“Nothing buffle-headed about you, Winfrith.”
“Thanks ever so.” Winfrith stretched his arms out before him and cracked his neck with a studied, casual manner. “And I suppose you will be needing extra eyes for a few days or so.”
Spencer smiled. “Would I be here otherwise?”
Winfrith laughed. “No, you would be with your dearest mama.”
Spencer joined in the joke with a chuckle of artifice. Given a choice, he would be enjoying the evening with Miss Telford … discussing insects of some sort.
CHAPTER
7
In which there are many varied witnesses to the comings and goings at the Reeves town house
THE REEVES ADDRESS IN MAYFAIR WAS BY NO means shabby, Juliana mused as she gazed out her chamber window down into the bustling street below.
The tall, narrow town house was an impressive white affair, with a multitude of large windows and classical columns that stretched up three floors. The square was one of the finest in the city. The center park was of a size that allowed for many a garden path, providing that necessary breath of greenery in an otherwise dull, grimy, urban monotony. The persons on the promenade were either well-heeled gaggles of resplendent gentry or their hangers-on.
The shuffling of humanity back and forth was quite fascinating. Still, Juliana couldn’t help but wish that one of those mustached gentlemen leaning on the fence would magically turn into the personage of Mr. Northam. The knowledge that he was somewhere out there in that milling mass of denizens was all that kept Juliana from screaming in utter boredom.
Juliana sighed and dropped the curtain; she was expected downstairs. She could not lollygag all morning wishing her time away and observing the city’s oddities. The final expedition to the milliner and mantua-maker awaited her. Juliana was excessively tired of visits to shoemakers and glove-makers, not to mention Bond Street shops and cluttered bazaars. She sighed again and turned back to the comfort of her room.
This was probably the smallest of the family bedchambers, but it was hers alone. Carrie was sharing with Vivian, an arrangement that Juliana would not have thrust upon anyone, but it seemed to suit the two girls. They fed off each other in energy and enthusiasm. Vivian’s frailty was all but forgotten. Juliana avoided her whenever she could, but it was becoming nigh on impossible; she was now expected to join them on every shopping excursion. It was likely a plot to keep her from exploring the city.
Yesterday, a full five days since their arrival in Town, Juliana had almost made it out of the house unseen. However, Mr. Pyebald had appeared out of nowhere and offered her his arm. He had done it with panache and style, but Juliana was in no way tempted. She suddenly realized that the sunny, warm weather was not really conducive to a casual stroll about the park. It was too … sunny and … too warm. Mr. Pyebald’s agreement and rejoinder that it was in her best interest to remain indoors convinced her that the household had been warned of her wandering tendencies. She would have to outthink them if she was ever going to get to Leadenhall Street.
Juliana’s plan to purchase most of her new wardrobe in Lambhurst, thereby freeing her of the time and the need to shop in London, had gone completely awry. Upon their arrival on Cooper Street, Lady Pyebald had asked to see Juliana’s presentation gown. It had turned into a moment of high drama.
On first glance of the dress’s pretty silver-white loops, the lady had screamed in delicate horror, claiming the gown to be a monumental disaster. She had lain upon the settee, a hand clutched to her ample bosom, and shaken in spasms of disbelief. It would not do, she had whispered in a robust voice, for the chit to be seen beside her jewel, her precious progeny, in a gown such as that. There was nothing else to be done; Juliana would be required to purchase another or all was lost.
Aunt Phyllis had acquiesced to Lady Pyebald without hesitation. It was, of course, Juliana who would be out of pocket, and it was, therefore, of no interest to her aunt other than how it would reflect on the family. The cost was not really Juliana’s prime objection; it was the time and waste. But when Juliana suggested that the disaster be remodeled or retrimmed, good Lady Pyebald had wailed that it was worthy of only the scullery maid or the dustheap. It was a gross exaggeration, but Juliana’s voice of reason was completely overruled. The gown was begun anew and with all due haste for the presentation was almost upon them.
Thus began the tedious drudgery of fittings and shopping. If listening to the empty-headed prattle on the glories of garlands and ribbons were not enough, Juliana found that she had to endure the indignity of having all her decisions made for her without so much as a by-your-leave. The older women treated her as if she were not capable of rational thought.
Juliana considered informing both ladies that if she were capable of seeing to the running of an estate the size of Hartwell and partnering her father in their research, she was more than able to choose the number of ostrich plumes on her headpiece. They would have been scandalized. That alone might have made the uproar worthwhile.
Still, the most difficult aspect of the busy days had nothing to do with gowns or bustling about the city. It was Juliana’s loss of Mr. Northam’s company. Lady Pyebald had declared that they were too busy to accept callers until after the presentation. As much as Juliana hated to admit it, they did seem to be inordinately busy.
As the days progressed, Juliana began to understand Aunt Phyllis’s acceptance of anything that spilled from the lips of her Ladyship. The woman was well entrenched in the beau monde, perhaps merely because of her ancient lineage, but there was no doubt that her eccentric musings and haughty pride were not only tolerated but also appreciated. Notes of welcome; invitations to balls, musicals, and assemblies; and calling cards poured in at the Reeves town house in prodigious numbers.
It was not surprising that when Carrie rushed into Juliana’s chamber to drag her downstairs, her words were not a congenial morning greeting but an announcement of their social triumph. With a great deal of pride, Carrie declared that the ball following the presentation was going to be a veritable crush.
“Lady Pyebald has invited all the most eligible bachelors. And it would seem that most are going to see their way to being here. Is that not a delightful start to our careers?”
“Delightful.” Juliana didn’t try to mask her lack of interest, but Carrie was too involved in her own emotions to notice. Juliana smiled despite herself, for Carrie’s expression had taken on a dreamy look, and she was swaying to an unheard melody.
“Silly puss, you will not be able to step out with all of them. There will not be enough dances. You will have to share with Vivian, you know, as well as all the other young ladies vying for the gentlemen’s attention.”
“And you, Juliana. You, too. Oh, you cannot be as unaffected as you claim. Just imagine the music, the room aglitter with handsomely
dressed men and women, and being asked to dance by viscounts and sons of earls, and we will know no one, no one at all.” Carrie hooked her elbow through Juliana’s, pulling her forward, down the hall to the ever-awaiting assemblage. “No one except Mr. Northam and Lord Bobbington. I made sure that invitations were extended to them.”
Juliana quickly glanced to Carrie’s profile, trying to understand her comment. Was there a hidden meaning? Had she discerned Juliana’s preference already? She would have to be more guarded.
“It would not have been neighborly otherwise,” Carrie continued, and then flushed slightly without looking Juliana’s way.
Juliana felt a sudden discomfort. The thought of breakfast no longer appealed. Had Carrie already developed a fixation? Oh dear, poor girl. Bobbington was consumed with Vivian; he was not likely to notice Carrie at her side. “No, for I believe you to have known Lord Bobbington for some years.”
“Just in passing, at church and such. We have had no occasion to converse at any length before; I do find him quite lively … in a staid, neighborly way, of course.”
“Yes, of course.” Juliana turned her face away, hoping to hide her worried expression.
Her gaze wandered through the open door of the drawing room as they passed. Two very sooty men with brushes stood before the fireplace, staring at the fender. One man glanced over his shoulder and met her look. Juliana stopped in her tracks. The man’s eyes were blue—so much like Mr. Northam’s that she was instantly drawn to him.
“Juliana?” Carrie tugged her arm.
Juliana started and then frowned.
“We are for the morning room, aren’t we?” Carrie sounded hesitant.
“Yes, yes, of course. I don’t know why … silly me, distracted is all.” She glanced again at the chimney sweep and watched him nod.
“Ma’am.” His voice was deep and gravelly, not Mr. Northamlike at all.
Juliana shook her head in self-castigation and walked on, returning her mind to the problem at hand. Should she say anything to Carrie about Lord Bobbington’s infatuation? No, there was no need; the Season was just starting. Carrie would soon have a bevy of callers.
Juliana squeezed Carrie’s arm. “You will have so many conquests before the night is out, old and new, that a journal will be necessary to keep them all straight.”
“Really, Juliana? Do you think so?”
“Goose, of course I do. The tragedy this Season will be that the Honorable Miss Reeves will be able to choose only one from her many suitors. You just wait and see. Hearts will break all through Town when you do.”
“Oh, that sounds delicious.” Carrie giggled. “And you, too, Juliana. You will have admirers, too.”
Juliana laughed. “You are sweet, Carrie, to say so.”
“I do not jest, for I know of one already.”
Juliana was startled. Carrie could not be referring to Northam, as she had not seen him since the short visit at Ryton. Whoever could she mean? “I think your imagination has run away with you, Cousin, for we have yet to meet anyone in Town.”
“I do not mean from Town.”
Juliana had a horrifying suspicion that Carrie was referring to—“This is an absurd discussion, let us drop—”
“Mr. Pyebald, of course. Mr. Maxwell Pyebald.”
“You are quite mistaken.” Juliana wanted to steer well away from the topic of Mr. Pyebald.
The man made her uncomfortable. Ever since her misgivings at the inn, she had avoided his attempts at private conversation and ignored his amorous stares. He had made no secret of his interest, and since her aunt had said nothing, Juliana could only assume that he had been deemed worthy. Or, perhaps, she had been deemed worthy of Mr. Pyebald. Whatever the circumstances, she wanted none of it. Even if she were on the lookout for a husband, it would not have been him.
“What are you to wear this afternoon?”
“Do not fob me off, Juliana. Have you not noticed? I am vastly pleased.”
Juliana frowned. “Why? Why would Mr. Pyebald’s interest in me please you?”
“It is my doing. Oh Juliana, take that frown from your face. I am not cutting shams. If I had not told Vivian about your very comfortable situation at Hartwell and the large inheritance that is to come your way, I am sure Mr. Pyebald would have looked elsewhere. So it is to me that you owe appreciation.”
Juliana smiled weakly, breathing deeply through her nose. Her cousin meant well. She didn’t realize that she had set Juliana up for an uncomfortable Season. Juliana would have to pull out a full arsenal of set-downs to assure Mr. Pyebald of her utter lack of pleasure at his attentions, and she had to do so with tact and decorum. Not her strong suits.
* * *
SPENCER LEANED ON THE FENCE IN A LANGUID POSTURE, twitching the mustache that was temporarily glued to his upper lip. It itched. He supported an open but unread newspaper before him. His eyes appeared entranced by the latest lurid tale of the city while in fact they never left the Reeves residence.
The large park was proving to be an excellent vantage point. There were plenty of milling people to shield him. On different days this week, Spencer had observed the household while in the guise of a dandy, a tradesman, and a coachman—he had even accompanied a chimney sweep into the house itself. No one had questioned his presence or even given him a second glance … though there had been an uneasy moment with Miss Telford. But it had quickly passed.
Winfrith and Bibury were finding the same on their shifts. There was a dearth of curiosity in this neck of the woods, an apathetic menagerie of souls—very convenient for the purposes of the War Office.
Spencer found that the tedium of this vigil was not as overwhelming as it could have been. There was no underlying tension. He was fairly certain when the communiqué would continue its journey. Although it was beyond him as to why there was a delay. He could only hope that it would lead directly to his quarry this time and not to another cat’s paw. Spencer was ready to see this game played out. The leak turned to their advantage.
The playbill from the cliff-top had used a rudimentary code, and Spencer had seen the paper whisked from its hiding place in the oak just as the brandy crates had been pulled up the cliff. Spencer expected the communiqué to be passed at the May first performance of Hamlet at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane on Catherine Street. Nine days hence. That would be the day of reckoning.
Until then, all he had to do was watch the Pyebalds, who were deeply ensconced in the Reeves household, and note any visitors or appointments—anything unusual that would be worthy of further investigation.
So far he had nothing to show for his diligence. It was a dull business as the women of the household never ventured out but to visit a shop, and the men’s rare jaunts took in White’s or Brooks’s. Only Mr. Pyebald’s occasional sojourn into the Hells provided any entertainment, especially as it was to that traitorous highflier’s detriment.
It would seem that the man had worn out his welcome in the better clubs and had to resort to the underbelly of the gaming world for sport and entertainment. But here, even the gullgropers found him untouchable. The man was on a decided losing streak, his luck having left him too deep in dun territory. Spencer found that an exceedingly pleasant thought. Social censure rode hard on the man’s heels. Yes, very satisfying, indeed.
The animosity that Spencer felt for the traitor far outweighed his calculated distaste for Mr. Pyebald. The reason for this discrepancy was something that Spencer did not want to explore. It might have to do with the comely Miss Telford.
Spencer had been particularly disappointed to learn that the Reeves and Pyebald families were not receiving and would not be doing so until after the three chits’ presentation at court. He didn’t examine that disappointment too closely, either, on the off chance that it might be Miss Telford’s company that he missed and not the opportunity to advance his case.
As it was, the planned complicity with Miss Telford was still going to afford him a more comfortable position for his observations
for the better part of a seven-night or two. That was the reason, and none other, that he anticipated their next meeting. Nothing else. At all.
Spencer turned his fixed gaze away from the front of the Reeves town house and glanced around. He was pleased to see that Bibury was about to take up a position by the corner, leaving Spencer free to return to his own apartment and guest. Spencer folded his paper with deliberate, precise moves and noted, as he did so, that the Reeves family’s carriage was pulling up in front of the residence. The coachman jumped to the curb, lowered the roof on both sides of the landau, and then stood smartly by the door.
Ah, the ladies were off on another shopping excursion. Spencer could tell by the ramrod stance of the man in livery. That posture was adopted only when Mrs. Reeves was about to appear, and she only appeared when there was shopping afoot. It had been thus for the past six days.
Mrs. Reeves must be a veritable dragon. Spencer chuckled in recollection of Miss Telford’s comments on the cliff-side. The more he saw of the family the more the girl made sense.
Spencer glanced up at the closed door of the town house. He had no idea how these delicate creatures could find the interest and energy for such endless shopping. Spencer found it tedious and exhausting.
He had been doing much the same with Bobbington, decking the fellow out so he could preen like a peacock before his Miss Pyebald. And at every opportunity, Spencer tried, without success, to discourage this folly. He pointed out the wonderful qualities of certain pretty, vacuous young women in Town—of whom Bobbington’s mother would heartily approve—who had social position and funds and had no intent other than to find a suitable husband with whom to rusticate.
There were many, just like Miss Pyebald. In fact, Spencer could hardly tell them apart. Could Bobbington not settle his affections upon one whose family was not trying to bring about the downfall of Britain? It would seem not. Bobbington remained fixed on Miss Pyebald. Spencer simply did not see the attraction. She had none of Miss Telford’s unaffected ways or easy conversation. No, Spencer just did not see it.
