“We’ll have a lookout posted at the bill and offshore,” said the Excise.
“If you put up a watch, then you’ll know that I am no smuggler,” said Bertie. “I must go to London to warn Lady Catherine.”
“Mention that one more time, and I’ll jail you,” the chief constable said.
* * *
“Bertie, there you are!” said Lady Wellingham, beaming at him as he left the library. Taking his arm, she led him to the drawing room. “My dearest friend has come to stay for a few days.” She gestured toward a tall redhead who, though not entirely unattractive, reminded him instantly of a giraffe—all legs, neck, and nose. “Mary, may I present Sir Herbert Backman, a close friend of my husband since long-ago days at Oxford? Bertie, this is Miss Mary Gilbert, my neighbor from my childhood in Northamptonshire.”
He gave a short bow over her extended hand and tried to hide his annoyance. Was Penelope playing matchmaker? Or was this Beau’s doing? He was not even presentable. His jacket and waistcoat were covered in slime from the wet walls of the cave. And he needed to go upstairs to write an urgent letter to London.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Gilbert. Please excuse me for a bit. Had an encounter with a cave wall.”
“Luncheon will be served in a quarter of an hour, Sir Bertie,” Penelope warned.
He had been gone longer than he realized. Nipping up the stairs, he changed his clothes and then sat at the small desk in his room to compose a short note to Lady Catherine. He didn’t have time to write to Lord Redmayne.
My lady,
I must inform you that I was in the caves today. I heard two smugglers. One of them was the man who shot at you. He is off to London this very day to “take care” of you, for he is afraid you will recognize him. I pray this reaches you in time. You must take every precaution. I would not have you be in such danger for the world.
Yours,
Sir Herbert Backman
Upon reading the missive through, Bertie frowned and wrote it again, deleting the last sentence.
* * *
“Bertie,” said Tony over luncheon. “From the state of your dress when you came in just now, I assume you revisited the smugglers’ lair. We have filled Miss Gilbert in on our mystery. Have you anything new to add?”
“I heard the fellows but didn’t see them. They’re getting ready to move the loot. Saint Barnabas cognac, by the way.”
“I say,” said Miss Gilbert. “This is very exciting. Nothing like this ever happens in Northamptonshire!”
“I don’t imagine they shall move the cognac until tonight. Perhaps we can catch them at it.”
Virginia’s brows came together. “It will be very dangerous,” she said.
“The toff has gone to London for a few days,” said Bertie. “They must wait until he returns to move the goods. I don’t dare go anywhere near them. Excise and Lord Manning have their eyes on me as the Gentleman Smuggler.”
“Bother for you,” said Tony.
“With the Redmaynes in London, I worry for Lady Catherine’s safety. Have you a Debrett’s, my lord?” asked Bertie.
“You won’t need it,” said Lord Ogletree. “The family lives at Westbury House on Grosvenor Square.” His eyes twinkled.
“I understand you are a great judge of horseflesh, Sir Bertie,” said Miss Gilbert.
Bertie struggled to bring his thoughts back to the guest. “Northamptonshire is good horse country,” he said. “What breed do you ride?”
“I actually have two horses,” Miss Gilbert said. “I have a hunter, but my favorite horse is my Arabian. My dream is to have a Lipizzaner someday.”
Bertie’s eyebrows rose. “A Lipizzaner! That is a lofty goal indeed.”
She laughed. “I know it’s impossible. I confess I was only trying to test your attention. I do not think a commoner can even own a Lipizzaner.”
“Not unless he is well connected to royalty and has a fortune to spend on horses,” said Bertie. He restrained a frown. Testing his attention? Was Miss Gilbert the sort that always needed to be the center of everyone’s regard, even if matters such as the capture of smugglers were being discussed? He had not thought his friend’s wife would treasure such an acquaintance. Indeed, Lady Wellingham was not restraining her frown!
After luncheon, he took Tony and Beau into his confidence about the danger to Lady Catherine and Lord Manning’s decision to keep him at the Oaks. Tony obliged him by riding into town to mail Bertie’s letter.
Chapter Six
Lady Catherine had been unable to convince her brother to go to Somerset. Instead, they were headed for London.
As the carriage traversed familiar scenes, she held her feelings of dread tightly inside her breast. Smugglers were the furthest thing from her mind. The closer she came to London, all she could think about were William and Sybil.
She had never been the object of gossip before—particularly malicious gossip. Mentally, she went over the activities she should avoid. The Duchess of Ruisdell’s soup kitchen for wounded soldiers was marginal. Catherine wanted to go if she could. It was one of the activities that made her feel like a useful human being.
But balls, luncheons, dinner parties, card parties, Venetian breakfasts, and routs were all things she must scorn if she was to avoid gossip. Her spirits suffered a further dive. What was she going to do in London?
Maybe she could offer to address invitations to charity functions for Lady Clarice Manton. That lady was doing her best to fund a campaign aimed at literacy for the poor. Or she could help her companion, Miss Braithwaite, catalog her beetle collection. At least she knew that Lady Clarice and Miss B. could be counted on not to deal in gossip. Not so for the rest of her so-called friends.
As they stopped for the night in their usual inn, she told her brother she would take supper on a tray in her room. Robert had elected to eat in a private parlor, but because she was angry with her brother and speaking to him as little as possible, Catherine chose to avoid him. She knew she would eat little and sleep even less.
After she ate a poor dinner and prepared for bed, Catherine took her candle to the bedside and crawled in under the quilts. Opening the Duchess of Ruisdell’s latest work, The Curious Affair at Staley-in-the-Wold, she endeavored to lose herself in its witty repartee. It did not hold her interest, however.
Of all things, she found herself thinking of Sir Herbert Backman. Had he actually fired that shot at Ginger’s hooves? She could not imagine it. But could the man really have appeared so quickly on the scene otherwise? The cliff top where she had been riding was fairly isolated. What was he doing there if not following her?
He was a bit forbidding looking with that high brow and aristocratic nose. But his eyes!
She remembered that moment on the beach when it had seemed that even the tide stood still. There was no doubt about it. He had compelling eyes. She thought again of their clear, soft gray with the black rings around the iris. His lashes were heavy and dark. The combination was startling, but it was the look in his eyes that jolted her. It was oddly intense and searching, as though he looked into the innermost workings of her mind.
His behavior at the dinner party had been reserved. But then, she had accused him of trying to kill her, which may have put him off a bit. But if he had not been the shooter, who was it?
And was Sir Herbert truly a smuggler? He had been on the scene at the beach. But she thought he lacked the ruthless disregard for the law. And try as she might, she could not imagine him wanting to send her over the cliff.
How was it that she was feeling this odd pull toward another man at this sad juncture in her life? Perhaps it was just as well she had left Dorset. But that did not mean she was ready for London.
* * *
After having spent another night in an inn, they arrived in London. Catherine had grown up at the gracious family seat in Somerset and felt choked by the formality of Westbury House. Its gray granite façade was unadorned and severe. It always felt like it was a mile from the c
arriage to the front door. Their butler, Stebbins, was dressed in a Georgian wig and red livery trimmed with gold braid. The hall with its high vaulted ceiling was a vast expanse of white marble adorned with reproductions of classical nudes.
Catherine climbed up the right side of the double stairway to the portrait gallery that surrounded the hall. The left wing contained the formal rooms, the right wing less formal sitting rooms, her father’s library, and the stairs to the family rooms. Making straight for her bedroom, she took off her bonnet, cloak, and gloves, and tried to warm herself by the fire. Traveling in a carriage in the winter was a miserable experience. The hot bricks that had warmed her feet this morning cooled before two hours had passed, the fur lap rug was insufficient, and her cloak absorbed the damp, foggy air.
In an hour, there would be dinner. She missed her dear papa, who seldom left Westbury Castle, where he carried out agricultural experiments year-round in his succession houses. She wished she could take her dinner on a tray, but she needed to avoid servants’ gossip now that she was in London.
Robert was annoyed with her. Her brother believed in facing up to things. His own marriage had been loveless, so she did not expect him to understand the agonies she suffered at being here so near to William and Sybil and their happiness. Catherine wondered if her feelings of the moment would ever fade to a manageable memory. Now the wounds were raw and fresh.
Changing into a gold evening gown that brought out the lights in her auburn hair and provided a foil for her sea-green eyes, she waited patiently as Parker took the pins out of her tired coiffure, brushed her hair, and rearranged it high on her head. Catherine had wanted to cut it short when she came out two years ago, but her father would not hear of it.
“Your hair is like your mother’s, dear—your crowning glory,” he had said.
Her mother had died when Catherine was only four, and she had only the faintest of memories: warmth, smiles, and a sweet lilac fragrance. A mother would be a great comfort to her now.
I must take myself in hand. Tomorrow I shall call on Lady Clarice and Miss B. They will help put me back together and give me plenty to do.
* * *
The following morning, she was surprised to see a letter from the Oaks by her breakfast plate. It appeared to be from Sir Herbert. Upon reading it, she grew astonished.
Sir Bertie warning her? One of the smugglers who wanted her dead? It was as Lord Manning had supposed. Her hands began to shake and without realizing it, she wadded up the letter and gripped it into a tight ball. Her heart thundered.
This letter is two days old. Is the man now in London who means to kill me?
She shivered. Was she in danger or not? From what quarter would it come?
At least Catherine now knew three things about the shot on the cliff. The smuggler thought she would recognize him, meant to kill or at least scare her, and was not Sir Herbert. But, of course, she had only Sir Herbert’s word for all of that.
If she had to stay at home in this palace of ice, Catherine knew she would become blue deviled. She was too agitated to sit still. Needing diversion from danger and heartache, she measured the probable threat involved in going to visit her friends at Blossom House. Surely if she went about in broad daylight, she would not be safe! This was not quiet Dorset. This was busy London.
* * *
When Pursley opened the door for her, he showed her immediately to the red Chinese saloon where Lady Clarice was writing invitations, her fat Siamese cat in her lap.
“Oh, my dear,” the woman greeted her, standing and pulling Catherine into an embrace. “What a treat to see you! I was afraid you were down in Dorset for the remainder of the winter!”
“Robert became bored without the Prince and his set of friends, and nothing would do but that we should come back to London. We arrived only last evening.”
“Sit, sit, my dear.” The large woman held her large cat to her large bosom, making her an impressive sight indeed.
“I thought perhaps you or Miss B. could put me to work. I must have some occupation, or I shall lose my mind.”
“I applaud you, Lady Catherine. You are taking exactly the right approach to life. I know this is a most difficult time for you, but we will not talk about that.” She paused to murmur sweet words to Queen Elizabeth as she scratched her behind the ears. “We are starting our reading program in the East End. We are still waiting to raise enough money for the teaching facility, but Sukey thought it might be a good idea to whet the East Enders’ appetite for books by holding readings twice a week at the Saint Francis church.”
“Readings?” Catherine said. “Not sermons!”
Lady Clarice laughed. Queen Elizabeth leaped from her arms, sat on the hearthrug, and began to wash herself. “No. We thought melodrama. We are going to ensnare their interest with The Mysteries of Udolpho.”
“Ah.” Catherine smiled. “I think Mrs. Radcliffe will hit just the right note.”
“Yes. And you have such a lovely voice, my dear. I feel certain you are just the one to do the readings for us!”
“What fun! I should love to do it! How are you going to get people there?”
“The pastor of the church will advertise it at Sunday services. I think word will spread from there.”
“What an excellent program!”
“Of course, we will provide for your safety,” Lady Clarice continued. “The same gentlemen that volunteer to guard the duchess’s soup kitchen will rotate to drive you to and from the East End and stay with you through your reading. Ah! Here come Sukey and Henry Five.”
The tiny, gray-ringleted Miss Braithwaite entered the Chinese saloon with her giant tortoise, Henry Five.
Catherine rose to greet her friend and then went down on her knees to inspect her favorite reptile. The tortoise, seeming to recognize her, stretched out his neck and looked her in the eye. “I have missed you,” she said, patting his shell.
She bounced to her feet, feeling miles better than she had this morning.
* * *
That evening, Catherine paced her bedroom in boredom. With nothing to do and no place to go in London, she felt as confined as an animal at the Royal Menagerie. She knew everyone was talking about her, probably walking by her house and wondering which was her bedroom window. It was all extremely tiresome, and she wished mightily that she were back in Dorset or home in Somerset. Even the duchess’s novel palled.
When her maid, Parker, delivered her a note at ten p.m., she seized on it gratefully, hoping it offered some diversion.
Dear Catherine,
I must see you on a matter of some urgency. Please meet me in your mews. I shall be waiting near Ginger.
Yours truly,
William
What was this? William waiting for her in the mews? How could that be? Why would he think she would possibly be interested in seeing him? What on earth did he have to say to her?
Were she not so bored, most likely she would have scorned and dismissed it. However, she had to admit to some curiosity. At the very least it would give her a chance to vent her anger at his despicable behavior. And tonight, she was feeling very angry.
Tying on her bonnet and throwing on her warm velvet evening cloak, she stole outdoors through the servants’ entrance into the back garden. With the waning moon behind the clouds, it was very dark. Catherine stepped cautiously on the path through the roses, listening for any untoward sounds. Being outside alone in the London night without a lantern was foolish. What had she been thinking? Her wits had gone begging. Was she so anxious to see William?
She recognized Ginger’s nicker across the alley. Unlatching the garden gate, she had the wit to look down the alley in both directions. She heard a carriage coming from the direction of Grosvenor Square and pulled back behind the rose arbor. Her heart thumped in her ears, and she counted its beats up to two hundred before she moved again. What food for the gossips if she were caught meeting William in the mews at this hour! Catherine stole across the alley into the mews belon
ging to Westbury House and went straight to Ginger’s stall.
Strange. There’s no one here . . .
At that moment, something leather slipped about her neck from behind. Pulling at it with fingers stiff with terror, she could not cry out, only croak. Fear shot through her like lightning.
A voice she didn’t recognize spoke softly in her ear, “Don’t speak to anyone about what you saw and heard at the cave at Portland Bill, or next time I won’t leave your neck intact. You didn’t recognize anyone, you hear?”
Her assailant pulled the leather tighter, as though to emphasize his point. She saw lights in front of her eyes as her breath was cut off.
The next thing she knew, she was coming to consciousness on the floor of the stable. Her attacker was gone.
Gradually, the reality of what had just happened gripped her. She could so easily have been killed. How foolish she had been to come out here alone! What folly! She moved to her hands and knees, and after a moment, her strength returned, and she was able to stand shakily.
Who on earth was that horrible man? What did he think she had seen at the Portland Bill caves? Nothing that she recalled. And the voices had been too distorted for her to make out what they said. She had heard something about them that was familiar, but there was nothing she recognized about this voice.
She buried her face in Ginger’s mane and gave vent to silent tears. Her first impulse was that she must write Lord Manning, the chief constable. On second thought, she decided to write Sir Herbert, even though it was not the done thing. What did she care about manners at this point?
The tension drained from her body as she thought of the baronet’s gray eyes and the strange power they had over her. Even the memory willed her to trust him. Surely the villain of tonight was the man who had taken a shot at her mare’s hooves.
She certainly couldn’t stay in the stable all night. Catherine gathered what courage she possessed and ran across the alley, unlatched the gate, and sped through the garden, collecting pebbles in her slippers as she went. Once she was inside the house, she leaned against the inside of the closed door to calm her breathing.
Not an Ordinary Baronet Page 4
