Love, Lies and Spies

by Cindy Anstey

  “Oh, Miss, I have a note for you,” Nancy announced as she entered the bedroom. “From an admirer, I would think.”

  Juliana jumped up from the window seat and grabbed—in the most polite fashion, of course—the fluttering paper from Nancy’s hand.

  Can’t wait to see you. Meet me on Jerkins Lane, next to the old cemetery, at nine. S

  Juliana grinned and held the note tightly to the vicinity of her heart. A tingle of bliss started at her toes and raced up through her body. She pretended to swoon against her bedpost, but Nancy chuckled, and soon they were laughing together.

  “Better get you dressed, Miss.” Nancy glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Don’t want you to be late.”

  “Oh, no, definitely not … though he will wait. I need not be anxious on that account.”

  Despite her words, Juliana rushed to her wardrobe and threw open the doors. She considered one dress after another and then settled on her light Pomona green gown with Vandyke points. However, once that was on, Juliana decided that her cerulean-blue gown would be a better choice. Yes, the ribbons on her bonnet were an excellent contrast with her pelisse and reticule. Indeed, the strings of her purse were the exact color of the pleated trim. Quite pretty—and she very much wanted to impress.

  Juliana dropped her cheerful green gown into a puddle and kicked it away. She immediately stepped into the more elegant blue dress that Nancy held for her. She shimmied it up over her hips and attempted to fasten the front buttons. “I am all atwitter.” Juliana laughed at her own clumsiness.

  “About what?” Carrie asked as she yawned her way into the room, still in her dressing gown. “What are you up to now, cousin?”

  “Spencer wants to meet me.” Juliana gestured toward the note on the bedside table. “I must suppose he finds the wait as difficult as I do.”

  Carrie nodded as she read the short missive. “You’ll have to give me fifteen … perhaps twenty minutes to get dressed,” she said, dropping the note and starting toward the door.

  “Carrie!” Juliana waited until her cousin looked back. “Carrie, would it be a catastrophe, really, if I were to … to see Mr. Northam on my own? I don’t want to wait … and he has proved time and time again that he will behave with the most decorum—in the most gentlemanly fashion. I do not have to worry on that account.”

  “No, I would agree. But there is your reputation to think about. It is most improper, Juliana.”

  “Yes, I know. But that is likely why he suggested the cemetery. A public venue, though presumably deserted at this hour. Out of doors with the possibility of prying eyes … which means there could be a chaperone.”

  “What? In the bushes? Behind the gravestones?”

  Juliana laughed. “Well, I suppose not. But no one need know if we keep it to ourselves.”

  “Hold still, Miss. I’ll never get you done up if’n you don’t stay still.”

  “What would I tell Uncle Andrew?” Carrie asked. “I have run out of excuses.”

  “Oh dear, you are right. You need something new. Though I don’t imagine I will be gone overlong. Still, if my absence is noticed … well, I have gone to pay my respects to … do we have any family in the graveyard?”

  “Great Aunt Elva. But she was a tyrant who no one liked.”

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s where I have gone.”

  Juliana stood before the looking glass, verifying that her bonnet was affixed at a jaunty angle and her reticule hung at the perfect length. And they were; the reflection grinned.

  Carrie laughed. “Fine. Have a lovely time. Oh, and you had best use the service entrance. Mama is already up and looking rather fractious.”

  With a peck on Carrie’s cheek and a quick hug from Nancy, Juliana skipped down the back stairs. She waved at the startled scullery maid and ignored Cook’s complaints about her invasion. Within minutes, she was trotting down the drive toward Lambhurst. The cemetery sat just before the bridge that led into the town. A mere ten or so minutes—yes, soon she would see her Mr. Northam.

  Not wanting to arrive disheveled and out of breath, Juliana slowed as soon as the cemetery came into sight. She pushed her way through the rusty main gate and followed the path to Jerkins Lane. However, as she approached the back gate, Juliana saw a large travel coach over the stone wall. Puzzled, Juliana stepped out of the graveyard and looked around for Spencer. He was not in sight. But the big lumbering vehicle did take up most of the lane.

  Circling to the other side of the coach, Juliana continued her search, but Spencer was conspicuous in his absence. With no one sitting on the bench behind the horses, Juliana’s queries were temporarily stymied. Perhaps she was early … or Spencer meant the end of the lane. He would certainly not have given up his vigil. She had seen him settle for hours.

  A movement caught Juliana’s eye. The coach’s curtain fluttered, as if shifted for a quick glance. Was there someone within? Might a tall, dark-haired, handsome gentleman with a lopsided smile have been spotted from the higher vantage point?

  “Excuse me?” Juliana knocked and was pleased to see the door opening. “Have you—”

  Juliana’s question ended in a gasp. She was seized and unceremoniously hauled into the coach. Mr. Pyebald held her tightly on his lap with one hand, his other over her mouth.

  “Go,” he shouted, and Juliana felt the jerk of the carriage as it started with more speed than sense would ever recommend.

  * * *

  JULIANA SAT CALMLY AND STILL, watching the conniving, arrogant weasel who mistakenly called himself a gentleman, as he slept. The coach bounced across the rutted country road with tooth-jarring rapidity that sent his head bobbling from one side to the other. His yellowing bruises painted his face in a clownish fashion.

  And yet the situation was nothing to laugh at. The longer she sat in this coach, the farther the distance away from safety, security, and Spencer. She had to do something … but how, with her wrists bound by the strings of her own purse?

  How could the idiot sleep as though nothing was amiss? How could his conscience allow his lids to close? Did he feel no remorse? Did he not know that Spencer, not to mention her father, would not sit idly by while he carried out his despicable plot? What was the despicable plot? What was he planning? He certainly felt no need to explain himself, for when she had demanded just that, he had smiled.

  Simply smiled. The villain.

  It was not difficult to guess the reason for his villainy. In fact, she had spent the past hour trying to convince herself that the man had not swept her away with the intention of dragging her to the altar for her money. But there was no getting around it; with his mother and sister incarcerated and soon to stand trial for treason, Pyebald would have almost no possibility of paying off his debts without resorting to some sort of criminal activity. And he had already proved himself to be an inadequate thief.

  Juliana watched the head bobble again and surveyed the once handsome face. It wasn’t just the discoloration that marred his looks but also the sneer that hovered around his mouth, even in repose. Juliana had never noticed it before. It was the face of a cruel, self-centered man. No, she could not appeal to his soft side. He likely didn’t have one.

  Still, while her inheritance was reasonable, it was not in hand. Even if he did marry her, he could not touch it. Her father still lived.

  Yes, that was the approach.

  “You cannot touch any of my moneys, you do realize.”

  Instantly, Mr. Pyebald was awake. His eyes met hers, and his sneer turned into a smirk.

  “Please, there is no need to be so coarse. Money is not a subject to be discussed between a gentleman and his lady. My man will discuss it with your father’s man. I am sure they will be able to come to an agreement after the wedding.”

  Well, that answered that question.

  “My father will not be coerced.”

  “Worry not, I am not a greedy man. I am patient. There are only a few accounts that require some sort of payment. A token from the marri
age settlement will tide them over.” He glanced above Juliana’s head to where the coachman sat outside and then dropped his eyes back to hers. “It is amazing how much the promise of money will still a hand.”

  Juliana looked at the motley-colored face and understood. Maxwell Pyebald was a coward. He would rather tear a woman from her home and steal her inheritance than risk the fists of a ruffian in a dark alley.

  “Perhaps if I were to offer a token without a marriage contract, it would be enough.” She knew Maxwell was unlikely to agree, but she thought it worth the try.

  He laughed without mirth. “No, I am too deep into dun territory for that ploy. Only the promise of more will save me.”

  “I will not marry you, Mr. Pyebald. I will simply deny you at the altar.”

  “Miss Telford, or shall I call you Juliana, now that we are going to be such intimates—”

  “Miss Telford is fine.”

  “You have no choice. I have neither the time for banns nor the blunt for a special license. My only option is, of course, Gretna Green. The town is a full six days from Lambhurst. Six days in the company of a man who is not your husband, no chaperone, no one to see to your honor. Your reputation will be in tatters; no man will ever think to make you an offer. So, you see, we will stand before the witness, and you will accept me. You will have no choice.”

  “Not all men will see me as a lost cause. A gentleman of true affection would be able to see this as a charade.”

  “I know you refer to Mr. Northam, but I am confident he will see you as a pariah, as will all of good society.”

  “You are wrong. And he will see you brought to justice. This is kidnapping, and I will charge you with it, make no mistake about that.”

  The loathsome snake closed his eyes again and smiled sleepily. “Oh Juliana, so innocent. So ignorant of the ways of the world. No one will believe you—no one will take your word against a peer of the realm. You are a nobody, and I will be a lord.”

  * * *

  SPENCER’S NERVOUSNESS WAS UNWARRANTED. He knew it, and yet he could not control the roiling of his insides, the tension in his shoulders, and the urge to visit Grays Hill Park immediately. There was no need. Juliana had made no secret of her attraction to him despite her assertion that marriage was of no interest to her. That proclamation had been made a lifetime ago … almost two months. He was almost certain that she was more amenable to the idea of matrimony now … fairly certain.… well, reasonably certain. Nor had her father shown any animosity on St. Ives Head.

  And still, here he was knocking on the front door of Grays Hill Park feeling decidedly uncomfortable—as if something were wrong. It could not be the timing, as arriving earlier than two would have been gauche. Unfortunately, the sense of foreboding did not dissipate when the door was flung open and Miss Reeves, looking wild with anger, confronted him.

  “Of all the inconsiderate beings I have met, you, Mr. Northam, take the cake. How could you have done this to us? We were about to send out the grooms looking for you. We have been fretting for hours.”

  “Pardon.”

  The confusion must have shown on his face as Miss Reeves blinked and her mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. Then she swallowed and leaned forward to see past the threshold. “Where is Juliana?”

  Spencer felt an overwhelming stillness settle about his heart. “I have no idea, Miss Reeves. She was walking into the thicket yesterday, when last I saw her.”

  “Nonsense. You sent her a note … why are you shaking your head; I saw it. You asked to see her by the cemetery … oh no. You didn’t, did you?”

  “Indeed, I did not. What has happened?”

  Rather than answer, Miss Reeves turned and yelled. “Nancy!” The sound echoed throughout the cavernous hall and brought Mr. Reeves and Mr. Telford rushing from the drawing room.

  Suddenly surrounded by Juliana’s family, Spencer felt himself impelled toward the center of the group. Questions, accusations, and coarse language bounced from wall to wall until he could take it no longer. “What has happened!” he shouted.

  Mr. Telford stepped forward, looking a decade older than he had just the day before. “Juliana received a note asking for a meeting by the cemetery. She thought it was from you—”

  “It was not, I can assure you.”

  Mr. Telford nodded. “That is what I feared.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” A Friday-faced young lady with the cap and apron of a maid addressed them from the bottom stair. “I’m that sorry.” She sniffed as if holding back tears. “I checked with Lucy, her that’s in the scullery. It were Lucy who gave me the note for Miss Telford. An’ … an’ the gent who passed her the paper … well, her said what he looked like. An’ … an’ it sounds like Mr. Pyebald, sir. Mr. Maxwell Pyebald.”

  The silence in the hall was deafening.

  CHAPTER

  19

  In which Miss Telford and Mr. Northam proceed directly to first names

  MR. MAXWELL PYEBALD DID NOT KNOW WHAT hit him. He didn’t see it coming. Juliana had been waiting all day, biding her time.

  Her first attempt to extricate herself from his clutches had failed miserably. The moment she entered the post inn, she pulled the keeper aside and asked for assistance. The man laughed. Laughed! Then he patted her on the head and passed her bodily back to Mr. Pyebald. His words made it apparent that the weasel had forewarned the house of her erratic behavior before he had untied her wrists and brought her inside. He had claimed that his sister was touched and likely to regale them with wild stories. And they believed him—they didn’t care that her wrists were marked and swollen.

  As punishment for the attempt, Juliana was forced to sit through the next two horse changes without alighting. Finally, Juliana’s demands for food—which she did not want—and private time—which she needed desperately—were heeded.

  This time, however, Juliana did not remain at the inn after using the facilities; she bolted. The scores of passengers coming and going hid her flight. The afternoon light saw her out of the yard and rushing to the nearby village proper. She needed to find a manor or a hall in which to claim sanctuary. The residents of a cottage would not be able to withstand the authority of a gentleman, no matter what Juliana said. But a squire, clergyman, or, even better, a magistrate would be obliged to look into the matter. At least that was the theory.

  Naturally the distance was farther than it had seemed. But Juliana led Mr. Pyebald and his coachman on a tense chase for the better part of an hour, nonetheless. A large house on the outskirts of the village had just come into sight when an approaching carriage had sent Juliana into the fields. Mr. Pyebald gave chase, and despite her pleas and calls for aid, no doors opened. No one questioned the commotion.

  After running her to the ground, Mr. Pyebald wrapped his arm about Juliana’s waist and lifted her roughly, using his hip for leverage. Juliana squirmed and wrenched herself free but fell hard to her knees. Just as Mr. Pyebald grabbed her again, Juliana’s hand closed around a rock. It was not large, but it had heft and fit perfectly into the reticule that was dangling from her wrist.

  Back in the coach, Juliana stewed with frustration—especially when the demon used her own purse strings to bind her wrists yet again. However, on examination, she decided the attempt had been worth the effort, despite her scraped palms and cruelly slapped cheek. She had delayed the journey to Gretna Green by over an hour, allowing her rescuers to draw closer—she was sure that Spencer, if no other, would be on her trail. But even better than that, she now had a weapon.

  Now all she needed was a plan for this formidable rock.

  It didn’t take long to conceive; her options were rather limited. It was not a complicated plan, nor did it have finesse: Juliana decided to hit Mr. Pyebald on the head with the rock at the next post inn. She would wait until the horses had just turned into the yard and then, while he was insensible, she would rush ahead and secure a room. Juliana would accuse Mr. Pyebald of violence—she was sure her cheek still bore the mark of
his ruthless slap—and barricade herself in until either Spencer arrived or a magistrate was brought forward. She would create such a to-do that Mr. Pyebald would be required to explain, or slink off to hide in a deep dark hole, infested with snakes and rats … maybe a spider or two … knee deep in sheep and pig slop … cold and miserable.

  With those comforting thoughts, she rested and waited.

  Finally, as early evening was upon them, Juliana noted an upcoming post inn. She grimaced with the thought of violence but cast away her horror, took a deep breath, and lifted her bound hands with the rock dangling inside her reticule. She swung the rock back and forth, gaining momentum, and then swung hard, hitting the sleeping Maxwell Pyebald across the temple.

  As the coach stopped within the courtyard, Juliana grabbed the handle and jerked it up, almost tumbling to the ground when it opened. Catching herself on the side of the coach, she rushed somewhat awkwardly to The Prancing Unicorn, holding her hands out in front of her as she ran, ignoring the shouts of the abetting coachman.

  She stumbled across the threshold, desperately searching for the stairs. She heard Mr. Pyebald’s booming shout echo through the common room just as she found the staircase in the back. Barreling past a startled woman who had been descending, Juliana pushed her way into the first room at the head of the stairs. She slammed the door shut and braced her back against the wood. Fortunately, the room was unoccupied. It was small and sparsely furnished, but it did have a large bed and a chair.

  Juliana upended the rough-hewn bed and managed to drag it over to the other side of the room, wedging it across the closed door, using the far wall as a brace. For good measure, she dragged the chair over, put it in front of the bed, and sat down.

  Her heart pounded, threatening to break her ribs, as she waited, staring at her swelling and bleeding wrists—now cruelly cut by the reticule strings. It didn’t matter; she had done it. She was free of that monster. Cocking her head, Juliana listened and waited. Waited for running feet on the stairs. Waited for shouts of outrage. Waited for the weasel to make a move.