“Excellent. Lucy is going in with Mr. Weilmunster. You part is to sit by her and engage her attention away from him.”
Looking slightly taken aback by the tameness of her scheme, Tom nodded. “What will you do?”
Kate burst out laughing. “Dear Tom, do you really care to know?”
He held out his arm to her. "No. I do not.”
***
Kate watched in fascinated revulsion as the loathsome Adam Weilmunster shoveled lobster patty after lobster patty into his mouth, stopping only to drop such pearls of wisdom as he considered appropriate into the conversation.
“I told Father Flannery that the idea of a pageant glorifying several of the seven deadly sins was abhorrent to any man of sense and breeding.” Chew, chew, swallow. “I feel certain you must agree with me, Vicar.” He bowed pondersously for a man of such youth in the direction of the reverend and took another bite of lobster.
"Nonsense, Mr. Weilmunster,” the Reverend Mr. Whiffle replied heartily. "Neither the good Father nor I see the pageant as anything more than a bit of fun for the village and tourists alike.”
Kate watched his Adam’s apple gyrate as he once more chew, chew, swallowed. Her eye automatically went to the table opposite, where Tom was entertaining Lucy. His glance met Kate’s and both turned away, turning laughs into coughs. Kate resolved in her determination not to move heaven and earth to see Lucy married to someone worthy of her. Into her brain dropped a scheme of such malevolent brilliance that even her scalp tingled.
“As I have always said, revulsion of the Seven Deadly Sins must go hand in hand with obedience to the Ten Commandments for true piety.” He began to tick off the sins one by one. “For instance, pride, anger, envy, gluttony--”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kate saw Lucy glance her fiancé’s way. A flush stained her cheeks as she kept her eyes focused on her plate.
“--sloth, lust. Can anyone tell me the next?” he asked with heavy-handed humor, taking another patty.
“Boredom?” Kate asked, eyes wide with a look of such innocence anyone who knew her well would have been forewarned.
“You jest, Lady Katherine.” He turned to her and all the others at their table suddenly decided they needed more wine, or lobster patties, or conversation with someone at another table. There was a hurried exodus, leaving only Tom and Lucy at one end, and Kate and Mr. Weilmunster at the other.
“I have always decreed that a sense of humor, so rare in a woman, must be guarded lest it get out of hand into vulgarity.” He speared several more lobster patties onto his plate.
“Like gluttony.”
“Precisely,” he agreed. “Lady Katherine, Kate, if I may--”
Kate’s hackles rose at such familiarity, but she nodded.
“As I’m sure Lucy has told you, it is my fondest wish to be your brother very soon. By so doing, it shall be my honor to help relieve you of those burdens of family which no mere woman should have to bear alone.”
Kate smiled through gritted teeth. “My family could never be a burden.”
“If before that happy day arrives I can be of any assistance to you,” he blew lobster breath wetly into her face, “you have but to ask.”
At last! The opening she had been waiting for. “As a matter of fact,” she began, fanning herself, "there is a matter on which I should like your opinion, Mr. Weilmunster.”
He was so surprised he stopped with a lobster patty halfway to his mouth. Though his offer was kindly, if officiously meant, Lady Katherine--Kate had never made a secret of her unaccountable dislike of him. "There is?”
Kate bit her lip prettily. She dropped her gaze to her fan, then looked up into his face. He felt the full weight of her considerable Thoreau charm so that he actually put down the patty and turned his full attention to his future sister-in-law.
“Oh, Mr. Weilmunster, I--I simply don’t know where to turn. I fear a Terrible Suspicion has entered my heart.” She pressed her hand to her bosom. As bosoms went, it was by no means on par with Lucy’s, but it was nonetheless a bosom, and he was, after all, a man.
“I hardly know where to begin. Never would I want to unjustly accuse any man, but--”
“Yes, Kate?” he breathed excitedly.
“It was your discussion of the Seven Deadly Sins,” she told him piously, “which brought it to my attention. It is Mr. Dalrymple.”
“I understand from Auntie Alice he is a friend of yours from London.”
Nothing the reptile had said so far infuriated Kate as much as to hear him refer to Lady Alice in such a familiar way, but she swallowed her spleen. “Hardly a friend, though we did know one another. One meets all sorts at the very largest parties, as of course you know.”
Mr. Weilmunster thrust his chest out at her intimation he was acquainted with the ways of the ton. “Did he press his suit upon you unwillingly?”
“Yes, he did. Tell me, Mr. Weilmunster,” she leaned ever so slightly closer. “Do you feel as I do, that it is rather odd for a stranger in town to try so hard to discredit our Cavalier? In fact, if one was to take a look at him,” her companion craned his neck to take a gander at Mr. Dalrymple, happily holding court in the ballroom, “He really bears a striking resemblance to--
"The Cavalier!” He dropped his fork in excitement.
Kate pressed her advantage. “Imagine, three strong men, unable to subdue one paltry criminal? His story doesn’t quite add up, don’t you think?”
“I--I begin to see your point, Lady Katherine.” He looked wildly from her to the Cavalier in the next room.
“Kate, please.” She pressed his arm with the merest butterfly touch.
“Kate,” he agreed.
"The embodiment of all the Seven Deadly Sins, the Cavalier himself, is corrupting the morals of the youth of our village, Mr. Weilmunster. You must do something,” she told him thrillingly.
He looked down at her, his future sister-in-law, de facto head of the most noble line in the county. She looked back at him as if all the wisdom of Solomon would spill from his lips and lost what little wit he possessed. Truth be told, it was to be, had he but known it, his bravest hour. He pressed the hand on his arm, thrust away from the table, and strode into the next room. “I shall take care of this, Kate, have trust in me.”
Kate hurried to the doorway, unwilling to miss the ensuing scene for all the five thousand pound rewards in the kingdom.
Adam Weilmunster strode to the middle of the room, pointed to the gentleman in black, and shouted, “You, sirrah! You are the Grey Cavalier!”
A collective gasp rang out. The musicians stopped tuning for the next set. All conversation ceased. The ladies even stopped plying their fans. No one wanted to miss the spectacle which was to come.
Mr. Dalrymple, meanwhile, watched in obvious stupefaction as his accuser continued his tirade.
“You, sirrah, have pulled the wool over our eyes, accepting the hospitality of our village, while secretly robbing us blind! Your cohorts in crime, paid with your ill-gotten gains, have promulgated your story of being held up! You, sirrah! I accuse you of violating of laws of man, and the laws of God!”
With that, he turned and ran up the stairs, calling loudly for constables! dragoons! Bow Street Runners!
There was a moment of stunned silence, then a buzz of noise rose higher and higher. Those in the supper room raced back to the ballroom, to pretend not to gaze at Mr. Dalrymple, and whisper behind fans and raised hands.
Meanwhile, the accused, stunned, glared at Kate, who smiled smugly and wiggled her fingers in his direction.
Constable Mackey stepped heavily down the stairs, followed by Mr. Weilmunster. The crowd parted swiftly, conversation ceasing once more.
The constable stopped in front of Mr. Dalrymple, standing beside his chair, miraculously restored to health.
“Mr. Frederick Dalrymple?”
The accused nodded stiffly.
The constable, clearly wishing he was anywhere but here, doing Adam Weilmunster’s bidding, pu
lled out a bit of paper. “Can you account for your whereabouts on any of these dates?”
Mr. Dalrymple shot Kate a look so black she stepped back, a thrill of apprehension rippling up her spine.
“Twenty-sixth April, eighth of May, twenty-second May, third June, seventeenth of July, four August, ten September?”
“On September 10th, in that it was yesterday, I can safely say I was resident at the Lady and the Scamp. While out for an evening drive, my coach was waylaid by the ruffian called the Grey Cavalier. I was subsequently beaten and robbed,” he replied coldly. “As to the other dates, I could not say. My time is rarely my own.”
Constable Mackey looked as unhappy as it was possible for a man of the law, on the track of a famous criminal, to be.
“In that case, lad, I hereby detain you in the name of His Majesty, King George, on the grounds of highway robbery.” The constable pulled out a pair of wrist irons and clapped them on the prisoner.
The accused went quietly, and with much more dignity than displayed by his accuser. Heady with excitement, Mr. Weilmunster dogged the constable’s footsteps, giving directions and making suggestions until Mackey turned and said sharply, “Mr. Weilmunster, I’m the constable here, I’ll thank you to remember.” Mr. Dalrymple, with one last fulminating glance at Kate which promised retribution of the worst kind, followed the constable across the dance floor, his mince gone in favor of a manly stride, his head held straight instead of at a foppish angle. Just as he placed his foot on the lowest step, the crowd burst into a spontaneous round of applause. Surprised, he turned to look and a voice rang out: "Three cheers for the Grey Cavalier!”
“Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah! Hip hip, hoorah!” The applause grew louder, continuing so he could hear it down the street to the Constable’s small office, where he was relieved of his valuables in preparation for being escorted to the ancient stone roundhouse on the green.
"Tell me, Mackey,” he asked as he ducked his head to enter the tiny building. “Is there but one law-abiding citizen in this entire county?”
The constable scratched his head thoughtfully. “Why, yes, sir. There be Adam Weilmunster.” He paused reflectively. "Sure, 'tis the reason he is not liked overmuch.”
So saying, he swung closed the heavy oak door, locked it, and left his prisoner to fume in peace, quiet, and damp.
***
Edmund paced back and forth across the floor. He found out very quickly that only two steps in any direction merely brought him another stone wall and another bump to his already abused forehead, so disdaining the spindly wood chair, he grasped the bars of the tiny slit laughingly referred to as a window, and peered out at the village surrounding him.
He, Edmund Middleton, seventh Marquis of Granville, was rotting away in the Oaksley roundhouse. His cover was effectively blown, ending his first job as spy. The Lady--if one could call her that--Katherine Thoreau had bested him in a duel of wits. And worst of all, if Napoleon escaped again, England, her economy weakened by the circulation of false coin, could very easily fall to the upstart emperor. Edmund gritted his teeth, wondering what had possessed him to flirt with that woman. A harpy, that’s what she was, and a common thief, to boot.
Unable to contain his impatience, he jerked on the door once more, as if it might have mysteriously become unlocked in the seconds since he’d last tried it. From the window, he could see the lights of the Assembly Hall. Carriages had been called and the revelers began to filter slowly out, laughing and calling to one another. Not a few cast curious glances toward the roundhouse. Several villagers, strolling home across the green, gave him a civil nod in passing.
With a sigh, Edmund sat down backwards on the hard chair, crossed his arms on the back, and settled down to wait until the village was slumbering. It was a long wait, but in the meantime, he entertained himself by imagining Lady Katherine in various poses of humility or danger, from which, inexplicably, he felt himself called upon to rescue her.
But finally, just as he was ready to tear down the roundhouse stone by stone, the last lighst went out in the cottages around the green, the only sign of life the sliver of light coming from the window of the taproom at the Lady and the Scamp, far across the post road.
“Finally,” he muttered softly to himself. Plunking his numb derriere back on the chair, Edmund yanked off his patent-leather pump, flicking open the secret compartment in the heel. Into his palm fell a shiny brass pass partout.
Stuffing his foot back in the shoe, he mentally thanked dandies in general, and cousin Claude in particular, for it was he from whom Edmund had acquired his outrageous raiment, including the hollow-heeled pumps. With another cautious glance out the window, he stretched his arm as far as he could through the iron-slatted window of the door, and rattled the key in the lock.
With a click, the lock opened. Another couple of yanks and rattles, and it fell to the ground. With bated breath, Edmund paused once more, listening, straining to hear anyone approaching in the blackness. But not a sound disturbed the night, so he slipped out of the roundhouse, carefully setting the lock behind him. With a final glance around, he slipped across the green, keeping to the shadows. Across the dusty post road, he stepped into the stable behind the inn, and quietly stole a horse.
***
Kate paused at the low stone wall, listening for any movement. In a thicket, Diana stood patiently, nibbling at a few blades of grass which poked through the carpet of fallen leaves. Far down in the valley lay the village, dark and quiet, surrounded on three sides by the River Inswith flowing calm and smoothly silver. All about her the night was still. Even the wind didn’t blow, as if to compensate for the previous night’s rain.
Satisfied she was alone, Kate hopped over the crumbling wall and into the wilderness which was once the formal gardens of Wallingford Castle. Determinedly she pushed her way uphill through the heavy undergrowth of scrub trees and blackberry bushes that had run wild over what was once the pride and joy of the Family Wallingford. Village gossip had it that the last Wallingford, Old Man Jacob, had gone stark, staring mad and died behind these walls of an overfondness of brandy, the French pox, or various combinations of the two. But that was almost one hundred years ago, and Kate had known the Castle only as an exciting, romantic place to play. But she hadn’t been here in years and the darkness made it almost impossible to discern the remains of the path beneath the undergrowth.
Thorns tugged at her skirts as she doggedly pushed ahead, keeping one hand out in front of her face to protect herself against the protruding branches. It was slow going, because she had to keep stopping to orient herself in the dark, sometimes parting the branches above in order to get the faint light of the starry night sky.
Disoriented as to distance, if it hadn’t been for the stone urn over which she stumbled, Kate would have missed the Italianate terrace completely and gone tumbling down the steep hill. Instead, she overbalanced, falling backwards down a shallow flight of stone steps, cushioned by a thick layer of moss and other debris. She managed to claw her way up through the bushes and realized she had somehow found what she was seeking: The Grotto of Love, so named because dozens of assignations had taken place over the years under the white marble statues of Apollo and Daphne.
Kate caught herself wearing a silly smile as she eased back the door on the small lantern she carried. Why, it must have been almost a decade ago that she and Tom Appleby--
Her thoughts broke off as her fingers found the third rose down from the sixth bunch of grapes on the carved marble trellis on the back wall of the grotto. When the wall gave way on oiled hinges, her heart raced in excitement.
The lantern flame flickered in the sudden draft. Kate, overcome by a jolt of common sense, stepped away and picked up a rock. Taking a deep breath, she ducked into the low opening. Before her stretched a long tunnel, disappearing in an endless darkness beyond the reach of her small lantern.
The walls were of large stones plowed from the surrounding fields centuries ago, now concealed in this
secret place, leading to mysterious rooms far beneath the ground. Carefully, she placed the rock at the opening of the doorway, then eased the marble door gently against it in case she needed to exit in a hurry.
Now, all she had to do was march down the long, dank corridor. Yes, just put one foot in front of the other and traipse down the tunnel.
Kate took a deep breath of damp, mildew-scented air. And another. One more and she began to feel lightheaded, which was better than scared, she decided, and gathered the courage to walk down the tunnel.
It was smaller than she remembered and much wetter. The stone walls were cold and covered with a sheen of dampness. After several yards, the path forked. To the left, the hard-packed earth sloped slightly upward. To the right, slightly down. After a moment’s deliberation, Kate turned right. It had been years since she’d explored beneath the Castle, but she was positive this way led to the underground river and the great cavern. Or perhaps it led to the cliff high above the rushing underground river. She flipped a mental coin, remembered the reward, and soldiered on.
Walking carefully, she cupped her hand in front of the lantern door so as not to allow too much light to precede her, giving away her presence. Every few feet she paused to listen, but heard only her own rapid breathing and the rhythm of her heart. It seemed forever before the tunnel plunged steeply downwards and the ghostly tinkle of running water came to her ears. The tunnel came to an abrupt end, with openings to the right and left. Still shielding her lantern, Kate backed up against the wall, slowly easing forward to peek around the corners. At first she saw an expanse of stone passage, glowing dimly yellow in the light of her lantern. The noise from the river escalated into a dull roar, then out of the river’s rush she heard the unmistakable pounding of footsteps. Quickly she fumbled to shut the lantern door, plunging the tunnel into damp blackness. She paused to listen, though every nerve and muscle screamed at her to run. The footsteps were coming closer and closer, louder and louder. At last she was able to discern their direction: from the cliff over the cavern, directly toward her. She stood rooted to the spot in utter panic. The footsteps slowed, then began again, growing fainter till they faded into the distance.
A River Runs Through It Page 2
