The Tudor Signet

by Carola Dunn

  “If it’s careless talk, it may be more than one. I’ll show you the letters--I brought copies--and you can tell me how much of the information is known to whom. All they need do is chat among themselves where Riddlesworth can overhear.”

  “True. Are you going to arrest him?”

  “Not yet. There must be others involved and I’m hoping he’ll lead us to them. Until then, I mean to use the copy of the seal to feed false information to the French through Penhallow and his smuggler.”

  “Capital! What’s more, we can deliberately feed false information to Riddlesworth through the officers he gambles with. When it turns up in the letters your pet smuggler hands over, you’ll have evidence against him.”

  “That’s a good notion, Des. I’ll leave it to you to choose which officers to use.”

  The captain reddened and said gruffly, “How can you be sure I’m not the one blowing the gaff? I work closely with Admiral Gault and probably know as much as anyone about the movement of ships.”

  Malcolm chose his words with care. “I don’t believe a man who gave an arm to Boney would willingly give him anything else. More to the point, I know you, Des, better than I know my own brothers. There’s no one I’d sooner trust. Now, have some more brandy and let’s get down to details of how we’re going to manage the business.”

  “Wait a bit. How does the young lady shot by the poacher come into it?”

  Malcolm took a swallow of brandy. He’d trust Des with his life--but not quite yet with the fact that he had been struck amidships by Cupid’s darts, grappled and boarded by a chit with black hair and bewitching brown eyes.

  “There was no poacher,” he said nonchalantly. “Miss Bertrand held up my carriage, dressed as a highwayman. Jessup shot her, although I’d warned him to expect something of the sort and not to fire.”

  “You’d what?”

  “I made sure Riddlesworth knew my movements. I was fairly sure he’d either come to Corycombe to redeem the ring or relieve me of it on the way.”

  “Of course, you had to return it to him somehow. But the girl held you up?”

  “She is Riddlesworth’s cousin. They were brought up together by an uncle and she has made a habit of extricating her cousin from the briars, I gather. At least, strictly speaking they are not related. Her parents were French and...”

  “French! And she was the one who retrieved the signet, or tried to. I wager Miss Bertrand is in it over head and ears!”

  Malcolm sought desperately for a credible, dispassionate reason to deny the possibility. He found none.

  * * * *

  For three days Mariette slept, woke to eat, and slept again. On the second day Dr. Barley pronounced her out of danger, but she felt weak as a newborn lamb and disinclined to argue with his prescription of bedrest.

  To her relief, prompted by Lady Lilian he agreed that her midnight departure was to be blamed on the muddling effect of laudanum. It might even be true. In retrospect, her attempt to walk home seemed even more caperwitted than the highwayman lark. If only she had known beforehand how different Lord Malcolm was from Lord Wareham, she’d simply have gone to him and paid him for Ralph’s confounded ring.

  From the moment she opened her eyes and saw him bending over her, up there on the moor, she had known she was safe. Once more she owed him her life. How could she ever have believed he cheated at cards, she reproached herself. That was just one of Ralph’s wild excuses.

  Ralph must have received his ring by now, for he hadn’t written to her again. Nor had Uncle George. Lady Lilian said Jim Groom rode over every day to enquire after her, but that was quite likely his own idea, or Mrs. Finney’s. Certainly it was the housekeeper’s idea to send Mariette her own two nightgowns, her brown flannel dressing-gown, three dresses, cotton stockings, chemises, and a pair of slippers.

  It wasn’t that Uncle George and Ralph didn’t miss her, she told herself. It wasn’t that they didn’t care. It just never dawned on them that she’d like to hear from them.

  She still had not received a word from either when she woke on the fourth morning feeling so much better she couldn’t bear the thought of lying in bed all day.

  “I shall get up today,” she said to Jenny when the abigail came in with her breakfast.

  “You’re likely weaker than you think, miss,” Jenny said dubiously, setting the tray on the bedside table and drawing back the curtains to reveal an overcast sky.

  “I’ll never grow any stronger if I don’t move about,” Mariette pointed out, fending off Ragamuffin’s morning greeting. “Get down, boy. You’ll upset the tray. At least I could lie on a sofa for a change.”

  “We’ll see what her ladyship says, miss. Here you are, now. A nice bit of grilled gammon cut up in cubes so’s you can manage it, and your tea’s milky and not too hot. His lordship’s found some fresh straws for you.”

  “He’s still here?” A surge of gladness took her by surprise. “I was afraid he’d leave before I could thank him.”

  “Be here a while yet, from what I hear. My lady’s that happy to have him visit. It’s a lonely life she leads, the poor dear.”

  “But she has Miss Farrar and Miss Thorne, and the neighbours call.”

  “That Miss Thorne’s no sort of companion, if you ask me, and Miss Emily’s still a child. As for neighbours, there’s some I could name she’d be better off without.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m sure it’s not for me to say, miss. Well, I mustn’t stand here gossiping. I’ll take the dog down and let him out, shall I? Alice’ll be in for your tray in a bit.”

  When the housemaid had removed the tray, Mariette rearranged her pillows and rolled over onto her back. The effort left her limp. Walking might be a trifle beyond her, she conceded. However, though she suspected it would be a while before her bottom was ready to sit upon, the discomfort did not amount to pain. She could perfectly well recline upon a sofa.

  She lay studying the ceiling. It was worthy of study, being festooned with plaster garlands and cherubs, but by the time she had counted the cherubs twice she was growing bored. Before she was driven to experiment further with her strength, Lady Lilian came to see her.

  “Jenny told me you are much improved,” she said with a smile, “but I did not know you were already lying on your back.”

  “I turned over by myself. May I go down to lie on a sofa, ma’am? I’m quite well enough.”

  “Good gracious, no!” Lady Lilian sounded shocked. “That is, I cannot think it wise. If you are tired of your bed, as I can well imagine, I shall have a chaise longue brought in here.”

  “It’s not that it isn’t an exceedingly comfortable bed, ma’am,” Mariette hastened to assure her.

  “But you are more than ready for a change. Perfectly understandable.”

  Shortly after she left, Mrs. Wittering arrived followed by Charles and Alice with an elegant chaise longue, all white and gilt. “From my lady’s dressing room, miss,” the housekeeper reported as, under her supervision, the maid and footman set it by the fireplace. “Miss Pennick’ll be along in a minute to help you to it.”

  Even with Jenny’s help, the short distance from bed to chaise exhausted Mariette. She lay quite happily for some time admiring the blue-and-white Dutch tiles around the fireplace and watching the flames flicker. She was just beginning to wish for a book when she heard a soft tap upon the chamber door and called eagerly, “Come in!”

  Miss Farrar slipped into the room, holding the door to let Ragamuffin in, then closing it quickly and quietly behind him. Mariette was conscious of a faint disappointment--not that she had really expected Lord Malcolm. Any visitor was welcome. She smiled at the girl.

  “Jenny told me you had left your bed,” Miss Farrar said in a breathless whisper, approaching the chaise on tiptoe.

  She was wearing a delightful gown of pale pink Circassian cloth with a straight, narrow skirt. Though it was quite plain, with two rows of darker pink velvet ribbon at the hem and the wrists and a wider ribbon fo
r a sash at the high waist, Mariette was envious. She always wore dark colours because they were more practical and lasted longer and she hated to present Uncle George with bills. What was more, she sewed her own clothes, and she’d be the first to admit she was no expert seamstress.

  “I feel much better,” she said. “Do sit down. How pretty you look, Miss Farrar.”

  “Do you really think so?” The girl blushed as she took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. “I think you are beautiful, and prodigious brave. Uncle Malcolm says he’s never known a female so courageous.”

  Mariette stared. All he had called her to her face was a romantical shatterbrain! “He told you that?”

  “He told Cousin Tabitha, when she chided him for bringing you here.”

  “Oh dear, did she?”

  “I beg your pardon, I should not have mentioned it, but truly you must not mind what Cousin Tabitha says. She is always pinching at someone. Why, she even finds fault with Mama. Oh, Miss Bertrand, pray don’t tell Mama I came to see you!”

  “I won’t,” Mariette promised, dismayed. “Are you forbidden to visit me?”

  “Not precisely, only Mama said I must not disturb you. Am I disturbing you?” she enquired diffidently.

  “Not a bit. I’m very happy to see you, but perhaps you ought not to come if Lady Lilian doesn’t want you to.” She recalled how her ladyship had always avoided introducing her daughter. She had never minded much before, knowing she was not a fit model for a gently bred young lady, but now it hurt.

  That was why her hostess had been shocked when she asked to go below stairs. Regardless of her health, she was not welcome in the Corycombe drawing room. Had not Lady Lilian said the best thanks for her hospitality would be to recover--and be able to go away--quickly? Miss Thorne was right. Callers would be thrown into a tweak if required to acknowledge her existence, and Miss Farrar might be tainted by her acquaintance.

  Her attempt to go home was not so caperwitted after all.

  Miss Farrar was regarding her with anxiety. “All of a sudden you look horridly tired,” she said. “I had better go, but I shall come again, if you do not mind? Just for a few minutes now and then, until you are quite well. You must be sadly dull all alone up here.”

  “A little. Perhaps you could find a book for me to read? You can give it to Jenny...”

  “I shall bring you one myself,” Miss Farrar declared stoutly, and Mariette hadn’t the heart to argue.

  Already she was a bad influence, leading the girl to disobey her mother. Which might not be such a bad thing, she decided hopefully. Miss Farrar had sounded totally incredulous when she said Miss Thorne was wont to criticize Lady Lilian. Surely a fifteen-year-old ought to have more independence of mind than to believe her mother perfect.

  On this consoling thought, Mariette dozed off. Drowsing, she was distantly aware of someone entering the room. She forced her eyelids up just in time to see a masculine back in a beautifully tailored dark red coat moving towards the door, watched with disappointment by Ragamuffin.

  “Don’t go!”

  Lord Malcolm swung round, revealing a waistcoat striped in poppy-red and pale grey. “Mar...My dear Miss Bertrand! I trust Ragamuffin and I between us did not wake you?”

  “Oh no! I was no more than half asleep. I have slept my fill these last few days.”

  “My niece informed me you’re in need of entertainment. She consulted me as to what books you might like to read and knowing your tastes I suggested novels.” A teasing gleam in his eye, he held up several volumes. “I offered to bring them up as she has been set to her needlework.”

  “How kind of you, sir,” she retorted with spirit. “I hope they’re full of highwaymen?”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh as he placed them on the occasional table beside the chaise. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I fear not. Emily’s reading is more prosaic. Maria Edgeworth and Fanny Burney tend to write about ordinary, everyday people and events. I daresay you’ll find ‘em sadly flat and commonplace.”

  “On the contrary,” Mariette said wryly, “what you consider ordinary, everyday life is anything but commonplace to me. I expect...I expect Lady Lilian doesn’t permit Miss Farrar to read romances.”

  “I believe not.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to come and see me. You won’t betray her, will you?”

  “I’m not such an unprincipled wretch! At least,” he amended with a grin, “I shan’t give Emmie away if you won’t give me away. I’m not supposed to be here either. As I was therefore unable to provide a chaperon, I had best be going. I just wanted to see for myself how you go on. You really are much better, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Quite bobbish, I’d say. Now, not a word to m’sister, mind.” A conspiratorial wink, a finger to his lips, and he tiptoed out, leaving Mariette laughing.

  He closed the door before she realized she hadn’t thanked him. Still, even if Lady Lilian disapproved of his visits to her chamber, perhaps he’d find an excuse to come again.

  She picked up the first volume of Cecilia with a contented sigh. There was something deliciously intimate about a shared secret.

  Chapter 6

  “Lord Wareham has called, my lady.”

  “Oh bother!” said Lilian. “Yes, show him in, Blount, and tell Cook there will be one extra for luncheon. One cannot deny the neighbours,” she said resignedly to Malcolm, “and Lord Wareham rides several miles to call, but he always seems to arrive just in time for a meal so one must invite him to stay.”

  “Like Des Aldrich.”

  Malcolm noted with interest the pink rising in Lilian’s cheeks. “That was quite different. The captain is your friend and was expected. I wonder whether he will call again. Is your business with him finished?”

  “No, but I’ve arranged to meet him in Plymouth.”

  “Malcolm, he will think he is not welcome here! You must tell him...Oh, good morning, Lord Wareham.”

  The baron bowed over her hand, holding it, in Malcolm’s opinion, a trifle longer than was quite proper. He had met Wareham on a previous visit and had not greatly cared for him. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man of about forty, he seemed rather too conscious of his good looks. He wore neat riding dress, as befitted a country gentleman. The contemptuous glance he bestowed upon Malcolm’s vividly striped waistcoat did not endear him.

  “How d’ye do, Eden,” he said, after a dismissive nod in response to Emily’s curtsy and Miss Thorne’s greeting. “What has dragged you away from the fleshpots?”

  “Just rusticating,” Malcolm drawled. “A week or two in a backwater makes the bright lights shine the brighter, don’t y’know.”

  “We have our moments of excitement in our little backwater, do we not, Lady Lilian? I hear Barwith’s chit was shot by a poacher on your land. Dashed generous of you to take the girl in.”

  “Miss Bertrand was too badly hurt to travel any farther than necessary,” Lilian informed him coolly.

  Wareham was patently uninterested in Miss Bertrand’s well-being. “I trust the man will be caught and will hang,” he said.

  “Not likely now.” Feigning a complete lack of interest, Malcolm ostentatiously covered a yawn.

  “Of course, the landless need not worry about poachers,” the baron said with a sneer. “Lady Lilian will agree with me that the rascals should be hanged or transported, every one.”

  Lilian shook her head. “The man who shot Miss Bertrand was not a poacher,” she said with certainty.

  Malcolm blenched. Had Mariette confessed the truth about the highwayman incident? He should have warned her to keep mum. But surely Lilian would have spoken about it to him, sooner than to a mere acquaintance!

  “How so, ma’am?” Wareham enquired.

  “There are no poachers on my land because I allow my people to take what game and fish they will. After all, I do not shoot, and they often make me presents from their catch.”

  “My dear lady, most unwise and a shockingl
y bad example! It goes to show that the gentle sex should not bother their pretty heads with business. The ladies need us men to take care of them, don’t they, Eden?”

  Malcolm knew that, with the aid of an excellent bailiff any gentleman would have been glad to employ, Lilian ran her estate most competently. He thought of Mariette, growing up in a male household, so greatly in need of female guidance.

  “No,” he said blandly.

  Lilian gave him a grateful look. Emily, modestly silent as befitted a schoolroom miss but avidly following every word, clapped her hands--and flushed, abashed, as her mother frowned at her.

  “Well, most men are better qualified to run the world,” Wareham conceded, his laugh condescending. “A Town beau must be expected to find himself at a loss faced with the problems of a landowner.”

  “No doubt,” Malcolm agreed with a languid, indifferent wave of the hand, fuming inside. Supercilious coxcomb! And what the devil did he mean by calling Lilian “my dear lady” and referring to Mariette as “Barwith’s chit” when she had a perfectly good name?

  Malcolm had the greatest difficulty remaining polite and maintaining his insouciant façade throughout luncheon.

  * * * *

  After luncheon, Mariette alternately dozed and read. She enjoyed Fanny Burney’s lively style and didn’t regret in the least the absence of highwaymen, ghosts, mad monks, and wicked noblemen with ghastly secrets. Nonetheless, she was glad to hear a tap on the door and delighted when Lord Malcolm sneaked in.

  He was wearing riding clothes and his brown hair was ruffled. After a joyful welcome, Ragamuffin sniffed at his boots with great interest. “Do I stink of the stables?” Lord Malcolm asked him, laughing. “I’ll take him for a walk in a little while, shall I? He’s admirably loyal, but I’m sure he’d be the better for some exercise.”

  “That would be very kind, sir, but you’ve already been out, haven’t you?”

  He looked annoyed. “My dear girl, I’m not such a poor fish I cannot manage a stroll because I’ve just been for a ride.”