by Mary Balogh
“No,” she said, remembering one phrase of the letter—that luver of your’s. “Which men?”
“My steward,” he said. “Mr. Knorr, that is. My two friends. Cyril Eldridge. My uncles.”
It suddenly occurred to Imogen that it really was possible that Dicky’s valet had been murdered; that Mr. Bains had been coerced into withdrawing his permission for Colin to accompany them to Portugal as Dicky’s batman; that James Mawgan had been planted quite deliberately in that position. Yesterday it had all seemed too preposterous to be taken seriously. It still did today. But someone had just threatened her life—again. That seemed too ridiculously melodramatic as well, but it had happened.
“Very well,” she said.
He strode to the door, gave some instructions to Mr. Crutchley, and came toward her after closing the door again. He took both her hands in a bruising grip.
“Perhaps I should be horsewhipped,” he said, “except that this is precisely the reason they need to be confronted. I am sorry, my l—. Ah, dash it all, I am sorry, my love. I will not allow anything to happen to you. I will not. Of that you may rest assured. And when this is over, you may consign me to hell and I will go there without a murmur.”
He raised her hands one at a time to his lips and kissed them fiercely before releasing them and striding over to the window to stand with his back to the room. The letter was sticking out of one of the pockets of his coat.
The uncles and cousin and friends were the first to arrive, all in a body, all clearly bursting with curiosity.
“We will wait for Knorr,” Percy said after one glance over his shoulder.
They waited in silence until there was a firm tap on the door and Mr. Knorr stepped inside.
A mere moment later it opened again, and Mr. Crutchley admitted—of all people—Cousin Adelaide. She looked about her disagreeably and made for the chair closest to the fire.
“The others may say until they are blue in the face,” she said, “that the ladies have not been invited, but there is a lady down here already, a young one, and she will not be left alone at the mercy of a roomful of men while I have anything to say in the matter.”
She seated herself and continued to look disagreeable.
21
Percy had realized from the start that he was playing a dangerous sort of game of dare, something with which he was long familiar. The difference this time was that he was not doing it merely for his own amusement. He had not expected it to be easy. Hardford was a convenient base for smuggling—right on the coast but up away from the valley, with a secluded, relatively safe landing place and a way up to the top, which was private ground—an earl’s property, in fact—and hence less likely to be the target of patrols by customs officers. There were roomy cellars in both the dower house and the hall itself, and until recently the owner of both was willing to aid and abet the trade even if he was not actively involved in it. And even after the death of that earl, the new one had been obliging enough to stay away for two full years.
Oh, he had not expected that rousting them permanently off Hardford property would be easy. He had even realized that he was putting himself in possible danger by being so open and determined in his opposition. He could not forget Colin Bains with his broken legs. He had never suffered from a wild imagination, but he did not believe he was weaving too fantastical a tale about the series of events that had preceded—and followed—the departure of the late Richard, Viscount Barclay, for the Peninsula. Nevertheless, the possibility of danger had not particularly bothered him. He had thrived upon it, after all, for ten years.
Never in his wildest fancy had he imagined that the threat of danger would come, not to him, but to Imogen.
How fiendishly clever, had been his first thought upon reading the letter. How did he know? had been his second thought. But it was not altogether surprising. Percy had really quite recklessly endangered her reputation by trotting off to the dower house for each of the last several nights and not leaving it until early morning. It would be more surprising if no one knew. The whole world probably knew.
He was more angry than he had ever been in his life. But it was a quiet, leashed anger. There was no point whatsoever in blustering and lashing out with either words or fists—not unless or until he had a target for those fists, anyway. And at least half of his anger was directed against himself.
He drew the letter from his pocket and turned from the window.
“Smuggling is rife along this stretch of the coastline,” he said. “I called a meeting of the whole of my staff yesterday morning and made it clear that I would no longer harbor either smugglers or their contraband on my land.”
“Smuggling is rife along every stretch of coastline, Percy,” Uncle Roderick said. “There is no way of stopping it, I am afraid. And I must admit that I enjoy a drop of good French brandy now and then, though I am careful never to ask my host where it came from.” He chuckled.
“That was probably not wise of you, Percy,” Uncle Ernest said. “And it will do no good, you know. Your servants may pay you lip service for a while, but they will surely slip back to their old ways soon enough. If I were you, I would let the matter drop now that you have made your point.”
“You had better sharpen your cutlass even so, Perce,” Sidney said with a grin.
“And load your pistol,” Cyril added.
“The sooner we get you back to London, Perce,” Arnold said, “the better for everyone, I think.” But he did turn and look at Imogen, Percy noticed. She had gone to sit on a chair beside Mrs. Ferby, who was patting her arm.
“But there is viciousness underlying it all,” Percy said. “A bit of brandy, a bit of lace I might be tempted to ignore. Broken legs and murder I cannot.”
“Murder?” Uncle Ted said sharply.
“I have no proof,” Percy said, “but yes, murder. Ten years ago there were threatening letters when the late Viscount Barclay voiced his concerns about the trade encroaching upon his father’s land. Today Lady Barclay received another such letter. I did not ask, but I believe I can guess the answer. As far as you can recall, Lady Barclay, does this one appear to be written in the same hand?”
Mrs. Ferby had Imogen’s hand clasped in her own, their fingers laced.
“Yes,” Imogen said.
“I would like you all to read it,” Percy said, “with Lady Barclay’s permission.”
“Yes,” she said again.
Percy handed the letter to Cyril, who was closest to him, and it was passed from hand to hand until all the men had read it. Mrs. Ferby stretched out her free hand, and Knorr handed it to her.
“Somewhat illiterate, is it not?” Uncle Ted remarked. “The man can scarcely write.”
“It is upsetting for any lady to receive something like this,” Uncle Roderick said. “But it is a little difficult to take it seriously. It is all nonsense, in my opinion. Slanderous, though.”
“I tend to agree,” Uncle Ernest said. “But if this comes from one of the servants here, Percy, the man must be rousted out and dismissed immediately. He has not signed it, of course, even with an X.”
“Lady Barclay must be offered protection, Perce,” Arnold said. “You live alone, ma’am, at the dower house with only a servant, do you not? And I understand even she leaves at night?”
“You must move to the hall immediately, Cousin Imogen,” Uncle Roderick said, “until this matter has been investigated, as I suppose it must be. You must never be alone. Your maid must sleep in your room with you at night.”
“But I have no wish to leave my own home,” Imogen protested, speaking for the first time.
“It would be better if you did, ma’am,” Sidney said, “temporarily at least. There are enough of us here to offer you proper protection on the unlikely assumption that there is a madman on the loose.”
“Hardly a madman,” Mrs. Ferby said, and all eyes turned h
er way. “This,” she said, waving the letter in her hand, “was written by a very clever man. I would not underestimate him if I were you, Lord Hardford.”
“I do not believe I am underestimating him, ma’am,” Percy said.
“Clever?” Sidney asked.
“The multiplicity of errors in the letter suggests someone who is making them quite deliberately,” Knorr said. “And the vast changes in style of handwriting in the course of such a short note suggest a deliberate attempt to deceive. But there is a certain menace about the tone, which goes beyond the words themselves. Perhaps it is the contrast between the childish appearance of the note and the message it conveys.”
Percy looked at his new steward with approval.
“Where did it come from?” Cyril asked. “From here or from somewhere outside?”
“That meeting was yesterday morning, you said, Percy?” Uncle Ted asked. “Who left the house or estate during the rest of the day?”
“Apart from us, do you mean?” Percy asked. “Knorr, do you know?”
“No one as far as I know, my lord,” Knorr said after giving the matter some thought. “But it is hard to say for certain. We all know how news and gossip seems to travel on the wind.”
“Whoever it is,” Mrs. Ferby said, “it is someone whose handwriting is well known.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Arnold agreed. “He has certainly gone out of his way to disguise it.”
“We are assuming it is a man, are we?” Sidney asked.
“Oh, it is a man,” Mrs. Ferby assured him with some spirit. “A woman would make her threat directly to the man. A woman would stab straight to the heart or shoot right between the eyes. Only a man would threaten the woman for whom his enemy cares.”
Imogen, Percy noticed, had turned as white as chalk. Her lips looked blue in contrast. He almost strode toward her to catch her lest she faint, but the letter had done enough damage to her reputation as it was. And she was holding herself very upright. Mrs. Ferby still had a tight hold of her hand.
“Are we making a mountain out of a molehill?” Uncle Roderick asked. “Are we in reality dealing merely with a mischief maker?”
“No.” Several voices spoke together.
“I suppose,” Percy said, “it was rash of me to stir up all this trouble at a time when I have a houseful of guests and a ball is being planned.”
“You would not perhaps consider letting it be known that you will be leaving here after the ball, Percy?” Uncle Ernest asked. “I suppose you will be going up to town for the Session? And that no more will be said on the subject of smuggling?”
Percy drew breath to answer.
“No,” Imogen said.
Everyone turned toward her.
“No,” she said again. “Lord Hardford has done the right thing. It is what my husband would have done on his return from the wars if he had survived. What Lord Hardford can accomplish is a mere drop in the ocean, of course. It will be a long time, if ever, before smuggling loses its lure for the criminally minded or before it ceases to be hugely profitable. But even one drop of the ocean is an essential part of the whole. Violence and intimidation and even murder have been allowed to flourish uncontested for long enough. Too many blind eyes have been turned.”
There was a short silence.
“Bravo, Imogen,” Mrs. Ferby said in her baritone voice. “You will restore my faith in your whole sex, Lord Hardford, if you continue what you began yesterday—even if I should be the next one to be threatened.”
How Percy could grin and feel genuinely amused, he did not know. But there was ever a fine line between comedy and tragedy. “I shall keep that in mind, ma’am,” he said.
“It would be foolhardy of me,” Imogen said with a sigh, “to remain at the dower house, and it would cause unnecessary trouble while everyone tried to see to it that I was properly protected there. I will move here until it is safe to go home.”
“Thank you,” Percy said, and for a few moments their eyes met and held and he could hear in memory the words he had spoken very early this morning—tonight and tomorrow night and . . . “Remain here at the house, and I will have your belongings brought over.”
Mrs. Ferby pushed herself to her feet, drawing Imogen up with her.
“Come, Imogen,” she said. “We have missed our tea. We will have Lavinia ring for a fresh pot.”
Paul Knorr held the door open for them.
The letter was left lying on Mrs. Ferby’s abandoned chair.
* * *
After several minutes of mulling over the situation to no practical purpose, Percy suggested that everyone return to the drawing room to resume their interrupted tea. He and Knorr stayed, however.
“What is your considered opinion, Paul?” he asked when they were alone.
“If there is a highly organized gang of long standing,” Knorr said, “and everything points to that being the case, then it almost certainly encompasses a large area—the whole of the estuary and river valley and more. Such an organization would not tolerate competition. It will be extremely difficult to dislodge.”
“That is not my intent,” Percy said. “I will leave that to the customs officers. But I own this land, Paul. I am responsible for the safety and well-being of all who live and work on it. That may sound somewhat pretentious, but there is a general atmosphere of secrecy and fear here. Is fear too strong a word? No, I do not think it is. And there is that stable hand with his broken legs and that probably murdered valet of the late Barclay’s. Perhaps even Barclay himself, though indirectly rather than directly, since he was certainly captured and tortured and executed by the French.”
He had already told his new steward all those details. Knorr at least was someone he knew he could trust. He drew breath to say more.
“But you are thinking, are you not,” Knorr said before Percy could speak, “that the core of the gang is right here? The leader, at least? And I think you are right.”
Percy stared at him and nodded slowly. Something inside him turned cold. He must be thankful at least that Imogen had been sensible enough to agree to stay at the hall, where she must never be allowed to be alone. But . . . right in the lion’s den?
But devil take it, it was his den. And she was his woman, though he did not doubt she would not like that description of herself. It would probably make him uneasy too if he stopped to consider it, but he did not have the leisure to think about the state of his heart.
“Call Crutchley in, if you will,” he said. “Tell him to bring more port.”
The butler came creaking in a couple of minutes later, bearing a tray.
“Set it down,” Percy instructed him. “I will not keep you long enough for anyone to become suspicious. I have a very few questions for you. I do not expect you to give me the name of the person who ordered you to persuade me to move from my bedchamber overlooking the bay to one at the back of the house. But I do ask this. Was it a willing loyalty that caused you to obey, or fear of reprisal if you did not?”
The butler stared at him with apparent incomprehension.
“I have no intention,” Percy added, “of disciplining you in any way at all for damp sheets and a dead bird and soot.”
“Who is there of importance in your life, Mr. Crutchley, apart from yourself?” Paul Knorr asked.
Crutchley’s head turned toward him. His expression did not change, but he spoke. “I have a daughter down in the village,” he said, “and two grandsons, and one of them has a wife and two little ones.”
“Thank you,” Percy said. “Again I do not ask for a name, unless you choose to volunteer it, but do you know who the leader of this particular gang is?”
Crutchley nodded once after a longish while.
“Is his identity generally known?” Percy asked.
A quick shake of the head.
“And does he live and work with
in this estate?” Percy asked.
But there was no response this time—only a slight tightening of the butler’s lips and a blanking of his expression.
“Thank you,” Percy said. “You may leave.”
He stared at the closed door for some time before looking at Knorr.
“Where is Mawgan to be found when he is not busy head gardening?” he asked.
They left the house together a few minutes later rather than summon the man to the house.
* * *
“Whatever must you think of me?” Imogen said as they climbed the stairs together. Cousin Adelaide had drawn her arm through her own.
“I never did find a man I could both love and admire, Imogen,” she said. “I have always been convinced that such a man did not exist, though I never knew your Richard except once or twice perhaps when he was just a lad. Until very recently I would have said Lord Hardford was among the most worthless of them all. I am changing my mind about him even if he does have an air of carelessness about him and is too handsome for his own good. I think if I were your age, I might fall in love with him too.” She laughed, a deep bass rumble that Imogen could not remember hearing ever before.
“Oh, but I am not in love with him,” she protested.
They were approaching the head of the stairs and the drawing room.
“Then you have no excuse for dallying with him,” Cousin Adelaide said firmly. “Or would have no excuse if you were telling the truth. I never thought I would tell any girl to go with her heart, but that is what I am telling you.”
Cousin Adelaide had been living here for some time. Imogen had never disliked her, but it had never occurred to her to love Cousin Adelaide. Not until now.
“Thank you,” she said, “for coming down and offering your chaperonage.”
“Chaperonage?” Cousin Adelaide laughed again. “I came because I was burning with curiosity.”
And it was Imogen’s turn not to believe.
