She was not quite sure what she thought about that. She settled herself beside her sister and opened the paint box. “That leaves the duke, Lord Munslow, and Lord Newcroft.”
***
Gilbey decided not to tell her that Lord Wistowe was back on the list of suspects. The man’s fencing technique had offended Nicholas, and Gilbey had reacted the same way when he had finally faced the man himself in the fifth round. But by all reports, the marquess had treated every one of his opponents the same way, and Gilbey wondered if emotions were coloring his judgment simply because he did not like the man. Would not a blackmailer go to greater lengths to conceal his character?
At any rate, there was no need to alarm the twins any more than they were already. Venetia was acting strangely, and he thought it must be due to growing anxiety over their difficult situation. He must try to keep his mind off her. It will prove difficult indeed if she keeps showing up wherever I go.
Quiet descended on the trio for a few minutes until Venetia exclaimed, “Why, Vivian! That is quite lovely. Oh, do come and look, Lord Cranford. She has made a sketch of you fishing.”
He sighed in exasperation. “That tears it.” He brought in his line and flung down his pole. If the fish had even begun to feel safe again, her noise would have frightened them anew.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, covering, her mouth with her hand. He wished she would not do that, for her instinctive action directed his attention where it had no business. He moved toward her and forced himself to look away, down at Vivian’s paper.
Her sketch was quite good, and he realized that the twins were endowed with some genuine artistic talent. The river bank, the water, the willow tree behind him, and his own figure wielding his fishing pole were all there. “You have quite captured me, Lady Vivian,” he said warmly, “although I think you have been kind. I see no hint of my slouching posture or the crazed look of hope in my eye.”
Vivian laughed. “You do yourself injustice, sir. Had I seen those things, I would most certainly have included them.”
He turned to Venetia. “And what have you created in these few minutes?”
She placed her hand over her work for a moment, laughing. “It is not finished!”
“He squatted beside her and moved her hand. He compounded that mistake by looking into her eyes. He saw the laughter die out of them.
“Here. It is only this,” she said stiffly.
On her pad was a small but perfect copy of a single yellow flag blossom, captured with all its exquisite, intricate detail.
It is lovely, like you, he wanted to say, but he knew he must not. He did not understand her at all. Was she angry that he had touched her? He was well aware of the attentions she had paid to the Duke of Thornborough the previous evening even though the duke was one of the suspects. What was she up to?
“It is lovely,” he said. “It almost looks alive, as if one could touch it.” He tried to steal another glance into her eyes, but she had turned her face away.
Quite abruptly, she rose, nearly knocking him over in the process. She tore the sheet from the pad and thrust it at him. “Here, you may keep it. I suddenly remember that I am needed at the house before the time for the race.”
She gathered her things hastily and turned back to him. “I am certain I can rely on you to help my sister with the easel when she is finished. I will not have time to send out one of the footmen to chase it down.” A moment later she was gone.
Gilbey looked at Vivian to see if she was as astonished as he was. She, however, appeared only slightly perturbed, staring down at her drawing.
“You do realize that she has done this on purpose,” she said quietly. “It is really very bad of her to leave us alone together like this.”
A prickle of sweat started on the back of Gilbey’s neck. Venetia had indeed placed him in a deucedly awkward position. If anyone should happen along now and find him with Vivian, their situation would be open to all kinds of misinterpretation. Unchaperoned, in a remote and private spot . . . even his fishing pole offered no excuse, for it was quite obviously cast aside. On the other hand, he could hardly go off and leave her here.
“On purpose, you say?” His mouth was a bit dry. “Uh, to what purpose, might I ask?”
To his intense relief, Vivian was collecting her charcoals and packing them away. “I am beginning to gather that, well, she has an idea that you and I might suit each other, and she is trying to help. She feels compelled to manage my life.”
“But, you . . . that is, I . . .” Botheration. The dryness in his mouth had developed into true incoherence.
Vivian giggled, which did not exactly make him feel better. Fortunately her words were more comforting.
“I do not think she will send anyone looking for us, if that is what worries you, Lord Cranford. If we start back now, we will be close to the house before anyone is likely to see us. If they do, I shall explain that you met up with me on the way and offered to help with the easel.” She glanced up at him with a look of true sympathy. “I—I would never try to trap someone into marrying me. As for my sister and her schemes, you must trust me to take care of that. I hope you will be relieved rather than offended to know that, as much as I like you, I have something—or should I say someone?—entirely different in mind.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I have learned something interesting,” Nicholas told Gilbey in a low voice while they waited for the driving race to begin that afternoon. “We will have to find a moment to speak privately when this is over.”
Gilbey nodded, wondering what his friend had accomplished during the morning. They could not speak here, in the midst of a crowd of excited onlookers. “What number did you draw?” he asked, in case anyone took note of their conversation.
“Five, Thornborough will go first, He is using his own equipage.”
Nicholas was one of eight contenders in the race. They would each drive the course separately and had drawn lots to determine the order. Rivington servants had been posted at checkpoints along the route to give directions and monitor progress. Whoever had the fastest run would be declared the winner.
“Did you lay any wagers?”
Nicholas chuckled. “What sort of host would I be if I did not? You did so well putting money on Chesdale last time, I have bet on him this time. After all, he obviously has a special talent with horses.”
“Ah, but driving is a different skill altogether from riding,” Gilbey responded. “I have put a modest sum on Lord Newcroft this time. If anyone is to prove a true whip, I believe it will be he.”
Nicholas arched an eyebrow, but before he could reply, his sisters descended upon them. Gilbey felt a familiar jump in his pulse at the sight of Venetia.
“Look, Vivi, here is Nicholas, and Lord Cranford. I am sure you want to wish them luck,” Venetia said, almost literally steering her twin toward them. “I believe I must have a word with the Duke of Thornborough before he sets off.”
Neatly done, Gilbey thought, suppressing his anger and puzzlement. She had managed that more skillfully than the morning’s scheme. He exchanged a glance with Vivian. Venetia had left her no choice but to speak with them—any other action would have appeared to be a cut direct.
“But I am not racing, Lady Venetia,” he said to her retreating back. Fine, walk away. Just as well, he told himself. He did not understand her. Her actions were at odds with everything he sensed about her feelings. But he knew he had no business being with her anyway.
“What is all abuzz with her?” Nicholas asked, staring after Venetia with a puzzled expression.
Lady Vivian’s words had not stopped echoing in Gilbey’s ears since he had heard them. She has an idea that you and I might suit each other, and she is trying to help. Yet, he was hardly the model husband they were seeking. He, too, would have something to tell Nicholas la
ter. He did not appreciate being made the target of a scheme.
“Never mind,” said Vivian. She smiled at Gilbey and then addressed her brother in soothing tones. “I will wish you luck at any rate, Nicholas.”
“Thank you. I do have an advantage in knowing the roads.”
“Do you know what the prize will be? Perhaps you don’t want to win,” Gilbey said to cover his turmoil. “I hope your father is not planning any more surprises.”
All three of them laughed, but Gilbey’s amusement did not reach his heart.
A few moments later the crowd around them parted and the twins’ and Nicholas’s father strode through. He would give the signal to start the race. His pocket chronometer would be used to time each contender’s run down to the second. Whip in hand, the Duke of Thornborough mounted the driver’s box of his glossy, dark green carriage and Gilbey noticed Venetia giving the duke a sample of her magnificent smile. He turned away as a stab of jealousy shot through him. Had she allowed the duke a sample of her kisses? Devil and damnation! He had no business thinking such thoughts. His only comfort was that Venetia’s father could plainly see that he was nowhere near her.
***
Venetia and Vivian excused themselves from their collected guests once the first two drivers had started off. Lady Caroline’s father, Lord Upcott, was using his own equipage also and did not need to wait for the Duke of Thornborough’s return. The race would take up a good part of the afternoon, and the twins had some other duties to attend. They would be called when it was time for the winner to be announced.
“It is a blessing that Aunt Alice did not insist on helping us, is it not?” Vivian said as they settled themselves with pen and paper in their private sitting room. “We can plan the treasure hunt better by ourselves.”
Venetia shrugged. “Perhaps she or Adela should help. I feel more inclined to curl up for a long sleep than to set my mind on any project. Mayhap when I awake this nightmare will be over.”
“Netia! You must not say so.” Vivian was all concern upon the instant. “Nicholas and Lord Cranford will help us solve this coil. You must have faith in them!”
Venetia tried to smile. Vivian only knew a fraction of her nightmare. Her twin could not see the anger she was hiding—anger at herself for feeling as she did about Cranford, and anger at how difficult she was finding it to cast aside those feelings and push him and Vivian toward each other. She had made a botch of things this morning. He had not made it any easier by touching her hand and showing interest in her work. At the start of the race she had done a better job, but emotionally it had been no easier. And the prospect of pursuing the Duke of Thornborough depressed her thoroughly.
“We still have a week left, and we shall unmask the blackmailer,” Vivian continued. “I had an idea of something we could try that might help.”
“Oh?” Venetia simply could not summon the energy to sound enthusiastic.
“If we can get everyone involved in a game of twenty questions and make them write out the questions and answers, we could get a sampling of their handwriting. Maybe we would be able to tell who wrote the blackmail note.”
“And who wrote our poems? I doubt it, Vivi. First of all, we’d have to insist that they print.”
“We could do that.”
“What would prevent the blackmailer, or for that matter our poet, from disguising his writing? I just don’t see how it would help.”
“Well, perhaps it would stir someone up, make him afraid that we were getting too close to him. Perhaps it would move him to do something more, something that would then give him away. What can we lose by trying?” Vivian was impervious to Venetia’s doldrums.
“All right.”
“We cannot do it tonight, for Aunt Alice has planned the musicale. But perhaps tomorrow night, after the treasure hunt.”
“All right.”
“Really, Netia! You are blue-deviled.” Vivian looked at her closely, as if somehow she might determine visually the true cause of Venetia’s state. “Have you the headache? You have not taken a chill, have you?”
Venetia shook her head. “I am sorry, Vivi. I am fine. Perhaps a bit tired. About the treasure hunt?” She dipped the pen in the ink pot and held it poised above the paper.
“The treasure hunt. First, we must think of all the things that might be found in a garden . . .”
Venetia closed her eyes. What might be found in a garden was a beautiful man with hair like pale silver staring up at a canopy of flowers . . . or making her feel loved and desired with his gentle kisses. . . .
“Netia, you are not listening. I asked if you thought it would place the peacocks in jeopardy to put one of their feathers on the list.”
“I’m sorry. Yes, I do. We don’t want the guests to terrorize them, and from what I have seen, some of our dear guests would not shrink from chasing the poor creatures and plucking the feathers out themselves.”
Vivian giggled. “Oh, but think of the terrible noise the birds would make. They have really been quite good this week. I have not heard of anyone being frightened out of their wits by awful shrieking sounds.”
Venetia actually found a small smile in answer. “That is true. Perhaps instead we could put the topiary peacock on the list. We could put a dish full of pebbles at the base, and they would have to bring back a pebble to prove that they’d found it.”
“That is excellent. You see? We shall just keep working on the list until we have enough ideas. You will fight off this megrim.”
Venetia sighed deeply. “I suppose I will.” Perhaps she would at least reach a point where she would have enough energy to hide it. She really did not know what else she could do.
***
The final results of the race were very close to call. Lord Newcroft, Lord Lindell, and Lord Munslow led the rest with times that were less than minutes apart. Thanks to the accuracy of the Duke of Roxley’s chronometer, however, it was clear that Lord Newcroft had won. Amid the general clamor and congratulations, Gilbey felt quite pleased.
“You devil,” Nicholas teased, finding him at the edge of the crowd. “How did you know that he would win?”
“Simple logic, dear friend. I reasoned that if he was really as ambitious in character as we have said, he would have made certain to develop all the skills of a notable whip—you know, absolute proficiency in anything at all valued by the haut monde. What I wagered on was actually our assessment of him as much as his skill.”
“So, you believe he is our man? Well, walk with me and we’ll pop inside. What I tell you may make you less certain.”
“I want to know, but I must collect my winnings first. Have you paid Lord Munslow yet for your loss?”
“Botheration!” Nicholas laughed at his own reaction. “Now I begin to sound like you!”
A number of gentlemen were gathered around Lord Munslow, paying or collecting their bets. The earl shrugged off their teasing with apparent ease.
“By Jove, didn’t know you were so handy with the ribbons, Munslow,” someone said. “Thought wagering was your only sport!”
“Surprised you, eh? I’m full of surprises.”
“You and young Lindell both gave the little viscount a run for his money. Expect he wasn’t counting on either of you to show so well.”
“Well, His Grace the old duke ain’t well pleased with how he did. Nose a bit out of joint that his splendid animals didn’t take the day.”
“Takes more than the animals to do that,” someone snickered.
“Where’s Lord Wistowe? Here, I’m surprised you weren’t racing, sir.”
Wistowe answered in a lazy drawl. “Never claimed to be any good on the box. The way I see it, why waste time whipping up some cattle when you could be spending time with the ladies?”
Amid the laughter that followed this, Gilbey and Nicholas too
k care of their transactions and slipped out of the circle.
“I spent some time talking with our servants this morning while you were out fishing,” Nicholas said as they walked toward the house. If he had any inkling that Gilbey had been with his sisters, he gave no clue of it. “What I learned is actually something about Lord Munslow.”
Gilbey did not express his surprise until after they had entered the huge hall and gone through into a small anteroom that opened off one side. Nicholas closed the door behind them.
“I thought it might be helpful just to ask the staff in general about our guests—whether any of them showed any particular eccentricities that our family should know about. Our servants are trained to be discreet, and it took a little convincing to get them to open up to me. I had to remind them that two of these guests will end up as husbands to my sisters if my father gets his way. That loosened a few tongues.”
Nicholas’s plain statement of the facts made Gilbey shift uncomfortably. He glanced about him, taking in the gilt work that seemed to be the chief feature of the room. Every stick of furniture was gilded, as was every inch of plaster ornamentation on walls, ceiling, mantel, doorcases. “And?”
“Lord Munslow has made himself rather unpopular, it seems, by his regular failure to pay tips for any of the special services our servants have provided for him.”
“Perhaps he is simply going to pay them all a handsome vail at the end of his stay.”
“Perhaps. But I rather thought it smacked of a man who is either a pinchpenny or nearly rolled up. No one else has so distinguished himself.”
“Going back to lack of funds as a motive?”
“Precisely.”
“Well! We don’t seem to lack for motives, do we? Thornborough has his age and his pride, Newcroft has his competitive ambitions, and Munslow may be dished up unbeknownst to us all. I don’t take Wistowe seriously as a suspect, Nicholas. I think we just don’t like the man. He’s a bounder, but not a blackmailer.”
“I suppose I agree, but you know that I don’t like to take too much simply on faith. We are dealing with my sisters’ futures here.”
Gail Eastwood Page 19
