by Jo Beverley
“Goats?” he frowned.
“Yes. Over at Hest Bank. Oh, I’m sorry. It will be in the gray stock book over there. You will come to it shortly.”
If he had only pretended to go through that pile of documents, surely he might have pretended to have seen something on the goats. Chloe felt relief, but did not want to give him time to think about her question, and perhaps perceive her ruse. She turned the subject to a letter atop a small pile of papers.
“Have you decided what to do about Humphrey Macy?”
“No. I don’t think I know the man. Tell me about him.”
“He was an old friend of Uncle George’s, though what they had in common was hard to tell, unless it was the Prince of Wales. Macy is one of the Carlton House set, and Uncle George was too when he had the funds. I suspect it was one of those friendships where the smart one has a slow-top hanging on who can be depended upon to always laugh at his jokes.”
“Macy’s a smart one, is he?”
“I would say so, though anyone would look clever next to Uncle George. Macy would be a good match for Belinda, though. He’s a real top-of-the-trees. He has a comfortable amount of money as one of the Oxfordshire Macys, and a government position. Customs, I think. It certainly can’t be arduous, for he is to be found everywhere, and he spent months up here when George succeeded.”
“So I heard. Why was that, do you think?”
Chloe frowned slightly. “To keep George company, I suppose, but I never did decide why Uncle George stayed at Delamere. He’d come down in August, obviously rusticating. I expected as soon as he was the viscount and the estate probated, he’d be back to London. I was quite concerned. It seemed likely some Captain Sharp would relieve him of the fortune and Delamere in short order.”
“I must confess, I was pretty well resigned to that notion myself.”
“Perhaps it was the weather. He stayed a while for the legalities, of course, and then he married Belinda. By that time it was Christmas. I suppose it didn’t seem a good season to be traveling the length of England. Uncle George liked his comforts. Macy acted the good friend and came up to bear him company. They spent their time drinking, gossiping, and rolling dice. I’m not surprised Uncle George wanted Macy to stay, alone as he was in a house of women, but I think it very noble of Macy to agree. He did seem to be genuinely fond of George, though. He was truly upset when he died. In shock, trembling.”
The viscount seemed lost in thought.
“Justin?”
He shook himself out of his deliberations. “Macy. I can put him off if you wish, but I can see no reason to forbid him to visit. And, I confess, if he can win the hand and heart of the fair Belinda, that would be one less problem in my life.”
“Yes, but I doubt she’ll have him. He would be a fine catch. He’s well-connected, comfortably off, and in a reasonable state of repair for one his age. Now, however, I think she’s got notions, as Katy Stack would say. If she doesn’t entrap you, she’ll be off to try her luck in one of the fashionable towns.”
Justin laughed. “I assure you, Chloe, I am completely safe from Belinda. Perhaps you should warn Randal, however.”
Chloe frowned at his levity. “I’ll warn Randal, all right. I’ll warn him not to tease her. It’s just possible she’ll take him seriously, and I don’t think she deserves to be hurt. Do you need to ask me any questions about the estate just now, Justin? Today has been a bit disorganized, but tomorrow I will spend some time with you if you wish.”
There was a distinctly mischievous light in his eyes as he said, “What gallant man could refuse such an offer?”
“Time pouring over dusty ledgers, milk yields, crop rotations, and cottage repairs, Lord Stanforth!”
“The mere thought of your presence turns even the slaughtering records into poetry, Lady Stanforth.” He made an extravagant bow.
Chloe tried to frown but burst out laughing. “Love among the compost piles? Really, Justin.”
She thought he might come to her then, but he didn’t.
“No,” he said seriously. “You are definitely worthy of a bed of rose petals, my dear.”
Chloe could not mistake the hint of passion in his eyes. Discretion being the better part of valor, she left.
After she had gone, Justin stared at the door with more attention than that piece of oak warranted. In fact, he was seeing Chloe. She was so easily alarmed, so quick to retreat. The temptation to pressure her was enormous, but he knew it would be a mistake. He knew also he should be focusing his attention on the missing papers.
A few simple questions had established that no apples were left in stock from the previous autumn. Moreover, there were no ornamental apples in the house. The dining room had one bowl of wax fruit, sometimes used as a centerpiece, but Mrs. Pickering had told him that the two apples belonging there had been found cut into pieces last Christmas. She credited George with that meaningless destruction but Justin wondered. Who could have been searching Delamere then? The only outsider in residence at the time was Humphrey Macy.
Macy could have been sent to Delamere as a government agent. If so, Justin should have been informed. He quickly wrote to Lord Liverpool for clarification. He sealed the letter, franked it, and placed it ready for the next day’s post.
If George had received the package, it would seem he hid the apple very well, or took the papers from it. Would he do that? With George, one never knew. Justin had spent part of the morning in a cursory search of the study, which seemed the most likely place for papers to be concealed. He had found nothing.
The whole matter would be much simpler if he could enlist the assistance of everyone in the house. That was against orders, however, and there was the distinct possibility that someone here was working for Napoleon. More imperatively, any hint that the British believed the lists to be inside Delamere could easily lead to its callous destruction.
He realized he had only minutes to prepare for dinner and quickly tidied his work. He had been constantly distracted by Chloe. Her hand was obvious everywhere among these papers; there even seemed to be traces of her soft, flowery perfume here. Love among the compost piles . . .
Anywhere. Anywhere with you, my darling.
7
THE FOLLOWING DAY brought pouring rain and confined everyone to the house. There had been quick acceptances from all the parties invited to dine on Thursday, and Chloe spent the first part of her day in conference with Mrs. Pickering, who was delighted at the thought of entertaining. A suitable menu was soon agreed on, as Chloe had no intention of debating the merits of veal over pork, and tench over barbel. She requested, however, a Walpole pudding. It was the only food she could remember Justin expressing a preference for, on that long-ago journey to Scotland. Next, Chloe took Matthew to the cellars and chose a number of wines for him to prepare. She smiled to see the young man nearly burst with pride at being made a temporary butler.
By midmorning, Chloe thought the plans to be well in hand and returned to the main part of the house, where she was surprised to see Belinda coming down the stairs in a heavy cloak.
“Do you intend to go out, Belinda?” she asked. “You’ll be drenched.”
“Just as far as the herb garden. I need some thyme.”
Chloe couldn’t help but regard this as peculiar. Belinda, who was normally rather stolid, seemed almost disturbed. Was it grief? Or guilt? For some reason, these niggling suspicions of Belinda would not be quieted by logic.
“Surely it can wait, Belinda,” Chloe said. “The ground is a sea of mud. By this afternoon or tomorrow, it will have cleared. You know the weather hereabouts.”
“Better than you,” snapped Belinda, then collected herself. “You’re right, though. I wanted to get something finished but it will wait.” With that she turned and went back upstairs.
Chloe was thoughtful as she went into the Sea Room. The sluicing rain obscured the view, so she went to sit by the fire. She couldn’t help leaping to the obvious conclusion. Belinda pushed Frank off t
he cliff and had remembered some clue which needed to be retrieved. What could it be? Surely a clue would be washed away in this torrential rain? Perhaps that is what Belinda had decided, and that was why she had returned to her rooms.
But Belinda couldn’t have pushed Frank off the cliff. She had not been alone. . . .
Chloe was interrupted at that moment by Justin, who came in with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He was without his jacket, and his hair looked as if he had pushed his fingers through it repeatedly.
Chloe held back a smile.
“Is there any reason, Chloe,” he demanded with asperity, “that we have stored in the files long letters from an Italian nun?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, as he came to sit across the fire from her. “Do you not read Italian?”
“Very little,” he replied. “What with Latin and Spanish, I can piece together some of it. But the woman writes a damnably ornate hand.”
“I think Donna Ilena’s calligraphy rather beautiful,” said Chloe, taking one of the letters and admiring the flourishing italic. “And she isn’t a nun, you know. She’s a Venetian lady of high birth. I rather suspect she was once your uncle’s lover.”
“Uncle Henry?”
“Well, hardly George.”
“I always thought he was devoted to Aunt Sophronia.”
Chloe looked pensively into the dancing flames. “I’m sure he was, but as her illness progressed and she no longer traveled with him, perhaps . . . I might be wrong in my assumptions.” She smiled at him. “Whatever the truth of that, I am sure Donna Ilena loved your uncle. It is like a harmony in the letters, though they deal only with a convent there of which they both are patrons.”
He looked at her a moment before answering and she felt he might have addressed a quite different subject. Then he frowned. “Why was my uncle a patron of a convent? He wasn’t even Catholic.”
“He kept a journal,” said Chloe, flustered. Why was it that they could not be together for a moment, even talking of purely business matters, without her nerves trembling. . . . “You should read it one day,” she continued hurriedly. “He was in Venice shortly before he died, and this particular convent, which cares for orphans, came to his attention. Perhaps Donna Ilena brought it to his attention—it doesn’t say. He was very much one for giving charity to clearly defined objects. All his projects continued under Stephen and George. It is for you to say what happens now.”
Again a pause and he looked at her. Then a sudden movement, as he dragged his mind back to business. “And the lady still writes?”
“Yes,” she said, speaking a little too fast. “She tells of the work they do there, the little success stories. The letters are often delayed, but they arrive eventually. They are quite charming. You will have to brush up on your Italian.”
“Si, mi amori,” he said with a lazy smile.
“Amore mio,” she corrected.
“Am I?” he asked, delighted. Chloe felt her skin tingle as it colored.
Hastily, she said, “You can hardly cut the poor orphans off without a penny, Justin.”
He sighed. “I suppose not. How does the money get to them?”
“Your uncle set up a trust in Italy, through bankers there. The interest is paid to the Little Sisters of the Angels.”
“Painless charity,” he murmured. “And doubtless the sisters pray for my uncle’s soul, as well.”
“Doubtless. Perhaps this charity was a kind of insurance. Many people up here still have lingering sympathy for the Romish faith, and you come of an old Lancashire family.”
He looked at her with interest. “Have you studied the family history?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Lacking Hookham’s . . .”
“Were we for Hanover or Stuart in the last century?”
Chloe looked at him in surprise. A somewhat abrupt interest in history. “Well, the second baronet, your great-uncle, kept his head well down in ’45. Back in ’15, though, the first baronet showed distinct leanings toward the Stuarts and the Church of Rome. He’d married a staunch Protestant, however, and I think she kept him loyal. You should read her journals. A strong and rather terrifying woman. She was still alive in ’45 and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was responsible for your great-uncle’s discretion.”
“What of you?” he asked. “Do you not have a soft spot for romantic Bonnie Prince Charlie? So many young ladies do.”
Outrage jerked Chloe up straight. “I beg your pardon!”
Justin leaned slightly back and eyed her warily. “No?”
Chloe leapt to her feet, eyes flashing, and jabbed a finger hard at his waistcoat. “Justin Delamere, if I were a man, I’d call you out! The Ashbys were loyal to the Stuarts in the Civil War, but that ended when James II tried to bring back popishness. Anne created the earldom and George I, the dukedom. The Ashbys stand to a man—or woman—behind the throne.”
Forced back in his chair, Justin threw wide his hands, laughing. “I surrender. I apologize.”
Chloe retreated slightly, still fuming, but then she saw him laughing, brown eyes sparkling with merriment, skin flushed. He looked so young. He looked as he had when they first met.
He stood slowly and placed his papers on a small table there. Chloe retreated a step. Hand outstretched, he moved toward her, sober now, but with a different light in his eyes.
“No,” Chloe said.
“No?”
She couldn’t explain. It was too dangerous even to try to make sense of her tangled feelings.
After a moment he sighed and his hand fell. “As you will. I do need help in understanding all of the paperwork, though. Scarthwait spent an hour with me this morning, but most of the accounting seems to be yours, and I’m sure you would be best able to explain it.”
The last thing Chloe wanted was to be closeted with him for hours, and yet she could not escape the necessity. It would be seen as ridiculous to insist upon a chaperone. On whom could she call? The Duchess? Randal? They’d both die laughing.
At least she must have time to gain control of her mind.
“I have a few household tasks to see to,” she muttered. “Perhaps in an hour?”
“Very well.”
He stood for a moment, looking at her. Then his eyes wandered to the Dutch paintings over the mantel, as if he sought inspiration there among the dancing villagers. Chloe wished he would go. She also wished he would sweep her into his arms and seduce her from all her doubts. She saw his gaze sharpen, as if focusing on the pictures for the first time.
“That is a fine set,” he said. “I don’t remember it. Did Stephen buy it?”
“No, of course not,” said Chloe. “He had little interest in art. It was a gift from Herr van Maes. He’s a Dutch antiquarian who has been in the area for some time, studying the hogback stone and other ancient pieces. You will meet him on Thursday at dinner.”
“A handsome gift,” he said. “Given recently?”
“At Christmas.”
Chloe wondered at his interest, which seemed excessive. Then she thought it was possible he was jealous. She glanced at Justin again. He did look very serious. Jealousy was such an unpleasant emotion. Why did she feel a tiny thrill at the thought that it was eating him?
He seemed to drag his mind back to the matter in hand. “Try to help me as soon as possible, Chloe,” he said with a smile that looked a little forced. “I am drowning in indecipherable figures.”
“An hour,” she said, and he left.
Chloe looked at the pictures. Had Justin been jealous? She shook her head. If she did not intend to have him, it was despicable to want him to suffer on her behalf. Chloe resolved to give him no encouragement, then pushed the incident to the back of her mind.
What task should she busy herself in now to make good her excuse? With relief, she remembered a complaint from the laundress about the quality of the washing soda, and hurried off to the steamy little room with its boilers and dolly tubs.
The sight of Rosie, the nursery maid,
chatting as she folded the baby’s napkins, distracted her from soda, and resurrected her lingering suspicions about Belinda. Here was someone who could throw light on Belinda’s actions round about the time of Frank’s death. Just how effectively had Cedric questioned the girl?
Rosie dropped a curtsy. Chloe tried a subtle method of questioning.
“When you went out yesterday with Lady George, do you know how long you were gone, Rosie?”
“No, ma’am.” The girl looked thoroughly bewildered.
“Lady George went to the rose garden first?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then to the herb garden?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was always difficult to prize information out of the staff. Chloe tried for more details.
“What did Lady George do in the herb garden, Rosie?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
Chloe repressed an urge to shake the maid, who was doubtless only trying to be honest. “You may not know the names of the plants, Rosie, but were they leaves, flowers, or roots? And how much did she collect? If we knew how much was picked we could estimate the time.”
The girl was anxious now, twisting at her apron. “But I don’t know, ma’am!”
“Rosie, I am not expecting a botanical lesson . . .” Chloe broke off at the glazed look on the girl’s face and rephrased her statement. “I am not expecting you to know all about herbs. Did Lady George just pick a few sprigs or fill a basket?”
“But I don’t know, ma’am. I weren’t there.”
Chloe stared. “What?”
“I brought Miss Dorinda back into the house. I had her changed and ready when Lady George came in to feed her.”
“Oh, I see,” said Chloe. “And did that take very long?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Rosie.”
Chloe retreated to the Sea Room to consider. Probably Cedric had asked the same questions as she had begun with. Asking where Belinda was and assuming Rosie was with her. So Belinda, between leaving the rose garden and speaking to Budsworth in the herb garden, had been alone. She could have been with Frank.
