by Tessa Candle
“I see. Well then, give him more. An extra day's worth.” She considered for a moment that if he had said that much already, Essington might get incautious and let something slip. “And it would ease my mind if you would take over the deliveries personally, Crump.”
“Very good, Miss.”
When Wheeler and Crump departed, Frederick confided in Tilly about the problematic member at the club. “It is Lord Screwe.” He drew close to her on the stairs as they left the cellar and added sotto voce, “He has been boasting in the inner circle that he has procured a slave for his bed sport.”
“Good Lord. I wish we had never granted that cur an enhanced membership. I mean, we have almost no rules but one, consent, so it just had to be broken, didn't it? I suppose being thrown out of White’s was insufficient. He could go to prison for this. Is the man trying to get the Prince Regent to just give over and strip him of his title?”
“I am not sure that Prinny cares enough about such matters. Justice is not really his fascination.” Frederick shrugged sadly. “But in any case, to hear him tell of it, he has her locked up somewhere in his home.”
“And the idiot brags about it.” Tilly scowled. “That poor girl must be scared out of her wits. We cannot leave her there.”
“We also cannot call in the Bow Street Runners.”
Tilly waved her hand. “Of course not. I will come up with something, but in the meantime, be a dear and get me some confections.”
Frederick kissed her head, then hailed the footman as they entered the parlour.
Chapter 4
Rutherford petted Molly's head where it lay in his lap. Her body stretched out indolently on the carriage seat. She had the definite air of a dog who had rapidly grown accustomed to her new lifestyle.
“That is right, little princess. Be at your ease. We are almost at Essington Hall.”
He had stopped the carriage several times on the journey to allow Molly to stretch her legs and relieve herself. She was delicate after all. He wondered if some day Tilly would let him look after her. Would she ever be delicate?
She was marvellously resourceful, and more than a little devious—definitely not some vapourish maiden who needed coddling. He admired her for it, but paradoxically could not help wanting to take care of her.
Molly offered him her belly for scratching and he obliged, shaking his head at his own dreamy foolishness. Tilly would marry DeGroen. She could never be his to care for. He could feel a great pit opening beneath him—an abyss of eternal loss which he felt powerless to fight. Molly licked his leg.
“You are my sweet girl, Molly. I know you mean to comfort me. But what I really need is to get a hold of myself and do something, instead of sitting about like a mawkish bacon-brain, waiting for her to marry DeGroen and plunge me into eternal misery.”
He resisted the urge to reach for his laudanum and instead toyed again with the idea of using stratagems to win Tilly’s hand. Surely she had some weakness. Aldley’s suggestion of a feigned abduction was, of course, absurd, but what if Rutherford made her jealous? Could he make her believe that he might marry someone else?
Lady Essington was not a bad candidate, for he had harboured a little calf love for her when a lad. The problem was, she was already married. Of course, affairs with married ladies were not unheard of—particularly amongst noble ladies who had married swine and already provided heirs.
He was not really certain an affair would be sufficient, however. He supposed he could find some quivering blancmange débutante. The trick would be making the courtship seem plausible when the very idea sent him into fits of annoyance and ennui in turns.
He had never met a debutante who did not bore him senseless—well, except Lady Aldley. She had been quite something. And Rutherford’s younger sister, Susan, was proving to be more interesting than most, so he supposed he should not dismiss débutantes as a whole. Yet he was convinced that these exceptions merely proved the rule.
But Tilly was utterly brilliant and fascinating. There was no one like her. She was a sparkling gem in the shale pile that was the London ton. It would be difficult to be convincing while courting a tedious little simpleton. Would Tilly even believe it?
His thoughts were interrupted by the carriage turning onto the long stone driveway of Essington Hall.
Rutherford and Molly were conducted through the high-ceilinged hallways of the manor, through arcades spattered with hunting trophies and indifferent paintings of ancestors or men shooting at birds, and cluttered by coarse bronze statues of men and horses, each looking about as brutish as the other. It was decidedly decorated by a disjointed committee—every generation of men tacking on their own bits to make a whole whose only cohesive elements were masculine themes and want of taste.
When Rutherford reached the grand parlour, he was transported into such a different aesthetic that he thought he might not recover from the shock. Floral motifs and fancy embroidery asserted their feminine authority on every available surface. Lady Essington sat on a couch with her needlework, surrounded by a colony of cushions ensigned with enough fancy sewing and ruffles to forcibly evict masculinity from the whole of England, if released into the wild all at once.
She stood to receive him into her matronly refuge from the rest of Essington Hall. Rutherford permitted himself a moment of queasiness, but abandoned any hope of deciding which parts of the manor, the masculine or the feminine, were more virulent. Such an exercise could only lead to madness.
“Mr. Rutherford—it is still Mr. Rutherford, is it not? How very good to see you after all this long time. And you have brought your dog, I see.”
He smiled. “Indeed it is, Lady Essington. I am quite as enchanted by your beauty as ever. This is Molly. She is in a family way, so I like to keep an eye on her. I hope you will pardon the irregularity.”
“Nothing to pardon at all.” She bent to scratch Molly’s ears, then gestured that they should seat themselves. “She is adorable. So you are not yet the Duke of Bartholmer. No matter. The débutantes are not so near-sighted as that. You must be swarmed at Almack’s.”
Rutherford shuddered. “I avoid the place like a house of plague. I hope I will not disappoint you, Lady Essington, in confessing that I have no desire to become Bartholmer. My current life is far too much responsibility for a ne'er-do-well like myself, as it is. The heavy mantle of dukedom would be utterly oppressive.”
She laughed. “You must call me Lizzy, as when we were young.”
He smiled and bowed his head.
“However,” she continued, “I do not allow you to be so self-deprecating. It seems to me that only a responsible man would come all this way at a friend's behest, merely to reassure him that his sister is not in dire straits.”
“Did Aldley say that was the reason for my visit?”
“Of course not. But despite evidence to the contrary, I am not entirely dull-witted. Nor am I vain enough to believe that you came here to reignite the flame of our youth.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” He gave her his best wolfish grin, but could not sustain it when he saw her set her needlepoint down and pick up her fan to wave it frantically in theatrical mimicry of an over-heated débutante. He broke into laughter. “I had forgotten how much fun you are.”
“That is easy to do when surrounded by such evidence of flouncy, dull predilections.” She gestured around the parlour. “But it is all for show, I assure you.” She threw her needlework aside. “I cannot abide fancy sewing in the least. I simply buy these fussy bits here and there, and pretend to have made them myself. Of course, the overall effect is one that Lord Essington cannot tolerate, so he never enters this room.” Her face had a determined look.
“I see.” Rutherford did see. Her eyes held a sort of steel and pain that had not been apparent at first. She had carved out an existence for herself with a husband that she could not but despise, and patrolled the borders with those more subtle weapons that women forge from bits of lace or ivory. Had Aldley done her a dis
service by hauling Lord Essington's miserable, drug addled carcass back from the continent?
“One of the servants covered that screen over there. Monstrous is it not? I gave her a quid as a bonus, for she truly exceeded herself.” The serious moment had passed.
“We should reward the faithful servant,” Rutherford replied piously. “So where is Lord Essington? Has he contrived to take his wheelchair out for a spot of hunting?”
“Not today. Though I should not put it past him, if he were feeling well. He has become accustomed to it. And he can really get about, when he chooses. Only he no longer has much interest in hunting, unless it be for ices or sweets.”
“He is,” Rutherford chose his word carefully, “unwell?”
“So he says. He mostly keeps to his chambers, and according to the servants, sleeps a great deal. In fact I believe he could walk with his crutches now, if he took a notion to. But he seems to prefer the chair.”
“Has the doctor seen him.”
“I asked Dr. Kellerman here, once. He travelled all the way from London, but my husband refused to see him and demanded that he leave and never come back. It was quite a humiliating scene, but I did contrive to meet with the doctor later, to apologize. He told me that he feared Lord Essington was once again under the influence of opium. But I tell you, I do not know how he should get it. He never leaves Essington Hall, these days.”
“He must have someone bringing the drug to him.”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Is it very bad of me that I am indifferent?”
“I should say it is quite understandable. It is not the first time that I find myself questioning whether Aldley should have brought him back at all.”
“My brother did tell me that it was your acquaintances in Italy that discovered him, and I thank you.”
Rutherford shook his head, incredulous that she should thank him.
She smiled sadly. “You do not believe my thanks sincere, but it is, I assure you. It is very clear that I do not prefer my husband's company, but I am thinking of my son. His father would have frittered away his fortune with debauchery, gambling and utter dereliction of any estate management.”
Rutherford only inclined his head in ascent to this indisputable truth.
“As it is we have had to make retrenchments, but here his profligacy is curtailed. And at least his son will not bear the legacy of a father who died in some wretched opium den on the continent. We live a quiet life, free of scandal, and if that requires the constant medication of Lord Essington,” she squared her shoulders, “then so be it.”
Rutherford shifted uncomfortably. He could certainly understand how Elizabeth had come to be indifferent to her husband's wellbeing. On the other hand he was becoming increasingly conscious of the laudanum bottle tucked into his jacket. “Yes,” he said. “I take your point. How old is the little lad now?”
Her face, which had become dark during this confession, lit up suddenly. “Jonathan will be three in May. He is up in the nursery. Would you like to see him? I am sure he would love to meet Molly.”
He was a sweet little lad and the apple of Elizabeth's eye. After he had met the little master, Rutherford made his adieus and prepared to leave. He smiled to himself as he stepped out into the cobblestoned courtyard. At least he could report to Aldley that his sister and her child were doing well.
Then Rutherford’s heart clenched suddenly. He might never share such a moment with Tilly, never see that gleam of maternal love in her eyes. Did she even like children? He had to confess that he did not know. It was not the sort of topic they discussed.
But he was certain she would be an excellent mother. She had such a good heart and took so many pains about the wellbeing of her friends and family. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed in exasperation. She would drive him mad if he could not make her his own. He rubbed his shoulder.
But before he could settle into a proper bout of self-pity, he was distracted by a familiar face. A man came from around the back where the servants’ entrance was, swung onto his horse and rode off. Rutherford instantly disliked the look of him. He was certain he had seen this man before, only he could not recall where. While he searched his memory, his carriage pulled up.
He spoke to his carriage man, as he lifted Molly gently onto the seat. “There is a horseman ahead of us. See if you can catch him.”
As they sped off, Rutherford tried to make himself remember who the man was. He could not shake the feeling that his identity was of grave importance.
Chapter 5
Tilly watched her brother's house from one of the nondescript carriages she saved for her special business. It was a bit stuffy compared to the refreshingly fragranced regular carriages of her fleet. But a fragrance could betray a person’s identity as easily as a face.
She knew that maintaining discretion required some sacrifice—such as the awful black wool ensemble that she wore. It was a rather hideous modified riding habit with a split skirt and strings that would draw it up like a curtain several inches in case she needed to run or to go anywhere that required delicate navigation.
She hoped this would not be necessary, as climbing about in awkward places was not among her talents. However, one planned for undesirable contingencies as best one could. Her companion sat across from her, occasionally dozing.
A black coach pulled up by her brother's door. Tilly watched as Lord Screwe emerged, tapping the ash from a cigar. He knocked on the door with the silver falcon top of his ebony cane.
The doorman opened to him and took his hat and cane as her brother received the loathsome man. Lord Screwe slapped Frederick on the shoulder, then puffed on his cigar while delivering some witticism that Frederick pretended to laugh at. They disappeared inside.
Tilly shook her head as she tapped for the driver to move on. Her task might be more dangerous, but she feared Frederick and Mr. DeGroen had the harder part of the bargain. She could not imagine how they would endure an evening of gambling with such a vile specimen of humanity. Hopefully they would have at least the small satisfaction of beating him into the poorhouse at cards.
When her carriage pulled up several houses from Lord Screwe's abode, Tilly put on a black bonnet with a veil and smiled at the nodding head of Mrs. Carlton, who remained in the carriage as Tilly slipped out into the night.
She looked at her watch. Thirty minutes. Her black clad form disappeared into the shadows as she made her way to the servants’ entrance. A female servant met her and wordlessly brought her inside, motioning for Tilly to wait in a closet, while she went to check the stairway and hall.
The tension was stifling, and Tilly could hear her own neck creak as she waited. She looked at her watch. Five precious minutes had passed. The servant returned and beckoned her to follow.
They went up two flights of stairs. At the top the servant whispered, “This floor is unused, except by his lordship. That door at the end of the hall leads to a room with a ladder to the attic. I have unlocked it. I will be on the staircase, dusting. If you hear a sneeze, wait up here, and don't come down until you hear three knocks on the stairs.”
“Thank you, Forester.”
The servant nodded. “I owe you my position here, Miss, and more besides.”
Tilly hurried down the hall. Inside, the room was dim. She found a candle and produced a silver box of matches from her pocket. When she had lit the taper, she gently closed the door and looked around.
The ladder lay on the floor, but there were hooks for it in the ceiling where the trapdoor was. When she had the ladder firmly in place, she took the candle and climbed up, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped up to peer inside.
The attic contained a lot of claptrap, and the shadows cast by the candle conjured gliding spectres, as she turned this way and that, trying to see the woman she knew must be there. There was a pile of blankets in one corner, but it was too far away for the candle to light it properly.
She decided to risk calling out, and in a loud whisper sai
d, “Miss, where are you? I am here to help—”
A heavy blow to the head knocked her off balance, and Tilly fell backwards to the floor below.
Chapter 6
The carriage careened too fast around a corner, and Rutherford soothed Molly by stroking her ears. His carriage man kept it on the road, but just. The mysterious man they were chasing was riding like the devil was on his tail. Rutherford supposed that made him the devil.
He laughed. Not much truth in it, for he cared too much to be Satan. Molly was feeling anxious, so he could not continue the chase. He tapped the door and the carriage slowed, then came to a stop.
“I think we must let him escape, Elms.” Rutherford stepped out of the carriage. “I will walk Molly for a few minutes.”
“Very good, Sir.”
He lifted Molly out and set her gently down on the roadway. There was a smaller path that turned off the main road nearby. Molly walked with him, happily watering the dandelions and cowslips along the way.
The fresh air cleared his head, and birds were singing cheerfully after an earlier burst of rain. Rutherford wondered about the man. Why was he riding so fast? Was he in a hurry or was he trying to avoid being followed?
It was possible that he had recognized Rutherford and wanted to avoid him. But why? If only Rutherford could remember where he had seen that face.
As he ambled on, he recognized the road to Dunston Hall, the estate of the Viscount Delacroix. From all reports he was a good and decent sort of man, but his younger brother was a rabid dog of a wastrel. He looked over the lay of the road. This must be the spot where Tilly had first encountered him, when he was injured trying to rescue Aldley's wife from Delacroix, the younger.
He had no memory of the rescue, but his time recovering from his injuries were what first put him in close contact with Tilly. He rubbed his shoulder where the scar was. It was well worth having a blade broken off in him, to have had time convalescing in Tilly's care. How quickly she had beguiled him with her cheek, reading him naughty poetry by his bedside.
