Not an Ordinary Baronet

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “He can run into some rough characters in his work for the Foreign Office. I’ve been friends with Strangeways since Eton. First-rate athlete. His estate’s down in Kent. His wife’s from Virginia in the American South.”

  They were drawing into the East End, as anyone could tell by the smell of dung, rotting rubbish, and stewing cabbage. Ill-dressed children darted out into the street without looking, unaccustomed to anything but foot traffic. Stooping women carried shawl-wrapped burdens of sticks on their backs. Soldiers too wounded to serve in the army wore tattered uniforms and begged in the street.

  The women and children hurt Catherine’s conscience, but she knew that the soldiers at least were being fed one meal a day at the Duchess of Ruisdell’s soup kitchen for the wounded. While she understood Lady Clarice and Miss B.’s philosophy that the poor would elevate themselves once they became literate, she still wished she could feed, house, and clothe them. It made her heart ache to see the conditions in which they lived. Her own suffering of late seemed like self-indulgence.

  Conversation ceased as they drove through the neighborhoods in search of Saint Francis’s. They found the church at the end of an alley—a Gothic structure with a small rose window, blackened from coal smoke.

  Sir Herbert flipped sixpence to an urchin with instructions to mind his horses, promising sixpence to follow when he returned. He then escorted Catherine into the ancient structure. It was darker than she expected, but there was already a small crowd gathered.

  The reading did not go precisely as planned. There was a good deal of jeering, as well as coming and going. Realizing the text was somewhat difficult for her hearers to understand, she simplified as she read, varying her vocal tones and pitch. Finally, toward the end of an hour, she had her listeners’ attention.

  Annette came almost breathless to Emily’s apartment in the morning. “O ma’amselle!” said she, in broken sentences, “What news I have to tell! I have found out who the prisoner is—but he was no prisoner, neither;—he that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think him a ghost forsooth!”

  Catherine’s voice had grown thin and tired by the end of her appointed time, and she was forced to discontinue, with the promise that she would return at the same time in two days.

  Sir Herbert escorted her back out to the curricle, which had fortunately suffered no harm, and they began their slow journey back through the busy streets. Catherine was fatigued and nearly overcome with the difficulty of a task she had thought would be appreciated.

  “You must not be discouraged,” said Sir Herbert. “You started as you mean to go on. Simplifying the text was the right move.”

  “I guess I am overwhelmed by the size of the task. Will these people ever want to read?”

  “Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite have the right idea. But no one supposed it would be easy. You are taking the right road.”

  Catherine was warmed by his assurances. In fact, his whole presence was comforting. He thought of her as a person, not a wronged woman.

  “You are very kind,” she said. “Thank you for coming with me. You gave me courage.”

  “You are not lacking in courage, my lady. You forget. I’ve seen you manage your mare. You should have gone over that cliff. You would have if most anyone else had the reins.”

  She colored with the warmth of his praise. She knew it was sincere. This was not the sort of man to give idle compliments.

  When they arrived at her home, he helped her down from the curricle and led her up the steps, his hand on her elbow.

  “Will you stay for tea?” she surprised herself by asking.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “I would like that.”

  Once inside, he helped her off with her pelisse, brushing the back of her neck with his fingers. His touch was unexpectedly welcome to her, causing her senses to come alive. As she removed her bonnet, she smiled at him. It felt like the first time she had smiled in a while.

  “Stebbins, could you see that we have tea brought to the Red Room?”

  Stripping off her gloves, she led her guest into the sitting room off the grand hall, which was cold and drafty. A fire had been lit in the overly decorated room. She saw the gold moldings and baroque cornices through Sir Herbert’s eyes, guessing that a man as straightforward as he was found the place overly fussy. The walls were covered with paintings of war and pillaging. Catherine had always disliked it. Going to the fire, she held out her hands.

  “Do you have any idea where I might purchase a tortoise?” she asked. “I should like to get one like Miss B.’s. I adore Henry Five.”

  “I suspect they have to be acquired in foreign parts,” he said, smiling at her and thus changing his face entirely. It was no longer forbidding, and of all things, he had dimples! His teeth were even, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He looked altogether charming.

  “You should smile more often,” she said. “It makes you look quite friendly.”

  He smiled again. “Lord Ogletree might find you a parrot, if that would do. He used to be a sea captain.”

  She contemplated this. “I am not certain that a parrot from a ship occupied by seamen in His Majesty’s Navy would be a proper companion for a lady. Language, you know.”

  He chuckled. “Correct. You would not like a dog or cat, I suppose?”

  “I have both in abundance at our estate in Somerset. Henry Five has lived so long that he gives one perspective, you see.”

  Sir Herbert pondered this. “What you want is the British Museum. Egyptian antiquities. Mummies. The Rosetta Stone.”

  “Should we plan a robbery?” she asked with a laugh. “I should like a mummy in my bedroom to aid in contemplation.”

  He grinned, and the tea cart was brought in. Catherine felt more relaxed and happy than she had since she had cried off her engagement. Pouring out his tea, she asked, “Milk, sugar?”

  “Straight up, if you please.”

  “This will warm us up,” she said. “I am cold through and shouldn’t be at all surprised if it were to snow.”

  Once they had their tea, she passed him the lemon poppy seed cakes and watercress sandwiches.

  At that moment, Robert joined them. Standing in the doorway, he exclaimed with evident surprise, “Sir Herbert!”

  “He was kind enough to be my escort to the East End,” Lady Catherine said. “We are both frozen. It seems likely to snow.”

  Robert said, “I did not know that was today. I would have played your escort.”

  “You abhor the East End, and we were there for a couple of hours. I was reading aloud.” She explained her cause.

  “Rubbish!” pronounced Robert. “The poor do not want to learn to read. You are wasting your time.”

  “I do not believe you,” Catherine said, riled. She refrained from lecturing her brother in front of Sir Herbert.

  “Anyway, I thought you had more sense than to go out when this smuggler is on the loose.”

  She was growing irritated. It was obvious that her brother did not intend to acknowledge Sir Herbert’s presence further.

  “No one in the East End knows or cares about ton gossip,” she said. “And Sir Herbert does not care about it, either. It has been good for me to do something.”

  Her guest had drunk his tea and placed the cup and saucer on the tea table. Clearly, he was uncomfortable with this domestic quarrel and was readying himself to go. Catherine found she did not want him to leave, but Robert was still ignoring his presence.

  “I’ll be on my way, Lady Catherine,” Sir Herbert said. He withdrew a calling card. “Let me know if I can be of any assistance.” He laid his card on the mantel.

  “I shall see you out,” she said, throwing a pointed look at her brother.

  When they had reached the hall, she said to Sir Herbert, “I apologize for my brother’s bad manners. He can be a boorish snob. I was very grateful to you for your escort today. When are you taking me to view the mummies?”

  He laughed. “Tomorrow? But you will find
they are too cumbersome to carry away in your reticule.”

  “I can but dream,” she said.

  * * *

  When she returned to the sitting room, she poured her brother a cup of tea. “Why were you so rude to Sir Herbert?”

  “Don’t like the fellow hanging about,” he said in his grouchiest tone. “The man’s got a tendre for you. It doesn’t do for you to encourage him.”

  “You are mistaken, Robert. He was sent by Lady Clarice to escort me today.”

  “If you weren’t so distracted by your emotions over that confounded rascal Cumberwell, you would have noticed the way the cursed baronet looks at you.”

  Her heart gave a little skip. “It is your imagination, Robert. The man’s face is completely impassive.”

  “Well, it won’t do to give the fellow the wrong idea.”

  “I’m sure your lack of welcome was very evident to him. Heaven knows why I am fond of you. You are a rude man, you know. And a snob.”

  “You are a marquess’s daughter. It won’t do to forget that.”

  “He only escorted me to the East End today! He didn’t ask for my hand!” Catherine flung out of the room, irritated.

  * * *

  In the sitting room off her bedroom, she paced and looked through the calling cards she had picked up off the hall table. From the number of them, she could tell that curiosity about her situation was still rampant. But most disturbing was the fact that William had called. Catherine’s heart pounded so hard she became further irritated.

  What does he want?

  Chapter Nine

  Bertie admired Lady Catherine more than ever. She probably looked at him in the light of a diversion, but he didn’t mind. It gave him an opportunity to spend time with her. Who would have thought she had such a sense of humor? It had been good to see her smile. And those eyes! They still held him captive.

  Beau and his wife had arrived in town the day before and invited Bertie for dinner that evening. Lady Catherine had been correct. It looked and felt like snow. He went to his rooms to warm up with a hot toddy before the fire.

  By the time he was headed for Wellingham House, it was snowing lightly. He detested London in the winter. Were it not for Lady Catherine, he would be home with his golden retrievers before his fire, reading stories to Gweet and Warrie. But ten to one there was a man here in London bent on harming the woman he admired. He must bring the fellow to justice. Beau would help with that.

  When he arrived at Wellingham House, Beau’s butler took his greatcoat and hat and showed him into the drawing room where his friend and Lady Wellingham awaited him. Fortunately, she had not thought to invite another lady to balance her table. There was no Miss Gilbert or her like in sight.

  While sipping his Madeira, he told his friends about Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite’s project in the East End and gave an account of Lady Catherine’s first day.

  “What’s your opinion, Sir Bertie?” asked Lady Wellingham. “Do you think this will work?”

  “I think we must wait on events. There was a bit of jeering and catcalling. Not much respect for Lady Catherine. But by the end, those who remained seemed riveted.”

  Dinner proved excellent as usual in the Wellingham household. Beau’s wife had managed her father’s household before he died and had learned how to keep a good table. The goose was roasted to a turn, and she had managed to find winter oranges.

  When she withdrew to leave Bertie and Beau to their port, Bertie related his concerns about Lady Catherine’s safety.

  “I’d like to find the Gentleman Smuggler and Lady Catherine’s assailant to make sure they are out of business.” He shared his thinking about the latter possibly not having taken place in the operation the chief constable had raided. “I thought the Home Office might know something of the gentleman. The other fellow is going to be hard to find. I don’t imagine his mates will squeal on him.”

  “You want Lord William Cumberwell. He deals with smugglers, among other things.”

  “Lady Catherine’s former fiancé?”

  “Right.”

  Bertie swirled the liquor in the glass in his hand. “Bound to be awkward.”

  “Am I correct in assuming that this lady has managed to crack that shell you keep around yourself?”

  “There is something about her,” Bertie said, feeling uncomfortable at the admission, though Beau was one of his two closest friends.

  “She’s devilishly attractive,” said Beau.

  “And brave. You should have seen her with her mare when she was shot at.”

  “And she came and confronted you directly about it. She could have turned you over to the chief constable immediately.”

  Bertie didn’t wish to discuss Lady Catherine further. He offered his friend a cigar from his case. They both lit up.

  “I’ll see Cumberwell tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The morning dawned with snow falling. Bertie liked the snow when he was on his estate, but it was a nuisance in London. He sent a note around to Lady Catherine asking if she still desired to go to the British Museum that afternoon, then set about dressing for a meeting with the heir to the wealthiest man in Britain, Lady Catherine’s former fiancé—Lord William Cumberwell.

  Bertie wore a black waistcoat, jacket, and trousers with a white shirt and a neck cloth fashioned using the Mathematical knot. His Hessian boots were shined until they shone, but it would be all for naught in this weather.

  Before he left for the Home Office, he received a note back from Westbury House informing him that Lady Catherine would be pleased to see him at two o’clock for their excursion. He left his rooms in a state of mixed worry and anticipation.

  His hired hackney put him down in Westminster, and he proceeded to the Home Office. Once there, he was directed to Cumberwell’s secretary. The man proved to be a small, fussy fellow wearing pince-nez and full morning dress. Bertie handed him his card.

  “You do not have an appointment. May I ask the nature of your business with Lord William?” he asked.

  “I wish to consult him on the matter of a smuggling operation. It is a situation which concerns him personally.”

  The little man raised both eyebrows, and he hustled away to speak with his superior. When he returned, he invited Bertie to follow him.

  Cumberwell, a large man with golden hair and classically handsome features, rose when Bertie entered his oak-paneled office.

  “Backman! Good to see you again. It has been a while. What may I do for you? Sit, sit.”

  He got straight to the point. “Rather an odd turnup,” Bertie said. “Your former fiancée is in danger from men in a smuggling operation down in Dorset.”

  Bertie didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t to see the man before him blanch. Cumberwell sat down abruptly. “Tell me what you mean.”

  He recounted the events that had taken place in the cave under the Portland Bill when he had overheard the smugglers, the shot fired at Lady Catherine, the London attack, and the arrest of the local smugglers. “They can’t or won’t say who their London connection is. I believe he is a gentleman who has since come to London. It just now occurred to me that perhaps this assailant is working on behalf of the gentleman, who could very well be someone known to her.”

  Bertie mentally struck himself for not having thought of this angle earlier. For his part, Lord William looked to have been turned into stone.

  Bertie prompted him, “I know smuggling is normally handled by the Excise, but have you any notion of gentlemen here who are smuggling in Saint Barnabas brandy? I know it is served at a number of clubs.”

  The man leaned over, his forehead resting on the edge of his hand, shielding his eyes. “You must give me a moment. This is quite a shock. Does Lady Catherine know you have come to see me?”

  Bertie was surprised at the strong feelings his news was evoking. One might almost think Cumberwell to still be in love with Lady Catherine. “I will tell her this afternoon.”

&nb
sp; Finally, he raised his head. His eyes looked bruised and weary. “The man shot at her?”

  “At her horse’s hooves. On the cliff edge. Only a superb horsewoman could have escaped death. But I think it was meant as a warning. Certainly, that was the intent of the London assault.”

  The prospective earl stood and began to pace the office. “You witnessed the shooting?”

  “Heard the shot. I came upon her as she was trying to rein in her horse. The man took off through the woods.”

  Cumberwell went to the coat stand in the corner of his office. “I must see her,” he said. “I will put the word out among my contacts here in London as well as Dorset that we are looking for this fellow. Thank you for coming, Backman.”

  To Bertie’s surprise, the man strode out of the office ahead of him in a tearing hurry. It occurred to him that Lady Catherine was not going to appreciate his talking to Cumberwell. His call could only be painful for her.

  * * *

  After lunching at his club with Beau and reporting his odd visit with Cumberwell, he went on to Westbury House at two o’clock to collect Lady Catherine. She appeared downstairs in a forest-green wool gown and bonnet that highlighted the green of her eyes. She carried her cloak over her arm.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, cheer evident in her step and voice. “Is it still snowing?”

  He had expected her to put off the expedition or be angry with him. Obviously Cumberwell’s visit had put her in good spirits. Were they reconciling? It had been clear that the man was very affected by her brush with death.

  “A little,” he replied. “Nothing to signify.” She gave him the cloak, and he draped it over her shoulders.

  “Good! I am ready to leave this house. I am still besieged with callers whom Stebbins is obliged to send away.”

  So! She had sent Cumberwell away without an audience. Ought he to tell her why her former fiancé had come? He decided it might upset her. Much better not.

  They journeyed to the museum in Bloomsbury by cab.

  He replied, “The Home Office is now aware of the situation in Dorset. I believe they are most anxious to begin inquiries. Something else occurred to me while I was there. What if your attacker was actually working on behalf of the Gentleman Smuggler? He may be someone you know.”