“How far did it go?” Jason’s tone was so deadly, for a moment I could only gape.
“He touched him, caressed him, but as far as I was able to discover, that is as far as it went. Chas being the independent child he is, thank God, managed to re-mount his pony and gallop home. His attacker had the good sense not to follow him. I suppose, secure in his rank, he assumed there would be no repercussions.
“And there weren’t,” I admitted, scrunching up my cheeks in disgust. “He was the largest landowner in the neighborhood, a generous donor to the church, as I discovered when I poured out the whole matter to the vicar. I am sorry to say I might have let it go myself, for the sake of peace, but he continued to press his suit. Casting lingering glances at me in church—the hypocrite! Sending us presents. Paying us visits, even after I’d ordered that he be turned away from the door.”
“His name?” Jason barked. I shook my head. “I must know, Miranda, in case he follows you here.”
He was right, of course. As loath as I was to embroil Jason in my problems, I could not deny Chas his protection. “Claude Rutledge, Earl of Oxley.”
Jason swore. “I knew him in school,” he told me. “Queer as Dick’s hatband, even then.” He frowned. “But he’s not stupid. I find it hard to believe he would go so far as to hire a Runner to track you down after you made it apparent you would not tolerate his attentions to Chas.” Jason shrugged. “Granted Chas is a particularly handsome child, but there are a great many fish in the sea, some with parents willing to look the other way if their palms are well greased.”
I stared at him, my lips curling in distaste.
“Time enough to examine this conundrum tomorrow. I will summon you when the Runner returns, and we will settle this matter together.”
Together. A more than welcome word.
But as I mounted the stairs, the horror of Oxley finding us once again settled over me. Perhaps there truly was a demon loose at Lunsford Hall, for we seemed to leap from one disaster to the next with no time to settle long enough to find a solution.
Solutions. Plural. For we were beset by myriad problems and so far, no answers.
Tomorrow. What would the Runner tell us?
My mind in a thorough muddle, I went in search of Chas.
Chapter Twenty
The Bow Street Runner was not a man who let grass grow beneath his feet. I was called from the schoolroom well before luncheon. After setting tasks designed to keep the boys occupied, I descended the stairs to seething silence from my students who had been properly chastised for emitting shockingly undisciplined whoops of glee when they assumed they were excused from their studies.
I had never in my life had reason to consider what a Bow Street Runner might look like, but still I was surprised. I suppose, to my shame, that I had not expected someone who looked so much like a gentleman. He was not even wearing the traditional red vest. As introductions were made, I noted Mr. Thomas Guthrie was a few years older than Jason, perhaps as much as forty, but without a speck of gray in his brown hair. Though short of Jason’s six feet, he was well-muscled and carried himself with pride. His gray eyes shone with shrewd intelligence. How could this man, I wondered, allow himself to be a tool of—
Money, of course. Bow Street agents earned their keep from thief-taking, garnering a fee for bringing in men wanted for theft, fraud, or murder. They also, it seemed, accepted fees for investigating crimes. And finding people.
I sat down, folded my hands in my lap, and made every effort to appear the epitome of innocence. And was thoroughly shocked when Jason plunged straight into a neat summary of what had sent Chas and me running from Kent to Lincolnshire. “To be blunt, Guthrie,” Jason said at the end of his tale, “I appeal to you to do the right thing. I will gladly pay you double your fee to tell your employer that you could not find Mrs. Tyrell.”
Mr. Guthrie gave us both the oddest look before slowly shaking his head. “The problem is, sir, I’ve never heard of any Claude Rutledge nor an earl named Oxley.” He turned to me. “What does he look like, Mrs. Tyrell?”
I did not want to recall his face, but unfortunately it was seared in my mind forever. “A handsome man in his thirties. Tall, lean, light brown hair, pale blue eyes. Arrogant, sly, manipulative.” I clamped my lips shut before even worse words spewed out.
“I know the type, ma’am,” Guthrie said, “but that’s not the man who hired me. I’m not at liberty to say more, but I’d swear my employer’s intentions are not harmful. I got the impression he was concerned for your welfare because you had disappeared from Kent without telling anyone where you were going.”
“But no one cares where I am!” This mortifying wail came out of nowhere. I was so embarrassed I ducked my head, steepling my hands before my face.
“Ma’am, I guarantee the Earl of Oxley did not pay me to look for you or your son.”
I doubt anyone could have questioned the ring of truth in Mr. Guthrie’s voice, but my hurt was so great I could not look up. For I had revealed how very vulnerable I was. Miranda Chastain Tyrell, who thought herself so independent, had been stabbed to the heart by the faint hope that someone in her long-estranged family might care what happened to her.
“Miranda? Look at me, Miranda.” I steeled myself and raised my head. “Who else would be looking for you?”
“Father, brothers, sisters,” I murmured, “but it seems incredible as I was cast off long ago.” I turned to Mr. Guthrie. “Thank you for relieving my fears. I admit I was terrified when I thought Oxley had found us. But if someone in my family is looking for me . . .” I drew a deep breath while fighting a battle to keep my voice from shaking. “Then I am glad to know someone cares enough to be concerned. You have my permission to tell them why I fled Kent. Say also that I am happy here and when my stay comes to an end, as it will when Nicholas goes to school, I will let my father know where Chas and I will go next.”
“I will gladly do that, Mrs. Tyrell.”
“And now,” Jason said to the agent from Bow Street, “I have another matter I wish to discuss. Miranda, I wish you to remain. Guthrie, I would ask you to report to your employer by mail and stay in the area awhile. We have need of a man with your skills. We too have a missing person who needs to be found. Also the source of rumors that are causing considerable trouble in the neighborhood. And I suspect someone may be attempting to kill my nephew, Viscount Kempton. Needless to say, I will make it well worth your while.”
I stared at Jason in amazement. Not that I didn’t know he was intelligent and capable, but that he would think to take advantage of having a Runner in our midst . . .
Guthrie turned to me, a tinge of wry humor in his tone. “Mrs. Tyrell, apparently you wish me to tell my employer all is well when it appears matters here are at sixes and sevens.”
I’m certain I blushed from head to toe. Put that way, my assertions of well-being did seem a trifle overstated.
He took pity on me and spoke over my head to Jason. “I can’t turn down a challenge like that, now can I, Mr. Lunsford? So who’s missing?”
“Mrs. Tyrell’s predecessor, Miss Eileen Dawes.”
I sent word to the nursery that I would not return and that Amos was to have the boys for the afternoon. Thoroughly shocked by Jason’s revelations, I shut myself in my room, seated myself in my favorite chair by the open window, and attempted to make sense of what I had heard.
Jason, it seems, had recently received a letter from the owner of a coaching inn in Nottingham, asking him what he should do with the trunk of a Miss Eileen Dawes, which he had been holding for more than four months. Stebbins and Mrs. Allard had quickly confirmed Jason’s own recollection that Miss Dawes had left with no notice, departing in the night after neatly packing her belongings into a small trunk. She had left a note saying she had received an excellent offer for a position elsewhere, but it required that she leave immediately by private coach. Would Mrs. Allard kindly send her trunk to The Horn and Hound in Nottingham.
And no one a
t Lunsford Hall, or in the village, had seen her again. “If you do not count Clover Rooke,” Jason added, straight-faced, “who claims I flew away with Miss Dawes slung over my saddle bow.” For Mr. Guthrie’s benefit, he described in a few terse words the startling scene in church.
“Seems you’ve fallen into a briar patch,” the Runner allowed, scratching his jaw. “I doubt Bow Street will object to me staying on a while. Lord knows you need all the help you can get.”
I could see he was intrigued, and some of the worry I’d been carrying lightened a bit. Surely three heads devoted to solving this problem, one of them a professional investigator, were better than two. Particularly, I thought with considerable chagrin, when one of the heads was female, a governess supposedly acting above her station, and without the slightest excuse for poking her nose into Lunsford family business.
Untrue. Chas had nearly been killed. Twice. That made it very much my business.
And besides, had Jason not said “we”? Had he not included me in his attempts to figure out what was happening, and why?
I considered possible avenues toward solving our crisis. The vicar, Mr. Leland Fairclough. The archdeacon and bishop, whose names I did not know. And now Thomas Guthrie, Bow Street Runner. We were gathering advocates. Surely a fix would be found. The alternative was too full of death and destruction to contemplate.
But on Sunday I discovered the bitter truth. The vicar was a dear man, kind-hearted but ineffectual. He spoke of Christ’s love, of peace and reconciliation, but the lesson in his words bounced off a stone-faced congregation. I doubt he reached one soul in ten. They knew him for what he was, a meek itinerant man of God who would call on the sick, counsel those in grief, read all the correct Sunday scriptures, and deliver uninspired sermons cadged from the writings of others. A frail reed in time of true need.
For one thing I will give him credit—he followed through on his promise to call at Lunsford Hall after church, gratefully accepting Lady Hadley’s invitation to share our Sunday dinner. We had not, however, expected him to bring his curate.
While the rest of us ate our dinner, one of Cook’s finest arrays, Mr. Francis Pilkington approached his meal with the pale face and the stoicism of a martyr about to be burned at the stake. I was forced to acknowledge that he truly believed himself a man being asked to sup with the Devil. Poor lost soul. I expected him to stagger to his feet at any moment, arm outstretched, two fingers pointed directly at Jason.
Mr. Fairclough might have been mild-mannered, but he was not stupid. When his efforts to make peace were ignored by the curate as if he had not heard them, the vicar turned to Jason and quietly told him, “I fear this matter is beyond my poor efforts, Mr. Lunsford. I will write to the archdeacon again. Please accept my apologies for accomplishing so little.”
Jason, naturally, said all that was gracious, as did Lady Hadley. Cressida, for some reason, appeared to be bored by talk of controversy. Rather odd, I thought, for a woman whose son seemed to be under attack. But then Cressida’s actions were frequently incomprehensible. So our hopes were down to the hierarchy of the church and Tom Guthrie. And whatever common sense deductions Jason and I might make. Meanwhile . . .
Meanwhile, I had lessons to teach, both in the schoolroom and out in the world. Manners to polish, impudent attitudes to soften, fears to ameliorate. I had agreed to be a governess, and a governess I would be. And a mother. The truth was, for all Cressida’s protestations of devotion, I had begun to wonder if she did not love the idea of living in London more than her son.
Two days later, Chas, Nicholas, and I set off for our long-planned visit to Nurse Jenkins. The day was a mix of clouds and sun, which was good as we were in no danger of becoming overheated. And fortunately a brisk downpour the previous day had settled the dust, making it, all in all, an ideal day for our jaunt to the edge of the village. I had set the boys to counting how many different species of birds they could spot and how many crops they could name, and between that and their natural chatter our trip was a lively one. Drifting clouds made shadows on the broad canal to our right and haphazard patterns on the fields to our left. Esmerelda managed a brisk trot, seemingly pleased to be going beyond the confines of the park.
We were but a hundred yards short of where the road broadened and turned toward the village when the cart suddenly wobbled. A rock in the road? A shudder. Esmerelda, a wise old horse, slowed her pace. The wobble increased to a sway. To a careen . . .
There are fields on the left. If you must drive off the road, I suggest you do it in that direction. Recalling Jason’s words, I jerked hard left on the reins.
The right wheel snapped off, flying straight toward the canal. “Hang on!” I cried, throwing my weight to the left. Esmerelda, terrified, bolted into a field of wheat, even as I gave thanks it was not the canal. And then the cart seemed to realize it was traveling on but one wheel. It tilted. We all screamed as we flew through the air. I only had time to think the ground was not as hard as expected when the cart came down on top of me, and I knew no more.
Chapter Twenty-one
I stirred to life, reality sliding into place one fuzzy fact at a time. It was dark. Pounding pain consumed my head. I was lying on something soft. My hand was enveloped in something warm and comforting . . .
Cart. Flying wheel . . . The boys!
I came fully awake, attempted to sit up, and gasped as waves of agony ripped through me from my head straight down to my toes.
“Miranda!” Strong hands gripped my shoulders, gently lowered me back to my pillow before pulling the bedcovers up to my chin—all while a soothing voice murmured words of reassurance. When my brain had recovered enough for comprehension, Jason repeated what he had been trying to tell me. “The boys are fine, Miranda. They jumped clear, suffering nothing more than bumps and bruises. The cart hit only you when it turned over. But nothing seems broken, and the doctor says a few days of rest should do the trick.”
A ghastly vision of the wheel plunging into the canal overrode the pounding in my head. “The wheel came off.”
“Yes.”
“Wheels don’t do that.”
“Not without help.” Jason put a finger to my lips. “Say no more. We’ll talk of this when you’re feeling better.”
Suddenly, my head cleared enough for the strict training of my childhood to break through my anxiety and pain. What was Jason Lunsford doing in my bedchamber in the dead of night? “Jason?”
“Hush.” Correctly reading my attempt to peer into the dark corners of a room lit only by the light of a single candle, he added, “If it’s propriety you’re worried about, Mrs. Allard is there by the window, and I assure you she’s read me a scold about sitting with you. But sleep has finally claimed her, so for the moment I have you all to myself.”
I suppose that last remark should have increased the pounding in my head, but shocking creature that I am, I felt instantly better. I closed my eyes and settled back, content to suffer if it brought Jason that much closer.
The candle guttered and went out. Perhaps I could blame a room lit only by moonlight for my boldness. “You were holding my hand,” I murmured.
Hussy! my inner voice hissed, even as I felt the supreme satisfaction of Jason’s hand once again clasped around mine. I was, after all, nearly a decade past virginal innocence. Why should I not enjoy the comfort a man could give, even if it was nothing more than holding hands.
Silence ensued while I savored this precious moment and offered a prayer of thanks that the boys and I had survived. Gratitude and an odd contentment seemed to mute my pain, and I was drifting into sleep when Jason leaned close and said, “I like being with you in the dark.”
I was suddenly wide awake, as were parts of me I will not mention. There could be no acceptable response to his words, so I lay there and quivered as waves of emotion that had nothing to do with pain shot through me.
“In the dark I become the man I once was, the man I want you to know.”
There were so many way
s I wanted to respond to that, but my aching head refused to put the words together. All I managed was, “Light or dark, I see the man you are.”
Which could have meant anything, I realized when I woke the next morning to find him gone, leaving me, however, with memory of a lingering kiss pressed to my hand before he tucked it under the covers and resumed his vigil beside my bed.
With the broth and one slice of toast that comprised my luncheon later that day, I received a note. And miserable as I felt, my heart leapt when I saw a man’s bold scrawl.
My dear Miranda,
Propriety has reared its ugly head. After a severe scold from Hester and a sharp reminder from Cressida that I would quite put off Miss Talmadge’s interest (a result devoutly to be wished), I am banished from your bedchamber. And though my reputation is clearly long past its last prayers, I would have a care of yours. Therefore, with great reluctance, I fear I must abide by their dictates.
Send word through Mrs. Allard if you have need of me. Meanwhile, I shall continue my efforts to discover the villain who is terrorizing us and turning the blame on me.
I most sincerely hope for your rapid recovery.
J
Oh. My. Since Jason was so agonizingly aware of his deformity, I was amazed he had written so warmly, so intimately. Surely this letter was almost as good as a declaration. Perhaps he’d been influenced by the magic of the night, the darkness that both concealed and revealed. Or his armor had been breached when he thought he might lose me . . .
Ha! Morelike, he feared to lose a convenient buffer between Alyssa Talmadge and himself. I grimaced, clutching the letter close to my heart before finally reading it again. And again. My headache receded. A tear oozed out of one eye, rolled down my cheek.
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