Nicola Cornick - [Bluestocking Brides 01]

by The Notorious Lord

  Rachel smiled slightly. Kitty, the kitchen maid, was no slouch when it came to spotting a likely young man, and Cory’s valet, Bradshaw, was a very well set-up lad indeed.

  ‘There’s just me and Rose,’ Mrs Goodfellow continued, nodding at the lumpy housemaid, ‘and she’s kept busy washing the pots your mama is digging out.’ She gave a sudden bellow of laughter, her chins wobbling. ‘Your mama asked if I’d like to help out today, Miss Rachel. Can you see me in a trench? I’d likely sink in the sand and need to be dug out myself!’

  ‘I’m sure that you would do a splendid job, Mrs Goodfellow,’ Rachel said, ‘but we need you here. If my parents persist in borrowing all the servants to help run their excavation, we shall all starve.’

  ‘Wouldn’t catch me down there,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, picking up her chopping knife again and attacking another carrot with gusto. ‘I’ve seen those ghosts, so I have, Miss Rachel, and I’m keeping well away!’

  Rachel frowned. She had come across superstitious servants often on her travels, but would not have placed Mrs Goodfellow as one of them. Her practical common sense had always seemed much like Rachel’s own, leaving no room for fanciful ideas.

  ‘Ghosts, Mrs Goodfellow?’ she said. ‘Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense?’

  ‘Seen them with my own eyes,’ the cook said bluntly, ‘flitting about down there on the mounds in the moonlight.’

  ‘Ghosts flitting about in the moonlight? Have you been having a bedtime tipple, Mrs Goodfellow?’

  Cory Newlyn had come into the kitchen, his hands full of pottery. Bradshaw was following him in with a bucket full of shards. Rachel jumped at the sight of him, then winced as more sandy soil was trampled into the house.

  Mrs Goodfellow beamed at the newcomers. ‘No need for your sauce, my lord! I haven’t touched a drop since my John died. No, and I know what I’ve seen as well. Men with shields and helmets on, just like in the history books.’

  Cory raised his brows. ‘Men with shields? Really? We have just found some bits of Anglo-Saxon pottery, so who knows, you may be right, Mrs Goodfellow.’

  He put the pot gently into the sink and gave the housemaid his heart-shaking smile. ‘I do apologise for bringing you all this extra washing up, Rose…’

  Rose looked as though she was about to melt under the warmth of Cory’s smile. She bobbed a curtsy and mumbled something incoherent.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, changing her tune rather smartly. ‘Anything for you, my lord.’

  Rachel smothered an unladylike snort. She suspected that more than one woman had said that to Cory in his time.

  ‘I could lend you Bradshaw later if you have any heavy jobs need doing,’ Cory offered. ‘By way of a thank you.’

  Mrs Goodfellow eyed the valet. ‘Thank you, my lord, but no. I don’t want my girls’ heads stuffed with any more silly ideas than are already there. You keep the lad with you and out of trouble.’

  Rose giggled and blushed.

  Rachel came forward to have a look at one of the pieces that Cory was washing gingerly in the sink. Clearly this was too delicate to be entrusted to Rose, and when she saw it Rachel could understand why. It was a drinking horn with a decorated metal rim and, though it was a little battered and had a piece missing, it was still very beautiful.

  ‘How lovely! I wonder who this belonged to…’

  Cory gave her his swift smile. He leaned closer, so close that his hair brushed her cheek and momentarily distracted her. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and Rachel was taken by an insane desire to run her fingers over the smooth nut-brown skin of his arm. She put both her hands behind her back.

  ‘I think it was for feasting and was modelled on an auroch horn,’ Cory said. He held it out to her. ‘The decoration on the rim is incredibly delicate.’

  ‘It must have been kept for very special occasions,’ Rachel said, touching the damp surface very gently. ‘I can see Mrs Goodfellow’s warriors all sitting around a fire in the great hall, passing the drinking horn and telling their battle stories…’

  She looked up from the horn to see Cory smiling at her. She felt her knees go weak and caught hold of the edge of the sink to steady herself, pretending that she was checking the pieces waiting to be washed.

  ‘It is nice to hear you so enthusiastic, Rae,’ she heard Cory say. ‘I thought you did not care for antiquities.’

  ‘I like history,’ Rachel said, trying to concentrate. ‘It is all the digging I cannot abide.’

  ‘Ah, then you will not wish to join us this afternoon.’

  ‘No, thank you. I am visiting Mrs Stratton in Midwinter Mallow.’ Rachel wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘Papa was looking for you, Cory. He has read your article in the journal of the Royal Society.’

  ‘I know,’ Cory said. ‘I saw him as we were coming in. He told me that my conclusions were all wrong.’

  ‘He told me that you were a fine antiquary,’ Rachel said. She saw how pleased Cory looked and felt warmed. ‘So you had better get back out to the excavation and prove him right.’

  Cory went, still smiling, and Rachel felt happy and relieved. Things were back to normal. She and Cory had achieved their old footing and the same easy friendship as before. No doubt everyone felt weak at the knees when Cory smiled at them. It was just his way.

  ‘Yon’s a fine gentleman,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, pointing her knife in the direction that Cory had gone. ‘Surprised you did not snap him up years ago, Miss Rachel.’

  ‘Oh, Cory and I are just friends, Mrs Goodfellow,’ Rachel said airily. ‘Nothing more.’

  She bent to sweep up the dirt on the floor and therefore completely missed the cook’s look of transparent disbelief. Mrs Goodfellow even went so far as to roll her eyes and shake her head, setting Rose the maid off into a paroxysm of silent laughter.

  ‘Friendship, eh?’ Mrs Goodfellow murmured, as Rachel went outside to put the sand back where it belonged. ‘The Quality can never see what’s under their noses. They say that love is blind, Rose, but Miss Rachel gives a whole new meaning to the notion!’

  And Rachel, pausing by the sand pit in the courtyard, was busy proving that very point for she found herself standing staring in the direction that Cory had gone, long after his tall figure had disappeared.

  Chapter Six

  A meeting of a very different nature from that of the reading group took place at Kestrel Court that night. Although the June dusk lingered, the curtains were drawn tightly and the candles were lit. Cory Newlyn joined the Duke of Kestrel and his two younger brothers, Richard and Lucas, in the drawing room, where Justin Kestrel dispensed glasses of brandy to the gentlemen and then put forward a certain proposal.

  It was lucky that his companions had strong drink with which to fortify themselves, for the shock was extreme.

  Cory was the first to regain his breath. ‘I beg your pardon, Justin, but you wish us to do what, precisely?’ he said incredulously. A look of complete disbelief spread across his face. ‘Forgive me, but I thought that you said that, in order to trap the Midwinter spy, you wanted us to make love to the ladies of the Midwinter villages!’

  Justin Kestrel sat back in his armchair and tilted his brandy glass to his lips. A smile lingered in his eyes as he surveyed the consternation on the faces of his guests. ‘You heard me correctly, Cory,’ he said. ‘That is exactly what we would like you to do.’

  Cory and Richard Kestrel exchanged a glance. ‘You silence me, Justin,’ Richard said, ‘and that does not happen very often.’ He threw himself down into the chair opposite his brother, completing the circle of three sitting before the fireplace. Lucas Kestrel preferred to stand, restlessly pacing the room whilst the others lounged at their ease.

  In the flicker of the candlelight the expressions on the faces of the Duke’s guests were varied. Richard Kestrel was a renowned poker player and his face, dark and saturnine, revealed nothing of his feelings. Lucas was looking frankly perplexed at his brother’s words. And Cory, who had t
hought that a day of hard excavation work had made him unnaturally slow and possibly deaf, waited for Justin Kestrel to elucidate, with a half-smile still lingering on his lips.

  Cory had come late to the group, for he had met with Justin Kestrel at his club only the week before coming to Suffolk. When Justin had heard that Cory planned to join the Odells at Midwinter Royal, he had immediately invited him to join him at Kestrel Court—and had co-opted Cory to his plan. The broad outline of this was that the Duke of Kestrel was commissioned to catch a French spy who was currently working on the Suffolk coast. The details of the plan to entrap the traitor were just becoming apparent. Cory, who had joined in any number of escapades orchestrated by the Kestrels since their days at Harrow, nevertheless thought that this time Justin might have over-reached himself. Make love to the ladies of the Midwinter villages…There was only one lady who tempted him in that respect and, since making love to Rachel Odell was out of the question, he was destined to a long, celibate summer.

  ‘I had thought that gentlemen of your reputation would take such a suggestion in your stride,’ Justin murmured, the calm tone of his voice belied by the twinkle in his eyes as he watched his brothers and his friend. ‘Are you rejecting our commission?’

  ‘I thought that we were working on behalf of the Foreign Office, not some Covent Garden bordello,’ Cory observed. ‘Good God, Justin, when I offered my services this was not quite what I had in mind!’

  ‘One must do one’s patriotic duty, I suppose,’ Richard Kestrel murmured with a whimsical smile. He rested one broad shoulder against the back of the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. ‘I will accept your commission with pleasure, Justin.’

  ‘Rein in your enthusiasm, Richard,’ Lucas said drily, coming to lean against the arm of his brother’s chair. ‘I believe we should discover the true nature of the task before we get too excited!’

  Cory took a deep swallow of the brandy and glanced appreciatively at the glass in his hand. There were many reprehensible things going on in the Midwinter villages, but the smuggling was the one thing that he would be loath to put at an end.

  ‘Thank God you gave us a drink before you sprang that on us, Justin,’ he said feelingly. ‘I need it! Where do you find your brandy?’

  ‘In a keg under the hedge, I’ll wager,’ Richard said drily. ‘And I cannot blame you, Justin.’

  The Duke grinned, but did not deny it. ‘Let us be serious for a moment, gentlemen,’ he said. He got to his feet and moved across to the table. A map of the county of Suffolk was folded there and Justin opened it, spreading it out on the green baize surface. Richard weighted one corner down with his brandy glass and Lucas took a book from the shelves and placed it on the corner diagonally opposite. The atmosphere in the room had changed from the good-natured banter of a moment previously. All of them knew that there was more to this than a convivial drink among friends and an outrageous commission.

  ‘I realise that you are aware of why we are here,’ Justin continued, ‘but it might help to recapitulate.’ He looked around at their intent faces. ‘As you know, gentlemen, this is an invasion coast. It would take a French fleet no more than forty-eight hours to make the crossing from Dunkirk—less, in fair weather. It is generally accepted at the Admiralty that the bulk of the invasion army would be landed in Kent or Sussex, but that a diversionary force could land on the Suffolk coast and cause considerable difficulties.’

  The others nodded.

  ‘How many men?’ Cory asked.

  It was Richard, with his Navy background, who answered, ‘Possibly twenty thousand.’

  Cory gave a silent whistle. ‘Hence the need for well-drilled volunteers to provide support for the regular troops.’

  Lucas nodded. ‘Exactly. It may not happen, of course, but one must be prepared. But our problem is closer to home. What is the latest intelligence, Justin?’

  Justin took up the thread. ‘Precious little. We know that French spies have been operating in the Midwinter villages, but we do not know who they are. They have been passing on information about troop movements, harbour defences, even, we suspect, the names of local men who might prove amenable to helping the French ships navigate the rivers—fishermen, smugglers and the like.’ His mouth tightened to a grim line. ‘Much of the information is in code and we do not know which cipher they are using, nor how the messages are being passed.’

  Richard frowned. ‘Had Jeffrey Maskelyne not found out any information before his death? I thought he had been working on the problem for some time.’

  Justin was shaking his head. ‘He had, but he left no record—’ He broke off. ‘What is it, Cory?’

  ‘Maskelyne did leave something,’ Cory said slowly. ‘Miss Odell told me yesterday that she had found a collection of false books that Maskelyne left.’

  ‘False books?’ Richard frowned.

  ‘Book frontages with nothing but blocks of wood behind,’ Cory elaborated, much as Rachel had done. ‘I wondered whether there might be a message of some sort hidden in one of them.’

  ‘Any chance you could get a look?’ Justin enquired.

  Cory nodded. ‘I can certainly try, though it would be difficult to explain if Miss Odell noticed what I was up to…’

  ‘I am sure that you can think up a suitably plausible excuse,’ Justin said. He shifted slightly. ‘We are dealing with damnably clever spies here, gentlemen. These are people who do not make mistakes and do nothing to draw attention to themselves. They give us no clues at all. Hence the need to take a different approach and one that may seem a little…duplicitous at times.’

  Lucas’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, speaking of duplicity…Your theory is that if we lay siege to the hearts of the Midwinter ladies, then we may learn something useful?’

  Justin’s grim expression lightened slightly. ‘In part. Local gossip is often a fertile source of information. There is another reason, however.’ He let go of the map and rolled it up with a sharp snap.

  ‘All evidence suggests,’ he said, ‘that the Midwinter spy is a woman.’

  This time the silence went on for a long time. Eventually Cory broke it with a rueful look round at his companions.

  ‘I do not suppose that any of us disputes such a possibility, Justin,’ he said, ‘but what is the evidence?’

  Justin sighed. ‘There was a female spy working in Dorset last year. She was almost caught.’ His mouth quirked ruefully. ‘The reason she was not was because those seeking her found it so difficult to believe that the spy was a woman. They traced her to London in the winter, but then she disappeared.’

  ‘And now you suspect that the same woman is here in Midwinter?’ Richard questioned.

  ‘That is correct.’

  Lucas grimaced. ‘Surely there cannot be many suspects who fit the bill? She should be easy to trace…’

  Justin smiled. ‘That is precisely the problem, Lucas. She is not. And this is a matter of life and death. A man has died and we are no further advanced. The activities of this person are putting thousands of lives at risk. If her information enables the French to mount a successful invasion, then put that at hundreds of thousands.’

  ‘Treason,’ Cory said. Put in such stark terms, it hardened his purpose. There could be no allowances made, nor chivalrous gestures. Cory’s adventures, both covert and open, had taken him all over the globe and he had no illusions about the capabilities of women. Justin’s next words echoed his thoughts precisely.

  ‘There is no room for sentiment here, nor conventional views on the frailty of women, gentlemen. I assure you that our spy is not in the least frail.’

  ‘Does she work alone?’ Cory asked.

  Justin shrugged. ‘Probably not. But the organisation centres on her. Hers is the cool calculation behind all the planning—and hers is the execution.’

  ‘Suspects?’ Richard said succinctly.

  ‘The obvious one,’ Justin said, ‘is Lady Sally Saltire. She is a rich widow, she has the freedom to travel a great deal, she was in London
this winter past, and we know her to have the capability to plan such an operation. One has to question what she is doing in a backwater like Midwinter in the first place.’

  ‘Planning a watercolour book to raise funds for charity, so I hear,’ Cory said feelingly.

  Justin Kestrel laughed. ‘Indeed. Which gives us an ideal excuse for becoming involved in Lady Sally’s circle. If we were all to volunteer to take part in the book—’

  Cory groaned. ‘Must we? All experience suggests that you will not need an excuse to become involved in local society, Justin. To the contrary, you will need protection from it! An unmarried Duke with a romantic reputation—you will be under siege!’

  ‘Devil a bit!’ Justin said cheerfully. ‘I can handle it. I say we should all offer to take part.’

  Richard raised his brows. ‘I have no objection to the watercolour book, but one has to question your logic in suspecting Lady Sally of spying, Justin.’ He hesitated. ‘You know her better than anyone and I cannot believe that you would think her a traitor.’

  Justin Kestrel’s face was drawn. ‘I used to know her a long time ago, Richard. I have no idea of her political sympathies now.’

  Cory caught Richard’s eye. They all knew that Justin had once carried a torch for Sally Saltire. Popular rumour said that he still did. He had never married.

  Lucas was leaning over the map. ‘Who are our other suspects and where are they situated?’

  Justin reached for the brandy bottle and passed it around.

  ‘The Marneys live in Midwinter Mallow,’ he said, pointing to the west of the area. ‘Ross Marney is a war hero who served in Egypt. He is married to Olivia, a lady of unimpeachable virtue whom I would swear could no more be a French spy than I could. But—one never knows.’