by Cindy Anstey
Robert started and exchanged a questioning glance with Lydia just as Mavis-dear spoke again.
“Tomorrow at dawn.”
“Tomorrow?” Aldershot’s voice was high and thin.
“Yes, now go. Barley, walk on!”
“But Lydia is still holding—”
Before Lydia could step down and away from the carriage, Mavis-dear grabbed the reins and flicked them. The horses stepped-to, and Lydia was knocked off balance. Throwing the groom aside, Robert lunged forward and caught Lydia before she could hit the stone sidewalk.
They tumbled into a heap, both safe but severely rumpled. Standing as quickly as a tangle of skirts and limbs would allow, they watched in silence as the released groom chased and then caught the phaeton, jumping up as it turned the corner and disappeared.
“So.” Robert sighed. “Aldershot and…”
“Mavis Caudle, Reverend Caudle’s daughter.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. Exactly.” And then she sighed, too, very deeply. “I would never have conceived of it. Barley. The very man I was planning to marry. How could I have been so blind? Papa would be so very disappointed.”
Robert thought the gentleman would more likely be livid, but he refrained from saying so.
“And Miss Caudle. I don’t know her, but I would think a parsonage upbringing would have included the rule that one must not snatch people off the street without a by-your-leave.”
“Yes, I would hope so.”
“And then threaten to blackmail said person for a situation not of her making. I mean really, can they be any more despicable!”
“I think not.”
Lydia heaved yet another heavy sigh and pulled her gaze from the end of the Pulteney Bridge. “They cannot—will not—get away with it!”
“Absolutely not.”
And then Lydia lifted her eyes to Robert’s face. She frowned and tipped her head as if trying to understand his expression.
Robert was smiling.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her frown unfurling, her eyes losing their stormy glare.
Robert stepped to Lydia’s side, offering her his elbow. “If we play our cards right, justice will be served.” Stepping forward in a slow but steady pace, they headed back toward the rented town house.
“But Barley is a baron. We cannot have him arrested—even if we have proof.” She looked down at the letter still in her hand. “Which we have against Mavis—for blackmail, at least. But as to the kidnapping and Barley’s involvement, we have nothing.”
“Nothing in hand as yet. If we get hold of his groom, we might have a case—a good case. And any gentleman of the peerage can call Lord Aldershot to task or anyone acting on behalf of a peer, such as a Bow—”
“A Bow Street Runner! Robert, that is brilliant. There is no need for the duel after all; we can set Mr. Warner on him. He can find the evidence.”
“If we don’t seem to comply, they will disappear.”
“They don’t have to disappear. Barley can simply go back to Spelding—minus his groom, of course. Mavis, though, is in the suds.… But no, you are right, he wouldn’t go home without her. Mavis has Barley wrapped around her finger. Whatever they do, it will be together. In fact, what is to stop them from disappearing right now?”
“Pardon?”
“If I were them—caught, as it were—I would have immediately turned the carriage toward London … no, Bristol, and boarded the next ship to the Americas.”
“I don’t think they have the funds to do that.”
“They could earn their way across the ocean, working.”
Robert gave Lydia a significant look.
“You’re right,” she said, though he had not said anything. “They would never consider doing anything so demeaning. Still…” She frowned. “What then would be the purpose of this duel? They can’t very well sell tickets. Where is their profit?”
“There is only one way to find out.”
“What kind of person challenges an apprentice lawyer to a duel?” It was a rhetorical question, for all and sundry knew the answer: a very foolish person.
“Robert, you are not going to participate, are you? You can’t; it’s against the law.”
“Indeed. It is.”
“Robert,” Lydia’s voice was plaintive. “You can’t.… You could be killed.”
“Worry not. I’ll think of something.” Robert squeezed her arm and led her past the door being held open by an unseen hand.
* * *
It was not in Lydia’s nature to sit around—or stand around or pace around—unoccupied whilst waiting for Robert to devise a clever plan. No, she would not let Providence, or Barley, end the life of the man she loved. Just partaking in a duel could cost Robert his career. So let him be clever, let him arrange, and solicit, and whatever else he had in mind. She was going to the source of the problem, the person who would be holding the other pistol. She was going to talk to Manfred Barley.
And avoid her mother.
It took Hugh the rest of the afternoon to find the hotel at which Barley had hidden his sorry self and report back to Lydia. That the villain had spurned York House was not unexpected, as it was one of Bath’s most expensive hotels, but he had also rejected the Christopher and the Pelican, picking the less genteel White Hare. His economic situation could not have been more obvious.
Lydia walked to Stall Street—actually, it was more of a march, as poor Jane could hardly keep up. The maid was forced to sprint sporadically just to stay at her side. Cora would have been the more logical choice of companion on this errand, but Lydia was quite certain that Cora would have tried to calm her down.
Lydia did not want to be calm. She wanted to be angry and articulate. She wanted to decimate Barley and disembowel his challenge. Not one to condone violence, Lydia found her palms itching to slap his face, each side!
The stout, dirty-aproned innkeeper of the White Hare opened his private parlor with a smarmy grin, gestured her in, and offered Lydia a drink while she waited. She would have none of it, and she paced the length of the room as soon as he left to summon Lord Aldershot. Jane stayed in the hallway next to the open door, out of the way.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take long. The reason was soon apparent.
“Mavis,” he said with great excitement, until he was through the threshold and saw who was standing in the center of the room. “Oh, Lydia. I was not expecting you.” He turned as if he were going to leave.
In a flash, Lydia stood in the way of his exit. “We need to talk.”
Shifting first to one side and then the other, Barley tried to step around, but Lydia would not allow it. “We need to talk,” she repeated.
With a huff, one part sigh and one part anger, Barley drew himself up to his full height. “No, we do not. I will not marry you, and that is all there is to it.”
“Apparently this is going to come as a bit of a shock, Lord Aldershot, but I haven’t wanted to marry you, either, for quite some time.” It wasn’t all that long.… It just seemed like forever.
“Really?” His expression relaxed. “Oh, that is excellent. We thought your note was going to be another demand to set a date. You are so overbearing, Miss Whitfield, ordering me about—oh, may I call you Miss Whitfield again? Wonderful. Mavis will be so pleased. She was wrong.…” His brow furrowed. “Dear, dear, she does not like to be wrong. I think I’ll just say that I was mistaken; she doesn’t mind if I am not correct.” His smile returned. “Yes, that will do.”
“If control was the difficulty between us, Lord Aldershot, I believe you have gone from the frying pan into the fire.”
“No,” he said too quickly. “Mavis simply knows her own mind, but she does not order me about.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “If you had been clearer on the purpose of your summons, we would not have sent that last threat.… Lawks, that would not have done, either. I am sorely lacking in funds—”
“Not enough blunt to keep your light-skirt happy? She
wants your title but my money.”
“Miss Whitfield! Really! You cannot use such a term—and certainly not in reference to Miss Caudle.”
“The truth is the truth.”
“What a terrible thing to say about a gentleman’s daughter. Our feelings for each other, our deep, abiding love, cannot be so labeled. You make it sound sordid. Fie and for shame, Miss Whitfield, fie and for shame. You are besmirching a timeless love. We are meant to be together for all eternity in poverty or luxury.”
Lydia stared at Manfred Barley in disbelief; these were not his words. She could hear Mavis Caudle behind every syllable. “If that were so, then why did you not simply tell me that you had reconsidered? Whence came the suggestion of kidnapping and blackmail?”
“Mavis, of course. She pointed out that the wealth of Roseberry Hall has been carried on the back of Wilder Hill Park for generations. She is the more clever of us two, but I quite agree. Your wealth should be my legacy.”
“Really. Here I thought the Whitfield fortune was derived from sugar, excellent management, and restraint.”
“Exactly. It isn’t right that someone of such plebeian heritage should have so much more than those of us with ancient ties to the aristocracy.”
“You are being manipulated.”
“I am not.”
“That is wonderful. For as much as I enjoy listening to blathering nonsense, I am not here to discuss the folly of uniting our estates but the challenge that you issued a few hours ago. If, as you say, you are not buckling under the machinations of your hussy, then you will have no problem canceling the duel.”
“Well, I can’t do that.”
“Oh, and why not?”
“You are supposed to offer me some generous amount so that I will not go ahead with the challenge.”
“Ah, so that was the purpose.… It keeps coming back to money. Miss Caudle is nothing if not consistent.”
“Well … Mavis thought that we should double the request.”
“Two thousand pounds. Fine. Done. Call off the duel.”
“She’ll want the money first.”
“Barley, you know that I cannot collect two thousand pounds in”—Lydia glanced around for a clock, of which there was none, then speculated—“fourteen hours. Banks are no longer open, and arrangements would have to be made with Mr. Lynch and Uncle Arthur. I do not have access to such a sizable amount of money.”
He winced. “Yes, I thought it might prove difficult. Mayhap a letter would do. Yes, I might be able to persuade Mavis with a promissory note.”
“Persuade her? Barley, do you not realize that Mavis is pulling your strings? You are her puppet. She has dragged you from the straight path and pushed you down the slippery slope of vice. Have you not fathomed yet that you can be arrested for what you have done!”
“No one will speak of the duel. It’s an unwritten rule.”
“Not for the duel, Barley. For arranging my kidnapping and trying to extort money from me. Call it blackmail, call it fraud, it is all illegal.”
“But I am a baron.”
“It is still illegal, Barley.”
“What is going on?” A new voice echoed throughout the room.
Lydia whirled around to find herself nose to nose with Mavis Caudle. “Ah, speak of the devil, and here you are.” She lifted her cheeks in a semblance of a smile.
The pretty, young rector’s daughter flushed angrily and glared with animosity. Her jaw clamped, her mouth pursed.
“I am here to answer your demands, dearest Miss Caudle. Crass, vulgar, and plebeian though it might be, I am here to buy you off—just as you predicted I would.”
Mavis Caudle smiled. It was a far uglier expression than her pursed lips. “Excellent. We have a deal. Well done, Manfred.”
“She’ll have to give us a promissory note, Mavis-dear. The banks are…”
“Not good enough.”
“You were the one to set the impossible timeline.”
“Be that as it may, banknotes are the only currency I … we will accept.”
“I cannot get them in time.”
“Try.”
“But—”
“Good-bye, Miss Whitfield. We will see Mr. Newton on Daisy Hill at dawn. If you have furnished him with the necessary funds, Manfred might not aim at his heart. It is up to you whether they stand at twenty paces or share a handshake and walk away.”
Bile rose in Lydia’s throat, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Mavis Caudle shook her head. She smirked and grabbed Lord Aldershot’s arm; she walked past Lydia with perfect posture and a chin so high in the air it was doubtful that she could see ahead.
The effect was spoiled when, after having gained the hallway, Lydia could hear Mavis snap, “A promissory note can be traced, you fool.”
* * *
Fourteen hours can be experienced in many ways—to Lydia they were an eternity and a moment. Calling upon the goodwill of her nearby friends and family, with no questions asked—at least none directed toward her—Lydia was able to collect five hundred and ninety-three pounds. It was far short of the two thousand demanded, but she hoped, prayed, that it would be enough to sway the harlot to walk away from Daisy Hill with no blood on the field. Lydia was not worried about her good neighbor’s opinion, gullible, malleable sap that he was. He would go along with whatever Mavis-dear directed.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, Lydia penned a note to Robert, letting him know what she had arranged. A note returned with a cryptic and unhelpful message.
Excellent scheme, though I have thought of an alternate to try first. As I was the one challenged, the choice of weapons is mine. Will let you know if the funds are needed.
His words were not reassuring.
* * *
The predawn rising was not as difficult as Lydia had thought it would be. Excessive trepidation foils a restful night. Even Cora, who insisted on accompanying Lydia to Daisy Hill, looked wide awake when they met to tiptoe down the stairs.
Shodster watched them descend with sorrowful eyes, hesitating before unlocking the door. “Jeremy and Hugh will go with you, Miss Whitfield,” he whispered.
“But—”
“Mr. Hodge will need to stay with the carriage, Miss Whitfield. I will not have you traipsing through the dark without proper protection. I don’t know what Mr. Newton is thinking.”
“He isn’t expecting me to be there.”
“More fool him,” Cora said, maneuvering Lydia through the door.
“Thank you, Shodster.” Lydia nodded in a way that she hoped conveyed her appreciation of both her butler’s efforts and his concern. “I will return as quickly as I can.” The door shut behind them, and she heard the bolt shoot home. She shuddered at the sound and then joined Cora in the coach.
Daisy Hill was not far from the city, and yet there was a sense of complete isolation. An owl screeched, and the leaves rattled in the wind, but of humanity there was no sound. The air was crisp, far cooler than one would expect for the beginning of May. But then, Lydia had never been up at dawn before. Perhaps this was the norm.
The sky was marginally brighter when Mr. Hodge pulled alongside another carriage. The other driver was huddled in a blanket, leaning on the side rail in an indolent manner. His unemotional stare did not invite queries. So Lydia was left to wonder if it was Robert or the terrible two who had arrived ahead of her.
Wordless, they alit and stared across the mole-hole-dotted field to the hill beyond. It seemed logical that this was their destination, so they lifted their skirts several inches and climbed; Lydia’s overstuffed reticule bumped against her thigh as she walked. She was glad to have worn her brown pelisse, as it not only blocked the wind but also kept her person hidden in the dark. Cora, too, was shadowed, swathed in gray. Hugh and Jeremy followed behind—somewhat more visible in their green livery and cream breeches.
The hill was not overly high; the climb did not take long.
Movement up ahead directed their path, and Lydia did no
t know if she was relieved or disappointed to see that the group of four resolved into Miss Caudle, Lord Aldershot, his groom, and a stranger carrying a black satchel.
Taking a deep breath, Lydia approached.
Before she had closed the gap, Robert burst through the bushes, evidently having gained the hill from the other side. It was a far more convoluted route if Lydia’s inquiries had been correct—a more arduous climb.
“Excellent, we are all here.” His voice cut through the silence, sounding loud and invasive. He glanced toward Lydia with a slight frown of surprise, but just slight. He shrugged, smiled, and then turned to face the terrible two. There was no sense of nervousness about him.
His bonhomie manner intensified Lydia’s disquiet by leaps and bounds. Was he not taking the whole process seriously? She increased her pace until she stopped twenty or so feet from the confrontation.
“Lower your voice, Newton. We do not want to attract attention,” Aldershot snapped.
“Don’t see why not.” Robert’s reply was louder if anything. He half turned to the person beside him. “There we go, Cassidy, mark off the twenty paces. Looks like the sun is coming up.”
“Mr. Newton, voices carry in this kind of stillness—”
“Don’t you know it!”
“And we do not want anyone to know what we are about.” Miss Caudle’s tone was caustic.
“Why? Are you doing something you ought not to be doing?” Robert spread his raised arms, gesturing dramatically, very un-Robert-like.
Lydia began to fear for his reason as well as his person.
Robert watched Mr. Cassidy mark off an area—counting as he did so. “How is that?” he asked Robert, ignoring the other party entirely.
“Excellent, excellent. Yes, that should do. Plenty of room for everyone. What say you, Aldershot?” Robert pivoted, looking in every direction. “Time to discuss the terms of your challenge.”
“Finally, you are seeing reason.”
“Yes, indeed. You accused me of insulting Miss Caudle.” He flicked his hand in her general direction without glancing toward the young lady. “Though it was not true, you issued a challenge nonetheless.”
