Granted, he had been a fair distance away and Barrimore would have no reason to suspect his fiancé of passionately kissing a fugitive from the law. He likely had no reason to suspect her of wanting to kiss anyone at all, passionately or otherwise, and might have been too unnerved to make the connection had they been standing a foot away.
Emory had been pretty unnerved himself. Then, and again just now when their lips had touched and he had felt the shock of it shoot clear through his body.
The frown stayed on his face as he loaded and primed four of the five flintlock pistols, discarding the last as being too archaic not to blow up in the face of whoever shot it. He set the guns back in their baize pockets and left the cabinet unlocked, checking to be sure there was extra shot and powder placed within easy grasp.
These were, he realized with a newfound grimness, the actions of a guilty man. But was he a traitor? Had he committed crimes against his country, his king? And if so, how long would he be safe here at Widdicombe House before someone came searching in earnest?
CHAPTER 9
“Well, of course you must believe that I am simply too, too appalled at the very notion of Stanley visiting a house where there might be an infestation of the plague. While I certainly support him in his efforts to save as many souls as possible before they venture on to a more temporal plain, I do regard festering pocks and delirium to be a rather steep price to pay for benevolence.”
“Lucille, my dearest, there is no plague in Brixham.”
The petite blonde beauty glared at her husband. “I distinctly heard you say there was fever and a bloody flux.”
“In the houses of two parishioners, yes, who may or may not have contracted some stomach ailment from eating rancid meat.”
“May or may not?” She sighed and appealed to Florence. “You see why I insisted upon accompanying him on his rounds today? He simply cannot be trusted to place his own health--and mine--before that of his flock.”
The reverend cast his own sheepish glance in Florence’s direction. “My sweet wife is determined to wear me down until I agree to allow her to visit London. Yesterday it was the rumor of a French army invading to rescue Napoleon that made this particular area of Britain unsafe. Today it is the flux.”
“Well, it is unsafe,” Lucille insisted. “The garrison is bristling with soldiers. The roads are positively clogged with thieves and cutthroats who are filling the villages in anticipation of the crowds the wretched man will draw. All this before there is even any confirmed announcement of his final destination. I am surprised, Miss Fairchilde,” she added, turning to Annaleah, “that you would choose voluntarily to remain here under the circumstances.”
“London is ten times as crowded,” Anna pointed out. “And there are always thieves and pickpockets in the streets.”
“Yes, but you travel under the protection of your brother, Viscount Ormont and Lord Barrimore, the latter, especially, reputed to be one of the most dangerous swordsmen in all of England. I dare say a thief would have to be entirely witless to approach you with mischief in mind.”
“Lucille made the acquaintance of both gentlemen yesterday,” the vicar explained.
“Yes, and I could have sworn that was the marquis’s berline we passed not five minutes ago on the road. I also had the pleasure of riding in it yesterday, you see.”
To answer Annaleah’s startled look, the vicar went on to further reveal, “The marquis, as it happens, stopped at the North Fort on a matter of government business where my wife and several ladies of the Foundlings Society happened to be taking lunch.”
“I recall you mentioning it,” Florence nodded.
“Indeed,” Lucille picked up the story. “We had been invited by the regimental commander, Colonel Huxley to watch the infantry and cavalry on parade. Your brother and the marquis arrived just as one of the ladies was inquiring if the soldiers might not fire one of the big cannons. The Colonel declined--rather churlishly, I thought. He claimed his balls were not to be squandered on casual amusements.”
“Having suffered Colonel Huxley’s advances for some thirty-odd years,” Florence said dryly, “I might question the truth in that.”
“As if any of us are amused by the notion of Napoleon Bonaparte invading our shores," Lucille continued blithely. "I have no doubt that was why the marquis took it upon himself to inspect the defences himself. He is attached to the foreign office in some capacity, is he not?”
Annaleah managed a smile. “I believe he works closely with Lord Wessex, of the foreign office.”
“Dispatching spies and such? How exciting. No wonder he seemed most anxious to speak with Colonel Ramsey, what with all the talk of--”
“He met with Colonel Ramsey again?” The reverend looked startled. "You did not mention that."
“Indeed. They had a fairly long discussion, though what they said could not be overheard. But he is quite the dashing gentleman, I must say. And completely charming. When I commented that I had not seen such a handsome coach-and-four in too many years to recount, he insisted on my accompanying him on the ride back to Brixham. That was why I was sure I could not be mistaken when I saw his berline pass the vicarage this morning, and again, just now, on the road. How very disappointing to have missed him by so few minutes.”
Truth be told, she sounded more than simply disappointed and Anna could not help but associate her pretty pout with the pouts of innumerable other women who had worn their lowest cut bodices and set their bonnets on a tilt for the marquis. More alarming, however, was the fact Barrimore had not gone directly to Torquay yesterday, but had followed Colonel Ramsey back to the garrison, and that they had engaged in a lengthy private discussion.
Florence, who must have been wondering the same thing, drilled Anna with a pointed glance. “I too, am sorry I missed him when he called.”
“He did not stay long,” Anna murmured. “He...had to return to town almost right away.”
“Oh, la. The next time, perhaps.” Lucille toyed with a bit of lace on her cuff, obviously piqued to have rushed all this way for nothing. “I would have insisted on accompanying Stanley regardless.”
Florence smiled. “Visits are always a pleasant surprise, I assure you.” Her gaze flicked past the vicar’s shoulder as she murmured. “Though I dare say it is not the only one in store for the day.”
Stanley Althorpe turned to follow her glance and saw his brother standing silently in the doorway. The blood had not completely drained from his face before he managed to slowly rise to his feet, but it was a near call.
“By God’s grace,” he whispered. “You are alive.”
Emory smiled briefly before he replied. “God’s grace had little to with it, I am afraid. It was Dame Widdicombe’s tender nursing that brought me back from the brink.”
The vicar started forward, a smile breaking out across his face. “By God. By God, I say! When first I saw you, your flesh was so gray and cold I did not hold out much hope for recovery. But here you stand, alive and well, looking exactly as I have pictured you in my mind’s eye all these long years!”
Emory endured the younger man’s enthusiastic hug as well as a few stout claps on the shoulder before he gently disengaged himself.
“Not so completely recovered as either one of us might hope,” he said quietly and glanced at Florence. “You have not told him?”
“I have had little chance, what with all the talk of plagues in the village and cutthroats on the roads.”
The vicar’s boyishly handsome face lost none of it’s happy excitement as he searched for broken bones, missing digits. “Told me what? You look in perfect health to me.”
“The damage,” Florence said gently, “is not immediately visible. It is here,” she added, tapping a finger on her temple, “for you see, he has no memory of what happened. No memories at all, for that matter.”
“No memories?” The vicar frowned. “You mean you cannot recall how you came to be washed up on the beach?”
“He means,” Fl
orence sighed, “he has no memory whatsoever. He does not know who he is, or who I am, or my niece...not that he should know her, of course, for he never met her before this week. But he is quite without any recollections whatsoever. The blow on the head, we can only surmise, must have been severe enough to bruise his brain, for when he does remember something, it comes to him piecemeal and not without a measure of pain.”
Stanley expelled gust of air. “But that is...that is absurd! How can you not know who you are?”
“I promise I do not,” Emory said. “And as absurd as the idea may seem to you, it is doubly so for me. I have been walking about this past hour like a child in a strange and terrifying place. I am told I have been here many times, that this house, these rooms should all be familiar to me, but--” he spread his hands wide. “I doubt I could find my way to the front door without assistance.”
Stanley’s mouth worked a moment to form words that eventually had to be forced through a strained whisper. “You do not recognize me?”
Emory did not have to answer; the look in his eyes was eloquent enough to tighten the younger man’s jaw with disbelief.
Annaleah could see the obvious resemblance between the two men; there could be no mistaking they were brothers. It was not so much a physical similarity they shared, though there were definite likenesses in the line of the chin, the shape of the nose, the width of the brow. One was more weathered, his face more deeply etched by the broader scope of his experiences, and his body was harder, shaped by the more physical nature of the life he had chosen. The other was softer, more the scholar and less like a dark storm cloud on the horizon but there was still an underlying hint of steel in the way he thrust out his hand and clasped it firmly to Emory’s shoulder.
“Then we shall have to do our best to reacquaint ourselves in the time we have.”
Lucille, all but ignored on the settee, cleared her throat with a delicate cough. “I must presume this is somewhat of an awkward moment, but I believe more than one of us must lay claim to a measure of ignorance, here today.”
Stanley dropped his hand and looked over at his wife. “Of course. Forgive me. In the confusion, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Lucille....dearest--” he moved haltingly to stand by his wife’s chair. “I have the very great pleasure of introducing my brother, Emory St. James Althorpe. He has been away from England lo these many years, but now, as...as you can plainly see, he has returned.”
Emory started to offer a polite bow in Lucille’s direction just as her chin dropped and her little bow-shaped mouth popped open with a gasp. “Emory Althorpe! The traitor?”
Utter and absolute silence followed the blurted pronouncement, and when Florence rapped the leg of a table with her walking stick, it earned the same skin-jumping response as a gunshot.
“We will have no mention of unfounded accusations under this roof,” she declared fustily. “He is your husband’s brother, as well as a dear and valued friend of mine. As such, he will be treated accordingly.”
Lucille’s hand had flown to her throat when the cane cracked against the wooden leg. It remained there until, fearing another strike, she shrank back in her chair and fumbled to grasp her husband’s hand.
Stanley caught the fluttering white fingers and held them tightly in his. “Lucille...I realize this is rather sudden and certainly awkward, but...it is a somewhat blunt charge to make. Especially under the circumstances.”
“It is all right,” Emory said. “I am already aware of my status as persona non gratis in these parts.”
“Non gratis?” Lucille squeaked. “The soldiers at the garrison have been given orders to shoot you on sight!”
Florence whacked the table again and this time, a lamp and two porcelain figurines jumped in unison with everyone else in the room.
“Well they have!” Lucille insisted on a whine. “There are patrols everywhere and as of this morning, the reward for his capture--dead or alive--” she added with suitable dramatics, “has been doubled to a thousand pounds!”
Florence looked quickly to Stanley for confirmation.
“I am afraid so. Colonel Ramsey questioned the fisherman again and showed him the warrant poster. He is convinced the man he saw and Emory were one and the same. Further, he is now speculating openly that there may be a plot afoot to rescue Bonaparte from the Bellerophon when it arrives in port, and if so...” He paused and looked at his brother, “he believes Emory may be part of the plot.”
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” Florence muttered. “Has this Ramsey fellow nothing better to do with his time than invent intrigues? Are there not enough bodices to fondle or skirts to sniff after to keep him amused?”
“Wait,” Emory put a hand to his temple and rubbed. “Wait. The man is a prisoner on board an English warship, bound for an English port, under heavy guard by English soldiers. How am I supposed to accomplish this feat of magic?”
“The same way you accomplished it on Elba?” Stanley suggested bitterly. “There were three thousand English soldiers guarding him on that occasion, yet we are told you somehow sailed into port one night and whisked him away.”
“Rory’s involvement has not been conclusively proven,” Florence reminded him.
“Ramsey claims there are witnesses--men who swear it was the Intrepid they pursued and came close enough to exchange several rounds of shot with before losing her in a squall.”
Emory frowned. “The Intrepid?”
“Your ship, blast it. Your damned ship! The vessel you chose to sail around the world in search of adventure instead of staying at home and seeing to your family responsibilities!”
No sooner were the angry words out of Stanley’s mouth when his jaw dropped and his mouth slackened. When he saw the stunned expressions on Florence and Anna’s faces--Lucille seemed on the verge of offering applause--his hands came up in gesture of contrition.
“Oh dear God, Emory...I am sorry. I...I don’t know where that came from and had no right to say it. It is absurd to hold you to account for matters you could not possibly be aware of a thousand miles away. Even more so now, when...when you barely recall your name.”
Emory seemed to sway, to stagger a little. Anna jumped to her feet and rushed to his side fearing he might have another of his spells.
“No.” His voice was ragged, his jaw tense. A tiny muscle shivered in his cheek, but he managed a pale imitation of a smile as he laid his hand over the cool fingers she placed on his arm. “I am all right.” He looked at Stanley. “There is no need to apologize. If I am a bastard, I suppose it is best to hear it from my own family first.”
“Will you at least sit down?” Anna said. “Perhaps take a glass of wine, or brandy?”
Florence swung her cane up, more than passingly familiar with the height and distance needed to strike the bell that hung on the wall beside her. “A splendid idea. We could all use something stronger than tea at the moment. Once we have calmed ourselves we can discuss the situation like reasonable adults. Stanley--did you bring clothing? I dare say those breeches your brother is wearing, while giving him the appearance of a fourteen year old stripling, could make sitting almost as painful a prospect as prostrating himself on the ground and begging pardon for all the sins known thus far to mankind.”
“I, er...yes,” Stanley nodded. “I did bring a selection of garments and boots. They are in a small trunk in the carriage.”
“You knew?” Lucille said, gaping up at him. “You knew he was here all along and said nothing?”
“I have only known since Monday, when Dame Widdicombe first sent for me. And if I said nothing, my precious, it was because I did not want to alarm you. I am aware of how delicate you are, how genteel your sensibilities. I also recognized how upsetting this might be for you, what with Colonel Ramsey and his men at the rectory nearly every other day.”
Florence’s blatantly indelicate snort accompanied by the muttered words: "silly girl", raised a spot of color in the delicate white cheeks.
“Colonel Ramsey
has been most civil of late,” Lucille protested. “And while I may find his presence exceedingly intrusive, I should hope you would not misinterpret that to mean I would do anything disloyal to our family.”
“No, of course not, my dearest. I would never--”
“My first loyalty is always to you, Stanley. And if I sound upset, it is only because you did not think you could trust me with the truth. I am surprised, yes. Who would not be in the same situation? Nevertheless, I do think Dame Widdicombe’s judgement of me is perhaps a little harsh.” She pulled on her lower lip to draw attention to the visible tremor affecting her ability to speak. “I am not silly. I am only concerned for your welfare and that of your brother.”
“But of course you are, my dear,” Stanley cried, taking a knee before her. “And I would never suggest you were anything but loyal and trustworthy. I...I only sought to spare you any needless worry.”
She turned to address Emory, her chin held high enough to strain the cords in her neck. “I meant no ill-will, dear brother, and hope that you will forgive me my unthinking cruelty. I am naturally and immeasurably pleased to make your acquaintance after all these years, and you must know, if it were at all possible, I should insist upon you coming home with us this very minute.”
Florence was on the verge of lifting her cane again when Willerkins appeared in the doorway. “Thank goodness. I was not sure if you had heard the bell.”
“I heard, milady. Quite clearly.”
“Yes, well, if you would be so kind, the vicar has left a small trunk in his carriage which needs to be fetched. Will you also inform Mildred there will be five for supper tonight--you are staying for supper, I assume?”
Stanley dared do nothing else but nod his thanks, in spite of the grip Lucille took on his arm.
Willerkins bowed. “Will there be anything else milady?”
“Indeed yes. I believe that old rascal Dupré left us a keg of very fine French brandy the last time I allowed him to hide from the revenuers in my bay. A bottle would not go unwelcome at the moment. And some small cakes to tide us over until the chickens can be plucked and the hares stuffed.”
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