by Julia Ross
Didn’t Lady Whitely agree?
Lady Whitely, who had witnessed Sarah’s interview with her future employer, most certainly did.
In fact, that lady had added her own opinion, with a pretty little titter: “And if it ensured Mr. Devoran’s presence—such a handsome gentleman!—at my house party, I would invite a Hottentot in feathers.”
Sarah choked back her smile. A little humility before one’s betters was always necessary, but that didn’t stop her from being genuinely amused as she remembered it.
She glanced out of the coach window at the summer countryside. Their journey would take several days and, ironically, carry her through Bath, where she could collect some more clothes and some books, and explain to Miss Farcey that she was going to take a summer holiday and couldn’t be sure when she might return.
Now she was promised the patronage of a duchess, she would always be able to find employment, whatever happened in the meantime, and Miss Farcey would no doubt welcome her back with no questions asked. The freedom of that thought was remarkably heady. As was the knowledge that she carried a nice sum in coins in her reticule: a deposit from Mr. Devoran toward the value of Rachel’s bracelet.
Yet real worry still circled beneath that small happiness, as if tired dogs fretted at a treed cat. Rachel was hiding somewhere unknown on Dartmoor, because—even if Mr. Devoran claimed otherwise—Daedalus had attempted to murder her.
Meanwhile, he had remained in London to delve deeper into those so-called accidents. How much danger awaited him from the thugs that Daedalus must have hired to carry out such attacks?
Lady Overbridge and Lady Whitely were not the only females who would be devastated if Mr. Devoran did not come to Buckleigh as promised.
THE street was even dingier than Guy had expected. Shabby terraces of soot-streaked brick and dirty windows in an area that had once housed prosperous merchants, but was now barely clinging to respectability.
He drew back into the deep shadows and waited.
Rachel’s last letter was securely folded in an inner pocket. It contained just enough extra detail about the threats to her life that he had been able to follow several new leads. With the additional information he had gleaned from Jack and his own earlier investigations, Guy had a damned good idea of what Daedalus had been trying to achieve.
Now it was time to make sure.
The brick wall that had collapsed so suddenly had belonged to an abandoned building at the end of this street. Rachel had often walked past it on her way back from the post office, before turning into Goatstall Lane. At the beginning of June, the bricks at the top had crashed down, barely missing her.
Such a dramatic event had fortunately had witnesses.
Yet the inhabitants of Lower Cornmere Street would be understandably reluctant to speak to a gentleman. So—though he made no attempt to hide his competence to defend himself—Guy wore some damned uncomfortable filth on his hair and skin, along with an equally dirty jacket, working men’s pants, and rough boots.
His normal voice would have betrayed him instantly. Fortunately, as boys, he and Jack had learned as many different accents as they could from the servants at the various duchy properties and at Birchbrook. Then, as wild young men, they had learned to mimic the prizefighters and their cronies, a skill that had since saved Jack’s life upon occasion.
Guy trusted it might now save his, also.
A few high-flung stars promised nightfall when the man with a limp finally emerged from the Merry Dogs public house and began to weave his way up the street.
“Stainbull!” Guy hissed as the man drew level. “Ye’ve bin playing hide and seek wi’ me, ye damned marplot!”
Stainbull jerked to a halt. He peered up beneath the brim of his greasy hat and gave Guy a rotten-toothed grin.
“Mr. Uxbridge, sir? Now, sir, ye made it clear when we last met that ye be a man of the world. Ye’ll not hold ill with poor Stainbull, sir?”
Guy ignored the stink of cheap ale and raw onions, and grasped the man’s collar.
“And as I said then, sir, I want a name, that’s all I want. I know who did it. But who paid to have it done?”
“Well, ye be a bright spark, sir! Where’s the blunt ye promised me?”
He thrust Stainbull up against the wall and slipped a knife against the man’s throat.
“Ye’ve bin on the drag lay, cully. The name now, then we’ll see about the rest. Or perhaps ye fancy a visit with Jack Ketch?”
“God rest us, Mr. Uxbridge, sir! I don’t know nothing!”
Guy tightened his grip. “That’s not what a little bird told me.”
Stainbull stretched his neck, his eyes bulging. “There’s no cause for that, sir! The timing was careful, went just as planned. The piece got dust on her bonnet and was taken all a-mort, but walked on home as merry about the gills as you could please. Not a pretty yellow hair on her pretty yellow noddle harmed, sir.”
Guy glowered, keeping his lips tight over his suspiciously good teeth, though he had swilled a little thick tea in an attempt to stain them.
“And if a cove wanted to know how to go about getting another job with timing just as careful, a cove knows who to talk to. But what if that cove don’t care how it was done, and only wants to know the name of the churl that ordered it?”
Stainbull’s eyes darted about. No one else was in earshot. He licked dry lips and squinted back up at Guy.
“Then that cove’d be too late. He’s gone.”
The tip of the knife threatened to draw blood. “The name?”
“Falcorne, sir! Prig called himself Falcorne! A squat, dun fellow wi’ blue peepers.”
It was the third time Guy had heard it: no doubt not his quarry’s real name. Though the description—short and thickset, brown-haired and blue-eyed—applied to half the rogues in London.
Keeping Stainbull still pressed up against the wall, Guy relaxed his fingers a little.
“And what did this Falcorne do for a living, Mr. Stainbull, that makes you call him a prig?”
“The cove had airs, set himself up like a gennulman, though he was used enough to having his paws in the dirt.”
Guy clinked coins in his pocket. “What kind of dirt?”
“Dirt, sir! Ground in, like. Fingernails cracked like a whore’s madge, but with the job done and the mort taken off in a fright, you’ll not find him here, sir. He’ll be gone home.”
For a second Guy’s blade threatened to cut the man’s throat. “And where is that, Mr. Stainbull?”
“My doxy was married to a blacksmith from south o’ Dartmoor. Same way o’ talking. Look for him there between the moor and the sea, she said.”
Ice water trickled down Guy’s spine. “What else?”
Stainbull squirmed. “Well, I thought he might be touched, sir. He said in his cups he could tell the Queen of Denmark from Marie Louise, and Charles de Mills from the Old Velvet, and he was very partial to a monk’s head or a ruby-lipped cat. Then he cackled like a crow. I don’t know any more than that, sir. Not to save my humble life! So you’ll not squeal on poor Stainbull, sir, as was born halt and shamble-legged and never did no one no harm?”
Almost numb with shock, Guy released the greasy collar, just as something sharp blurred at the edge of his vision. He twisted instantly and chopped hard with one hand.
He could almost convince himself that he’d imagined the nasty little blade, except that the edge of his palm stung with the impact against its wooden handle. Another second and he’d have been stabbed in the gut or cut across the ribs.
Stainbull dodged aside and grinned, his knife already hidden again in his clothing.
“You’re a rum cove, Mr. Uxbridge, sir,” he said.
Before he could prevent himself Guy laughed, but he also tossed a handful of coins onto the cobbles.
As Stainbull scrabbled for them he strode away. It was an amusingly intense way to test his conclusions about what he had learned. Fortunately, no knife came whistling through the air t
o fell him in his tracks. A slightly hair-raising vindication!
The lame man had knocked down a brick wall with exactly the right timing for Rachel to walk away terrified, but unscathed. Just like the other men hired by Falcorne to carry out the “accidents,” Stainbull was a villain, but not a killer.
If Daedalus had truly intended murder, he’d have used different lackeys and Rachel would be dead. Yet who knew if, or when, that might change?
Marie Louise was a pink damask rose.
The paler Queen of Denmark, a recent introduction from France, bloomed with the blush of Sarah Callaway’s cheeks during her most agitated moments.
Charles de Mills, a dark scarlet gallica, was a close enough relative of the old velvet roses of the apothecaries, though anyone knowledgeable about flowers could easily tell the difference.
More chillingly, the monk’s head and the ruby-lipped cattleya were both orchids: expensive, sensual, exotic orchids.
And the man spoke with a South Devon accent. The most unnerving condemnation of Guy’s decisions that Mr. Stainbull could have made.
Falcorne had dirt under his fingernails and had expert knowledge of flowers. Not a gentleman, but a gentleman’s gardener, who had been sent up from Dartmoor to carry out the attacks against Rachel, while Daedalus himself remained at home.
And Guy Devoran—gallant cousin to the clever St. Georges—had just sent Sarah Callaway to teach botany to Lady Overbridge’s guests at Buckleigh, where the grounds ran right up to the edge of the moor.
THOUGH no one appeared to be watching or following him, Guy waited till full dark to slip into his townhouse from the mews. As soon as he entered the kitchen he ripped off the filthy neckerchief and tossed aside his knife. A basin of water waited. Guy washed his hands, and walked into his study to pour himself a brandy.
A letter waited on his desk. He tore open Jack’s dragon seal and unfolded the single sheet. The entire missive was in code.
My dear Guy,
Anne is extremely well, we thank you, and sends her love by return.
When I found her in that kitchen, the mysterious Rachel Wren’s hands—though a little red—still boasted neatly manicured nails.
Since she barely knew what the bucket was for, it seemed likely—however improbable otherwise—that she was a distressed gentlewoman of some kind, not an actress down on her luck, nor a member of the muslin company.
Her voice and manner betrayed the same.
Enough reason—along with her superficial resemblance to Anne—to pick her for the jaunt on the yacht and give her so much gold.
I only confirm your own conclusions, of course. Why else did you spend the next several months trying to find her?
Believe me ever your devoted cousin,
Jack St. G.
PS: Anne smells adventure and is concerned for your safety. I’ve assured her of your prowess, but of course she doesn’t know quite how much you’ve secretly achieved for Ryder and me over the years. For that I can never thank you enough.
Ever yours to command, should you need me—J. St. G.
Guy stared thoughtfully into his glass. He had always known that Rachel couldn’t really have been a scullery maid by trade. He just hadn’t been sure how long it had been since she had lived as a lady. From Jack’s observations, it had not been more than a few days.
So where the hell—and how—had she lived for the five months after she had left Grail Hall, before he first met her at the Three Barrels?
She had fled to Knight’s Cottage after that, only to come to him eight months later and allow him to seduce her. They had lived together in the house with the chimneys. Yet Rachel had never trusted him enough to tell him the truth about her identity or her past. Instead she had woven a fabrication of fairy tales, and then she had left.
With that knowledge burrowing like a worm in his soul, Guy rang for his manservant and ordered a hot bath, before taking the stairs two at a time to his bedroom. While he waited for the clang of the cans, he stripped naked and dashed cold water from the pitcher onto his face and head.
Rivulets raced down his body. Rubbing a towel vigorously over his chest, he strode to the dresser to toss clean clothes for the evening onto the bed.
While his man packed what he’d need for a house party in Devon—and commandeered the fastest traveling carriage and horses remaining in the Blackdown House stables—Guy would have a few hours in which to interview the men he had sent to gather any remaining information in London.
He would, of course, do so dressed once again as a gentleman. In that same disguise he would travel night and day down to Buckleigh.
His arrival would result in a great deal of female twittering, though not from Sarah Callaway. She might blush a little, or glance away with that exquisite diffidence, but dignity was as natural to her as breathing.
Meanwhile, tracking down the facts at Grail Hall would have to be delegated. He pulled out a sheet of paper and dashed off another coded note to Jack.
Thumping and banging betrayed the arrival of the servants with hot water for his bath. Guy threw aside the towel and stalked into the attached dressing room.
Though he acknowledged the men’s efforts with a smile, eyes black with rage stared back at him from the mirror. A naked man betrayed neither rank nor education. How deeply embroiled in falsehood must such a man be, before he relinquished his right to the title of English gentleman?
Fortunately, no one would doubt his exalted status, or his honor, in Devon, where both Sarah and Rachel were now staying on Daedalus’s doorstep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MR. DEVORAN!” LADY OVERBRIDGE CRIED, HOLDING OUT both hands. “We were so afraid that you wouldn’t come.”
“Quite! Quite!” His Lordship huffed up to join his wife. “Glad to have you, Devoran! Promises to be a bang-up show if this weather holds, don’t you know! Excellent pugilist here from Exeter, a half-decent trainer if you’ve the mind to try your fives against some of the other gentlemen.”
“Your servant, my lord, my lady! Delighted!” Guy stopped at a safe distance and bowed.
Nevertheless, Her Ladyship walked up to take his arm. Dark brown ringlets emphasized her white neck. With only the slightest hint of affectation, she laughed up at him to show off teeth that were even and small. As if to echo their beauty, she wore pearl drops in her ears and another on a gold chain around her neck.
Annabella Overbridge was very young and very pretty, and her husband was the kind of strapping sportsman who still believed in female innocence.
“You’ll allow me to show you to your room myself, Mr. Devoran,” Lady Overbridge said. “The other ladies are all agog to have you join our little party, but of course you must refresh yourself first.” She tossed her ringlets. The pearls danced. “I must know every detail of your journey. I insist!”
His Lordship smiled indulgently and turned to leave. “Hear all your news later, Devoran!”
Guy surrendered with good grace. To look about for Sarah Callaway—to betray impatience for that frank golden gaze, the madness of red hair, and skin as dappled as the shade of a young tree—would be the height of bad manners.
Annabella played idly with the single pearl at her throat as they walked toward the stairs. Dancing brown eyes sparkled. Pearly teeth glistened. She chattered brightly about her house party, the weather, and the latest gossip.
Guy ignored most of it, except to make a mental inventory of the other guests’ names: five unmarried girls with their chaperons, four young bachelors, not counting himself, and three married couples, besides his host and hostess.
One of those married ladies, a fragile blonde, stepped around a corner, then pretended surprise. She tittered with delight and threw up both hands.
“Why, Mr. Devoran!” Lady Whitely dropped a provocative curtsy and glanced up beneath her eyelashes. The invitation was impossible to mistake. “We ladies have been laying wagers on your arrival, sir! Only I was so completely sure that you would come to Buckleigh that I risked
twenty guineas.”
Guy bowed with chill perfection. “Then I am gratified that you did not lose your gold over me, Lady Whitely.”
She gazed knowingly up at him, then flounced away to gaze up at a portrait. The stance showed off her long neck and elegant carriage. Huge chintz sleeves framed her tiny waist. A pretty woman with a poisonous tongue and a husband who drank too much.
“Well, anyone might have doubted it when you dallied in town for so long, Mr. Devoran,” she said archly. “Though if you had other motives than your interest in orchids for wishing to include that redheaded schoolteacher here at Buckleigh, I am sure I have far too much discretion to even hint at it.”
“Oh, my dear!” Lady Overbridge clutched Guy’s arm and giggled. “How can you say so?”
To her credit—perhaps—Lottie Whitely blushed.
“Certainly, anyone would wonder at such a thing when Mrs. Callaway is so very plain, while Mr. Devoran is so very—” She giggled and glanced back at him. “Well, sir! Have you nothing to say?”
Guy allowed the silence to grow like a thunderhead, before he smiled with all the hauteur of a direct descendant of Ambrose de Verrant.
“Allow me to assure you, ma’am, that I barely know the lady. I was merely the humble messenger of the future Duchess of Blackdown, who thought Mrs. Callaway’s presence here might amuse.”
Lady Whitely smoothed one hand over her waist, as if to rivet his eyes to her figure.
“Oh, I was only teasing, sir. We all know that you’ve simply taken pity on a poor hero’s widow and asked Annabella to give her a few weeks’ employment. All the ladies agree that it’s just the kind of thoughtful gesture Mr. Guy Devoran would make.”
