He crossed the juncture of Henrietta and Margaret Streets and began to walk down Holles Street, making his way to Oxford Street, where he had a better chance of finding a hackney. The streets were cluttered with horsemen and carriages. Guy cursed and stopped suddenly causing a knife grinder to give him a speculative look as he wandered past. A grand aqua carriage waited on the next corner, the four matched grey horses held by a liveried groom. Not only did this fit Horatia’s description of his sister’s carriage perfectly, it was surely the purple and blue of the duke’s livery. He was sure of it. He swivelled abruptly. The two women in the park, hidden behind parasols… Could it be? “Zut!” he muttered again. He strode back into the square to meet the two ladies. Had he not been so angry, he would have laughed at their stricken expressions. It was one thing for him to be in danger, but he would not have his two favorite people in all the world thrown into the arena.
“And what might you be doing here?” he asked in glacial tones.
“I took the duchess to meet a friend of mine, but she is not at home.” Horatia’s face flushed crimson, and she refused to meet his gaze.
“You are a very bad liar, Horatia,” Guy said. He raised his brows at his sister. “Who is behind this absurd notion?”
“I am,” Horatia blurted.
“Non. ’Twas I.” Geneviève revealed a sisterly lack of fear at his wrath. “You are in trouble. We wish to help.”
He ground his teeth. “You can help enormously.”
Two pairs of pretty eyes looked at him in fascination. “How?” Horatia asked in a breathless voice.
“By going home and staying there.”
“Oh.” She looked at Geneviève, who made a moue with her lips.
“Then you don’t deny you are in trouble? Geneviève asked.
“I do deny it. You are being absurd. Allow me to escort you both to your carriage.”
“But where do you go? Why don’t you come with us now?”
“Because I have a prior engagement. You are both outrageous. Must I tell you every detail of my life?”
When his sister began to object in a flood of outraged French, Guy held up his hand. “Assez!”
The unmanageable pair climbed into the carriage. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Horatia asked with a sweet smile.
“Non merci!” He slammed the door. “I shall call on you both tomorrow.”
“Not this evening?”
Guy ignored Geneviève and instructed the coachman to take them directly home.
Horatia stared back at him from the window, looking apprehensive as the carriage trundled away down the street.
Horatia watched him stride away. “He’s very angry,” she said. “Will he ever forgive us?”
“Pooh!” Her Grace said. “He is bluffing. I know my brother.”
“You are sure he is in danger?”
“Oui. He’s evasive. What other reason would he have for not coming to see you and me this evening?”
Horatia studied Geneviève. She had no way of knowing if the duchess’s opinion could be relied upon. Guy had been very angry but… He had looked shifty-eyed and clenched his jaw the way she’d seen when he was tense. And he had failed to meet her eyes when questioned. “There is nothing we can do.”
“We shall follow him again this evening.”
“He may not go out this evening,” Horatia reasoned.
“He would have come to visit one of us, otherwise,” Geneviève said with French practicality.
“But, he’ll be on the alert for us.”
“We’ll dress in costume,” the duchess said promptly.
“What kind of costume?”
“Men’s attire, and we’ll hire a hackney.”
“Where will we get… Oh!” Horatia bit her lip. “I do wish I’d brought them with me.”
Her Grace stared at her. “Quoi?”
Distracted by the sudden likeness to her brother, Horatia muttered, “It is nothing. I’ll explain later.”
“I can borrow some clothes from my staff. The footmen are huge, but the younger servants aren’t so very big. No one goes out before nine in London. I’ll come to you at eight of the clock.”
An alarming thought struck Horatia. “What…what if Guy goes to see a woman?”
“A mistress?” Geneviève asked, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
“Yes.” Horatia swallowed a lump in her throat. Had she driven Guy into the arms of a Cyprian?
The duchess shook her head. “She would not keep him from me for days at a time. And he is in love. A man in love does not visit a courtesan. Not a man of my brother’s tempérament.”
Worry clenched Horatia’s stomach. She took a deep breath to ease it. “How can you be sure?”
“Guy is a man of honor. This I know.”
“But Guy told me he hasn’t seen much of you for years.”
“He wrote me many letters. As a child he was honorable. Vincent was not. They were opposites. The light and the dark. This does not change.”
The coach stopped in front of her aunt’s house. Horatia alighted as another problem faced her. What on earth could she tell her aunt?
Chapter Eighteen
Horatia walked in and found the house in upheaval. A maid scurried past with her arms full of linen. “What has happened, Sarah?”
“Your father has arrived,” Sarah said. “Your aunt has put him in the guest bedchamber next to yours.”
“Father?” Horatia’s voice quavered.
Aunt Emily bustled out of the parlor. “He has news.” She gave a conspiratorial smile. “I shall let him tell you himself. But he plans a celebratory dinner.”
As she trudged up the stairs, Horatia searched her mind for an appropriate reason to be absent this evening. She knocked on her father’s door with the hope that a suitable excuse would spring from somewhere when the need arose.
Her father stood before the mirror making adjustments to his neckcloth. He turned as she entered, and she was struck by how lively he looked. His beaming face looked years younger.
“My dear.” He kissed her cheek. “I had to come and tell you the news. I have asked Marina Illingworth to marry me. And she has accepted.”
She smiled with relief and pleasure. His future with Mrs. Illingworth was sure to be a happy and fulfilling one. “Father, that’s wonderful news. I’m so pleased for you.”
“Are you really, my dear? I hoped you would be.”
“I like Mrs. Illingworth very much.”
“She is a sensible woman.”
“Indeed she is.”
“I thought we might have a small celebration this evening. If you are not otherwise engaged?”
“I’m afraid I do have an engagement tonight,” Horatia said cautiously. “I received an invitation from the Duchess Châteaudunn, Guy’s sister.”
Her father’s face fell. He considered her words and recovered a little. “The Duchess Châteaudunn, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, it can’t be helped. I suppose I should have written, but I couldn’t wait to tell you the news.”
She hugged him with a fresh flush of guilt. “I’m so glad you did. I’ve missed you, but I see you’re in excellent health. When do you plan to wed?”
“Come and sit down.” He took her hand and steered her to the sofa. “I thought it safe to proceed and have the bans read.” He frowned. “Might the date for your wedding have been set? I’ve been expecting a letter from you.”
“Not as yet… Guy has had matters to attend to. He plans to obtain a special license and arrange for the wedding to take place at St. Georges in Hanover Square.”
His eyes widened. “Well, indeed. St. Georges? This is a pleasant surprise. I gather I shall see Guy when he calls for you tonight?”
“Not this evening, Guy has another engagement.”
“Which does not include his betrothed?” He studied her. “You are happy, Horatia? I think he is a good man.”
“He’s the very best of men
, Father,” Horatia said. The words almost stuck in her throat, her guilt overlaid with uneasiness. Was Geneviève right to follow Guy? Might it be a private matter that was none of their concern? What was the matter with her? It was most unlike her not to want to take matters into her own hands. She almost wished she could avoid accompanying the duchess tonight, but she couldn’t let her down.
“Good.” Her father rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go downstairs. As yet I haven’t had a good chat with your aunt.”
After dinner, Geneviève called for Horatia at the appointed time in her carriage. She thrust some clothes into Horatia’s hands. “Put these on.”
“Here?”
“Oui.” She lowered the blinds.
As the carriage rocked along the street, Horatia struggled into the ill-fitting clothes that reeked of horse.
“I’m sorry. They belong to the stable boy,” Geneviève said. “They were the only ones that would fit you.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “You are so tall and slim.” She held out a pair of scuffed shoes. “These will be too large for you. You’ll need to stuff the toes with paper.”
Horatia admired Geneviève’s nimble fingers as she tied a credible cravat without a mirror. Her clothes were more suited to the gentry. She wondered whom the duchess had coerced into giving them up and had a ridiculous vision of her ordering a local clerk to remove his clothes. She stifled a nervous giggle, tugging on her black tricorn as Geneviève tucked her dark hair beneath the bevor hat.
A watchman called, to whoever would listen, that the weather remained fine. The carriage halted for them to alight in New Bond Street beside a trough of water at the stand. A night coach passed them, and link boys lit the way for a chair carrying an important personage. Fortuitously, the bare wisp of smoky cloud hiding the crescent moon drifted away. A cool breeze stirred the trees and fanned the stench of fresh horse manure, stinging Horatia’s nostrils. She shivered in the thin clothing, more from apprehension than cold.
No available hackneys were waiting. A peddler strolled up to them with a box of clocks strapped around his neck. Horatia waved him away as her frustration grew. She and Geneviève walked up and down. The minutes turned into half an hour.
“It’s growing late; we will have missed him.” Horatia rubbed her arms.
“I see one!” Geneviève darted out to wave it down. Horatia followed, unable to move very fast as the shoes fell off her heels.
“Don’t have smallpox or the plague do you?” the jarvie asked before they climbed in.
“Certainly not,” Horatia growled. “Berkley Square if you please.”
“Toffy kind o’ place for the likes of you, wouldn’t you say?”
Horatia squared her shoulders. “Mind your manners, my man, or you won’t get a bonus.”
“No offense meant.” The jarvie pushed his hat back and drew his whip.
They passed elegant stone and brick houses as they approached Berkley Square. Horatia caught sight of Guy as he walked up Brutton Street, a tall hat on his head, his long dark coat flowing about his ankles. “Follow that man!” she called to the jarvie.
“What kind o’ smoky business is this?” he asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Horatia said. “Just think about the extra money you’ll earn.”
The jarvie turned the hackney and drove after Guy, who had disappeared into New Bond Street. An empty hackney passed him and slowed. Guy waved it on, content to go on foot to his destination. They caught sight of him again as he turned from Grafton Street into Albemarle Street. He walked past the grand façade of the Royal Institution and disappeared into the Grillion Hotel.
“What do we do now?” Horatia asked. “I daresay he’s there to meet a friend. He may be there for hours.”
Suddenly, the hackney doors were flung open, and a man thrust a pistol into their faces. “Out.”
Another man stood beside him. Both men’s faces were obscured by shadows.
Climbing down, Horatia stilled the clink of coins in her pocket, having heard that some people were held up and robbed just for their handkerchiefs. Geneviève followed, unusually silent behind her. She couldn’t be sure that a scolding tirade wouldn’t erupt from Geneviève’s lips and get them both shot. Horatia could sense it building and spoke before the duchess could. “What do you want?” she croaked, her voice lowered to a growl by the fear that tightened her throat.
One of the men seized her, while the other grabbed Geneviève. They were pulled into the light cast by a street lamp. “What business do you have here?” the tall man asked.
“They look like pigs, they do, miss,” the jarvie offered from his seat. “From Bow Street I’ll be bound.”
The light fell on the tall man’s face. Horatia gasped. “Is it you, Lord Strathairn?”
“What the devil?” He whipped off her hat. “Miss Cavendish. Why are you dressed like that? You smell of the stable. And why do you follow Lord Fortescue?”
“We are very worried about Gee,” Geneviève said, finding her voice.
“I’m sorry, Lord Strathairn.” Horatia finally remembered her manners. “I’d like you to meet Duchess Châteaudunn. The duchess is Lord Fortescue’s sister.”
Lord Strathairn’s accomplice whistled. “I’ll be damned!”
“I appreciate your concern, Your Grace.” Lord Strathairn spoke through clenched teeth. “But you’ll make matters worse for the baron if you remain here. Please go home.”
“I demand you tell us what this is about,” Geneviève said, having regained her poise. Her voice rang with imperiousness, and the other man hesitated then made an awkward bow.
“It is secret government business that does not concern you, Your Grace,” Lord Strathairn said in a cool tone. “Have no fear. We shall keep your brother safe. Please leave now or you’ll both spend the night in a Bow Street cell.”
“Guy’s on secret government business?” Horatia gasped. That would certainly account for his odd behavior. “If you’re sure…”
“We’ll guard him like a baby.” The Runner – if indeed he was one – gave a guffaw, which was cut short by Geneviève’s icy glare.
“I do hope so, monsieur,” the duchess said. “There will be difficultés should you fail.”
Once back in the hackney, Horatia instructed the jarvie where to take them. He moved the horse on without further comment, apparently struck dumb by what he’d witnessed.
“What on earth is Guy involved in?” Horatia asked. If she’d felt cold before, she was now chilled to the bone.
The hackney turned the corner into Grafton Street and passed a lane behind the hotel. Horatia saw two men exit by a back door.
“Look, there’s Guy!” Horatia clutched Geneviève’s sleeve. She hung out the window. “Stop the carriage!”
The jarvie cursed as he pulled the horse up.
Geneviève craned her neck. “He and another man are climbing into a carriage.”
“I can’t run in these shoes! You go! Tell Lord Strathairn,” Horatia said. “I’ll keep their carriage in sight.”
Oui.” Geneviève climbed down onto the pavement. She paused. “But what if we lose you?”
“Hurry! Tell Lord Strathairn to follow us.”
As the duchess ran back to Albemarle Street, the carriage with Guy and the other man passed them. Horatia stuck her head out and shouted to the jarvie. “Don’t lose sight of that carriage!”
“You meet all kinds in this ’ere job,” the jarvie said with a crack of his whip.
The hackney moved at a clip to the next corner in time for Horatia to see the carriage that bore Guy away head down Dover Street towards Piccadilly.
Lord Strathairn appeared with his accomplice, driving a carriage half a block behind them. They must have forced Geneviève to go home. Horatia bit her lip. She would be very angry.
At Piccadilly, a stream of evening traffic held the hackney up. A wagon loaded with wares trundled along at an appallingly slow pace. With mounting horror, Horatia watched Guy’s car
riage disappear from view. “Have we lost them?” she yelled, trying to make herself heard above the noise of clattering wheels and pedestrian chatter.
“Not bloody likely,” the jarvie yelled back. “When Pete sets his mind to it, he doesn’t fail.”
“There it is; I see them,” Horatia called. “They’re heading towards the Strand.” She had no idea if Lord Strathairn still followed or was held up in the traffic.
They traveled under the stone gateway of Temple Bar and the nearby Inns of Court where judges, barristers, and silks wandered the courts and chambers in their robes. In Fleet Street, they passed printing shops, churches, inns, and coffee houses. Ahead, Horatia saw the carriage enter Bridge Street, where a motley crowd filled the pavement. “Could they be heading for the river?” she yelled to the jarvie. A group of sailors gathered in a pool of lamplight turned to watch them pass, as did a pair of well-dressed gentlemen intent on some evening’s entertainment.
The carriage they followed barely avoided a cat streaking across the road as it turned into Earl Street towards Puddle Dock. It stopped outside a warehouse, only feet from the moss-covered steps leading down to the water, where boatmen rowed passengers up river. But at this time of night, the moon shone down eerily with not a person in sight.
Not wishing to venture too close, the jarvie pulled up the hackney at the top of the lane, beside a pen filled with ducks and fowl settling for the night.
Horatia gagged and covered her nose at the stench of manure mingling with sea-coal smoke. Masts creaked and gently swayed on the River Thames.
Fingers of mist rose from the water and began to swirl around them shrouding the moon in a ghostly haze. In the poor light, Horatia jumped down onto the sandy gravel in time to see two vague shapes enter the building. She whirled around with the hope of finding Lord Strathairn, but the lane behind them was empty.
A Baron in Her Bed Page 20
