by Jo Beverley
“Oh, Diana,” she said, giving the room one last scrutiny, “if only the devilish marquess hadn’t arrived when he did! Even in a moment, he made me feel he could find out all my secrets.”
“Devilish. Exactly the right word,” Diana agreed, peering behind the bed.
Rosamunde picked up the valise. “Come on. Devil or not, he is hardly likely to come up here and search places like that!”
Diana was on her stomach, now, searching beneath the bed. “He’s capable of it, believe me. I saw him questioning the servants, looking for any tiny clue. He’s offering silver for any news to do with his brother. The servants will clean cracks in the floor with their fingernails. Ah-ha!”
“What?”
Diana rose, triumphantly holding a shilling. “Riches!”
Clearly the strain was turning her cousin’s mind. “Come along before you lose your wits entirely. A shilling, indeed.”
Diana took the valise from her. “I’m the maid, remember?”
Prompted, Rosamunde banished terrified Rosie Overton and summoned Lady Gillsett. Thus armored, she swept out of the room and down the stairs. While paying the innkeeper, and handing out the vails to Gertie and the other servants, Rosamunde still couldn’t help hoping that Brand would be carried in. Yes, it would be dangerous, but she’d weakly sacrifice every trace of safety for him.
No! She had to preserve the secret. Two notes were winding their way to the marquess, and without doubt he could be trusted to act on them and care for his brother properly.
She’d rather not, however, have encountered him on the way to the door.
“Lady Richardson,” he said with an elegant bow. “I’m delighted to see you so improved.”
Summoning Lady Gillsett as armor, Rosa extended her hand, glad for once of the absurd weaponry of Diana’s glittering rings. “I am much improved, Lord Rothgar. I thank you for your kindness.”
She surreptitiously assessed him with clear eyes. A fine gentleman in casual country clothes. Nothing frightening about that, surely. And yet, there was a presence to him, an aura almost, such as she’d never encountered in her sheltered experience.
“But is it wise to continue your journey?” he asked, lips brushing the air so very close to her skin. “It is already gone three.”
Her nerves trembled. By accident or design, he was blocking her way to the door. Did he know? He couldn’t know!
“We planned to be in York by tonight, my lord,” she said, drawing on every scrap of Gillsettian blasé. “If the road is good, we will make it, and with luck, our baggage cart is there awaiting us. My gown is sadly rumpled.” He still held her hand, and she wasn’t quite sure how to retrieve it.
“And a lady—or a gentleman—is at a sore disadvantage with only one set of clothes.”
“I see you understand, my lord,” she drawled in a world-weary manner. “One must dress plainly for travel, but one cannot exist in drab forever.”
“But with such beauty as yours, Lady Richardson, mere clothes become irrelevant.”
Heaven help her. Was the man flirting with her? It gave her an excuse to remove her hand and take a small step backward. She hoped it didn’t show the panic she felt. “Hardly, my lord, or we’d all walk around naked.”
A wicked light lit his dark eyes. “Not in the English climate, dear lady. But it could make Italy an even more entrancing destination.” He bowed and moved to one side. “Bon voyage, Lady Richardson. I hope we meet again. In Italy, perhaps.”
Abandoning the hazardous Gillsettian manner, Rosamunde said a hasty, “Good day, Lord Rothgar,” dropped a slight curtsy, and swept out with as much composure as she had left. Her knees were knocking!
“Oh, well done,” Diana whispered as they passed down the corridor leading to the stable yard.
“Hush,” Rosa said on a breath. “Say nothing here.”
The coach was ready, with Garforth giving the traces a final check, so they could climb straight in. Once settled, reacting purely to that ominous encounter, Rosamunde wanted the coach to race out, now, immediately.
Why ominous, though? The marquess had been a little overbold, but he’d been addressing bold Lady Gillsett. Doubtless in his circles, risque flirtation and innuendo were the normal way to go on. He’d obviously suspected nothing. All the same, her instincts screamed to be away, and Garforth was still steadily checking the vehicle.
Diana had pulled out her road guide. “It was clever, saying we’re heading for York, but we’d better do so.”
Rosa turned from the window to look at her. “That will take us in entirely the wrong direction.”
“I know, but we have to be seen to be leaving the square as if going to York.”
“He might watch?”
“Definitely. ‘Devilish’ is exactly the right word. You have the feeling he has three heads like Cerberus, and each with all-seeing eyes. But see,”—she thrust the map in front of Rosa—“we can cut across and join the Ripon road again.”
“It could be a track as bad as that other one.”
“This is a coach map. It wouldn’t mark it if it were that bad. Anyway, it’s our only choice. We don’t have to get far today. Just away. If anyone should come after Lady Richardson, going south will throw them off the trail.
“And once away from here,” Diana continued with satisfaction, “Lady Richardson and her spotty maid will disappear like dust in the breeze. Devil or not, the damned Marquess of Rothgar will never find us then. Never.”
That had to be true, but still, as Diana gave Garforth the route and the coach finally creaked out of the Three Tuns yard, Rosamunde felt a shiver down her spine as if they left a shimmering trail for the man who would soon pursue.
The Marquess of Rothgar watched the strange Lady Richardson leave, accompanied by her even stranger maid, wondering exactly what mischief they were up to. It was idle curiosity, however, wiped away when Kenyon, Brand’s manservant, brought him a grubby note.
A man is to be found in a broken-down barn off a track joining the Ripon and Northallerton roads about one mile out of Thirsk.
Instinct spurred him to lead the search himself, but he’d disciplined himself years ago to delegate, and to stay at the center of his web. He dispatched Kenyon and his best men to check the report, and another servant to find out where the note had come from. Then, he went up to his private sitting room—the one next to the bedchamber recently vacated by Lady Richardson—carefully presenting the impression of a man without concerns, and forced his mind to think through the implications.
Was the man mentioned Brand? Why else send it to Kenyon?
Had this any connection to the New Commonwealth sect? The King had sent him north to investigate it for treasonable activities but when he had written to Brand he had not suspected the extent of the danger.
Even so, Brand should have been warned. An oversight.
A tragic one? The note did not say whether the man was alive or dead. Why would the New Commonwealth attack him through Brand?
His servant returned to report on the note. “The lad picked it up in the yard as he says, milord. Took it to some others, because he couldn’t read. ‘Twould seem to have been dropped out of the London Fly that left half an hour ago.”
“Take Denby and Lisle and go after it.” Denby and Lisle were two of his grooms. His servants were never merely servants. “Note the names and descriptions of all on the coach, and watch for people who might be in disguise. Create as little upset as possible, and give everyone a crown for their inconvenience.” He unlocked the strongbox and filled a pouch with coins. He passed it over, then added, “Ask Lieutenants Cripp and Haughton to attend me. They can accompany you to give it official gloss.”
In moments the two uniformed officers were bowing to him. They’d been sent north in case official action was required against the New Commonwealth. He explained their role.
“With your indulgence, my lord,” said Lieutenant Cripp, a sober-eyed, ambitious young man, “our duty here is to do with Geo
rge Cotter and his followers.”
“I have reason to suspect a link, Lieutenant.”
Cripp clearly doubted it, but was wise enough not to push indulgence too far. He had queried his orders, so if it ever came to an inquiry, his skin would be safer.
Once the officers had left, Rothgar picked up the note again, scrutinizing it for anything more it might offer. Abruptly, he left his private rooms and went down to the entrance hall. The footman there leapt forward to offer assistance.
“Where would a guest here find writing paper and implements?”
“In the guest lounge, milord,” said the footman, leading the way.
The room was deserted. Rothgar went to the desk and picked up a sheet of the paper. Not the same as the note. A much lower quality. The note he’d received was on the highest quality of paper, which intrigued him a great deal, especially as it looked as if identification had been torn off the top.
Crested paper. The London Fly. Brand. What could connect the three?
He should return to his room and logical thought, but worry sent him out of the inn, where he would see any arrival sooner. It was country teatime, and the place was virtually deserted, which suited his mood. He wasn’t in the habit of pacing and fretting, but now, waiting for his men to return, he was close to it.
When his father and stepmother had died, his nearest half brother Bryght had been a dark, intense adolescent, difficult in his anger and grief. They’d only found closeness in recent years. Cyn and his sister had been seven-year-old twins, who’d frightened him to death, when he was only nineteen and responsible for everything.
Of his five half siblings, only Brand and Hilda never caused him trouble. Brand had been twelve, generous, sweet natured, and loving, which had been terrifying in its own way to the person who had chosen to steer him through the perils of young manhood. Hilda had been ten and blessedly calm and sensible.
They had been the ones who’d seemed to understand his pain and fear, even though he’d never felt free to show it. They’d done their best to help.
They’d run after the twins, and eased Bryght out of his grim moods. When Rothgar was most uncertain of himself, most overwhelmed with administration and responsibilities, Hilda would appear with her beloved lute and play to him. Sometimes just her smile was enough, reminding him of why he was still fighting the well-meaning relatives who wanted to take them all off his hands.
Or Brand would waylay him with an urgent question to do with horses or weapons that required him to escape for a little while back to boyish things.
Like any parent—and he often felt like a parent—he tried not to play favorites, but the deepest places in his heart belonged to Brand and Hilda, the two with the sunniest natures, the two most like his magnificently generous and joyous stepmother.
Whom he, of course, had killed by carrying infection back to their home.
Had he killed Brand, too?
If his suspicions were correct, the New Commonwealth was ruthless in its holy purpose. He could see no reason for them to hurt Brand, but who else—
Hard-soled shoes clattered behind him and he turned swiftly, switching the hold on his gilded cane, which was also a sword stick.
The youth skidded to a stop, eyes wide. About thirteen, robust, healthy, rosy-cheeked from running.
“Yes?” Rothgar asked, immediately sheathing his tension so as not to alarm the boy.
“An it please you, sir. Are you the Marquess of Rothgar?”
“I am.”
“Blimey,” he breathed, eyes widening and searching.
“I left my coronet at home,” Rothgar said dryly. “You have a message for me?”
Reminded of his purpose, the youth thrust out a neat, clean, folded note. “For you, milord. The footman back at the Tuns said you’d give me sixpence for it!”
Rothgar took the note, and read the direction. One to Brand’s manservant, one direct to him. Swiftly, he broke the seal and read. Different handwriting, but essentially the same message. This time, however, Brand was mentioned specifically.
Breath became precious. No hint here either as to his condition. Was this a form of torture?
“Where did you get this?”
At his tone, the lad stepped back. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, milord!”
Rothgar realized he had crushed the paper in his hand and made himself relax. “I don’t think you did. But before you get your sixpence, you will have to tell me where you obtained this note.”
Still poised for flight, the boy said, “A lady gave it me, milord. An old lady on a horse. She said to take it to the Tuns, and make sure you got it. But to wait until the clock struck four. I only did as I was told, milord.”
“How was she dressed?”
“Dressed, milord? Like a woman.”
Rothgar felt a spurt of wry amusement. He supposed lads didn’t pay much attention to clothes. “Do you know the New Commonwealthers?”
“Aye, milord.”
“Was she one of them?”
He shook his head positively. “Nay, milord. She were dressed more like a man in skirts. Three-cornered hat and a braided jacket. She had riding boots on, an‘ all.”
Curious. “Could it have been a man in skirts?”
The boy blinked. “Why would a man tangle himself up in skirts, milord?”
Rothgar took out a shilling. “Which road was she traveling?”
The lad’s eyes gleamed. “Northallerton one, milord. Her and the other.”
“The other?”
“There was another lady just like her. Two peas in a pod.”
“In boots and tricorn and man’s jacket?”
“Aye, milord!”
Rothgar tossed the boy the shilling, and watched as he ran off with a whoop. Such a simple way to bring excitement to a young life. In the meantime, he felt as if he were caught in a fever dream. Twin ladies dressed like men. Or twin men dressed like ladies?
Add a spotty kitchen maid who behaved somewhat boldly for her position, and her raddled mistress with young hands. They, however, could have no connection with this tangle.
He disciplined his mind back to the notes, which assuredly did. Two notes on different paper and in different writing, sent by different routes, but directing the search to the same spot.
And in all of this, no obvious connection to the New Commonwealth at all. Yet who else could it be? Could they have sympathizers outside the sect?
A suspicion stirred, and he returned swiftly to the inn to check the paper in the lounge again. As he’d thought, the second note had been written on the Tuns’s notepaper. He inspected the pen. Newly mended and then not much used. A quick scribble confirmed that almost certainly the second note had been written here.
By whom? The inn was almost entirely taken up by himself and Brand, but coaches changed horses regularly and passengers ate. Doubtless passengers from the London Fly had spent some time in here. The two notes could have come from the same person.
But the handwriting was markedly different. One message was in neat, rounded lettering; the other in a finer, taller script, sloping vigorously to the right.
God. What did this matter at the moment? Where was Brand? Was he alive?
He couldn’t help going to the doors of the inn to look out into the square. No sign yet.
He made himself turn away and saw the footman hovering in hopes of silver. “Who used the guests’ parlor recently?”
“I don’t rightly know, milord. People come and go.”
“Think.”
The man jerked under the terse command. “The Misses Gillsett took tea in there, milord.”
Rothgar looked at him. So easy? Too easy, surely.
“Do they dress in mannish clothes and travel on horseback?”
“That’s them, milord.”
“Do they stop here often?”
“They don’t travel much, milord, but when they jaunt off to York, they always break their journey here.”
“Where do they live?�
�
“I’m not sure, milord. Up Arkengarthdale somewhere.”
One of the remoter dales, one with no connection to the Cotterites, yet they must have been the ones to pass the boy the note. He’d suspect impostors, except that the footman knew them. They would have to be questioned.
“Who else?”
The man scratched beneath his powdered wig. “A gentleman, milord. One of the Fly passengers who was served his meal first. I think he read the papers. Then two of the ladies from the coach sat in there a while, waiting for their meal.”
So. Three people from the coach. Any two of them could have sent the notes by different means. But why two? That was what fretted at him. The second note didn’t give much more detail than the first, and the first was not likely to go astray.
The second note had been clearly delayed, and yet the first had as good as been sent to him direct.
“And that Lady Richardson.”
He looked at the footman. “What of her?”
“She went into the parlor for a while.”
“Is she a regular guest here?”
“Never seen her before, milord. Hear tell she’s from down south.”
“Do you know anything of her?”
The man shook his head regretfully, obviously aware that information brought rewards. “Only that her spotty maid’s from Surrey, so likely she is, too. She—the maid—has been chatting to the servants here a fair bit. Seems her mistress lives a quiet life, so she enjoyed a chance at a bit of company.”
Rothgar pondered the bold maid and the painted lady, wondering if they could have any part of this. He doubted any devout Cotterite would put on such a disguise, but he placed them in his mental picture just in case. Lady Richardson was undoubtedly up to something, but it was more likely to be extreme vice than extreme virtue.
It was his way to check everything, so he passed the footman a coin. “Pass the word among the servants that any new information about any of the passengers on the London Fly, or the Misses Gillsett, or Lady Richardson and her maid will be appreciated.”
