by Cindy Anstey
“Oh,” she said with great intelligence. She dipped her curtsy slower than was her norm, giving her time to hide her reaction. When she lifted her eyes to those of the gentleman who would one day be her husband, she was startled by his looks. Not that his glare and hard-set mouth were terribly unusual; she had seen that glower before. Nor was his confrontational stance extraordinary, either. She had known Barley a long time.
No, it was the color of his hair, for rather than a rich brown, as she had thought previously, it seemed muddy. And his nose … why had she never noticed how very sharp and unappealing it was? And his manner of dress was … overly elegant, his waistcoat an unnecessarily bright red. Strange that she had not noticed these proclivities before.
“There you are, Barley,” she said, blinking away her distracting thoughts. Waving toward the settee near the fireplace, Lydia crossed the room. But when she perched on the edge of her seat, Barley had still not moved.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“That is a strange question since this is my home and where I live.”
“Why were you not in Bath?”
Lydia rose, feeling the tension in the room increasing still further. And while she might not understand its underlying cause, she would not be put to disadvantage. “I might ask the same of you.”
“What are you on about? You were not there, and Mr. Lynch was certain that you were not expected. We had no appointment. I rode all the way to town and back in the rain—as you insisted—and for what? Nothing. I am greatly disturbed by your lack of consideration. What would it have taken for you to let me know that your plans had changed? We are neighbors, after all.”
“This seems like a lot of thunder for something that is two days old. I was in Bath, Lord Aldershot, as arranged. It was you who failed to show. And why is of great interest to me.”
“You are the most ridiculous of young women, Lydia, but I would never have expected such blatant prevarication. I was most decidedly there. In Bath. To discuss our marriage contract. At one. Precisely. You were not.”
“Today? Of course not. It is Saturday—the twenty-ninth.”
“Indeed. All day, as is the norm.” The tones of mockery and derision were excessive.
Pursing her lips for a moment, Lydia breathed through her nose, trying to gain control of her pique—extreme pique … fully warranted, deserved, and … and proper pique!
“Our appointment in Bath,” Lydia said in slow deliberate tones—as if dealing with an idiot! “With the lawyer to discuss and sign our marriage contract was arranged for Thursday the twenty-seventh. At one, precisely.”
“You said Saturday.”
“No, I did not.” Lydia continued to stare at Barley, not backing down one iota.
Perhaps it was the clipped manner in which these words were spoken or perhaps it was the glare that accompanied them, it hardly mattered, for there was something in her words or look that took Barley aback. He shook his head in a sharp, jerky motion, and then his shoulders relaxed, and he sighed.
“Oh, Lydia, what am I to do? I was certain our meeting was today. I ordered a new carriage on the strength of it. I am in an awkward position now.”
“Counting your chickens before they are hatched?” Lydia, a great advocate of the adage “forgive and forget,” found that she was not yet ready to forgive when there had been no apology. And forgetting was equally difficult—being called ridiculous greatly rankled. She was absolutely certain that Robert would never describe her in such a manner.
“’Fraid so. Can you write Lynch and arrange another appointment—soon?”
An unequivocal no was on the tip of her tongue when Lydia realized that Barley was still falling in with her plans.… And yet she was not as relieved as one might expect. “I will see what I can do.”
“Excellent. Yes. That will be fine. The carriage maker does not need to see the glint of my money yet, does he? Oh, wait until you see it, Lydia. The seat is so high I’ll need a ladder to climb onto it. Oh, yes, and I might need a little more blunt than we discussed on the signing of the contract. Can’t have such a bang-up curricle being pulled by a mismatched set. No, indeed.”
Barley was certainly warming to the idea of using her money. “Curricle? You ordered a curricle?” Lydia sighed and wondered if Robert had ever felt the need to kick up a lark or drive a ridiculous carriage. Looking away, lest Barley see the look of disapproval in her eyes, Lydia spied the letter for Shelley on her writing desk.
“Do you have your carriage?” It being a miserable day, the odds were fairly high that he had not come on horseback; she scarcely waited for his nod before continuing. “Might I get a ride with you to Spelding? I was hoping to get a letter for Mrs. Dunbar-Ross in the post today. A ride there and back would save me some time and trouble.” It would also prevent Cora from skipping the girls’ lessons to accompany her.
“No, I think not, Lydia. I am off to Spelding but plan to tarry at the rectory. Reverend Caudle is fashioning his sermon for Easter next week and has need of my opinion. I might be there for some time and would not have you wait. It would cause Mrs. Caudle grief to be so put upon. I am rather surprised that you would not better consider her feelings.”
Lydia tipped her head and stared at her gallant, who was not in the least gallant. “I did not invite myself to the Caudles, Barley. I merely … Never mind, I will give it to Shodster. He’ll arrange for the letter to go out on the morrow.”
One day more would not make the least difference. In fact, there had been no need to ask Barley for his assistance at all. She simply wondered if he would be willing to go out of his way for her. A test of sorts, for want of a better word.
“Yes, indeed. Problem solved.” Barley nodded his farewell and without further comment closed the door behind him.
Yes, an impulsive test. Which he had failed miserably.
* * *
It took the better part of three nights to run Lord Rennoll to ground. The problem was not in locating his residence—though a new arrival from London, the man was well known throughout Bath. The difficulty rose from the fact that the gentleman was seldom at his rented town house and rarely at the same gaming den two nights in a row. Bath had diversions aplenty for titled bachelors, even for those of such advanced years as four and thirty, and Lord Rennoll took advantage of them all.
In the end, Robert resorted to leaving a card and an appointment request with the man’s butler. There was no mention of the subject to be discussed, and as such, Robert was fairly certain he would return at the arranged time to find Lord Rennoll at home. Curiosity was a marvelous tool.
Unfortunately, obstinacy was not.
Neither Robert nor Cassidy made it past the front hall.
“Well, that went well,” Cassidy said with no little sarcasm as they returned to the street. He donned his top hat, which had literally been in his hand in preparation to eat humble pie.
Robert pivoted, staring first at the closed door framed by decorative beige pillars, and then lifted his gaze to the first floor. The full-length window, running the entire width of the town house, was partially concealed by a balcony, but there was no mistaking the face staring back down.
“Is that him?” Robert pointed with his chin.
Cassidy followed his friend’s gaze. “Indeed.” And then, in an ill-considered move, Cassidy swept his hat back off his head and bowed—far too slowly and far too deeply. The mockery was evident; the face in the window disappeared.
“Now why did you do that? I was going to work on him. We still have two days.”
“Lord Rennoll is not about to cancel our duel. He greatly enjoys the bragging rights of his success. If we learned nothing else in our traipsing about town, we learned that.”
Robert hated to admit it, but Cassidy was right. The man was spoiling for a fight. So it was back to his contingency plan; he would tie Cassidy up to prevent him from participating. Robert would have to send Longdon out for a length of rope.
Chapter 1
3
In which Mr. Newton is caught woolgathering … twice, and Miss Whitfield has an odd encounter in Spelding
The next morning found Robert mulling over the future of his friend—with fervent hopes and plans to extend that friendship into old age. He had just pushed away his breakfast plate, unable to face the kippers and toast that were now stone cold, when he heard the loud bang of the front-door knocker. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, Robert observed that a reasonably civil hour had only just been attained, and he frowned.
An unexpected visitor before midday did not bode well.
Rising, he reached the morning room door just as Longdon stepped into the hall. His butler lifted a questioning brow.
“Yes, I am in if there is need for me to be,” Robert answered the unexpressed query. “I leave it to your discretion.”
Longdon gave him a long-suffering look. “Of course, sir. That goes without saying.” Straightening, he adopted the stiff stance and superior look required before pulling the door open. The conversation was brief, and though Longdon did close the door without ushering anyone in, he approached Robert with a card on his tray.
Ignoring the disapproving click of Longdon’s tongue, Robert lifted the card to read.
BURT WARNER
Principal Officer of Bow Street
LONDON
“Excellent,” Robert said to no one in particular. He met Longdon’s stare with a nod and curled his lips in an attempted smile. However, the effort was wasted as Longdon’s expression grew even more dour. “Did you leave the poor man standing outside?”
“Sent him downstairs to the service entrance, sir. Where he should have gone in the first place.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, when he knocks again, could you see him to my study?”
“You know that this person is a Runner, sir. A person who dabbles in criminal elements.”
“More than dabbles, I would hope. Yes, Longdon. The study, please.”
“Very good, sir. Far be it for me to suggest that the back hall might be more appropriate for someone of his ilk.”
“I’m pleased to know that you are not going to suggest such a thing.”
Robert pivoted and climbed the stairs, almost glad to put his worries of the duel aside temporarily. It was a sign of his distress that talking about a kidnapping would be a relief.
Burt Warner was a tall, angular man in the fortyish range with a stern countenance and a sparse head of hair—although bald would have been an overstatement. He wore the typical blue overcoat with brass buttons and top hat of his office, and his manner was not in the least affable.
“Been given the runaround.” Mr. Warner tapped his top hat against his thigh in impatience. “Sent here, there, and everywhere.”
“Come by way of Pepney and Villers Manor, I assume.” Robert had stood when the Runner entered the study, and he remained on his feet. There was nothing about Mr. Warner that made one inclined to offer the gentleman a seat; it might imply a weakness.… One would never want to insult this man.
“Indeed, and though I was told that I might see you first, I had it in mind to visit your Mr. Lynch. Didn’t have much to say for himself.”
Robert stilled, wondering how he was going to explain the Runner’s purpose to Mr. Lynch. Inquiries didn’t fit with the scenario that Robert had devised.
“Told me to return at another time; he was that busy. Decided to go back this afternoon at one—”
“Precisely?” Robert asked, relief making him foolish. He was favored with a withering look. “I beg your pardon.” He cleared his throat and banished the smile from his face. “I believe that I can answer your questions. No need to disturb Mr. Lynch.”
“Hmm. Yes, well, thought it best to speak to the people in that there area at the same time as the snatch. Find out if anyone saw the two characters who made off with you and Miss Whitfield.”
“There was a third man as well.”
“Hmm, indeed, Morley, but not until the farm. I’ll get to that later.”
“Are you going to visit the Beyer farm?” Robert thought about his burning need to throw Cassidy into a secure cell somewhere around dawn tomorrow. The farm was really too far away—the wine cellar of his town house would have to do.
“Pardon?” Robert realized that his internal thoughts had overshadowed Mr. Warner’s dialogue.
The Runner stopped midsentence, fixed Robert with a steely look—which made him squirm like a schoolboy—and rocked back on his heels. “Something wrong?”
“Distracted is all.”
“Abduction and violence not of interest, Mr. Newton? You must live an exciting life. Thought you were a clerk.”
Robert clenched his jaw briefly before he spoke—clearly and without any hesitation. “I am a lawyer’s clerk, Mr. Warner, and while it might not be the most exciting of careers to some, I feel it is worthwhile and immensely satisfying. Miss Whitfield’s abduction is of grave concern to me; however, at present I am greatly distracted by a difficult situation involving a friend.”
“A difficult legal situation?”
“Why do you ask that?” Robert said quickly—too quickly if one used the smug look on Mr. Warner’s face as a barometer. With a swallow of discomfort, Robert offered the man a weak smile.
“You are a lawyer’s clerk, as you said, Mr. Newton. Stands to reason that a friend might come to you on a legal issue.”
“Oh, yes, right. Exactly.” But it was too late, the Runner was aware that something was decidedly amiss.
With brows raised, the Runner stopped rocking on his heels and leaned toward Robert. It was a very predatory stance.
Robert swallowed yet again.
“Has a friend of yours gotten into difficulty? Is he involved in Miss Whitfield’s abduction?”
“No, no. Of course not. One has nothing to do with the other.” Robert reassured the Runner as best he could, leaning away, trying not to feel intimidated. “His situation is more immediate—his danger is imminent—whereas Lydia’s danger has passed.” Robert cringed upon hearing Lydia’s first name slip out, and he shook his head in disbelief.
Mr. Warner chose to ignore the faux pas, for Robert was certain that the slip had not gone unnoticed. “Would this danger involve a dawn meeting?”
“That is a leap of logic that I do not understand.”
“Come now,” Mr. Warner said in a bonhomie sort of way. He straightened and began to rock back and forth on his heels again. “You society pups are not original. No surprises in your high spirits. Been getting into scrapes in the same way for years: gambling, riding neck-or-nothing, chasing a bit of muslin. None of these would call for the use of the word dangerous.”
“I misspoke.”
“Think not, young sir. I believe that you, being a clerk and all, are very careful with words. No, don’t think dipping too deep could be called dangerous, or even drawing someone’s cork. Pockets to let is more of a waste, what with all your blunt, and, well, the petticoat line is a whole lot of trouble—but, again, not dangerous. No, if I were a betting man—and I’m not—I would say your friend might be facing a pistol at dawn. That is not only dangerous, it is illegal.”
“Of course it is.” Robert turned to the window and scrubbed at his face before resting his forehead on the cold glass. He had to decide if Rennoll was a menace to avoid … or stop.
“It’s a practice that requires luck and skill. Wouldn’t want to count on either, if it were me.”
“Indeed. Is that all you need to begin your investigation? I will not feel any security for Miss Whitfield until the criminals are found. It was no happenstance. The thugs were waiting, knew her name and nature. It was planned—”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Newton. And the sooner I get started the better. Give me a day or two here, and then I’ll need to speak to the young lady in question.”
Robert lifted his head with a start and a smile. “Oh, of course. I shall drive to Roseberry Hall with you, to initiate the introduction.”
“A letter would suffice.”
“No, no,” Robert turned. “With all that has occurred, a stranger requesting an interview might be somewhat disconcerting. I wouldn’t want Miss Whitfield to feel any misgivings.” Though Robert was certain Lydia would take it all in stride—not nonplussed in the least—he still felt an overwhelming urge to see her, to smell her soft lavender scent, and to watch the light in her eyes sparkle as she laughed.… “Pardon?” Robert realized there was a great deal of silence emanating from the other side of the room. He flushed in discomfort; he had been caught woolgathering for the second time in their short meeting.
“Distracted again?” asked the Runner. “Not by the same thing, I’m thinking.”
Robert had never observed before that a silly smile pasted onto a person of a serious character could look quite out of place—as if the lifted cheeks caused pain.
“No, indeed. A very different subject.”
“Not dangerous, I’m thinking.”
“Indeed not.” Robert would almost welcome the return to their discussion about dueling. “So then, we are settled in regard to your investigation. You have enough to start with?” Robert heard the repetition of his words and flinched.
“Yes, I believe I have it all straight. Still, I must warn you, and this will likely come as no surprise, there is a good chance that I will not discover who is behind this foul deed. We don’t always succeed.”
“Yes, I understand. It is what I expected, though I do hope that this will not be one of those cases.”
The Bow Street Runner’s shrug was not in the least reassuring.
* * *
Lydia tripped and would have taken a tumble had she not been holding Hugh’s hand.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, helping her into the carriage.
