Mrs. Cordova seized one of many trailing wisps of hair and thrust it under her cap. She then took up her teacup and waved it towards an extremely ample ‘lady’ who occupied a fireside chair. “Mrs. Hughes-Dering,” she said. “And if there is anything worth knowing, from the shires to Brighton to Bath, Monica knows it, I promise you.”
“Well, that is true,” agreed Sir Lionel, who numbered the real and extremely formidable dowager among his friends.
Blake, still looking grim, said, “Then perhaps the lady can tell us of the whereabouts of my step-mother, which is more than—”
Sir Gavin’s voice cut across the bitter words like the crack of a whip. “You forget yourself, sir!”
There was an instant of stunned silence.
Blake flushed scarlet, and mumbled an apology.
Marietta and Fanny looked at each other in amazement. Their hire of the dower house had been arranged with Sir Gavin’s steward a year previously. They had not met either of the Covilles for several months after they’d moved in, but a recent visit had been followed with rather surprising frequency by others. They had never known Sir Gavin to be anything but poised and gracious. In fact Fanny had said he was “Sedate, serene, and bloodless, and quite without any human emotions.” He was not sedate now, and to see that distinguished countenance distorted with passion was shocking.
Engrossed in his troubles, Sir Gavin put a hand across his brow and bowed his head.
Mrs. Cordova rose, pushed back her untidy hair and spread her skirts. In a thin but not tuneless voice she began to sing, and as she sang she danced slowly around the centre of the room.
“Oh, no!” moaned Fanny, sotto voce. “Aunty Dova’s off!”
Blake Colville’s jaw dropped and he stared, clearly dumbfounded.
“‘’Tis better,’” trilled Mrs. Cordova, “‘to have loved and lost … than never … to have loved at all…’”
Sir Gavin’s head jerked up, and he stared at her, his eyes intent.
Sinking to a deep curtsy before him, she murmured, “Is that not so, sir?”
He said tensely, “Then—you know, ma’am?”
Blake snapped, “How could she know? Nobody knows!”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Cordova, drifting back to her chair. “But nobody knows what I know. I know … things…” She pounced at another of her inanimate friends and demanded saucily, “Is that not right, Sir Frederick?”
Blake pulled his chair closer to Marietta and murmured, “Sir Frederick? Is that supposed to be Freddy Foster? Be dashed if it don’t bear a strong resemblance to the silly clod—Er, what I mean is, are they friends?”
“They were, before we left Town. Mr. Coville, pray do not judge—I mean—Aunt Cordova was my mother’s sister, and she is the dearest creature, but—it is just that—well, since she lost her husband, you know…”
“Married some Spanish fella, didn’t she?”
He had spoken with no more than mild curiosity, but she was at once defensive. “It was a very happy marriage, but he went back to fight against Bonaparte and was killed at the Battle of Salamanca. Aunty has never quite recovered from the shock.”
Coville slanted a glance to where his father was now talking earnestly to Sir Lionel. “Is that when the poor lady started making these—er, effigies?”
Marietta shook her head. “It only began after we moved down here. Aunty Dova is very warm-hearted, and she misses her friends terribly. So she decided to pretend she can still chat with them, just as if—”
A cry of anguish interrupted her, and she was dismayed to see Sir Gavin bow forward in an attitude of despair.
As swiftly as she started up, Blake was before her, bending over his father and patting his shoulder comfortingly. “Now, sir, you must not upset yourself so. I thought we had agreed not to speak of the matter.”
Sir Gavin groped for a handkerchief, and dabbing at his eyes gulped, “I—I know. But—the lady seemed to … That is, she said she knew … something, but Sir Lionel says…” He shook his head, unable to finish the sentence.
Sir Lionel hurried to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy for the distraught man.
Shocked by such a display of emotion, Fanny crept to take her sister’s hand and said nervously, “Dearest, perhaps we should allow the gentlemen to be private.”
“No, no. Pray do not let me frighten you away.” Sir Gavin sipped his brandy and set the glass down. “I do most humbly apologize for … for that disgraceful outburst. But—” His voice shredded. “You had as well know the whole. It is my—my dear wife, you see. She has been—stolen!”
After the initial outburst of dismay and sympathy, Sir Lionel exclaimed, “I can scarce credit that so dreadful a thing should take place! How did it happen?”
Blake said sombrely, “We know very little. Three weeks ago at some time during the night Lady Pamela vanished from our London house.”
Incredulous, Marietta said, “But surely someone must have seen or heard something! Did no one notice a—a carriage pull up, or a door close, or something of the sort?”
Sir Gavin shook his head. “Alas. Nothing.”
“In the heart of London?” exclaimed Sir Lionel. “I’d have said such a crime could not go unnoticed!”
“True,” said Blake harshly. “Unless the criminal chances to be an expert in such matters.”
Marietta searched his grim face. “Has there been a demand for ransom, then? Do you say you suspect someone?”
“We’ve not been approached for a ransom. But we know—”
His father raised a silencing hand. “It is one thing to suspect, Miss Warrington. But as to proving it…” He shrugged. “We cannot be sure.”
“Cannot be sure?” cried Blake impatiently. “What other explanation is there? Who else could get into the house, know where to find her, and spirit her away? Who else had a motive?”
“Who, indeed?” Sir Gavin said with a sigh. “We have kept the matter very much in the family till now, but I will confide in you, my friends, and hope your aunt may be able to help us.” He took a deep breath, as though nerving himself. “It is, you see, that my dear wife’s mama had settled a considerable sum upon her grandson—my step-son, that is to say. But it was left in trust. Young Paisley was not—er, pleased when I married his mother. I tried, but”—he shrugged helplessly—“I failed, alas. The boy took me in dislike and wished to live elsewhere. He demanded his inheritance. My wife loves him devotedly, but she was forbidden to hand over the monies until he reached the age of five and twenty. He stalked out of the house in a rage fifteen years ago, when he was but eighteen years of age.”
Mrs. Cordova sang softly, “But he’s come home again … home again.”
They all stared at her.
Sir Lionel pursed his lips and murmured, “Jupiter, but Paisley stayed away more than a day or two, didn’t he! Fifteen years? Why, he must be—let’s see…”
“Three and thirty,” supplied Blake. “But he’s lived hard, and looks older.”
“Which has nothing to say to the matter,” said his father in another sudden burst of irritation. “The point is that his attitude was—was quite unacceptable. He insulted me, which was not important save that it upset my dear wife. Lady Pamela has been ill for some years and her nerves are not— Well, at all events, she became hysterical and said she would not sign over his inheritance until he apologized. Paisley is a man of—of a most violent nature. He demanded his rights, and so bullied my wife that I was forced to have him ejected from the house.”
“Pretty behaviour!” exclaimed Fanny, her romantic heart moved by the dramatic tale. “What manner of man could treat his mama in such a fashion?”
“My step-brother,” muttered Blake, frowning, “is capable of any villainy!”
Sir Gavin said wearily, “Now, Blake. We do not know that.”
“We know that Lady Pamela disappeared the very next day! And that she’s not been seen since!” Blake sprang up and paced to the fireplace agitatedly. “He has taken he
r, I tell you! And means to force her to sign over the monies.”
Marietta said haltingly, “But—surely, he is by now of an age to claim his inheritance?”
“Exactly so,” said Sir Gavin. “But the thing is, you see, that there was a condition to the bequest. His grandmama, knowing how wild and undisciplined was his character, stipulated that in the event he should behave in such a way as to bring disgrace down upon the family name, then my wife was to use the money to establish a home for orphaned children.”
His eyes very wide, Sir Lionel asked, “And has Paisley disgraced the family name? Oh, your pardon! I should not pry into your affairs!”
“You do not pry, sir. Have I not asked for your aid?” Sir Gavin said. “Paisley is, alas, of a revolutionary turn of mind. Heaven only knows the type of men with whom he has associated these fifteen years. He has been involved in some very dark doings: the kidnapping of a young lady a few years back, a prominent and wealthy French nobleman who was hounded to his death, an ugly scandal in Brittany—to name but a few disgraceful incidents.”
“Well! If that don’t beat the Dutch!” muttered Sir Lionel, flabbergasted.
Her eyes very round, Fanny breathed, “He must be a monster veritable!”
Marietta asked, “Then you believe Mr. Paisley, or I should say Lord Temple and Cloud, has kidnapped the lady so as to force her to make over his inheritance.”
Sir Gavin nodded miserably. “It would seem so, Miss Warrington.”
“Why, it’s wicked!” declared Sir Lionel. “It’s more than wicked! Be dashed if it ain’t downright evil! You must find your wife, sir!”
“We have tried, heaven knows,” said Blake. “We’ve had men searching. We’ve scoured Lanterns from roof-tiles to cellars, but—”
“Lanterns!” Alarmed, Marietta cried, “Oh, no! Do you think he has his mama here, then?”
“We’ll not be safe in our beds with such a man in the neighbourhood,” exclaimed Fanny, turning pale.
“Pray do not be worried, ma’am,” said Blake reassuringly. “He is not there. Nor is my poor step-mama. After her disappearance, as my father said, we fairly turned the wretched old ruin inside out.”
Sir Lionel asked, “What do the authorities have to say? I fancy you’ve Bow Street and the local constables searching for the rogue?”
Blake looked sternly at his father. “As they should.”
“No!” Sir Gavin’s response was vehement. “I’ll not have my wife’s name bandied about the newspapers! I’ll not have a whisper of scandal touch our family! I have hired men privately. We shall find Lady Coville, I promise you!”
“Perhaps,” muttered Blake. “Assuming my brutish stepbrother ain’t frightened the poor creature into her grave!”
Fanny gave a squeal of horror.
Sir Gavin said remorsefully, “Alas, we are alarming the ladies. I should have known better than to confide such a terrible story. But—” He rose and turned to Mrs. Cordova, who was carefully rearranging ‘Mrs. Hughes-Dering’s’ gown. “Ma’am—you seem to have some knowledge of our trouble. If there is anything you can tell us—anything—we shall be eternally in your debt.”
Sir Lionel said supportively, “Now, Emma. If you really do know anything that will help Sir Gavin, you must tell him, my dear.”
Mrs. Cordova giggled, and murmured archly, “Such a handsome man, Monica, do you not agree? Shall I help him? What is it you wish me to tell you, sir? Is it about my radishes? Ah, lots of folk would like to know how I grow such magnificent radishes. My late husband was very fond of a radish now and then.” Her face grew sad. “I heard you say you had lost your wife. You have my sympathy. To lose the one you care for is dreadful. Just dreadful.”
He gazed into her kind but vacant eyes, then glanced at Sir Lionel, who gave a gesture of helplessness. Nodding resignedly, Sir Gavin said, “I fear we have overstayed our welcome, sir. We shall leave you in peace.”
Mrs. Cordova hurried out to alert the Covilles’ coachman.
Sir Gavin looked very sad as he said his farewells. In the large and chilly entrance hall, he asked, “Warrington, do you think your sister really has any knowledge of my wife?”
“She might.” Sir Lionel hesitated. “There’s no way of telling. Most of the time poor Emma is quite rational. She has the warmest heart. A very good woman. Such a pity.”
Following, with Marietta beside him, Blake Coville said, “Well, now you know our dark secrets, Miss Warrington. Shall you deny me next time I call?”
“As if I would! You have my sympathy, rather. I shall pray for the safe return of your step-mama.”
They turned into the entrance hall. The two older men had passed outside, and Blake took Marietta’s hand and drew her to a halt. “You are too good. Dare I impose on you to keep an eye on the manor house and let us know if you see any sign of my step-brother?”
“It would be our pleasure, sir. I only wish we could do more. Or that I knew something that would help.”
“I do!” A small, muddy, and untidy figure darted at them from behind the thick draperies that closed off the draughty hall in cold weather. “I know all about it!” declared Arthur, jumping up and down in his excitement. “I tried to tell Bridger, but he wouldn’t listen and said I was not to ’sturb you. Friar Tuck an’ me—we saw the villins drag the lady out from the Haunted Castle of the Sheriff of Notting—”
“Arthur, you rascal!” said Marietta, realizing belatedly that she had neglected her small brother. “I thought you were in your room! Have you but now come home?”
“I bin home ages ’n ages. I hided in the curtains and heard everything what you said, an’—”
“Oh!” she gasped. “How dared you! Up to bed, young man! At once!”
Mrs. Cordova hurried to join them and took the boy by the hand. “He is not to blame, Marietta. We are. Come, scamp! Oh, how dirty you are! You must have had a lovely time. No, never mind spinning any of your tall tales, it’s wash and bed for you, my lad.”
“But I did see,” he wailed. “An’ I’m hungry! I hasn’t et for weeks, I ’spect!”
Watching as he was led, protesting, away, Blake said in amusement, “An active imagination, has he?”
“Very active.” Marietta held out her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Coville. Truly, I am sorry for your trouble.”
Holding that small and not very well manicured hand in both his own, he said, “I thank you. And—I am permitted to call again? You will like to hear if—I mean when we find my step-mama, no?”
“Oh, yes indeed!”
Still holding her hand, he said, “And if your aunt should remember something, anything at all, may I beg that you send word? We stay with the Dales at Downsdale Park.”
Downsdale Park was probably the most palatial of the nearby residences, and Lord and Lady Dale, extremely haughty, were said to entertain nobody below the rank of baronet. ‘How lowly our home must seem to him,’ thought Marietta. But she said, “Of course. We will notify you at once.”
She tried to disengage her hand, but he held it captive a moment longer, half-smiling into her eyes in a way that made the breath hurry in her throat.
“You are so kind,” he said softly, and bowing his curly head pressed a kiss on her fingers. “Truly, our steward did us an inestimable service when he was able to interest Sir Lionel in this property. Adieu, lovely Miss Warrington. I shall count the hours to our next meeting.”
Painfully aware that she was blushing, Marietta bade him goodnight and closed the door.
Her father had to knock quite loudly before she recovered her wits sufficiently to let him in.
CHAPTER II
The breeze set the clothes flapping on the line, and Marietta had to struggle to settle the prop firmly. She had toiled with the wash for most of the morning, and the thought of it falling and having to be done again made her cringe. She was late hanging it out to dry because Mrs. Gillespie, who should have come today, had not appeared. Probably, she had suffered another of her ‘rheumaticky s
pasms.’ Spasms, Marietta thought resentfully, that originated in a gin bottle. Mrs. Gillespie was, in fact, a less than satisfactory helper, but she was willing to come on Tuesdays and Thursdays, for a comparatively meagre sum, and when she was not suffering from her ‘spasms’ worked hard and seldom broke things.
The clothes smelled clean, and if the breeze held they should dry nicely by sunset. Marietta stretched wearily, and straightened her aching back. She had awoken in the night and for at least an hour had been quite unable to go back to sleep, thinking of poor Lady Pamela Coville and her wicked son, but with her thoughts wandering often to the dashing Mr. Blake Coville.
It seemed that each time they met she was more attracted to the gentleman whom common sense decreed she should dismiss from her mind. He was the beau ideal of London. Rich, handsome, perfectly formed, the heir to a baronetcy, and as kind and mannerly as he was well born. In other words, the target of the eagle eyes of countless match-making mamas. When she was near him, it seemed that his every thought was of and for her; indeed he was so obviously admiring that Papa was becoming hopeful of his spinster daughter finally making a match that would restore their fortunes forever. Poor, foolish Papa. Blake Coville was a gentleman in the fullest sense of the word, and was likely courteous and attentive to every lady he met. As for Miss Marietta Warrington, she might be passably pretty, but she had no fortune to recommend her. Fortune, indeed! Far from a fortune, she had a large family to be supported and not even a small dowry to lure a husband!
Reluctant to go back inside she stole a few minutes to wander about and enjoy her surroundings. The dower house faced southwest and had the advantage of the Channel view. The rear was lovely also, its lawns and gardens blending into broad meadowland threaded by a sparkling stream, and framed by the emerald swell of the Downs. Beyond the cutting gardens Aunty Dova had worked miracles in what she termed her ‘food field,’ and vegetables were thriving, the rows neat and weedless. In the flower-beds the brilliance of roses was contrasted by the bright simplicity of daisies, marigolds lifted glowing faces to the sun, and pansies peeped shyly from the borders. The afternoon was warm and several birds splashed and cavorted about in the birdbath, while Friar Tuck crouched under a stone bench, fancying himself invisible, and preparing for another of his frequent and unfailingly futile charges.
Lanterns Page 2
