by C. J. Archer
"The rain doesn't bother me."
"Even so."
We wound our way through the cemetery, keeping our heads bent against the light rain. I was in the midst of thinking through everything Estelle had told us when Lincoln spoke again, just as we headed out through the gate.
"How is your foot?"
"It no longer hurts, and I gave it every reason to do so today."
"You had no trouble descending the drainpipe?"
"None. Thank you for not doubting my ability to do it. I appreciate your faith in me."
"There was no other choice."
I gave him a withering glare. "Thank you for pointing that out."
He arched a brow and slowed, but I continued on. He caught up and reached past me for the coach door. "Your nimbleness and speed were never in doubt, Fleet-foot Charlie," he murmured in my ear.
I turned my head to see if he was smiling, since I swear I could hear a smile in his voice. But his mouth was as firm as ever, his face a mask, and his eyes hooded.
He opened the door and helped me inside. We drove back to Lichfield Towers, where Cook dished out soup and plied us with questions. We told him what we'd learned, then discussed what to do next.
"This is all very interesting," I said, "but I fail to see how any of this would matter to Andrew Buchanan."
Gus slurped his soup, drawing everyone's attention, then licked his lips. "He'd be angry, like his father. No one told him he had a nephew, and he never got to meet him."
Seth shook his head. "He wouldn't care."
"He might, if the child had lived," Lincoln said. "With his brother childless, he remains heir to the estate, but a son changes that."
"Do you think the child lived after all?" I looked at him in horror. "But that's not possible, according to Estelle. She cannot give life, just the appearance of it."
"Miss Pearson may not know everything about her gift. But you are correct, it's unlikely the baby came back to life. I assume they buried him. However, we now know that Lady Harcourt is capable of having children. If she did so once, she can do so again. That might worry Buchanan."
"But it's been years, and she hasn't been with child again."
"It ain't an exact science," Gus said, with all the authority of Estelle herself. "Some women just fall pregnant if you look at 'em—"
"I'm pretty sure that's not how it works," Seth said, with a roll of his eyes.
"And some women can't have babies for years, and then suddenly, they have dozens."
"Dozens?"
"Shut your hole, Seth. What do you know about it? You ain't got brothers and sisters."
"I didn't know you were an only child," I told him.
Seth shrugged. "Did Miss Pearson say she spoke to Andrew Buchanan?"
"She never met him, but that doesn't mean he didn't learn that she was a midwife, after seeing her name in the journal, then put two and two together."
"I don't know if he's bright enough to work it out."
"Either way, it's obvious what has to be done next." Lincoln rose, and we all waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.
"Mr. Fitzroy?" I prompted as he headed for the kitchen door. "What are we going to do now?"
"You're not doing anything. I'm going to confront Lord and Lady Harcourt."
I exchanged glances with the other men. "He bloody well is not doing this without us," I muttered so that Lincoln couldn't hear.
"Go after him," Gus said, shooing me with his hands. "Tell him Cook wants to bake something special for fancy guests. Get him to invite them for dinner tonight so's we can listen in."
"Good idea. Even better, Seth, why don't you take an invitation to Harcourt House now, that way Fitzroy can't refuse."
The gazes of Seth, Gus and Cook drifted to the door behind me. All three turned pale then found their bowls of soup of utmost interest. I winced. Lincoln and his damned instincts.
I turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, his ankles and arms crossed as if he'd been there all along, waiting for me to walk into a trap.
Chapter 8
"I'll write them an invitation now," Lincoln said, pushing off from the door. "It seems Seth will be delivering it, as plotted." He left again.
I stared at the empty space where he'd been standing.
"Did I just hear what I think I heard?" Seth asked.
I raced after Lincoln and caught up to him at the base of the main staircase.
"Yes?" He stopped on the lowest step. "Is there something you need to confess?"
"What makes you say that?"
"It seems to be the order of the day, lately."
I crossed my arms. "That's not true." I lowered my voice and stepped up next to him, then went a step higher again. I was still shorter. "Besides, why do I need to confess when you can predict what I'm about to say and do?"
"I can't. I have instincts only, and they're not that well-defined."
"I think your instincts are growing stronger. First, you know when I'm not in the house, and now you seem to know what we're planning as if you overheard every single word."
"I did overhear you. I decided to come back and suggest the same thing only to hear you already giving orders as if you were the ministry's leader."
I bit the inside of my cheek and tried on an innocent smile. His scowl deepened.
"I thought you might somehow try to find out the details of my conversation with the Harcourts," he went on. "Since that would mean getting one of the Harcourt House staff on your side, I thought it much easier to swim with your tide, Charlie, instead of against it, and question the Harcouts here."
"I…I'm not sure how to take that."
"You're a force of nature, and not one I can control."
"Oh. No mincing words, then."
"I never do." He sighed and looked to the ceiling. "I can't believe I am suggesting you eavesdrop on our dinner tonight. Just be sure not to get caught."
"Why are you involving me at all? Aside from the force of nature part, that is. You could banish me to my room and lock me in."
"There will be no more locking you in your room," he snapped. "I thought I'd made that clear."
"It was just a joke."
He turned and headed up the stairs. "I've decided. That's all you need to know. If you question me further then I might change my mind."
I pressed my lips together and managed not to say anything else. He'd given me permission to listen in, and that was all I needed to know. For now.
"Thank you," I called up.
He didn't respond.
I returned to the kitchen, beaming. "You look like the cat that got the cream," Cook said.
"I'm the girl who got what she wanted. Fitzroy is actively encouraging me to listen in to the dinner conversation tonight."
Seth clapped me on the back as if I were his little brother. "Good show. Now, there's a pile of dishes in the scullery that need cleaning. Your foot's better, so there'll be no getting out of it."
"I don't want to get out of it. However." I turned on the same sweet smile I'd used on Lincoln. "Would you mind helping me? There's something I want to ask you. In private," I added in a whisper.
His face brightened. "Intriguing. Come on, then. I've got a few minutes before Fitzroy will be ready with the invitation."
He helped me fill the tub with warm water then picked up the cloth to dry as I washed.
"In the hospital earlier, I introduced us as the Guilfords. You seemed not to like that. Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have used a false name?"
His hand slowed as it circled the base of the plate. "No. Theoretically, you should have used my title. You all call me Seth, but out in the big wide world, I'm Vickers. Guilford is my family name but I haven't gone by that since my father died. It sounded odd to my ear, that's all."
I dangled my hands in the water and gaped at him. "You have a title."
One side of his mouth lifted. "I thought you knew."
"Perhaps I should have, but I've just put all the piece
s of the puzzle together. It never occurred to me that you were a lord. Nobody treats you like one."
"I prefer not to use the title among friends. Besides, it only serves to remind me of how far I've sunk." He held up the plate and cloth with a shrug.
"Oh, Seth, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It is what it is.
"What's your rank?"
"Just a baron, like Harcourt."
"So you are Lord Vickers, and you outrank us all here at Lichfield."
He snorted. "Not in this household. It's the most egalitarian in England, I'd wager. Where else does a housekeeper call her employer by his first name?"
I blushed. He'd heard that? "And where else does a baron do the dishes?" Or, for that matter, where else would an illegitimate son of a gypsy have more power than the three lords and one lady on the committee of a secret organization?
* * *
Lincoln didn't invite the dowager Lady Harcourt to dinner. At first I thought his manners poor, until I remembered that she'd invited Mrs. and Miss Overton to dine with her in the hope that Lincoln would join them. He'd refused, but she could only get out of it now if she pleaded ill.
Which, as it turned out, she did. "My stepmother postponed her dinner, claiming a headache," Lord Harcourt said, as Gus took his cloak and I accepted his wife's. "Otherwise Marguerite and I wouldn't have been able to come tonight. We were expected to dine with her guests."
"Please pass on my best wishes for a speedy recovery," Lincoln said. "And are you feeling better, madam?"
"Call me Marguerite." Lady Harcourt fluttered her fan against her pink cheek and eyed him over the top of it. On most women, it would have been flirtatious, but Marguerite seemed to be genuinely taking his measure. I wondered what she thought of him tonight, dressed in his dinner suit.
"Only if you call me Lincoln." He bowed graciously, and once again I admired how this man, who seemed to abhor formality and pomp, could perform as adequately as any gentleman in the appropriate setting.
She giggled. Perhaps she was flirting after all. I scrunched her red and black velvet cloak in my fingers and stood meekly by the wall, where I had no trouble disappearing; not because it was dark—an impossibility with all the candles in the chandelier blazing—but because Lord and Lady Harcourt took no notice of me. To them, I was invisible. That was as it ought to be, but it galled nevertheless, particularly when Lincoln and the others at Lichfield never treated me that way.
From there I could watch them. Both gentlemen looked dashing in their dinner suits, although Lincoln was by far the more handsome man, his mysterious and serious air enhancing his looks in a way that most women would find intriguing without being able to explain why. Lady Harcourt—Marguerite—looked very pretty in a red wine silk dress with black beading at the cuffs, collar and down the front skirt panels. The bustle was large, compared to the neat one her mother-in-law wore, but it suited her figure. It was quite high at the throat so she wore no necklaces, but her ruby earrings commanded enough attention that no other jewelry seemed necessary. She'd added black beads to her hair, but they got a little lost in the brown locks that were once again arranged in ringlets that framed her face.
She took Lincoln's offered arm and together they walked ahead of her husband into the parlor. I followed discreetly behind and remained outside the door. It was at times like these when I wished the drawing room on the first floor was in use. Using the parlor for such illustrious guests seemed inappropriate. I didn't care what they thought of me, but Lichfield Towers was an important manor house on the edge of London, and Lincoln ought to socialize with people of rank more. Perhaps it was time to discuss furnishing it properly.
I waited only a few moments then departed, but not before I heard Lady Harcourt lament how difficult it was to find good footmen these days and her husband respond with: "I'm surprised you have the same difficulty here in London, Fitzroy. I would have thought the unemployment problem would insure a steady supply of good staff."
"Oh, Donald," his wife chided. "Let's not discuss such vulgar things."
I wondered what else she considered too vulgar and how Lincoln would navigate through the minefield of inappropriate topics. He wasn't very adept at small talk.
I retreated to the kitchen and helped Cook and the others with dinner. He rarely got to show off his culinary skill, so he liked to turn even a small dinner party into a marvelous dining experience for the guests. Tonight he'd prepared no less than five courses.
Lincoln had left it to Cook to decide on a menu, something that would ordinarily be a hostess's duty. He claimed not to care what was served. Cook had shaken his head in disgust then taken preparations in hand.
"This be Lichfield's first dinner that ain't a committee one," he'd said. "We be doin' it proper."
This pronouncement was followed by a mad flurry of activity, since the day grew late. Seth and Gus had been dispatched to butchers, grocers and other shops, while Cook instructed me on the dishes he would serve. Involving me in the planning had seemed odd at first, when Cook had done it for the few committee dinner parties held at Lichfield, but now I was used to it. I didn't dare offer suggestions, however. My knowledge of fine cookery was very slim, and Cook was a master, as good as any French chef, according to Cook himself.
"There is going to be an awful lot of food left over, even after we take our share," I said, as I carefully poured soup from the pot into the silver tureen.
Seth placed the lid on and picked up the tureen. "Maybe your orphan friends can have it."
I wouldn't call Stringer and the other gang members I'd lived with, prior to being kidnapped by Lincoln, my friends, but they would certainly be grateful for the food. "You can deliver it to them tomorrow." I would not join them. I'd left that life behind and had no desire to go back. Besides, they'd known me as a boy, not a woman, and if they recognized me, we would all feel awkward.
Gus had already announced that dinner was ready, so the three of them were seated when Seth and I entered. Seth deposited the tureen on the sideboard, and I ladled soup into the bowls. We placed them in front of the guests and Lincoln.
Lord Harcourt eyed Seth as if he was trying to work out where he'd seen him before. I couldn't be certain if he'd remembered by the time Seth left, but the frown never quite disappeared from his lordship's brow.
I remained in the dining room to listen in, as planned. I wasn't sure how Lincoln would approach such a delicate matter with his guests—a matter that was absolutely inappropriate for the dinner table—however, my curiosity was answered when he simply stated: "There has been a development in the search for your brother, Harcourt."
Lady Harcourt swallowed her mouthful of soup too fast and coughed delicately into her hand. "Have you found him?"
"Not yet."
Her face fell. "Oh."
"Don't fret, my dear." Her husband lifted his hand as if he would reach across the table to take hers, but the distance was too great and he let it drop to the white damask table cloth. "What's the nature of this development, Fitzroy?"
"It is a matter of some delicacy." With only the briefest pause to allow his guests time to digest that news, yet not allow them to avoid discussion, Lincoln added, "Do you recall me asking you about the woman known as Estelle Pearson?"
Lady Harcourt paled. She set her spoon down, her soup unfinished. I drew a little closer in case she fainted again. It would be messy if she ended up face-down in her soup.
"What about her?" Lord Harcourt snapped.
"We learned that she worked as a midwife at the Queen Charlotte Hospital for Lying-In." His use of "we" warmed my heart. He was no longer thinking of himself as the sole person within the ministry, something that he used to do even with Seth and Gus as his only employees. He was now talking as if we were a team. "We were able to ascertain that she delivered you of a baby boy, Marguerite, five years ago."
A kittenish mewl came from Lady Harcourt's throat. She pressed her fingers to her lips and appealed to her husband.
&nbs
p; "Don't fret, my dear," he said again, more gently. "I will deal with this." He turned to Lincoln, and his face darkened. He looked as if he would leap out of his chair and attempt to thrash his host. "What is the meaning of this?"
Lincoln remained calm, seemingly unperturbed that he'd offended his guests. "Only that we wish to find Buchanan, and Miss Pearson's name was of possible interest to him. We want to know why."
"Miss Pearson and her visit to Emberly Park have nothing to do with my brother! Do you understand me? This is outrageous."
"Donald, please." Lady Harcourt whimpered into her napkin, instantly silencing her husband. He sat back in his chair and regarded his wife with sad, troubled eyes. "If answering Lincoln's questions will help him locate Andrew, then we must answer them."
"But my dear," he said with what appeared to be considerable effort. "It clearly upsets you."
"I'm stronger than I look."
I admired her fortitude. I filled up her wine glass and offered her a sympathetic smile. She wasn't looking at me, however, and didn't notice.
To Lincoln, she said, "What precisely did Miss Pearson tell you?"
"Estelle Pearson is dead." She gasped, but he spoke over the top of it. "It was a close relative who informed us of her association with you."
"But she promised not to tell a soul!" Lady Harcourt wailed. "How could she?"
Lord Harcourt finally got up and went to his wife. I took the opportunity to nudge Lincoln in the shoulder and urge him with a nod. It was important to strike before they decided to leave. Lady Harcourt might be keen to help, but if her husband got his way, they would walk out before the main course arrived.
"Your secret is safe," he assured her. "We know your baby was full-term, Marguerite, and that he only lived another day after his birth."
Lord Harcourt took his wife's limp hand in his own and patted it. "That's enough, Fitzroy," he growled. "No more questions. Can you not see my wife is distressed?"
But Lady Harcourt no longer looked distressed. She fixed her watery yet defiant gaze on Lincoln and said, "Hector. That's the name we gave him."
