by Cindy Anstey
“Shodster?” Lydia said … gasplike. Then she saw the letter in her butler’s hand. A quick glance confirmed that Robert was still in the parlor, tapping the brim of his hat against his cane. With a smile—she took the proffered paper and joined Robert.
“Ready to go?” she asked as if he had been the one preparing for the jaunt.
“Almost,” he replied, though his tone was serious. His smile faded, and his expression carried a hint of trepidation. “Before we go anywhere, I would like to apologize for my high-handedness the other day. I should have informed you of what I was about and solicited your opinion.”
Lydia laughed, clearly surprising him. “I accept, and counter your apology with one of my own.” She lifted her hand as he opened his mouth to speak. “I overreacted. And I will be honest about this, my friend, I have thought long and hard as to why that would be. I am not known for being excessive in my emotions.… But I believe I now know the cause.”
Robert stared at her, his eyes switching between her eyes and mouth, with such … um … concentration that Lydia could no longer remember what it was that she was going to say.
“And that would be?” he prompted.
“What would be?”
“The cause of your pique.”
“Oh, yes. I beg your pardon.” Lydia shook her head. “I am used to being, well … dare I say it … I am used to being in control—the one planning and deciding. It is required of me at Roseberry, and it has become a habit.”
“I still should have—”
“Yes, yes. We could talk circles around this issue all day. Let us put it behind us.” Then, taking a deep breath, Lydia touched on the subject that had been the biggest source of her disquiet since meeting Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett. “Robert?”
“Yes.”
“I should like to tell you something.”
“Oh.”
The sound from the street faded into the background, and Lydia let the words spill out.
“I have decided not to marry Lord Aldershot. We do not suit. I would ride roughshod over him without intending to. I don’t care about joining our estates. Nor about being Lady Aldershot. I … I…” She had run through all her reasons, except, of course, the most important one. “I … I … wrote him yesterday to request an interview.”
Robert swallowed and took in a deep breath. “Is that his reply?”
“Reply?”
“Yes, the letter in your hand.”
Lydia frowned and lifted her arm. “Oh. No. Well, I don’t think so. The writing is vaguely familiar but not his, I don’t believe.” She broke the wax seal.
With a gasp, Lydia froze—immobilized by fear and fury. Instantly, Robert was at her side, and though it wasn’t necessary, Lydia leaned against him for support—just for a moment.
The sound of footsteps in the upper hall brought Lydia out of her trancelike state, and she straightened, away from the safety and security of Robert. She dropped onto the nearest seat and felt, rather than saw, Robert move to behind her chair. When she lifted the letter to reread it; she knew he could see it, too.
Fool,
You ignored my warning. It was little enough to ask, a mere four hundred pounds. And yet you spurned me.
I had no choice. My lips moved, and your secret is told. Little voices behind your back.
Such a sordid tale. A night with your lover, your lawyer. A night of passion.
Now, he will pay, too. Watch as his world crumbles; his career is forfeit. All because you love money best.
But I can find it in my heart to still these little voices. Calm the flood of rumors. Save his career. All is not lost—yet. But there is a cost.
One thousand pounds.
Put the money in a box—addressed to Tommy Goode. Leave it under the fifth pew from the front on the right side of the Abbey church. No tricks.
I will be watching. You have three days.
“No,” Robert said, stepping in front of Lydia, leaning down to look straight into her face. “Don’t even think of it.”
“Robert … your career. I can’t have you lose something you cherish because of lies.”
“Lydia, a thousand pounds! It is a fortune.”
“I can ask Mr. Selleck about the barns—which repairs can be held off. Ivy’s pony will have to wait. Yes, and if the birthday gowns are muslin, not silk—it can be done. Of course, I will have to get approval from Mr. Lynch and Uncle Arthur. What can we tell them? What can I tell them?”
“No. No, Lydia, it is the principle. People like this … this monster cannot win out. And you know the threats and demands will never end if you give in.”
“I have to consider it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mr. Newton, what an exquisite pleasure,” squealed a voice from the parlor doorway. “Your timing is impeccable, as always—we have just arrived. Are you well, Cousin? You do not look your best. If you need to rest, I can entertain Mr. Newton.” Elaine swayed from side to side, arms clasped behind her back, thrusting certain parts of her person forward. “You must apprise me of Bath’s entertainments, Mr. Newton—the theater, assemblies … Oh, yes, we have much to talk about.”
Robert straightened. “Thank you, Miss Kemble. Lovely to see you, too. Miss Whitfield has accepted my invitation for a little exercise—a stroll along Harrison’s Walk.”
“No.” Lydia shook her head and chewed at her lip. “I think I need to rest, as Elaine suggested. I have a sudden headache; please forgive me for canceling. But … perhaps we can continue our discussion tomorrow? I will have had time to consider your point of view and will let you know what I have decided.”
“Very good.” Robert bowed to both ladies and headed to the entrance hall. He turned back at the threshold, catching Lydia’s look. He held it for some minutes but remained mute. Then he nodded, turned, and bid Shodster farewell.
“That was badly done, Lydia. I could have taken Mr. Newton up on his offer of a walk to the park, if you had not sent him away so quickly.” And then, as if only just realizing that the conversation she had overheard was slightly irregular, she frowned and stepped closer. “Are you still working on your marriage contract? Really, Lydia, you should not be so particular. Poor Lord Aldershot, he will not know whether he’s coming or going.”
“Too true, Cousin. Now, if you will excuse me, I will lie down for a bit.”
Lydia fled to the sanctity of her room and stayed there the rest of the day. She rose the next morning determined. She would speak to Mr. Lynch and Uncle Arthur. She would pay the blackmail this time. She would not see Robert’s career ruined! When the threat was uttered again—and she was certain it would be renewed—she would be ready. She would have already contacted Mr. Warner—and would simply not let the Runner leave until this fiend was caught.
But until then, she had to make Robert understand.
* * *
On edge, Lydia waited in the drawing room with the family—most of the family. Uncle Arthur had already found an excuse to visit the nearest club—something about old friends and acquaintances. Lydia had not paid much attention at breakfast; she had been lost to her thoughts.
Even now, as the others chatted around her, Lydia sat in the corner, book in hand, watching the clock as the afternoon rolled around to the hour for callers. It seemed as if the clock had forgotten how to tell time as the hands barely moved.
At last, there was a knock at the door. However, Shodster did not usher Robert into their midst but Mavis and Mrs. Caudle. Lydia stood and dipped, but she was not best pleased.
Mrs. Caudle settled herself with the matrons, while Mavis joined Lydia by the window.
“Welcome to Bath,” Lydia said quietly to Mavis, lifting her cheeks and making an effort not to sigh.
“Oh, thank you,” Mrs. Caudle called from across the room. “We are so pleased with these turn of events, aren’t we, dearest Mavis?”
Mavis nodded kindly to her mother. “Oh, yes, what could be better than a few day
s in the city, shopping.” Her expression brightened. “We are so looking forward to the ball that we made a special trip to buy a turban for Mama and shoe roses for me.” And as she spoke, Mavis pulled a paper from her reticule. “So kind of you to include us.” She passed the note to Lydia.
Again, Mrs. Caudle joined in their conversation from across the room. “Yes, quick, Mavis. We must be one of the first to accept your invitation.”
Lydia glanced at her mother and allowed her to correct the rector’s wife. “Not the first, Mrs. Caudle, but one of the most welcome.” It was a lovely fiction—well executed. It had the ring of truth if not the weight.
“That is wonderful to learn. I did so hope that the rumors would not deter your guests. I, for one, must say I do not believe a single word of it.” Mrs. Caudle nodded.
Mama looked puzzled.
Lydia’s belly turned sour, and she swallowed. “Rumors?” She glanced to Mavis.
“Something about a night in Bath without a chaperone.”
“Really? Who?”
“Why, you and … well, Mr. Newton,” Mavis said, staring at Lydia with undisguised interest. “Worry not. We paid it no never mind. But I must say, there are some who will not be as indulgent. But we will stand by you, dear Miss Whitfield.” She leaned forward and patted Lydia’s hand in sympathy. “Even if we are the only ones in attendance at your ball, it will be an exemplary evening.”
“Don’t forget Lord Aldershot, Mavis. He will be there, too, of course.”
The expression of their youngest guest stilled; her eyes turned glassy. “Of course, Mama.” Then she reapplied her smile. “Tell me what color you are going to wear, Miss Whitfield. Cream? Ivory? Off-white? So hard to decide, is it not? Though all are excellent choices.”
Lydia was slow to answer; her mind was a riot of concerns, her thoughts in chaos. Was it too late? Was Robert’s career already ruined?
“So, Mrs. Caudle, did you come by stage or did you hire a coach?” Mama asked the rector’s wife. It was a pedestrian but safe subject. She had dropped her volume, but in the silence, Lydia could hear the discussion without strain.
“We came with Lord Aldershot, in his carriage. He is to stay in Bath for a few days, as well, and asked if we would care to join him. Wasn’t that kind?”
“Most kind.”
Lydia noted the sarcasm in her mother’s tone, but Mrs. Caudle did not. “Lord Aldershot is always so accommodating—often at our house. He and the Reverend get along like boyhood friends despite the difference in their ages. So refreshing to meet someone of the peerage who is not all caught up by their position in society. Although we do have an ancient lineage, as you probably know…” And so the lady continued outtalking Mama and skipping from topic to topic with the best of them.
Lydia was thoroughly confused. If Barley was in Bath, why had he not come to see her as she had requested? Had he been affected by the rumors already? Avoiding her company? The day seemed to be getting worse.
“We must be going.”
Mavis stood up, startling Lydia from her reverie.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said stupidly, standing for the good-byes. Their guests had stayed the requisite quarter hour.
As soon as they were gone, Mama left her perfectly comfortable settee and approached Lydia with a serious expression; it bordered on annoyed. “Lydia, I think we need to talk.”
Rubbing at her forehead, Lydia dropped her eyes to the table … and the acceptance letter from Mavis. She blinked. And blinked again.
The florid style of the writing was unmistakable. Had she placed the threatening note beside it, they would be a match. This was the same hand … the hand of her blackmailer.
Mavis? It couldn’t be! Mavis?
Grabbing the letter, Lydia raced for the door.
“Lydia! Where are you going?” her mother called after her.
Lydia was going to stop Mavis. She was going to confront her. She was going to accuse the rector’s daughter of avarice of biblical proportions. She was going to end the blackmail once and for all.
Running to the balcony overlooking the entrance, Lydia shouted, “No. Shodster, don’t let them leave.”
But it was too late; he had been in the act of closing the door, not opening it.
Chapter 19
In which control and puppetry draw Miss Whitfield and Mr. Newton onto the field of honor
Robert marched up Great Pulteney Street with purpose. He adroitly dodged his fellow pedestrians and the vehicles clogging up the thoroughfare. He had much on his mind; he had reached a conclusion.
He was on his way to number nineteen to assure Lydia that while they might talk, discuss, debate, or engage in any other manner of communication, he would not let her beggar herself for him, not his career, not his person … not … just not. He cared too deeply to let her make any sacrifices on his behalf.
This conclusion was not dissimilar from that of the day before. He was nothing if not consistent.
Wending his way between horses and wagons, Robert crossed the street. He glanced up to assess his distance to the town house when he watched someone—someone Lydia-shaped—hastening from the building, arm in the air, waving a paper. She seemed to be rushing toward a carriage-and-two, but it pulled away from the curb, unaware of her urgency.
Seeing Lydia lift her skirt above her ankles to give chase spurred Robert to quicken his pace. He could cut off the carriage and allow Lydia to catch up; her purpose must be significant to flout convention by running—running down a crowded sidewalk. It was fortune that this end of Great Pulteney Street narrowed toward the bridge and slowed traffic. He did not have to step in front of a cantering team.
As the open carriage approached, Robert recognized Lord Aldershot, though not the two ladies at his side. Robert stepped off the curb just as the team slowed for the upcoming turn. He reached out to grab the reins of the lead horse, and though he was pulled backward a step or two, Robert retained his balance and brought the phaeton to a standstill.
“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Lord Aldershot. A stream of very ungentlemanly words followed his question, for which the man received a glower or two from those within hearing.
“Beg your pardon,” Robert said, moving to the back of the team, so that their conversation would not require raised voices. As he did, he glanced and met not the stare of Lord Aldershot but that of a stubby-nosed man behind him, standing on the back of the carriage: Lord Aldershot’s groom.
Robert was thunderstruck. The groom was none other than the third villain from the barn.
The implications were staggering.
This was a man who would not be wandering about the countryside without the express permission of his employer—who would be housed with said employer and at his beck and call—who … who had last been seen in the company of Les and Morley. There was only one conclusion that could be derived, and Robert derived it!
Aldershot was involved in Lydia’s kidnapping.
“You!” he shouted, just as another voice shouted likewise. Robert jerked and turned his head.
Lydia had attained the carriage and had stepped up onto the running board. Holding a paper in one hand, securing her balance with the other, she stared with great hostility, not at Aldershot, but at the younger of the two ladies beside the baron.
“I know who you are! Visiting with the pretext of friendship while spreading your lies. Your arrogance, stupidity, and greed will see you no richer.” Lydia’s color was excessively high and her voice excessively loud. “I will not, do you hear me—”
Everyone in the vicinity could hear her.
“—give you a single shilling. Not a single solitary shilling for your betrayal.” Shaking in anger, she turned her head. “The writing is the same, Robert. The same. Mavis Caudle is behind the threat.”
The name did nothing to clarify who this young woman was, why she would do such a terrible thing, or how she was connected to Aldershot, but Robert felt Lydia should know the worst.
But the groom was gone.
In an instant, Robert dropped the reins and rushed to the back of the phaeton. The groom was not gone; he had crouched behind the hood so that he was no longer visible from the front—away from Robert’s discerning stare. It had been a wasted effort.
Robert grabbed the groom’s coat and hauled him off the carriage; he dragged the accomplice to where he was visible to all concerned.
Lydia, still clinging on the side of the carriage, took one look at the groom and swung her head around to confront Aldershot.
“How could you do this, Barley?”
Lord Aldershot opened his mouth and then snapped it shut without saying anything. He turned to the young woman beside him and gaped wordless once again.
Mavis Caudle shook her head and then lifted her chin. Staring back at Lydia, she raised her voice. “I have never been so insulted in my life. You have insulted my honor.” Half turning, she flicked her eyes toward Aldershot. “Defend my honor, Barley. Challenge Mr. Newton.”
“What?” he and Lydia said at the same time—his inquiry was a squeak, hers a shout.
“But it was Lydia, not Mr. Newton, who insulted you, Mavis-dear. I have no quarrel with—”
“My honor has been insulted before this throng of people.” Mavis-dear swept her arm across the front of the silent woman beside her and gestured toward the few pedestrians trying to make their way around the stopped carriage. “Challenge Mr. Newton.”
To Robert’s great surprise, Manfred Barley, Lord Aldershot, did just that.
“You cannot insult the honor of Miss Caudle, Mr. Newton, without answering to me.” Aldershot nodded, pursed his lips, and then looked at Mavis-dear for what appeared to be approval.
Without looking his way, Mavis-dear reached across and gave Aldershot’s arm a squeeze. It was so casually done that their intimacy was instantly revealed.
