Duels & Deception

by Cindy Anstey

  If anything, she was distracted.

  She had just completed the remainder of the invitations—the ones allocated to her mother. They had to go out right away if she was going to know the number of those attending her ball. Shelley was doing her best to help with the arrangements, but until the responses came in, they were at a standstill. At least the question of where they were staying in Bath had been settled; Shelley had hired a town house on their behalf.

  Piling the outgoing invitations on Shodster’s tray, Lydia watched him depart before turning to the innocent-looking piece of paper. With a sigh of relief, she broke the seal and began to read, stifling a yelp as she did so. It was just as well that she had the morning room to herself.

  Looking down at the neat, florid script, Lydia read the note a second time. It didn’t seem real; it couldn’t be real!

  Miss Whitfield.

  You are not half as clever as you think you are!

  It is known that you spent an entire night away from good company! No chaperone, no parent, no guardian to protect your reputation.

  A whisper in the right ears will see you labeled a harlot; the doors of polite society will be slammed in your face. Ruination and censure will be your companion for the rest of your days.

  Unless an investment of four hundred pounds is left behind the Havisham grave marker at St. Mary’s in Bankend. Then, and only then, will the whispers be silenced.

  The future is up to you.

  You have three days.

  Lydia laughed; it was a weak sort of gurgle that didn’t sound like amusement even to her ears. She didn’t know which part of this threat upset her the most. The idea that someone would stoop so low; the thought of trying to secure such a large sum in three days; or that this rotter thought her weak enough to succumb to villainous blackmail.

  Marching across the room, Lydia stood before the fire, her arm partially extended. And there it stayed while she examined the whole.

  Was this then the true purpose of her abduction? A source of income—for Lydia was fairly certain that once paid, other notes of its ilk would arrive on a regular basis. That could account for the ease of her escape and the lack of a ransom demand.

  Or was the note a byproduct of her curious adventure? Few knew of the episode, but it took only one immoral character to see an opportunity in her calamitous day. Could the author be found before the havoc of rumors was wreaked upon them? She did have the services of a Bow Street Runner near at hand. And she did not doubt that the blackmail would end only with the writer’s apprehension.

  Lydia stepped back from the fire, lowering the paper away from the heat.

  Best preserve the letter for Mr. Warner to see in person. She would send Jeremy to Spelding on an errand of some sort and include a request, a return visit from the Principal Officer of Bow Street.

  With a smile born of satisfaction, Lydia reached for the bellpull.

  This person, this villain, would rue the day he or she tried to take on Lydia Mary Whitfield. She ignored the niggling thought that it could also be the ruination of her life … and all those around her.

  * * *

  “An empty threat.” Cora selected two playing cards. “Fret not. Fifteen two, fifteen four … and a pair for six. I think that is all I have.” She moved her pegs in the cribbage board and then glanced up at Lydia.

  “I am trying not to be affected, but…” She allowed the sentence to trail off. Trying not to fret was proving to be difficult. Enough time had passed for Lydia’s temper to lessen, and as it dissolved, disquiet filled the void.

  A ruined reputation would affect the entire household. Society would look askance at all the ladies of Roseberry should news of Lydia’s disappearance be made known. Worthy marriage prospects for Elaine, Ivy, and Tessa would vanish on the strength of Lydia’s immoral influence.

  She sighed, far deeper than she meant to, and offered Cora a weak smile to compensate. “Mr. Warner said much the same thing, although he used a lot more words.”

  Cora laughed and then looked around uncomfortably.

  Lydia, too, glanced at the other occupants of the drawing room and was pleased that none had been disturbed. Mama dozed in her favorite chair, and Elaine and Aunt Freya were in deep conversation over a magazine article that declared ruffles passé. The girls had long since gone to bed, and Uncle … well, Lydia did not know where he had taken himself off to, but then, neither did she care.

  “He said the rumors could be quashed. The incident passed unnoticed to begin with, and to dredge it up after a fortnight seems rather desperate.” Lydia shook her head, unintentionally causing the candles to flicker in the wafting air. “He intimated that ladies were so talented at prevarication that we would have no problem staring anyone down. I don’t think there is a gender requirement for hedging, do you?”

  “Most definitely not—oh, the kitty is yours, I believe.” Cora pushed the four cards in Lydia’s direction. “Still, if stonewalling is to be our tactic, there are many routes to take. We could react in great surprise, or incredulity. Oh, no, the truth. Yes, that should be our avenue. ‘You cannot be serious; I was with Miss Whitfield in Bath. What did she do, leave me screaming on the side of the road?’” Cora grinned. “Oh, yes, I could have great fun with that.”

  Lydia blinked at her friend’s words, surprised by her teasing tone. She was fairly certain Cora’s levity was meant to set the tone between them—establish that they were placed well enough in society that they could ignore such plebeian discourses. Lydia hoped it was true.

  Glancing down at her cards, Lydia showed Cora her pair and then passed them back to be shuffled. “There is one person who might be abjectly affected by the rumors.”

  “Lord Aldershot.”

  “Yes. True or not, he will be upset that my name should be bandied about. Poor man.”

  “Perhaps you should tell him.”

  “I might have to, but for now I will wait to see how this plays out.” Lydia glanced up to see that Cora was watching her with a troubled expression—though that might have been a trick of the low light.

  “Are you sure that is the way you want to play it?”

  Lydia frowned down at her cards and then, realizing that her friend was not referring to the game, looked back to Cora. “You don’t agree?”

  “Well, it is not for me to say,” she said, “but I think that a husband should be someone with whom you can share all your worries and concerns. Someone whom you can support but who can also support you.”

  “Ah, but you are talking about a romantic marriage. One that involves heady emotions and a great deal of leaning.” Lydia was surprised by the passing thought that the words, which she had spouted on more than one occasion, sounded … well, more appealing than they had before.

  “It’s mutual leaning, Lydia. Sharing and caring and … euphoria.”

  “Yes, so you say, but is that reality or a temporary state that fades over time?”

  “I would certainly hope the former, but my experience is not vast. All I can truly speak about is the joy of affection … and the pain of separation.”

  “Oh, Cora. I am a selfish creature. I have not asked how you are doing. I’m sure we will hear from Shelley soon about Mr. Granger.”

  Cora nodded. “Yes, it shouldn’t be long now.” She smiled wistfully.

  Lydia picked up her cards, placing two facedown in the middle of the table. Her thoughts returned to Barley and their last discussion—a discussion about his new curricle, a need for horses, and that blasted marriage contract. She had yet to inform Barley about her … their new timetable. He might not be as pleased as he would have been a few weeks ago—before he had started spending her money.

  What to do? A quandary without a doubt. And one that deserved careful consideration.

  Unfortunately, that night, when she put her mind to the whole, Lydia made a most disconcerting discovery. Her reluctance to speak to Barley was born from the fact that she did not want to postpone their engagement; she wanted
to cancel it entirely. Mavis Caudle came to mind as a peace offering between them, but would Barley wish to marry a young lady with an excellent lineage but no dowry? And what should come first, the break or the encouragement?

  Lydia spent most of the night tossing and turning, wondering what the family, and more important, what her father, would think of such a turn of events. Was she right to change her plans for the future based on a few heady emotions when looking into a handsome young man’s eyes? Was it the discovery that a romantic inclination could find a home in her person, after all, or was her reluctance to marry Barley a result of her feelings for Robert, and for him alone? Was she being charmed by romance, or Robert?

  Equally important: How did Robert feel about her?

  If she broke with Barley and Robert’s affections didn’t amount to more than friendship, would she regret tossing her father’s wishes aside? There would be no going back. It might lead to strained relations between the estates … for the rest of their days.

  There seemed to be no answers—only an ocean of questions.

  Exhausted, after hours of sleeplessness and no conclusions, Lydia turned her thoughts away from Barley and the prospect of their engagement. She chose one subject that she knew would bring contentment—one that, when examined on its own, brought a smile to her lips and serenity to her heart.

  That subject was the charming Mr. Robert Newton, his laughter, his wit, his broad shoulders, and his fascinating eyes … and with that she fell asleep.

  Chapter 16

  In which a nonexistent dustup sends Mr. Newton rushing back to Roseberry

  Without any evidence of charm, Mr. Robert Newton jumped to his feet. “What?” he shouted, acute surprise adding to the volume of his word. He shook the letter in front of him as if in doing so he were shaking the author … or rather the subject of which the author spoke.

  “Yes, hmm. What?” Mr. Lynch’s voice drifted in from the other room. The door between their offices stood open to the firm’s entry.

  Robert leaned across the threshold, nodded to the startled gentleman who sat at Robert’s former desk, and called back to his mentor. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Lynch.” Then, looking down at the paper still in his hands, he added, “Though I must return to Roseberry Hall for a few days; there has been another dustup.” Though not a true definition of the circumstances outlined in the letter, Robert was not about to offer a clearer explanation.

  “Very good,” the old man called back cheerfully.

  Robert was fairly certain Mr. Lynch had not heard him properly.

  Turning back to his desk, Robert nodded with satisfaction. Yes, he could, indeed, leave the firm without fear of its falling apart. Over the past ten days, Robert had worked hard to clear his desk of all pending files, preparing to begin his apprenticeship. He had taken over the spare office and hired a new clerk. Rather than grab a young man intent on a career in the law, Robert had secured the services of a retired lieutenant who had helped keep a general in order.

  The end of the Napoleonic Wars had seen many a good man sell out of the army. Robert had taken full advantage of that glut, interviewing upward of twenty former soldiers. Mr. Cargoff was proving to be a most excellent choice.

  Picking up the few allotted files that required signatures, Robert dropped them in front of Mr. Cargoff. He reviewed them quickly with the gentleman, asking that he make a few inquiries, as well as obtain the necessary signatures. He left the firm confident that all was in hand—much more confident than he had been on his departure before Cassidy’s duel.

  It was too late in the day to start off immediately, though a quick stop at Templeton Stables assured him a horse first thing in the morning. Robert rushed home to pack. This time he included a dress coat in his satchel. He would see to this nonsense and remain at Roseberry until he was convinced of Lydia’s safety.… And he would be dressed appropriately for dinner while doing so.

  * * *

  The morning dawned gray and damp. As the journey continued, it became grayer and damper until, at the time of his arrival at Roseberry Hall, Robert was caught in a torrential downpour. After Hugh had taken away Robert’s satchel and sodden greatcoat, Shodster led him to the morning room, where the family was still at breakfast.

  While Robert appreciated the gesture, this acknowledgment of his intimacy with the family, he was acutely aware of his bedraggled state—and that he could not explain the true purpose of his arrival in front of everyone. A quick glance told him that Lydia was safe and sound—though grinning somewhat broadly—so he proceeded to ignore her.

  “Mr. Newton, what a pleasure. I hope you are well?” Mrs. Whitfield gestured for a chair to be added to the table as she spoke.

  A niche was found for him next to Miss Elaine, who seemed to be suffering her usual eye affliction—batting and blinking—while leaning in closer and closer until Robert feared she might tumble from her chair. Robert did his best to keep his gaze away from Lydia—he would not be distracted by her loveliness; he would not be distracted by her bright smile; he would not be distracted away from his anger and frustration. No, she would feel the full force of his temper as soon as they were alone … as long as he didn’t look at her.

  “So nice to see you again.” Mrs. Kemble waved at her daughter. “Get Mr. Newton something to eat, Elaine. He must be fairly starving after his journey.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” Miss Kemble touched his arm. “You must have suffered dreadfully. I will be your savior.” She jumped up and began piling a plate with eggs, ham, kippers, and toast from the sideboard.

  “To what do we owe this great honor?” The query was made with noticeable derision.

  Robert was prepared for both the condescension—from Mr. Kemble—and the question, but he waited for Elaine to pass him the plate before answering. He nodded a thank-you and lifted his fork. “There are a few clauses that need to be reviewed in the contract our firm is drawing up on Miss Whitfield’s behalf.” He instilled an official ring to his words; there would be a general assumption that he was speaking about the private business of the marriage contract. Theoretically, Lydia’s uncle should have been present for these discussions.… Or at the very least her mother, but neither showed any interest.

  Directing the conversation away from the hazardous subject, Robert inquired about Mr. Selleck and the estate. Mrs. Whitfield was most accommodating in her replies, finding these topics led her into recollections of previous crops, alfresco summer meals by the lake, a pretty new rose planted by the head gardener, and Mrs. Foster’s journey to Paris. There wasn’t a clear path to the last subject, but Robert did his best to look attentive and refrained from asking who Mrs. Foster might be. Elaine giggled throughout her aunt’s soliloquy, hovering at his elbow to replenish his tea—before it was done—and offering him any number of foodstuffs that he did not want.

  Through it all, Robert maintained a mildly interested expression, hid his tension with an occasional smile and light repartee, and avoided looking directly at Lydia. Though he did watch her from the corner of his eye.

  The short meal was interminable—a good three-quarters of an hour. But when, at last, the ladies pushed away from the table, Robert rose with them. As the remnants of their meal had to be cleared, Lydia suggested that they adjourn to the study.

  Robert met her gaze, nodded, and then looked away as quickly as was politic.

  He meant to offer the first volley as soon as they crossed the threshold into the study, but Lydia won that battle.

  She pivoted before they had taken two steps and leaned toward him. “All right, out with it.” Her voice didn’t have its usual dulcet quality. “Why are you here in truth, and why are you so out of temper with me?”

  “As both are rooted in the same muck, perhaps you can guess.” He tried not to notice that her person—leaning in such a delicious manner—was in very close proximity.

  “No, indeed, I cannot.”

  “Might it have to do with your appointment with Mr. Warner this mor
ning?”

  Lydia shook her head and, unfortunately, leaned back on her heels. “Does it? Do you know something that I don’t? Mr. Warner sent a note requesting an appointment, but as to the subject of our meeting, I assumed it had to do with my abduction.… Doesn’t it?”

  “I believe he will be discussing his findings, yes. He informed me of the meeting … thought that I would be interested as well. Which I am! But he also made mention of another subject. One of which I had not heard before. He used the word blackmail.”

  Then, to Robert’s great surprise, Lydia laughed. “Oh, so that is what has put you into a huff.”

  “This is not a huff—it is frustration, if one has to give it a name—or concern, or alarm. No matter what you call it, I was very troubled to learn that you had suffered another affront and deigned not to inform me. I am your friend as well as your solicitor’s apprentice, and yet you didn’t trust me—”

  “Robert, Robert.”

  “—you did not have the de—”

  “Robert. Trust was not the issue.”

  “Then what was? For I cannot fathom any reason not to include me in this latest … this … See what you have done? I cannot find my words!”

  Stepping closer, Lydia laid her hands across his forearms, tilting her chin up. Robert swallowed with great difficulty as she stared into his eyes. He knew she was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her above the noise of his hammering heart and the buzz in his ears. Then, she stopped talking and leaned infinitesimally closer still.

  Robert could now feel her warm breath caressing his face. He could smell sweet lavender soap and feel the heat of her body as it pressed against his.

  “Right?”

  Robert blinked and lifted his cheeks. “Pardon,” he croaked, trying not to watch her lips.

  “How could I have done otherwise?” she asked. “We all hoped that the threat was toothless and decided to regard it as such. Not needing to fret meant there was also no need to drag you away from the city, either … as much as I would have loved the excuse—” She stopped, frowned, and then continued. “Had you known of the letter, you would have jumped on a horse and madly rushed to Roseberry, arriving soaking wet and in a lather, only to find that all was well—just as you did. Do I not know you, my friend? Was I not right?”