Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  “I did not!” Rochefort roared, causing my head to clang like a bell, sickening echoes surging from ear to ear. My pain must have been apparent, for he continued in less strident tones. “Pay close heed, Minta. “It might have been convenient to have a wife to entertain my guests, but I did not marry you for that reason.”

  “You need protection from your mama and her schemes.”

  “I was protected the moment you signed you marriage lines.”

  Silence. My head had stopped ringing, leaving my mulish tendencies in charge. “But you are expecting a houseful of guests and the doctor says I must stay in bed for a week.” Mortifying to hear my voice rising into a wail. Even worse, Rochefort appeared to be struggling to keep his face straight. We’d nearly been killed and he found it amusing?

  Oh, yes, he’d told me the gist of it last night. Someone had shot at us with a rifle. A single shot that grazed my head and took Rochefort in the fleshy part of his upper arm. He gave no explanation beyond saying that his work seemed to have aroused unknown enemies. Whether from pain or innate caution I know not, but I failed to mention I had overheard his conversation with Drummond.

  “Minta,” Rochefort said, “the doctor is right. You have a head wound. No matter how slight, we must be cautious. I assure you our guests will understand.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand as imperious as an emperor silencing a petitioner. “No buts. You will do as you’re told.”

  “I was to meet with Mrs. E this morning.”

  “Mrs. E has been running this household since her mother gave up the post eight years ago,” he returned smoothly. “One more day will not matter.”

  If I had not already realized Rochefort wasn’t Papa, I knew it now. He ran his household with as much steel as he put into his machines. The possibilities of wrapping him around my little finger, as I had with Papa, were all but nil.

  Rochefort—the latest events had chased all cosy thoughts of Julian from my head—leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and fixed me with a dark gaze that didn’t quite conceal a simmering annoyance. “We seem to have strayed from my intended reasons for visiting you this morning. First of all, how are you feeling?”

  “Better than last night.” I tried for a touch of his own nonchalance, but I doubt it rang true.

  “Better than last night,” he mocked. “My dear girl, if either of us felt as we did last night, I would indeed be quailing before the thought of my mother’s arrival.”

  Almost, I smiled. For Rochefort to admit any vulnerability was a step in the right direction.

  “Listen to me, Minta. You are quite right that I have need of you when our next round of guests arrives, so you will follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter. He’s no London society doctor, but Edinburgh trained and worthy of respect.”

  “Very well,” I murmured. For a moment there I’d almost hoped he cared about something besides my usefulness. Undoubtedly, the silly maunderings of a scrambled mind.

  “I have had word that my mother and her guests are delayed until tomorrow,” he continued briskly, obviously turning to the second topic on his morning’s agenda. “A most fortuitous delay,” he added grimly. “You should know that my mother is Lady Thistlewaite. She has managed to outlive two husbands—some say she drove them both to their graves.”

  I blinked, but he continued as if he’d never made such an outrageous remark. “Her guests are the Earl and Countess of Wandsley and their daughter, Lady Phoebe Fortescue. I’ve never met the chit—don’t go about much in society—but my mother swears she is cheerful and cleverer than most.” Rochefort sighed. “Her attributes are moot, as they no longer matter.”

  “Ruffled feathers to be smoothed,” I pointed out.

  Rochefort winced. “Mama’s will be the worst, I fear, but I promise I will not let her eat you.”

  All well and good for him to say. Undoubtedly, he would shut himself up in one of his workshops and leave me to cope, flat on my back in bed or no. Nothing new in that, of course. Papa had done it all the time.

  “And the guests who are to come next week?” I asked.

  Rochefort stood. “I am not ogre enough to burden you with them today.” He paused, frowning. “This is scarcely the way I planned to begin our marriage, Minta, but we must make the best of it.” He bent down, placed a swift kiss on my cheek. “Feel better, my dear.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me aquiver with a jumble of emotions. And finally with what shock and pain had prevented me from remembering. Last night was my wedding night.

  “My lady, my lady.” Tillie’s soft voice woke me from a surprisingly deep sleep, my sore head no longer waking me every time I moved. “’Tis nearly tea time, my lady. Since his lordship said you was to sleep through luncheon, I thought you might be ready for a bite to eat.”

  I considered the matter and discovered my stomach was complaining louder than my head. Obviously, I was better—although my head once again reverted to a whirling dervish as Tillie helped me sit up. After she’d fussed a bit, straightening the bedcovers and doing as much as she could with the hair not covered by a swath of bandages, she stood soldier straight beside the bed and said, “M’lady, Mrs. E wondered if you still wished to see her today. I’m to ring if you do.”

  My initial reaction, I’m ashamed to admit, was, Heavens, no! But fortunately I recalled I was now the Baroness Rochefort and must begin as I meant to go on. Else I would forever continue to be a guest in my own home. “I will see her,” I said.

  By the time Mrs. E arrived, I had girded myself for battle, shoulders straight, head up. I’d even pinched my cheeks to give them a little color. Alas, my preparations did nothing to keep Evangeline Biddle, standing a foot from the end of my bed, from looking like a particularly handsome witch about to reach out and stir her pot of evil. Ah, well . . .

  “Come closer,” I ordered. As she moved to the side of the bed, I noticed she was carrying a sheaf of papers. “Menus?” I inquired. Without a word she handed them to me.

  I barely stifled a groan as the letters danced before my eyes. Dear God! I tried again. The words might as well have been in Arabic or Chinese, and I knew the fault wasn’t Mrs. E’s handwriting. Now what? Did I peruse each page with care before handing them back with a blanket approval? Or did I admit weakness to the woman who had chosen to be my enemy?

  I laid the papers in my lap, attempting to focus on the here and now, rather than the looming worry of my vision problems. “Mrs. Biddle,” I said at last, “the blow to my head seems to have affected my vision. Since you have been serving this household for so long, I am certain the menus reflect the fine quality of the meals I have eaten so far. Please continue as in the past. I will let you know when I am able to review the daily menus.

  “Very well, my lady.” Her facial features remained impassive, or possibly my present eyesight was not adequate for noting any hints of grim satisfaction.

  “There is another matter, however,” I said. “I assume you are aware Lady Thistlewaite and her guests will not arrive until tomorrow?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I had hoped for a tour of the house this morning and find myself frustrated that I am unable to picture where our guests will be housed. I would like you to sketch the layout of the house and indicate where their rooms will be. My desk can provide you with paper and a level drawing surface.”

  With smooth grace—I swear the woman ran on ball feet, like Roberta—Mrs. E did as she was told, returning presently with a sketch almost as neat and precise as an architectural drawing. The house, as I suspected, was a quadrangle, its length twice the distance of its sides, with a courtyard in the center. Her drawing was of the second story above the old the abbey, the floor containing bedchambers for family and guests.

  “You are here,” she said, pointing to a corner room on the short side of the rectangle. “Lord Rochefort is here.” She indicated the corner room on the opposite end of the east front. Between you are two dressing rooms
, two bathing chambers, and a sitting room, which you share.”

  A shared sitting room—I had no idea. But I was as capable as Mrs. E of keeping a straight face.

  “The long sides of the house, front and back, are kept for guests, my lady. Lord Rochefort’s father was a great one for entertaining. Ladies to the front, gentlemen to the rear, with couples housed as convenient. After the late baron’s death, Lady Rochefort moved to the corner suite on the west side.” Mrs. E pointed to a suite only slightly smaller than my own. “However,” she added, “this time she has taken the central suite on the south front, leaving the entire west wing for the guests who are arriving next week.”

  I filed that away in my not-too-bright head for further thought. “And her guests?” I asked.

  “They have been assigned rooms next to Lady Thistlewaite,” she returned blandly.

  “On which side?”

  “The east side, my lady.”

  Next to my husband. Of course. “I can see you have everything well in hand. Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Mrs. Biddle?”

  I would swear she hesitated for a moment before pronouncing a crisp, “No, my lady.” Her curtsey was infinitesimally lower than the others she had given me, and then she was gone. I had little time to contemplate either our conversation or the problem of my vision, for Tillie arrived with the tea tray, and I assuaged my anxious stomach with cucumber and watercress sandwiches, biscuits dotted with currants, and tiny tea cakes with lemon frosting. The tea was an exquisite flavor I had not tasted before. I drained the pot dry.

  Except for another visit from the doctor, who assured me, rather too heartily, that my vision would improve, I slept until Rochefort appeared just before dinner. He said all the right things. And nothing. I was injured, he was injured, but he nimbly avoided all talk of spies, assassins, rifles, or mortal enemies. For all he told me, the fire in the stables was the result of spontaneous combustion, our wounds from a bolt out of the blue.

  I didn’t feel strong enough to challenge him, but I would. Oh yes, I would.

  After devouring every morsel of my dinner, I let Tillie settle me for sleep. Tomorrow, I vowed, tomorrow would be better. In spite of being bedridden, I would be able to face Lady Thistlewaite and her guests with equanimity.

  Ha! snorted my inner voice and my common sense in unison.

  But I slept well. Until the screams began.

  Chapter 8

  At first, when I woke to the dim light of pre-dawn, I blamed my sore head—even a good thump against my goose-feather pillow still hurt. And then I heard it. Screams—shrieks of terror—echoing down the corridor outside my room.

  I warbled a faint cry of my own as a giant shadow catapulted from a chair near the fireplace, passed my bed on the run, and charged through my door, leaving it swinging on its hinges. I tried to follow and found myself poised on the edge of the bed, the room whirling around me. I clutched at the bedcovers, willing my head to settle, but collapsing back onto the bed was my only option.

  By the time my head would allow me to think, the screams had stopped. My heart still pounded, but reason had returned. The shadow was Rochefort, who had slept in my room. Probably the previous night as well. Which was, well . . . gratifying. A gesture I had not expected.

  But the screaming puzzled me. Surely it came from this floor, and no one else was supposed to be here. Not until tomorrow. The screams were definitely female. A wandering maid encountering the ghost of an ancient monk? An assignation gone wrong? But what members of the staff would dare carouse on beds destined for Lady Thistlewaite and her guests? Yet the sound had seemed to come from that direction.

  How thoughtful of Rochefort to go haring off, leaving me with my door wide open.

  He slept the night here, my common sense reminded me.

  And abandoned me at the first sign of danger, my ever cynical inner voice countered.

  I heaved a sigh and pulled the bedcovers up to my chin. Whatever it was, was over. And when Rochefort had settled the matter, he would come and tell me about it.

  If I wasn’t murdered in my bed before that.

  With considerable caution, I inched onto my side and slid open a narrow drawer in the tallboy beside my bed. My head protested the awkward angle as I slipped my hand under a stack of linen towels and retrieved my small double-action pepperbox pistol. Clutching it to me, I fell back on the pillow, determined to keep an eagle eye on the door until Rochefort returned.

  But nature triumphed. I woke to find my husband, dressed in nothing more than a rumpled white shirt and slim trousers, holding my pistol up to the light of full dawn and examining it with considerable interest. “Papa imported it from the United States,” I told him.

  He raised his dark brows. “And taught you how to use it?”

  “And load it, yes. If you would be so kind as to return it to the second drawer—under the towels.” With only a slight shake of his head, he did so. “And now if you would tell me what has occurred?”

  To my surprise, Rochefort sank down on the edge of the bed, pressing the fingers of his good hand to his forehead, almost completely obscuring his face. Bone weary, or was he hiding a smile? “I believe you mentioned you met Roberta under less than auspicious circumstances?”

  “Good heavens! Don’t tell me that was the cause of all the fuss? But who screamed?”

  My husband heaved a long sigh. “In your case, I fear your meeting with Roberta may have been deliberate, but this time . . .” Rochefort raised his head and looked at me. If for a moment he had found the situation amusing, he’d banished all levity. “This time the case is less clear. Jacob, one of the footmen, is in charge of setting Roberta to her schedule each day. Evidently, no one told him our guests had decided to travel late, arriving a bit after ten last night. Jacob set Roberta to a final cleaning, not realizing the rooms were occupied. Lady Wandsley’s screams roused her daughter, who added to the melée.” He paused, looking grim. “I must confess, I came close to throwing the bloody thing out the window.”

  I giggled, I couldn’t help it. “Your precious creation—you wouldn’t.”

  “It was a close-run thing.”

  “Poor Julian,” I murmured.

  He gave me a narrow look. “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s all been so . . . sudden.” I allowed by eyelids to droop, hoping for a nice mix of shyness and maidenly modesty. “I need a little time to settle myself into your world.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, evidently not such an eccentric genius that he had completely forgotten his manners.

  “Surely it was Mrs. E’s responsibility to tell Jacob the rooms were occupied?” I pointed out.

  “It was.”

  I proffered a significant look, willing him to cast blame where blame was due. His gaze slithered away, as if he suddenly found something of intense interest on the carpet. “I fear Mrs. E is not best pleased by your marriage,” I said.

  Rochefort stood, his voice cool. “Go back to sleep, Minta. Perhaps additional rest will help you recover from your flights of fantasy. I could use some rest in my own bed myself.”

  “Roche—Julian?” He paused a foot from the door. “You haven’t told your Mama yet, have you?”

  “If I had, the screaming wouldn’t have been over Roberta.”

  “That bad?”

  “Hell hath no fury like a mother with her marriage candidate scorned.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you regret it? Surely under the circumstances an annulment—”

  He drew himself up to his full height, his white shirt glowing in the early morning light. “If I was too subtle before, Lady Rochefort, let me be more clear. The blow to your head has obviously affected your brain. Good-night.” He went out, gently closing the door behind him.

  I sulked, and finally slept.

  Shortly after a light luncheon the next day, I realized the paintings on the walls had taken on more clarity, as had the pattern in the silk brocade window draperi
es. And the ache in my head had dulled to the point of a familiarity I could ignore.

  I was better. Well, thank God for that!

  But, having finally put abject misery aside, I was forced to deal with reality. Lady Thistlewaite and guests. The taming of Mrs. E.

  Being shot.

  I searched through the bits and pieces I could recall from Rochefort’s conversation with Drummond. Although assassinating my husband made considerably more sense than someone wanting to kill me, the incident remained a puzzle.

  At the moment I was h’ors de combat, barely able to bring a spoon to my mouth. I would have to leave the problem of assassins to my husband. As for the household . . .

  Had Rochefort told his mama he was married? If so, I’d heard no screams. More likely, she was too well bred to throw a fit of hysterics where her guests might overhear. Or . . . if her son was anything like his mama, perhaps Lady Thistlewaite would not scream if the Abbey was falling down around her ears.

  But she would come to me—good manners, not to mention curiosity, demanded it. And I would be ready. Julian had attached a length of braided silk cord to the bell pull so I could reach it easily. I summoned Tillie. Let the battle begin.

  The ornately gilded clock on the mantel was chiming four when my husband peeked his head around my door to ask if I was fit to receive company. The dreaded moment had arrived.

  I was indeed fit to receive my mother-in-law—every hair in place, cheeks and lips rosy with help from the rouge pot, and garbed in an embroidered silk dressing gown I had seen in a window on Bond Street and had to have that very instant. It was turquoise, with a striking combination of brightly colored flowers entwined with white dragons, one on each side of the front, a larger one in back. White and pure, they gave me courage. Which I very much needed at the moment.