“Backman, I shall see you to the devil . . . pardon me, ladies . . . if you had any part of this,” said Lord Redmayne.
“I swear I did not,” he answered.
“What a horrible experience,” exclaimed Penelope. “I am so grateful the villain did not succeed in harming you, Lady Catherine. You must be an intrepid horsewoman.”
Virginia added, “You will have to look elsewhere for your assailant, I think. Sir Bertie would never hurt you. He thinks that he hides it well, but there is not a kinder man alive.”
Bertie fidgeted with his flatware.
“I think we must bring in the chief constable, Lord Manning,” Lord Ogletree said. “Do you still have the loader, Bertie?”
He nodded.
“Hmm. This is all deuced odd. There is no hunting for sport in these parts,” said Ogletree. Signaling for the footman who was waiting table, he said in a low voice, “Send Jameson to the manor house for Lord Manning. Ask him to pay us a call this evening. There is a shooter on the loose.”
Throughout this conversation, Lady Catherine had remained silent, her attention still on Bertie. He felt her eyes on him and turned to face her. Under cover of the conversation between the others, he asked, “Have you an enemy, your ladyship?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I have no idea why anyone would want me to go over the cliff.”
“I would not wish it,” he replied.
At that remark, her eyes narrowed. “You were down on the shore the other morning,” she said.
“I was,” he said. His eyes remained fixed on hers. He could not look away. Neither, it seemed, could she. Only now her look did not speak of blame; it spoke of wonder.
“Ladies,” said Virginia, rising. “Shall we leave the men to their port? Lord Manning will arrive soon. His house is not far away.”
* * *
Instead of charades that evening, they entertained the chief constable. He was a short elderly man who wore a gray wig thirty years out of date. With his short neck and small head, he reminded Bertie of a hedgehog.
“I shall meet with Lady Catherine and her brother first,” said Lord Manning. “Ogletree, I think the library would be best.”
Chapter Four
Lady Catherine was a bit flushed by her unexpected attraction to Sir Herbert and angry with herself for bringing the incident out in the open, accusing him in public. After seeing the earnestness in his eyes, she was not inclined to think him guilty. But now everyone was going to make a fuss, and it would end in her going back to London.
As she entered Lord Ogletree’s library, she was somewhat calmed by the smell of pipe smoke and old leather. She loved libraries, and this looked to be a very fine one. A servant had been sent to make up the fire, and she and her brother sat on the leather sofa, across from the chief constable.
“First, Lady Catherine, accept my regrets that such a thing would happen to you. It must have frightened you very much indeed.”
The man was far kinder than she expected. Instead of being self-consequential, he was down-to-earth.
“Thank you, Lord Manning. I count myself lucky to have survived.”
“Go through the episode for me, will you?”
She complied, running her hands along her arms as she shivered at the memory.
Lord Manning sat in silence for a few moments after she had finished. Finally, he stood up and went to stand in front of the fire. “This may sound a strange question, my lady, but in what activities have you engaged since you have been staying in the neighborhood?”
It was a strange question, indeed. “I have kept to myself, primarily. I like to take walks and sometimes ride my mare, but other than that, I have been in the house.”
“Pardon me if I seem too inquisitive, but there is a reason,” the chief constable said. “Where have you been walking?”
“I like to walk by the sea.”
“Ah!” This apparently meant something to him, because he nodded his head.
“And what seaside walks have you favored?”
“This is a very odd line of questioning,” her brother protested.
“Bear with me, my lord. It has a purpose,” said Lord Manning.
“I walk down by the harbor mostly. But a couple of times I have ridden to Portland Bill and gone on foot down the cliffs. I like to explore the caves.” She shivered.
He sat down again. “Have you been inside?”
“Once,” she said, flashing a look at her brother, who scowled at her. “As a matter of fact, it was earlier yesterday. Before the shooting. There were men in there, but I could not make out what they were speaking of. I am ashamed to say, I hid from them. I thought they might be smugglers.”
“That was a dashed fool thing to do,” Robert said. “Anything could have happened! You could have been cut off by the tide or fallen and broken a leg. No doubt they were smugglers! Did you recognize anyone?”
“No. They were in a different tunnel. I did not see them at all. But they may have seen me. When I stepped out of the cave, I was blinded by the sunlight for a moment, but I heard them, so I popped back inside.”
“Harebrained gel!” said her brother. “What if someone had seen you?”
“I did meet Sir Herbert Backman there a couple of days ago,” she said, anxious to dampen her brother’s anxieties. “He’s one of the gentlemen who is staying here with Lord Ogletree. He was standing just inside the cave. I warned him not to go in without a torch.”
The chief constable’s eyes lit. “Ah.” He turned his attention to her brother.
“Lord Redmayne, what can you tell me about this man?”
“Baronet,” said her brother. “He was in the vicinity when Catherine was shot at.”
“Was he, now?” Lord Manning’s eyes took on a calculating glint. “The smuggling is a matter for the Excise, of course. I will pass the information on to them.”
Though she had made the connection between Sir Herbert and the smugglers herself, for some reason she was now disinclined for the constable to do so. “But Sir Herbert is a gentleman!” she said. “He would not have anything to do with smuggling.”
“Most of these smuggling gangs have a gentleman or two at their head. They’re smuggling brandy from France. The gentlemen arrange for distribution in London and take the lion’s share of the profits. The gentry turn a blind eye when it’s a question of their brandy.”
The looks she had shared with Sir Herbert the other morning had imprinted themselves on her mind. Was it possible she had felt attracted to a villain? She had been ready enough to accuse him of shooting at her. But . . . “He is not a smuggler,” she said, compelled to defend him.
“He does not want you to think so, obviously. But he was there at the cave, and he was there when you were shot at. I think the Excise and I must take a closer look at the man.”
“Meanwhile,” said Redmayne, “I am taking you straight back to London.”
“Please, no!” she said. “I am not ready to face London yet!”
“We will discuss this in private,” her brother promised.
All concern about the shooting fled. She could not face the ton while knowing she was the chief subject of gossip! Also, William and Sybil were there. She would rather be hanged than risk facing the two of them together. There must be some way she could change his mind.
Chapter Five
Bertie was in the drawing room supposedly listening to Tony’s wife play Mozart on the pianoforte, but his mind would not settle. He had gone to his room to get the rifle loader and was awaiting his turn to be questioned.
After a time, Lord Manning entered the drawing room alone. “Lord Redmayne has asked that I deliver their regrets, but Lady Catherine was most upset, and he has taken her back to Fortuneswell. They leave for London tomorrow.”
Virginia rose from her seat at the piano. “Oh dear. Is the lady all right?”
“I am certain she will be perfectly well,” said the chief constable. He turned to Bertie. “Sir Herbert, if you woul
d come with me, please?”
He did not like the sharp gaze the chief constable sent him. What had Lady Catherine said to him?
He soon found out once they were settled in the library, where the man had taken a seat behind Lord Ogletree’s desk. Bertie guessed it was to give himself added authority.
Before the man could say anything, Bertie placed the loader on the desk. “I found this at the scene of the shooting, behind a boulder right inside the trees. It is the loader for a hunting rifle.”
“Do you come to Dorset often, Sir Herbert?” the chief constable asked.
Puzzled, he answered, “I’ve been here only once before. For Lord Strangeways’s wedding in December.”
Lord Manning studied him. “I understand you met Lady Catherine on the beach below Portland Bill.”
“Yes.” He saw no point in elaborating.
“She stated that she saw you coming out of one of the caves there.”
“I had just stepped in for a moment. I had no torch.”
The chief constable cocked his head to one side and studied him with care. “Those are smugglers’ caves.”
The words were curiously weighted, and Bertie’s mind flew. Did he think him guilty of smuggling, then? And did he think the shot that almost unseated Lady Catherine was related to smuggling? Not a bad conclusion—except that Bertie was not the smuggler. “I’m no smuggler.” He had another thought. “Surely, trying to send Lady Catherine over a cliff is a little extreme for smugglers? Why compound a crime punished only by fining with a hanging offense?”
The hedgehog-like man drummed his fingers on the desk, which Bertie found most annoying. “These are obviously deep waters,” the chief constable said. “Maybe her recognizing him was a chance he could not take for other reasons. Social disgrace?”
“Would a man shoot a young woman in order to keep his reputation intact?”
“Perhaps there is more to it than we know.” The constable resettled himself in his chair. “Smuggling is a matter for the Excise, but attempted murder is my bailiwick. Do you spend much time in London, Sir Herbert?”
“Only during the Season. I have an estate in Oxfordshire.”
“I’ll have to ask you to remain here for a week or so while I investigate this matter.”
Bertie pressed his lips together. After a moment, he said, “That may inconvenience Lord Ogletree.”
“I shall speak to him.”
Bertie said, “My rifle’s in Oxfordshire, by the way.”
Had Lady Catherine suggested this theory? The chief constable seemed slow-witted to Bertie. Would he have thought of it himself? The idea that the lady could have thought such a thing of him lanced him through. Did she really think he would be capable of smuggling and killing her to cover his deeds?
“These men, whoever they are, must be caught before they can harm the lady,” Bertie said.
“You are right,” said Lord Manning. “I shall be on my way. Expect to hear from the Excise.”
* * *
Bertie’s friends awaited him in the drawing room. Dispirited, he sat close to the fire.
“So what’s the word?” asked Beau, putting down the deck he had just shuffled.
This interminable card playing was getting on Bertie’s nerves, which was strange, because he normally enjoyed cards.
“The fellow thinks I’m a smuggler and I tried to rid the world of Lady Catherine because she knew my secret.”
Tony scoffed. “Fellow’s got bugs in his brainbox.”
“Is that what Lady Catherine believes?” Penelope asked, her face turned toward him.
“I think so.” Bertie stretched, trying to give the impression he was tired. “I’m not in the mood for cards. I’ll go on up.”
“I’ve got contacts in the Home Office. I’ll write in the morning,” said Beau. “We’ll see what they know about the smuggling trade in Dorset.”
Bertie clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You’re useful on occasion.”
Lord Ogletree snoozed by the fire. Bertie would have to bring up the subject tomorrow about staying on for the inquiry.
* * *
When he woke the following day and remembered what had transpired the night before, Bertie was annoyed. He was anxious to leave for Oxfordshire and his family there—his sister Marianne and her ten-year-old twins. He enjoyed his friends, but with this new matter brewing, the pleasure had gone out of the visit. Not to mention the fact that he was certain Lord Redmayne would take Lady Catherine to London, away from danger. In spite of his desire to see her again, he hoped this was the case. She needed to be as far as possible from danger.
As he looked in the mirror while tying his cravat, he also had to admit that he was greatly saddened by Lady Catherine’s suspicions. That she could think him a smuggler anxious to wipe her off the earth was certainly telling. Whatever he had felt that morning on the beach, she had evidently not shared it.
However, the memory of that day would not leave him. It was there solidly in his mind.
Perhaps a brisk ride on the downs would clear his head. Going out to the stables, he saddled Hermes and mounted him.
After he had ridden for a while through the rolling green hills, Hermes headed for Portland Bill on his own. The lighthouse came into view. He realized he intended to search the smugglers’ cave this time. He had even made certain he had a flint in his pocket. What could he use for a torch?
He hiked down to the beach and saw a stack of driftwood piled by the foot of the path. By the smugglers? Were they here?
Taking a piece of wood, Bertie walked to the mouth of the cave. Before lighting the wood, he walked in as far as he could without losing the light from the outside. Holding himself flush with the side of the cave, he listened. Nothing.
He struck his flint on the wall of the cave and lit the driftwood. It was damp but sizzled with the heat, and the flame took. The floor of the cave slanted upward and turned to the right. It smelled of the sea. The walls were craggy white limestone. What he wouldn’t have given to explore this place as a boy! Even now, it gave him a bit of a thrill.
Bertie trod carefully. Soon the tunnel branched, and he inspected the ground. At this point, it was muddy, and he couldn’t make out any distinguishing footprints. He decided to try the left fork.
The path descended and soon became even swampier. No one would store anything in this. His torch was getting low, convincing him it would be wise to try the other fork.
The right fork branched again. Since the torch burned nearly to his hand, he knew he needed to head back to the entrance. He should have brought another piece of wood.
He heard voices. Before extinguishing the torch, he used it to study the sandy floor. It looked like the foot traffic had gone to the right again. Stabbing the burning driftwood into the ground, he put out the fire, then slid along the wall in the left-hand tunnel, where he waited. Surely they wouldn’t be moving the goods during daylight?
Two men were coming.
“It’s the best quality. Saint Barnabas.” Bertie heard the soft West Country burr in the man’s voice. “But his nibs thinks we may be trying to put something over on him. He took a bottle away to test it, as he says. He’s gone back to London. Now I’ve got to take care of the lady. It was the devil’s bad luck I missed her yesterday.”
“Are you sure she saw you?”
“Don’t want to take a chance. Excise said as how if they caught me again, it would be transportation this time. Don’t fancy a voyage to Australia.”
Bertie’s heart stilled, and the hair on his nape rose. As they approached the fork, Bertie held his breath and flattened himself against the wall of the left fork. Unfortunately, this meant that he couldn’t see anything. The smugglers passed into the right-hand tunnel, and soon he couldn’t hear anything, but he stayed where he was.
Moments passed, and he felt as though he had been hiding for hours. The walls were unpleasantly damp; they would be the ruin of his riding jacket. The air hung about him, thick with mo
isture that condensed on his face.
Finally, he heard the sound of voices again.
“We’ll have to wait until his nibs is here to receive the shipment.”
“How long is that likely to be?”
“Who knows?” the other man replied.
“I’m leaving for London for a few days,” said the man who feared transportation. “I’ll call on him once I’ve dealt with the lady.”
Bertie balled his fists. He must warn Lady Catherine and her brother! Easing out of his hiding place, Bertie looked down the tunnel, but the pair had disappeared around the bend. All that remained was blackness. He crept forward, but the way was slow. He had to cling to the wall for direction. By the time he made it to the mouth of the cave, they were gone.
Bertie wanted to leave at that moment for London and ride through the night. A letter would never reach her in time.
* * *
Bertie arrived at the Oaks to an unwelcome surprise. All he wanted to do was pack a few things, saddle Hermes, and ride to London at the first possible moment. However, the Excise, accompanied by the chief constable, had arrived in his absence.
They met together in the library. The short, stocky Excise man was dressed carelessly and sported a shock of red hair.
Before the man could begin his questions, Bertie said, “I just visited the caves below Portland Bill this morning. The smugglers were there. I overheard their plans.”
“That was convenient,” the man said, acid in his tone.
“Lady Catherine heard them in there yesterday. They know it, and one of them is off to London to silence her. I must leave immediately to warn her.”
“Very convenient, indeed,” said the chief constable. “You are staying here, young man. In jail if you won’t cooperate.”
“What’s the loot?” the Excise asked.
“Saint Barnabas brandy. The man they referred to as ‘his nibs’ took some with him. I imagine he wants his clients to sample it. Now he’s gone off to London. They can’t arrange the transfer of the goods until after he returns.”
Not an Ordinary Baronet Page 3
