The Lonely Earl

by Vanessa Gray

  Faustina was suddenly amused at her young cousin’s efforts on her behalf. Since Faustina had decided she would go on the outing if she had to crawl, Julia need not go to such lengths to reassure Hugh.

  “And of course,” said Hugh, “I should have to have company for myself. Aubrey Talbot and perhaps Ned will join us. I must speak to Lord Egmont.”

  He took a graceful leave, but turned at the door. “By the way, will it be a nuisance if my daughter comes? I think she might enjoy an outing such as this. Lady Waverly, what do you think?”

  He addressed Lady Waverly, but his eyes rested challengingly on Faustina. He was bamming her, she realized suddenly, and his impertinence flooded her with anger. Well, if it would please him to make her angry with him, then she would not give him that satisfaction. He would see that not every woman met provocation with temper.

  It was an effort. But she managed to bestow upon Hugh a benevolent smile of approval, and had the satisfaction of seeing the faintest of surprised expressions flit across his face.

  Hugh Crale had not heard the last of this, she vowed silently. Taking her own idea, her own picnic, stolen by Helen and brought back altered in major structure, with Faustina a dubious guest and Althea an afterthought… She bestowed her attention on a large rose in the carpet and forced silence on herself.

  Fortunately for her self-control, he left the ladies, crossed the hall, and let Bone announce him to Lord Egmont.

  Inside the library, Lord Egmont sat at his desk, Ned Waverly in a deep chair close by. The expressions of both men were unwontedly grave. “Perhaps I intrude?” suggested Hugh quietly. “I can come again…”

  “Not at all, Pendarvis,” said Ned. “Bone, close the door, please.”

  At Ned’s calm taking charge, Hugh raised an eyebrow. But he said only, “I came simply to inform Lord Egmont that I have invited the ladies to a picnic on the shore tomorrow, and happily they have accepted. I will ask Aubrey Talbot, whom I have known for years, and I also want to invite you to attend — if you wish, Lord Egmont, although I can’t imagine it would be amusing. Now, as to Ned, perhaps you would find the outing diverting?”

  Egmont said heavily, “Hugh, I understand you were shot at last night. On Kennett land?”

  “News travels, doesn’t it? I had quite forgot until Lady Waverly also seemed aware of the mishap.”

  “Forgot?” burst out Ned. “That you were shot at? That argues a certain amount of aplomb that I must say I envy.”

  ‘‘Not at all,” said Hugh. ‘I meant to say that I had forgotten how swiftly news travels in the country. But no doubt it travels equally fast in London.” He turned to Egmont. “No, sir, it was on my own land. And while I have not talked to Maddox yet, I expect it will prove to be a poacher with faulty eyesight.”

  “All very well to laugh about it,” muttered Egmont. “I would myself. But it’s a dangerous thing to have shots flying about.”

  “I quite agree,” said Hugh wryly. “Revanche was wounded in the neck, and while it is not serious, the next time could be.”

  “Then,” said Ned, pouncing, “you agree that there could be a next time?”

  “Until Maddox ensnares the poacher, I suppose it is only common sense to expect another shot. I have decided not to frequent dark coppices on moonlight nights.”

  “Is it possible that a poacher is not at fault?” pursued Ned.

  “We will not know,” said Hugh pleasantly, “until we find out who fired the shots, will we?”

  “Shots?” said Egmont. “One wounded your steed. But I did not know there were two.”

  “The other, I am sorry to say,” said Hugh lightly, “ruined my new coat that Nugee made for me only last month.”

  “That close!” exclaimed Egmont.

  “Maybe they mistook you for someone else,” suggested Ned.

  Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps they did,” he said frostily. “I confess I weary of the subject.”

  But Ned, if Hugh meant to snub him, did not seem aware of it. “But only a few people could be expected through that shortcut. Do you know of any enemies you might have?”

  Hugh rose. Ominously he said, “I fear that my affairs intrude too much on you, Ned…”

  “Sit down, Hugh, if you please,” said Egmont with a resumption of his authority. “Ned, your questions are out of line. You should see that. Unless you explain to Hugh what you told me earlier.”

  “I quite agree,” said Hugh, sitting down again. There was a serious note in the two men that alerted Hugh, and he was prepared to give them his full attention. Secretly, he knew he was snatching at a hope that the reason for the shooting — which seemed to exercise Ned to the fullest — might be found in some endeavor far removed from Crate Hall, and from young Vincent Crale. Hugh had not quite admitted to himself that he suspected his half-brother, but neither had he convinced himself that Vincent was innocent of all wrongdoing.

  Hugh leaned back in his chair. Upon prompting by Lord Egmont, Ned embarked on what promised to be a long narrative. Hugh was not disappointed.

  “I don’t know how much you know about my work,” said Ned, with a reluctant glance at his uncle.

  “Nothing,” said Hugh promptly.

  “Without going into too much detail,” said Ned, “please understand that what I tell you is in confidence. My uncle vouches for your discretion, and I must accept that.” He looked a question at Hugh, who nodded once.

  “Very well, then. It has come to the attention of certain departments of the government that there has been a marked increase in the incidence of smuggling. Especially upon the Devon coast.”

  Hugh watched him unwaveringly.

  “And while it is illegal to import brandy and certain cloth-stuffs from the continent without paying the excise tax, it is in the long run a crime that probably cannot be stamped out completely. Not,” he added with some bitterness, “while gentlemen like their brandy and wink at the countraband goods.”

  “The brandy in that decanter,” announced Egmont, “paid its tax. In case you were wondering, Ned.”

  Ned had the grace to flush slightly. “I meant nothing, Uncle James. But now, not only does the government need the increased revenue that enforcement would bring in, but also there’s a worse threat.”

  “Worse than money?” said Hugh lightly.

  “You’ve just come from France,” said Ned bluntly. “You know what the situation is there, with Bony splitting his waistcoast with his swelling ambition.”

  “Not France,” corrected Hugh mildly. “Brussels. I haven’t been in France for some years.”

  Ned shot him a disbelieving glance. “Well, then, Bony’s getting ready to declare war on England. And there’s a certain amount of contraband that may come over walking on two legs.”

  Egmont snorted. “Spies, he means.”

  “Already?” asked Hugh.

  “We have word,” said Ned, as though neither had spoken, “that there is something big in the wind. Someone of great importance will be brought ashore.”

  “As though he were a keg of brandy?” asked Hugh in disbelief.

  Stubbornly Ned said, “Much like that. Although they will have to come inshore to land the man. Not like…” He glanced sharply at Hugh.

  “You mean the process by which they anchor the kegs just under the surface of the water far offshore, so they can be picked up later by the locals,” said Hugh. “I trust that my knowledge of that bit of lore doesn’t throw my innocence in jeopardy.”

  Egmont intervened. “Ned’s not trying to trap you, Hugh.”

  “I should like to hear Ned tell me so,” said Hugh calmly, “for he seems above all things suspicious’of me.”

  Ned seemed to struggle with inner thoughts. Finally he said, “No, I’m not trying to trap you. But I tell you that I will prevent the landing of any French spy on our coast.”

  “I quite agree,” said Hugh. “And I must tell you in all honesty that this is the first I have heard of any smuggling. I am just back from an ext
ended sojourn abroad, you know, and I cannot help you. I have lost touch, you may imagine, with local malefactors. In any case, I don’t quite see that there is a connection between someone shooting in my coppice and Napoleon. You say the spy has not yet landed? Then he can’t have been the man in my coppice, can he?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And it seems to me — without prejudice, you understand — that no spy worth his salt would be loosing his gun in such a stupid, noisy fashion.”

  Ned’s pink cheeks puffed out. “That is not what I was trying to say!” he exclaimed. “This smuggling business has been tracked home to Devon — someplace along the west coast of the bay. And all indications are that we can narrow it down even further. And if someone thought…” He lapsed into silence, apparently trying to frame his suspicions so that, Hugh guessed, they would not sound like suspicions.

  He failed. Hugh thought it was time to leave — he had some thoughts to put into order himself, and he longed for solitude. He rose again, and this time his departure was not hindered.

  “I am sorry I could not help you,” he said civilly. “Will I see you tomorrow, Ned? You might find it interesting to … become reacquainted with the shore of the bay.”

  He did not wait for an answer. Bowing to Egmont, he stepped through the door, and Bone saw him out to the terrace. He found his thoughts were clamorous indeed, and stepped down the drive in a determined stride, leaving the two men in the library to look at each other.

  “You came on too strong,” said Egmont at last. “I don’t like it He’s a neighbor, and in my house as a guest…”

  “I was civil enough,” said Ned.

  “But the man’s a peer of the realm. You practically accused him of treason. Bringing a spy into Devon. Running a contraband ring, I suppose you would call it? Nonsense! Ned, you know your business, I think, in most cases. And I have no quarrel with your brains. But I think you’re way out on tins one.”

  “Why?” said Ned, adding shrewdly, “Just because he’s the son of your old friend? Let me point out that he’s spent years abroad, and married a Frenchwoman. You don’t know what kind of man he turned into. He could have been running a smuggling operation for years — he knows the territory around here. Didn’t he sail the bay in his father’s yacht for years?”

  “But,” pointed out his uncle, “he’s been in Brussels lately, he said.”

  Ned rose. Triumph edged his words as he informed his uncle, “The smugglers bring brandy and other contraband out of Belgium. What more likely than, if Napoleon’s got to land a spy, that he use these brigands who are already experienced…”

  Egmont raised a hand in protest, but Ned swept on to deliver his final point. “… and the leader himself comes home to supervise operations from this end?”

  Chapter 11

  The picnic did not take place on the appointed day. The fair weather, which had held, as though in special beneficence for Louisa Waverly’s party, now broke, and the morning of the picnic dawned cold and drear.

  The clouds scudded past barely above the treetops, stealing color until the landscape looked steely and unfriendly. Hugh turned from the library window at Crale with resignation. He could not take his daughter out into weather like this — no matter how much she would like to go. There was nothing for it but to tell her.

  He toyed with the idea of having Zelle inform the girl of the altered plans. After all, he employed the woman for that very purpose — to stand between himself and his child. For the child was an ever-present reminder of his misery for the past six years, and he hoped in time, though not to forget it, yet to come to some kind of terms with it.

  But Faustina had done her work better than she knew. He could not now summon Zelle and give her instructions and then forget about it. For a man whose duty had come upon him strongly and without a great deal of warning, he found that duty was excessive in its requirements.

  He had already come to terms with the idea of marrying again, for the benefit of the Crale family, past and future. So much was settled. He would go to London, after he got things in shape here at Crale, the accounts in order, and the fields flourishing again as they had not during his father’s years of declining health, and, in London, choose a suitable bride.

  He had no illusions as to his personal charm, even before Faustina had laid his faults bare to the world. But he knew, none better, that a title, especially an exalted one such as his, and a sufficient income would bring him nearly any female he chose. That endeavor, however, lay in the future.

  Today’s duties were rather more exigent. And one of them was to explain to his daughter why there would be no picnic today.

  She came promptly when he sent the maid Prudence for her. Althea came into the presence of her papa and stopped just inside the door. Prudence, round-eyed with apprehension, closed the door softly behind her.

  Even the servants, thought Hugh bleakly, believe me too harsh and unfeeling.

  “My dear,” began Hugh in a conciliatory tone, “I know you have been looking forward to the picnic today.”

  Althea nodded, an appealing soberness in her small figure. She stood straight and watched him with her eyes that suddenly reminded him of his mother. Hugh began again. “You must be aware that the weather is against us.”

  Althea smiled briefly. “I know. It is too cold. We — that is, I — should not like it.”

  “We’ll go the first day it is warm enough,” promised Hugh recklessly. Suddenly he was seeing this child of his through eyes that, to be honest, had not looked at her for some time. Not really looked at her.

  Faustina’s words echoed in his mind: How well do you know your daughter? How much time have you spent with her? How do you know she is incorrigible?

  Drat the woman! he thought balefully. But he knew that, now that he was aware of these questions, he must deal with them. But in his own way! he thought with determination.

  “How will that be?” he said awkwardly.

  “Fine, sir,” she said with politeness.

  “Well.” After a moment, during which she watched him with an unnerving stare, he began again. “How do you like it here at home? This is our home always now, you know. Are you getting acquainted?”

  She was clearly mystified at his attention, he thought, and that reaction lent credence to Faustina’s cutting remarks. But it seemed to him that there was something more than mystification in the child’s mind.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “My friend Faustina let Mrs. Cotter give me a kitten. But Zelle says I must keep it in the stables. Where cats belong,” she parroted, and then finished swiftly, “but he’s not a cat, he’s a kitten.”

  “I see no reason,” he said, passing a milestone without recognizing it, “why you may not have the kitten in your room.” It was the first time he had overridden Zelle’s orders. “Tell her I said so.”

  The child’s face lit momentarily before it became shadow-touched. Hugh decided, after he had sent Althea away some moments later, that what he had seen in his daughter’s eyes was an emotion that had no business there.

  Fear.

  And perhaps — he gritted his teeth — Faustina was right The child was certainly afraid. He thought over his remarks and could think of nothing that she might have taken amiss. But nonetheless, Althea Crale was afraid. And, without a doubt in Hugh’s mind, his daughter was afraid of him.

  Althea, on her part, left her father’s presence with a mixture of emotions. She felt very grown-up, having been summoned just like Zelle or Mrs. Robbins to go to her Papa in the library. And her heart had bounded to suffocation when she was told that she could have her dear little white kitten upstairs in her own room.

  But then Papa had spoiled it all. She should have known it would not work, not if she herself had to tell Zelle what Papa had said. No, she could not do that.

  She wouldn’t tell Zelle anything, for fear she would say too much. Last night had been another of those nights. Zelle had waited until she thought Althea was asleep, and t
hen tiptoed out of the room. She hadn’t gone to her own room on the other side of the small sitting room they shared, but instead — Althea listened carefully — Zelle had gone out into the corridor.

  This was not the first time Zelle had left her alone and not come back until very late. Althea’s curiosity, having little to occupy itself, was piqued uncontrollably.

  After Zelle had left last night, Althea determined to follow her. On other nights she had heard a door close somewhere below her window. Last night she had waited in her dark bedroom until she heard the familiar sound. Her eyes, round with excitement, caught sight of a figure she recognized flitting in the dusk across the lawn toward the outbuildings. Althea marked the exact spot that Zelle had vanished.

  Practical as usual, the child found her shoes and her jacket and slipped out of her bedroom into the sitting room. There were no burning candles. Zelle did not expect to be back for a while.

  Althea hurried to the door into the hall and lifted the latch.

  The door was locked.

  She tugged hard at the door, but it did not budge. She was locked in.

  Zelle had locked her in!

  Althea had spent part of her neglected years on the fringe of conversations among elderly concierges, and all the horrors of their memories came flooding back to her now. Suppose the house caught fire — suppose a candle tipped over, somewhere, and the house blazed up at once. How would she get out? She would be trapped!

  No one could know the terrors of the rest of that night for Althea. Now, in daylight, her fears were lessened. Zelle had come back, and the house had stood calm and quiet through the dark hours.

  But, she reasoned, if Zelle learned of Papa’s approval of the kitten, then Zelle’s black beads of eyes would kindle in anger, and the inevitable question would follow: “So, you spoke to milord! And what did you tell your papa, hein!’

  Althea, experienced in such matters, did not quite like the idea of Zelle in a rage. No, she would not tell Papa’s message. And as she trotted back down the endless corridors to her own rooms, she did not know that her father sat in grim thought at his desk. Fear had appeared in her eyes — but its cause was beyond the earl’s suspicions, for the moment.