Читать книгу The Notorious Bridegroom - Kit Donner - Страница 7

A man of middle years with a long, thin face, Viscount Carstairs slowly drained the last drops of beer from his tankard and contemplated the inside of the familiar Bear’s Wit tavern with half-masted eyes, yet again wishing for a good fellow to whom he could boast of his ingenious plan. But this late on the starless and windy night, anyone still awake was no doubt about the Devil’s work. He grinned at the thought. He wanted to crow that by tomorrow morning he would be rich and a long way from England.

“We need to talk.” The soft-spoken voice startled the older man, not yet in his cups.

The viscount looked up suspiciously to spy his young cousin. The lone candle on the table flickered, briefly lighting the pale, drawn face of the young man, obviously wearied from a long journey. “Rupert, my boy. What do you here? Did you not get my note? You are wanted for treason. It is not safe for you,” he told him under his breath. Then Carstairs smelled it: the odor of the hunted. “You look all in. Beer will straighten your back.”

A quick shout brought the innkeeper and another tankard. When he protested about wanting to close for the night, the viscount silenced him with a few more coins in the man’s pocket.

Rupert took a long drain from his cup before he replied in an undertone, “I know. I have spent the last two days avoiding a press-gang who wanted to throw me on a blockade ship and the constable’s men who seek to hang me. I do not remember my last meal or soft bed. Please, you have got to help me.” He paused. “I’m tired of running.”

His weary brown eyes unmistakably betrayed fear and hunger of a man no longer a boy. Worry lines had replaced laugh lines in the young man’s suddenly old face. He took another draught of the watered-down liquid before him. “Tell me, Peter, why in bloody hell does the constable believe I am selling secrets to the French?”

Carstairs narrowed his eyes as the boy settled uncomfortably onto the hard chair. He chose his next words carefully. “I was as shocked as you when I heard the news. Perhaps you met some untrustworthy chaps during your stay with me, and they gave your name to the constable in order to save their own.”

Rupert’s eyes widened in dismay. “But I was with you. The only blokes I met were your friends.”

“Yes, and I am afraid even I do not trust everyone within my acquaintance. I did try on your behalf to defend you. I told the constable you were only my relative come for a visit, and being of true English stock could not possibly be guilty of treason.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “But alas, he maintains he has proof of greater conviction than the weight of my words.”

Rupert, resting his head in his hands, looked up to catch his cousin’s last words. “Proof? What proof?” he sputtered.

Carstairs heaved a sigh. He needed more time to think. “Rupert, listen to me. Your running away from the authorities only convinces them of your guilt. Stay tonight with me and tomorrow we will visit my solicitor. I am sure he will find a way out of this coil, he’s very clever.”

“But what about Lord Londringham? Have they not caught him yet? You told me he is the man they seek.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, Londringham is still unfamiliar with the inside of a gaol. He has been very clever, that man, clever enough to cover his tracks.”

“I suppose an earl is better at eluding justice than a mere baronet’s brother.”

“Come now, not so gloomy. We shall take you home and let Mrs. Keene make up a bed for you. Tomorrow, we will see to everything.” The viscount rose and started toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “My horse is outside, you can ride behind me.”

Rupert caught up with him, his step livelier with restored optimism. “Thank you, Cousin, for your kindness. I am sorry to be such a nuisance. You see, the family is in a state over me, especially my sister.”

“Naturally. Let us discuss this more tomorrow.”

When they arrived back at Loganmoor, Carstairs’s estate, the housekeeper gave him a filling repast and then led the exhausted young man to his bed.

Alone in his study, the viscount’s smile faded and annoyance hardened his rough countenance. Rupert’s reappearance proved a lump in the pudding, but would not disrupt his neatly arranged plans to be on a ship for America in the morning.

Assuring himself of his deft handling of his young cousin’s affairs, he began to gather his important papers to take with him. And the Devil took his due.

The new morning dawned bright for Rupert. Confident that his troubles would soon be over, he whistled as he dressed, eager to grab his fate by the tail. He trotted down the stairs, aware of the household sounds of clanging pots, clinking silver, and servants’ voices—the normal morning routine.

On his way to breakfast, he noticed that the French doors leading from the viscount’s study to the balcony were open, and he ventured inside. The smile drained from his lips as he viewed the study in shock: papers strewn on the floor, books toppled from their shelves, a disaster.

Then he saw him. Lord Carstairs lay face-down on the floor, dried blood staining the Oriental carpet beneath his body. Rupert knelt down and rolled the prone figure over, confirming what he already knew. The vacant death stare told the gruesome story.

Horrified, he rose and continued to stare at the body, shaking his head. Who had killed his cousin, and why? Would he be next? Now he had no one to help him.

“Murderer!” screamed the housemaid.

In deep thought, he didn’t realize anyone was nearby. He frowned, looking at the young girl before he stumbled toward her, holding out his hand, but she threw up her hands and ran shrieking for help. Soon footsteps and anxious voices echoed in the hall.

After quickly considering his options, Rupert decided to flee and plan his defense from a safer distance than prison. He ran through the balcony archway onto the garden steps. Barely pausing, he bent to retrieve a shoe buckle glistening in the early dew, then raced out into the mist-dampened morning.

The carriage tilted and swayed over the bumpy, dusty road from Winchelsea. On their trip to Paddock Green, their new place of employment, Colette and Patience discussed Patience’s plan.

Colette shook her head in resignation. “I still cannot understand why you believe the earl is responsible for your brother’s plight.”

Patience studied the Sussex landscape of rolling hills in distraction before looking over at her friend and tucking a loose strand of hair back under her mobcap.

“Both my brother and our cousin Lord Carstairs are convinced it is the earl who is selling information to French agents, and that he has informed against Rupert to throw suspicion from himself. Our cousin says even the constable has his men watching the earl.”

Colette pounced on Patience’s remark. “There, you see. If the constable’s men have yet to convict the earl, why ever do you believe you can succeed where they have failed?”

“Perhaps because I have more at stake,” she replied softly.

“This could be very dangerous.”

Patience nodded. “I know,” and added more cheerily, “I feel so fortunate that I met you on the post chaise. It has been nice to have a friend to confide in. Without your entrée into his household, I would still be thinking of some way to have the earl arrested.” She still marveled her luck in meeting a young woman her age traveling from Storrington to Winchelsea. With their dark brown hair and hazel eyes, many of the other passengers thought them sisters.

Colette replied in her lilting French accent. “I hope we both do not live to regret your masquerade as a still-room maid. You, the sister of a baronet.” She waved her hand. “La, you English girls are much more adventurous than we French counterparts. I am happy being a simple lady’s maid to the countess.”

Shrugging, Patience returned to watching out the window, and wondered what the next few days or months would bring. The carriage rocked past workers planting in the fields and foot travelers on their journey home from the fair. Ripened to nature’s glory, the spring splendor of the countryside unraveled along the ribbon of road bedecked with new grass and budding trees.

Even the brilliant landscape could not help Patience forget her purpose. But for the horrible picture of Rupert swinging from Tyburn, she would have had the carriage turn around and head back to Winchelsea. Palms moist, she smoothed down her apron over her light gray dress, presuming it would be suitable for her position as a still-room maid. The mobcap and spectacles she hoped would prove a fine disguise from the earl, especially after their unexpected meeting last night.

At last, the post chaise creaked through massive iron gates, signaling the journey’s near end. Patience stared out the window, her mouth agape. Majestic sycamore trees stood along both sides of the carriageway in welcome. The newly green-carpeted lawns stretched for miles in early-spring beauty dotted with a sprinkling of mischievous dandelions.

When their carriage bumped over the stone bridge and she saw Paddock Green, fear returned to mock her courage and moisten her brow. Approaching from the east, the house of gray stone loomed on the horizon, dark and imposing, its castle spires nobly reaching toward the sky. She surmised grimly that the house had probably been designed to suit a king but more likely entertained n’er-do-wells, thieves, and homeless spirits, given the earl’s rumored cohorts.

Upon closer view, Patience saw the stone turrets and gargoyles, perched ready to pounce on curious travelers, intrigued architects, or new servants. The tracery on the windows, the lacy parapets, and the unguarded battlements led her to wonder if the earl hid a mad wife behind the dormer attic windows. Her whimsy was no doubt attributable to Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Certainly Paddock Green, with its Gothic structure amidst a verdant panorama, created a dramatic setting for the mysterious man who played dangerous games and bought dolls for little girls.

Left at the servants’ entrance, Colette and Patience waited an answer to their knock. A thin, older woman, who had seen the glory of her days past, opened the door wearing an unpleasant frown making her features even less attractive. A cap placed carelessly on her head held fewer gray strands than had initially been arranged. A greasy dirty apron belied her position as the cook, and her face told a tale of having known more regrets than smiles, given her wizened look.

She stared sullenly at the young women before allowing them entrance into the kitchen, a cavernous room with a long pine worktable occupying the place of honor in the center. Since no windows lined the stone walls, the skylight granted the kitchen its only illumination. Sweet bread smells scented the stifling air.

The woman shuffled around them and muttered, “Ye must be the still-room maid and lady’s maid. We were told to expect ye. The one what’s the lady’s maid is to go to the first floor to meet the countess. There’s the steps. The other is to see Mrs. Knockersmith, our housekeeper, in her rooms.”

The cook returned to kneading bread with nary a glance in their direction again.

Colette gathered her belongings and headed for the stairs while Patience waited to be shown to the housekeeper. At the far end of the table, Patience noticed a young boy with large brown eyes in a small round face, whose thick brown hair needed a good brushing. He was dressed in mussied livery, and half-heartedly plucking a chicken and blowing the feathers in the air.

“Lem, show the still-room maid Mrs. Knockersmith’s quarters,” the cook instructed over her shoulder.

The little boy stared suspiciously at Patience before he shrugged, then rose to head out the far door, not waiting for her to follow him.

Patience met her new overseer, Mrs. Knockersmith, a kindly woman in her sixth or seventh decade, in the housekeeper’s rooms where they discussed Patience’s duties and uniform. Afterward, the little footboy showed her to her small attic bedroom. Alone again, wondering how Colette fared, Patience sat on one of the narrow beds and bit her lip in contemplation. She had no idea what to expect when she saw the earl again. How long would she need to play this part?

With a long sigh, she soon returned to the kitchen in a uniform that had once belonged to another maid, which, unfortunately, fit as well as a squirrel would fit in a snakeskin. The bodice pulled across her bosom and the drab dress hung a few inches from the floor. Obviously the previous owner of this uniform must have been a flat-bosomed midget. Patience knew she would need to use a needle and thread to save her dignity, when she had the time.

Hiding her shaking hands in her pockets, she found her lucky onyx and rubbed it. It usually brought her good luck. Her throat dry, she would have given her shoes for a cool glass of water. Would she pass muster?

Mrs. Knockersmith met her in the kitchen where she showed Patience to the distilling room and the pantry. Patience then spent the better part of the day distilling simple waters by placing plants in the cold still to dry them, capturing their fine-flavored spirits. A tedious process for not a large return, but it kept her too busy to think about what her next step would be. As she worked, a light mint scent filled the air.

Later that night, lying in bed and rubbing her sore arms, Patience thought about how to get into the earl’s study. That seemed the likeliest place to start.

The next morning when Patience arrived in the kitchen, she saw no signs of Mrs. Knockersmith, only Mr. Gibbs, the butler, whom she had met at the Mop Fair. He held his hand in a bucket on the table, swearing under his breath.

“You, girl. The earl needs his tea, and I’ve just burned my hand. Go deliver it,” he ordered, indicating the tray on the nearby table. “When you are finished, return to the kitchen.”

Patience widened her eyes, then frowned. This could be her chance, but she hadn’t been hired to serve. Would she make a muck of it? Steady, girl. “Of course, Mr. Gibbs. Ah, one moment. Where is the earl’s study?” She offered a game smile.

Irritatedly he directed her toward the back of the house, and she headed to the lion’s den, the china cups and saucers chinking in her wake. As she approached the closed doors, she winked three times for luck, straightened her shoulders, and knocked loudly.

Outside the door, she could hear the murmur of voices, which halted at her knock. Her heart beat a little faster as she balanced the tray and waited.

At the word “Enter,” Patience took a deep breath and wet her dry lips before opening the door. She had to blink several times to adjust to the dimly lit room and to locate the occupants. Silence reigned briefly when she entered the room, but the men soon took up where they had left off. Lord Londringham reclined in his chair behind his massive desk and gestured to a table in front of his companion, who sat comfortably in a wing chair nearby.

She set the tray on the table and began to pour the tea, her spectacles and mobcap firmly in place.

The earl’s friend told him, “I would like to accompany you to Carstairs’s estate tomorrow morning. There must be some piece of evidence we might uncover which will lead us to his murderer.”

Murderer? Patience could barely breathe. The cup in her hand shook. Was her cousin, dead? The man’s next words confirmed her fears.

“With any luck. You know, I believe his murder was not totally unexpected. What do you think of this young Mandeley having murdered him?”

Her eyes widened in alarm, her breath held in desperate suspense. They suspected Rupert of Lord Carstairs’s murder? In infinite horror, she gulped and dropped the china sugar pot onto the table with a crash. The noise immediately awakened her stupor.

Startled, both men looked her way, then resumed talking. Patience quickly cleaned up the mess, reminding herself that she must go on, no matter the worry that threatened to paralyze her thoughts.

A few harried minutes later, Lord Londringham told her, “No sugar or milk for me.”

Cup and saucer in hand, she warily approached his desk and placed his tea in front of him, half-expecting him to jump from his chair when he recognized her as the woman from the fair. But although she stared as long as she dared at his granite-carved face, he merely glanced impersonally at her before returning his attention to the papers before him.

His friend continued, “Damn difficult to know. It certainly does not do the chap well that he fled with the skirts of dawn. But what possible motive could his cousin have? I checked with a solicitor in the village who states that a distant relative of Carstairs on his mother’s side will inherit.” He leaned back in his chair after instructing Patience that he required sugar.

Londringham sipped his tea before replying, “Indeed. What motive? It is a piece of unfortunate business, especially when I nearly had Carstairs in my sights.” He looked over at Patience, who stood near the tea table, and dismissed her.

A brief curtsy and she reluctantly left the room, disappointed she would not hear more. She had to learn what he knew. Perhaps the earl, himself, had killed Carstairs and tried to misdirect his friend to her brother. On an impulse, she cracked the door, hoping to hear a gem of information. Surely, here in the shadows, no one could find her.

The earl’s friend began, “Yes, Carstairs was…”

Just then she heard steps and a woman’s voice above her on the staircase. She rushed across the hall into what she hoped was an empty parlor. Heart pounding, she swiped her sweaty palms on her apron, her hands clasped the cool doorknob.

Inside the quiet parlor, she listened at the door and heard more voices and footsteps. Precious minutes ticked by until suddenly everything resumed its normal tomblike silence.

Cautiously, she peeled open the door and peeked up and down the hall. No one. She scurried back across the hall to the study door, still slightly ajar. Leaning her ear close to the opening, Patience heard the earl’s voice.

“Meet me in my rooms tonight. I should be back after eleven.”

She did not hear the reply because the young footboy, Lem, beckoned her from the vestibule. “Miss,” he called insistently.

Patience hurried down the hall to meet the little boy. “What is it?” she asked him.

He pointed toward the kitchen. “It’s Mr. Gibbs. ’e’s been looking for you. ’e ’as more work for you.”

The minute he relayed his message, the lad shot out of the house like a cannon, probably in an effort to avoid work or the butler. She glanced once more at the study doors, sighed, and headed toward the kitchen. Already she was busy planning how to be in the earl’s bedchamber when he met with his friend tonight.