by Jo Beverley
“Fear for the honor of their womenfolk is also good excuse for deep drinking,” remarked the worldly vicar. “May I invite you and your cousin to dine with us, Sir Stephen?”
Stephen extricated them from that, then had to do the same with the rotund, jowly squire, Mr. Bartholomew Ryall, who knew him from London. Next, a Mr. Frobisher wanted to shake his hand. Of course, Laura had to be introduced—a problem she hadn’t foreseen. She blessed her concealing bonnet, and used her sickliness as excuse to keep her head and voice low.
She was part of each encounter, however, and realized that a great many people here knew Stephen, or knew of him. He was a Member of Parliament from Dorset, even if his constituency was on the eastern edge, but that didn’t account for the attention. He was a well-known, and well-admired, man.
It was no surprise to her that Stephen had a flourishing political career and that, as Juliet had written, he was even spoken of as a potential Prime Minister, but she’d not understood the extent of his reputation until now. In her mind, he’d remained the childhood friend with too deep an interest in books.
The military captain, Trainor, shook Stephen’s hand and thanked him for his support of better treatment for injured officers. Mrs. Ryall praised his work to reform the Poor Laws. A frail elderly gentleman in a chair turned out to be the Dr. Grantleigh who with his wife had the ground-floor rooms at the Compass. Unfortunately, he had been one of Stephen’s tutors at Cambridge and went on and on about how he’d always predicted a brilliant future.
“Not like the rest of them,” the old man said, “Arden, Cavanagh, Debenham. Using an ancient college as a club for drinking, gaming, and worse. You, sir, used the opportunity to learn!”
Laura sucked in her cheeks to stifle laughter, for Stephen was looking uncomfortable. No gentleman, no matter how clever, wants to be known as an ink-nose.
As the Grantleighs were staying at the Compass, there was nothing for it but to walk back with them and the manservant pushing the chair. The road was rough in places, so progress was slow. Stephen walked beside the chair, apparently amusing the old man. Laura was paired with Mrs. Grantleigh, who said not a word.
“I do hope Dr. Grantleigh is finding benefit in the sea air,” Laura said, to break the silence.
Mrs. Grantleigh sighed. “I’m not sure how, as the weather is generally too inclement for him to enjoy it. But our doctor insisted, and my husband chooses to do what his doctor says. Dr. Nesbitt here is encouraging. But after all, time cannot be halted, nor age reversed.”
Laura approved of stoicism, but only to a point. She wanted to suggest that if the case was hopeless, the couple should move to a place where they would find the setting and company more congenial. Instead, she tried for information about Dyer and Farouk.
“Such a shame that there are so few guests at the Compass. Only ourselves and Captain Dyer, whom the innkeeper says never leaves his rooms and never entertains.”
“A sad case,” Mrs. Grantleigh agreed. “I saw him arrive, you know, but not a glimpse of him since. I must say that I didn’t think him quite so unwell as that. No worse than my husband, I’m sure, and yet Captain Dyer did not attend church.”
The older woman had pursed her lips, so Laura did the same. “I noticed that, Mrs. Grantleigh, and I could not help wondering if that heathen in some way prevented him.”
Mrs. Grantleigh looked startled. “I don’t see how he could.”
“Sometimes servants can gain an unhealthy power over their employers, my dear lady.”
“Why yes, I have known such cases. . . . But alas, there is nothing to be done.”
Stoicism could definitely be carried to extremes, and Laura had seen a way to use this situation. “I believe I might mention the matter to the vicar when next I see him. If he were to pay a visit, I don’t think he could be denied.”
“What a good idea.” Mrs. Grantleigh seemed truly admiring, and rather surprised that anyone—or perhaps just a woman—might come up with an idea at all.
Laura feared Mrs. Grantleigh was the sort of woman who had depended all her life on her husband for guidance—which is what most people would think right and proper. But see the result. With her husband failing in body and mind, she was adrift, unable to form firm decisions and unused to considering what was truly best for them both.
Laura couldn’t help seeing that her situation had been somewhat the same. She had felt lost and powerless after Hal died, but she had recovered, even if it had needed an emergency to shock her. She decided that when her current problems were dealt with, she would find some way to help the Grantleighs. Stephen was acquainted with them, so it must be possible.
“Sir Stephen is an admirable young man,” Mrs. Grantleigh suddenly said, and went on to tell some stories of his virtues as a student. Again, it was probably the sort of praise that he would blush over, but it alerted Laura to a completely new aspect of their situation.
She’d thought that if this deception were uncovered, it would only be disastrous for her. But Stephen was at risk, too. He wouldn’t be ruined but he would lose some of the respect of these people.
Most men of fashion, even MPs, wouldn’t care about being discovered in an assignation with a widow, but Stephen might. He was held in high respect not because of rank or wealth, though he had a modicum of both, but because of who he was. She searched for the best word and settled on a Biblical one. He was a righteous man.
He worked hard, and not only for selfish ends. Most MPs were in Parliament to increase the power of family or faction. Stephen, it would seem, was working to make life better for people of all sorts. Once she might have made a joke about anyone in her circle being “righteous.” Now the realization weighted her with a sense of inadequacy.
What place did Lady Skylark have in the life of Sir Stephen Ball? She could win him votes at the hustings by lively charm, but she’d lose him as many from those who disapproved. He didn’t even need that kind of help. Barham wasn’t a rotten borough, but the voters there would return him to Parliament as long as he was willing to stand.
She could run his household and throw glittering parties that might sway important people he wanted to influence, but she suspected that wasn’t Stephen’s way. She had only rarely seen him at ton affairs.
Could she fit into the mold of his life? Live quietly, helping him with his research and arranging occasional dinners for groups of serious-minded men who would regard any woman at the table as a distraction. She supposed, with a sigh, that she could chair committees of ladies working to support worthy goals.
She’d been on such committees—it was expected of any lady of fashion—and she’d liked being useful, but she knew she couldn’t dedicate her life to that. She liked parties and balls and musical soirees. She liked laughing and flirting and charming men. She liked being at the center of the fashionable world.
If she had to live quietly at Caldfort in order to take care of Harry, then she would, but she couldn’t imagine choosing to live a sober, serious life in London, not even with Stephen. It would be like forcing a gourmet to live on gruel within sight of fine cuisine. That made her a despicable, shallow woman, but it was better to know it now than too late.
The Grantleighs invited them to lunch, but they could plead their other engagement.
Laura entered their parlor and studied Stephen, trying to blend the handsome man of fashion with righteousness. “Perhaps you should be in disguise, too,” she said.
“I certainly didn’t anticipate Grantleigh. Are you all right?” Was that question because he knew holding to her character had been a strain or because he detected something?
She turned away, fussing with her gloves. “Yes, of course. I don’t like to live a lie, however.”
“Nor do I. We should be able to be done with this soon.”
He sounded eager to escape. So, in a way, was she. She turned back and related Mrs. Grantleigh’s remarks about Dyer. “If he wasn’t particularly ill, it lends weight to him being a prisoner.”
<
br /> He frowned. “Yes, it does. Damnation, but this is frustrating. I’ll go and check the wall.”
He strode into his room, and Laura smiled wryly. He must be driven crazy by this situation to swear in front of her. Or perhaps he was simply relaxing back into friendship. That was better.
He was back in moments. “Mumble, mumble, mumble. If only they’d fall into a shouting match, I might be able to understand something.”
He paced restlessly to look out at the street. That provided an opportunity for Laura to study him some more, but to do so would be folly so she broke the silence. “Were you nervous the first time you stood to speak in the House?”
He turned his head toward her. “No, but only because of the brash arrogance of youth. I’m more nervous now sometimes because I want to make my arguments in a way that’ll carry others with me.”
“I’m sure you do.”
A smile expressed wryness. “I am a good orator, but not golden-tongued. I haven’t yet reduced the house to tears as Sheridan and Fox did. In any case, I prefer to make my arguments to reason rather than emotions.” After a moment, he added, “For that I am doubtless a fool.”
“Reason is gold, whereas emotion is gilding, soon worn away.”
“A strange observation from Labellelle.”
She met his eyes. “Beauty and reason being antagonists?”
“Unfair, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”
They had no time to progress from there, for a knock at the door brought Topham. “Sir Stephen, here is your guest, Mr. Kerslake-Somerford!”
The innkeeper spoke as if he could take credit, and certainly the new arrival was someone to take credit for. Laura couldn’t have said what she expected of a smuggling master, but it was not this handsome young man with glowing vigor and an open, unguarded smile.
Topham bowed again. “I’ll have your lunch brought up, shall I, Sir Stephen?”
Stephen agreed, and the man left with yet another bow, seemingly directed to the smuggler-earl.
“You’re an important person, sir,” Stephen said, shaking hands. “May I present Mrs. Gardeyne, currently masquerading as my cousin, Mrs. Penfold.”
“Ma’am.” Kerslake-Somerford bowed to her. “I gather the Rogues are up to something again. I must say, association with them is enlivening my life.”
More boyish enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t have thought your life short of livening, Mr. Kerslake-Somerford.”
“Different kinds, Mrs. Gardeyne. Most of my . . . professional activity is no more exciting than book-keeping. The whole point, in fact, is to keep enlivenment to a minimum.”
“Ah, I think Mr. Delaney said something similar. That danger comes of its own.”
“Precisely. It’s those who lead dull lives who seek it out.”
Laura made sure not to look at Stephen. A dull life? Surely not. “Excitement comes in many forms,” she said. “I’m sure politics can be hazardous.”
“Not anymore,” Stephen said dryly, perhaps guessing her intent to soothe his feelings. “No one’s been beheaded for opposing the monarch in generations.”
“Prime Minister Perceval was shot,” Kerslake-Somerford pointed out cheerfully.
“By a madman,” Stephen said. “That sort of thing could happen to anyone.”
“Not just anyone. Perceval was shot because the assassin thought the Prime Minister the creator of all his problems. The danger of being a figurehead.”
Foolish to fear for Stephen, but Laura couldn’t help it. “You are a figurehead, too, Mr. Kerslake-Somerford.”
“For my sins. Please call me Mr. Kerslake, ma’am. It’s how I’ve been known all my life. I’ve only adopted the other as part of my claim to the earldom.”
Their lunch arrived and was spread on the table. Once the servants left, they sat and got down to business.
“What’s amiss?” Kerslake demanded. “And how may I assist you?”
Chapter 27
Kerslake had drunk two cups of tea, eaten bread, ham, pie, and fruit, interspersed with pertinent questions before all was clear. Laura was uncertain at times about telling this man everything, but he had been vouched for by Nicholas Delaney, and they needed his help.
“I’ve known about Azir Al Farouk since he landed. Drew Chideock brought him in from France on the Long Jane. Now we’re at peace, we don’t get many such passengers, so we were all curious. But”—he shrugged—“as long as a man pays we don’t ask questions. In fact, it’s easier now. During the war we tried not to carry spies.”
“Just Al Farouk?” Laura asked.
“Him and Captain Dyer.”
“No child?”
“None was mentioned. You expected one?”
She shook her head. “Please, tell us what you know about the arrival.”
Kerslake took a plum. “Despite the rank, Dyer wears no uniform. He’s some sort of invalid. Can walk a few steps with a cane, but Farouk had to carry him from the boat to the cart that stood ready to take away the cargo.”
“Carried him upstairs here, too, apparently,” Stephen said.
“So it wasn’t temporary. Chideock took them to Lyme Regis and fixed them up with Paul Wey’s coach, which brought them here. All part of the price.” Kerslake looked at Laura. “What about the child?”
Laura shared a look with Stephen. “He might have come separately. A boy, perhaps nine years old.”
“I’ve heard of none, but I’ll ask.”
“What about a party of men?” Stephen asked. “Or no. Nicholas would flay me for assuming the villains are all men, especially with a child involved. It could appear to be a family group.”
“That would certainly make them harder to detect, but we don’t have many visitors this late in the year. Do you mean a group arriving normally, or by a smuggling vessel? I’m almost certain no child has arrived here recently that way.”
Laura shared another look with Stephen as she tried to fit these new pieces into the puzzle. “If there was a reason Farouk and Dyer came in surreptitiously, why would they send HG openly?” It struck her like a loss, a death. “I suppose I must accept that there is no child. He’s become so real in my mind, I’m loath to let him go. It’s as if he’s imprisoned without anyone even knowing about it, and I must set him free.”
“I’ll make enquiries, Mrs. Gardeyne,” Kerslake said kindly. “I can find out what strange children are in the area, too. I mean ones not connected with local families. There probably won’t be many this time of year, but it will take a few days to have the tally.”
“Thank you.”
Stephen took her hand. “It’s better not to have a child at risk, Laura. What’s more, this means that if anyone is Henry Gardeyne, it must be Captain Dyer himself.”
That revived her. “Yes, of course. Tied up. Behind locked doors.”
“We still have the puzzle of a ten-year absence,” Stephen warned, “and as Nicholas asked, why now?”
“I know, but if it’s true, it’s better. If it is Henry, he’ll be able to prove his identity without any difficulty, and we have his portrait to match him with.” She turned to Kerslake. “I have a drawing of Henry Gardeyne. Do you think Mr. Chideock and his men might recognize whether he’s Captain Dyer?”
He pulled a face. “It all happened by night, and their attention was probably more on their cargo. I could ask them, but to be frank, I’m not sure it would be wise. I trust them to a point, but only to a point. They’d likely let something slip, and then it would snake around the area and reach the people here. After all, you’re here, next door. It shouldn’t be hard to get a look at the man.”
“You’d think so,” said Stephen, “but it’s proving tricky for law-abiding citizens.”
Kerslake laughed. “I’m no dab hand at breaking and entering, but if you can’t manage it legally, I’ll have someone help you. Shame old Elsie Musbury’s dead. She owned this place before Topham and had been hand in glove with smugglers all her life. Topham’s a new man from Exmouth way. He knows what’s what,
but I can’t trust him as I would Elsie.”
Stephen nodded. “What if Farouk has supporters standing by? Would you know of unexplained bullyboys in the area?”
“Certainly, but would they be that? As you said, they could masquerade as a family or as other orderly visitors.”
“You mean they could be anyone?” Laura asked, thinking of the various people they’d met today.
“Not anyone. Most people here now are local or long-term visitors, but sensible villains announce their identity no more than smuggling masters do. In fact, it seems strange to me that this Farouk is creating such a stir.”
“He could never pass for an English gentleman,” Stephen said.
“True, but from what I hear, he’s almost making a point of being peculiar.”
“That bears thinking on. But who in this area could be called suspicious?”
“No one,” Kerslake said. “It’s my business to know of possible preventive men.”
“Do the forces of law and order sometimes prowl around in disguise?” Laura asked.
“They do anything they can to catch us.”
“I saw two military men as we arrived,” Laura said. “One army, one navy.”
“Captain Sillitoe, RN, cousin of a local family. Captain Trainor of the Buffs, attending his grandmother. We’re keeping an eye on both just in case, but neither has acted out of character.”
“I’m impressed,” Stephen said.
“I told you, knowing these things is my business. I keep the trade going because it’s the main means of support for many along the coast, especially this year, with the poor harvest and the economy going to hell with the peace. My main intent, however, is to avoid violence and keep my people out of jail.”
Laura was beginning to have considerable respect for young Captain Drake.
Kerslake rose. “I need to be off. I’ll find out about children and other unexplained strangers, but I suspect the action is all here. Do you have a plan? If you want to break the prisoner out now, I can arrange it.”
