Читать книгу Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Louise Allen - Страница 19
ОглавлениеCOOP CAUGHT UP to Dany just as she was about to throw open the side door. He grabbed her at the waist and hauled her off her feet, pulling her against him.
“There’s no hurry. He’s long gone,” he said, doing his best to catch his breath. How did servants loaded down with trays and whatever navigate such steep, narrow stairs? He’d damn near tumbled a few times, which would have thrown him into Dany, so that they would have ended in an inglorious heap on the next landing.
“How do you know? And put me down, for pity’s sake.”
“Only if you promise not to bolt.”
“I’m not a horse. And you’re crushing my ribs.”
Coop compromised. He turned about so that his back was against the door, and only then let her go.
She turned and looked at him, looked at the hat on his head. “You...you took time to retrieve your hat?”
“As I’ll be leaving now, yes. Are you ready to check out the knothole?”
“But...but why aren’t we chasing the hackney? I know we couldn’t catch it, so don’t look at me as if I’ve got two heads. But we may have been able to at least see the driver. Then we could go searching for him tomorrow.”
“Yes, out of the several hundred hackneys in London, that should be an easy enough job.” He held up the lit lantern he’d earlier requested Timmerly leave in the narrow hallway, opened the door and motioned for her to precede him. “I whistled twice, if you’ll recall. That was to warn Rigby our target was heading his way. We might have had some slim chance if the hackney had come in the opposite end of the alleyway and was headed toward Darby, but Rigby has had too many good meals to hold his own in a footrace. Catching up with a hackney is definitely outside the realm of his capabilities. We can only hope he was able to catch a look at its occupant. Yes, and its driver.”
“You don’t have to sound so smug.”
“Reasonable, not smug,” he said as they approached the large tree.
“You let me think we’d be able to chase him.”
“Hence the riding habit. Now I understand. Do you mind if I rethink your possible contribution to our small adventure?”
The lantern cast enough light for him to see the look of disgust on her face.
“The riding habit was easier for me to—oh, all right, yes. I chose it on purpose, but only as my second choice. Not to chase him if he showed up. I mean, not precisely. I made the first choice for its buttons. And we would have chased only if the opportunity should present itself. Mostly, I wanted to make certain I was dressed to accompany you when we retrieved any note he may put in the tree—and yes, I promise to stop babbling now, because I know I’m babbling. Go on, reach up and get it.”
“Yes, my queen,” he said, and then stopped, arm half raised to do as she’d commanded. “No. You get it. You put your sister’s note into the knothole, correct?”
“If you insist. But move aside. Mari’s tall enough to reach it, but I have to step on that old broken mounting step behind you, and then hold on to the branch and— Oh. Oh.”
Coop retrieved the folded scrap of paper. “Yes, oh. Do we have a hired lad in the hackney? A less than tall blackmailer? Or do we have a...”
“Woman! The blackmailer could be a woman? Mari may have been pouring her heart out to another female? No wonder how she could have found all the right, soppy things to say to make Mari think she had finally found someone who understood her anguish.”
“Some women have sympathetic, understanding sisters to confide in,” Coop couldn’t help but say as he tucked the note into his waistcoat pocket and moved Dany along, back toward the side door.
“I’d be insulted if Mari hadn’t begun her illicit correspondence before I arrived in town, and if I were silly enough to applaud her for doing anything so harebrained. She doesn’t need sympathy. She needs her letters retrieved before Oliver gets home. I’m being leagues more helpful to her than some sweet ninny who does nothing but pat her shoulder and say, ‘There, there.’ Of course, that also means we’ve ended up with you. So far, sad to say, that hasn’t seemed to have helped much.”
“Unfortunately, I have to agree with you, although at least you’re rid of the garnets. Let’s step inside and see what our mutual tormentor has to say for himself, or herself.”
“But what about the viscount and your other friend? Don’t you want to hear what they have to say?”
“They’ll be waiting for me at the Pulteney, hopefully with a glass and a bottle, and my mother safely snoring in her bed. Do you want me to read this or not?”
She jammed her fists against her hips. It was possible she was running out of patience with him. Strangely, he found that very attractive in her. She was the only female he’d met since Quatre Bras who didn’t all but drool over him.
“No, I want you to fold it into a paper bird, and then launch it out toward the mews.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” he told her, putting the lantern on the table beside the door. “But I’ll read it, anyway.” He unfolded the note, biting back a sudden curse. “Since it appears to be directed to me.”
“It is? Not Mari? Oh, God. That’s not good, is it?” Dany grabbed at his wrist, pulling down his arm so that she could see the note, read it along with him.
Naughty, naughty, my lord Townsend, meddling in business that does not concern you, although I will say taking yourself off the marriage market was inspired, if your choice a decidedly odd duckling. Thanks to me, beating the drum of your undeserved popularity, you could have held out for an heiress. In any case, my congratulations; your mama appears well pleased, and it will leave you more time to contemplate the consequences of your rash actions. Because, you see, a price must be paid. Please inform the countess that my kind offer is rescinded. The earl will receive the letters upon his return. Oh, and your price just went up by a thousand pounds. After all, I must recoup my losses caused by your interference. Ten days until a copy of Volume Three is delivered to the Prince Regent. Less, if you get in my way again. You can begin counting now... I’ll be in touch.
“He’s not going to let her pay to get them back? I can’t tell her that. What are we going to do?”
Coop looked at his brand-new fiancée. Her indigo-blue eyes were awash in tears.
He took her hands, her suddenly ice-cold and faintly trembling hands. “We’ll find him, that’s what we’ll do,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. “Or her. Are you up to a trip to Bond Street at eleven tomorrow morning? I fancy buying you a betrothal present.”
“You want to go shopping? What good is that going to— Oh, wait. I forgot. Mrs. Yo—”
He clapped a hand over her mouth and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Nothing. Not another word. Not to your sister, not to your maid, not to anyone. And for God’s sake, if you keep a diary, don’t write in it about any of this.”
She pushed his hand away. “How did you know I keep a diary?”
At last, he smiled. “A fortuitous guess? Now wait until I’m outside, throw the latch and get yourself upstairs. I’ve got to go meet my friends, hoping at least one of them saw something that might help us.”
“I wish I could go with you.”
It would take a stronger man than he to look into those eyes, see the pain and worry and not respond.
“I know. But everything will work out. I promise.”
She nodded. “I think I’ll hold you to that. My hero.”
And then she went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, the same one she had repeatedly slapped with her gloves that afternoon.
“I thought you said I didn’t seem very much like a hero.”
“I know. But now you rather have to be, don’t you?” she said before pushing him through the doorway.
He stood outside, waiting until the sound of her footsteps on the servant stairs faded away, his hand to his cheek as he wondered what the devil that was all about, and why he was smiling, of all things.
Then he remembered the mess he was in, all of them were now in, and took off at a trot, hailed a hackney at the end of the square and directed that he be taken to the Pulteney.
As arranged, Darby and Rigby were waiting for him in his rooms, joined there by Sergeant Major Ames, the trio looking relaxed and comfortable, rather sprawled across the couches and chairs, drinks in their hands.
“Sir!” Sergeant Major Ames said, leaping to his feet to salute his employer. “We were just reminiscing about Champaubert. Fine mess that was. Called for a toast to the viscount’s dimmed eye, you understand. I’ll go now.”
“Yes, thank you, Ames,” Coop said, looking to Darby. How did the man do it, turn his injury into countless jokes at his own expense, even make it easy for the sergeant major to comment on it? The thing was, it was one thing to sacrifice an eye in battle, but quite another to lose it in a totally unnecessary defeat brought on them by that damn Russian general, Olssufiev.
“Are you all right?” he asked his friend after Ames had quit the room, no one commenting as he picked up one of the bottles and took it with him. It would be an hour or two of singular reminiscing for the sergeant major before he’d find sleep, Coop knew. Their losses at Champaubert, followed by their months of captivity until the deposed emperor was caught and put in a cage, had changed all their lives.
Their friend Gabriel Sinclair, his skull nearly bashed in by a French soldier’s rifle butt, had gone into a funk, blaming himself for events he couldn’t have changed, even though he’d felt certain an attack was coming. Coop himself had taken a ball in his side, and been little use to anyone when his wound had become infected. If it weren’t for Ames’s rough nursing and Rigby’s suddenly discovered talent for finding food where none seemed to exist, things could have ended much differently for him. And Darby had lost the vision in his left eye.
Four schoolboy friends, now bound together more tightly than many brothers. They’d managed to return to their former lives, pick up the pieces and move on. But never alone. When Gabe had asked for their help, they’d come to him at once, fully prepared to make utter cakes of themselves with those damn birds. Now they were here for him, no questions asked, willing to do anything he needed of them.
“Did anyone hear from Gabe?” he asked now as he picked up one of the bottles and drank from it, not bothering to use the glass that had been placed next to it.
“I had a note from him this morning,” Rigby said. “He hopes to return to town soon, sooner than that if you need him, if possible. He’s still sweeping up after that little adventure last week, I’m afraid, dealing with what his Thea believes are her new responsibilities.”
“In other words, hiding themselves away until the scandal is replaced by something more interesting,” Darby added. “Unless we get luckier than we were tonight, you might be able to help Gabe out in that quarter.”
“So neither of you saw anything?” Coop had harbored a faint hope all the way back to the Pulteney, but it had been just that, faint.
“Au contraire, mon ami,” Darby said, saluting him with his wineglass. “Being of a vastly superior intellect, I immediately realized a hackney had no business heading down the stable row behind the mansions. Therefore, still judiciously concealing myself, at great personal danger, may I add, within a mass of prickly shrubberies, I watched its approach and then, quick as a startled hare, jumped out into the alleyway just as some numskull—no names, please—whistled loud enough to bring down a mountain and the occupant of said hackney cowered into the darkest reaches of the vehicle.”
“Wonderful. Even when my luck is in, it’s out,” Coop said in disgust.
“Not entirely. If I might return to my storytelling? The nag in the traces took umbrage at the whistle, reared up—chasing me back into the briars, may I add, so that I wouldn’t end my evening with a stomping—but I managed to reemerge in time to use my knife to inflict a fairly long slice in the rear canopy of the hackey.”
“Hopefully rendering it recognizable in the daylight,” Rigby supplied in some awe. “That’s more than I could do, I’m afraid. The hackney was on me before I could do more than realize I’d never be able to catch it, and then it was gone. Except—and you’ll pardon me for this, Darby—that wasn’t a hackney.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Rigby took a sip of wine, clearly to delay his explanation until he was certain he had all attention on him. “It was meant to look like a hackney, but the horseflesh was straight out of Tatt’s or I’m a monkey.”
“You’re a monkey,” Darby said flatly. “But you know, thinking back on it, and considering I was more intent on keeping my one eye on the occupant, you could be right. The animal was nervy, wasn’t it? Hackney nags don’t move beyond a lazy walk if a cannon goes off next to them.” He looked at Coop, who was gnawing on his bottom lip, deep in thought. “What do you think? Nothing blends in more on the streets than a hackney. Is our blackmailer, far from being pinched for pennies, only masquerading as someone less than affluent?”
“Or well placed,” Coop said, mentally combining this news with the proper spelling and phrasing in the notes, the chapbooks. “Who better to move among the ton than a member of the ton. Oh, and from deductions I made tonight, this person might also be female. Or a short male. Or,” he added, sighing, “a lad hired from the streets.”
“Multiple-choice deductions now, Coop?” Darby teased. “Tell me again about this blackmailer of yours. Precisely what is he—she, or possibly them—threatening to reveal to the world?”
“I won’t tell you again because I didn’t tell you in the first place, although I commend you for trying now, when I’m clearly in a weakened state. Which you would be, as well, I should point out, if you’d just spent the past several hours in Miss Foster’s company. So you can sit back again, Rigby. I’m not about to bare my soul to either of you.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Rigby said. “I rather promised Clarice I’d have news for her tomorrow when I pay my daily morning visit to Grosvenor Square. She’s particularly interested in those several hours you just mentioned.”
“Ah, the beauteous and finely dimpled Miss Clarice Goodfellow, soon to be Lady Clarice Rigby, your blushing bride. It occurs to me that I’m the only one of us left.”
“Left for what, Darby?”
“Left unattached, Rigby. How badly has infatuation fuddled your brain?”
It took a moment for Coop to digest Darby’s initial remark, as he was still attempting to conjure up a mental picture of the person he’d seen in the alleyway. “What? How would you be the only one left?”
“You’re engaged to Miss Foster, Coop,” Darby pointed out, shaking his head. “How soon they forget.”
Rigby’s shout of laughter did nothing to make Coop feel any better. “It’s so immensely gratifying to see you’re both amused. I’ve left her with the option of tossing me out on my ear once all this is over.”
“Dare I say she’s being a really good sport about ‘all this’?”
“Yes, Darby, you could. Although there’ll be no decision to make if I can’t stop the blackmailer before he publishes. She’d have every reason to cry off, and everyone’s sympathy, to boot.”
“Now, Rigby, why do you suppose I’m suddenly wondering if our friend here is more upset about the prospect of Miss Foster crying off than he is being of exposed as a— Damn, Coop, couldn’t you tell us something? Just one small something?”
“May I remind you that I’m sworn to secrecy?”
“From us? We who are selflessly flinging our lives on the line for you? Oh, shame, Cooper, shame,” Rigby said, and then winked.
“Tell you what,” Coop said, considering the thing. “Ask me questions. I’ll answer yes or no. Three questions, and that’s all. Agreed?”
“That seems fair, doesn’t it, Darby? All right, here we go. I’ll go first. Coop, what’s the gel’s name?”
“Oh, for the love of—Rigby, pour yourself another drink, and allow me to handle this. Here we go, question one. Is the woman important?”
“And that’s better than I could do? Haven’t you read the chapbooks? Of course the woman is important. She’s the whole reason we’re here. Don’t let him answer—ask another question. A better question.”
“I’ll stick with this one if you don’t mind. Coop? Is the woman important?”
Leave it to Darby to see past the obvious. “Not in herself, no.”
“No?”
“No, Rigby,” Coop repeated.
“Hmm, I had wondered, but I will admit your answer comes as a small shock. All right, let’s try this one. Is there a signet ring?”
“No. And you’ll have to do better than that if you’re attempting to appear brilliant. Miss Foster already deduced as much.”
“Are you at all romantically interested in Miss Foster?”
“Rigby, for God’s sake, you’re asking that as our third question?”
“I rather had to,” Rigby said sheepishly. “Clarice made it quite clear that I was to report back to both her and the duchess. In some detail. Oh, by the by, the duchess believes Miss Foster is full to the brim with spunk. Her Grace admires spunk. The duke was just pleased that he spied a fellow hawking meat pies on the corner when they left the chapel.”
With Gabe and his Thea out of town, Rigby’s betrothed—formerly maid to Thea but now Miss Clarice Goodfellow of the Virginia Goodfellows—was camping with the Duke and Duchess of Cranbrook, and would until her wedding. Which was rather the same as saying Rigby had all but taken up residence in Grosvenor Square, as he couldn’t seem to exist for more than a few hours without breathing the same air as his beloved.
“Go again, Darby. I won’t count that question against you.”
“I suppose that’s sporting of you,” Rigby admitted. “Although it does me no good. I suppose I’ll just have to make something up on my own. Even if I can’t see why you won’t answer.”
“Not won’t, can’t. I don’t know the young lady even twenty-four hours. Nobody knows such things in less than a day.” And now he was lying to his friends.
“Yes, they do. I took one look at Miss Frobisher and knew I couldn’t care for her romantically if someone held a pistol to my head. You remember her, don’t you, Darby? The one my aunt was pushing on me a few Seasons back? Stands to reason that if you can tell who you don’t want in an instant, it’s just as simple to know who you do want. Look at Clarice. I took one look. Saw one smile. And here I am, soon to be a happily married man. Now will you answer, Cooper?”
“Once again, Rigby, no.”
But the man wasn’t about to give up. This, Coop quickly decided, was another strike against marriage; it made fools out of formerly intelligent males. “No, you won’t answer? Or no, you’re not interested? Clarice will ask, you know, and the duchess, as well. You could have a little pity for a man having to face those two in the morning.”
“Consider yourself pitied. You have one more question. You might want to make it a good one. Darby?”
“Give me a moment, friend, if you please. The woman isn’t important. The signet ring is not only unimportant but imaginary, as well. Yet the threat, the danger to our good friend here, obviously remains real. So where does that leave us? Ah—and forgive me this lengthy question, but the answer will still ultimately be yes or no.”
“Go on,” Coop said, wishing he hadn’t offered to answer any questions.
“I fully intend to, yes. The woman unimportant, the signet ring no clue at all—which probably leaves out the small estate, the female guest, the servant—and we’ll consign all the derring-do since Quatre Bras to the dustbin of fantasy, as well. And yet—and yet—the blackmailer has threatened exposing something so dangerous that you’ve called on us to help you, even gone so far as to betroth yourself to a woman you just admitted you don’t known from Adam.”
“Is this going to take much longer? I’ve had a long day.”
“I’m getting there, friend. So what are we left with? We’re left with this business of the highest reaches of the Crown, that’s what. We’re left with Prinny showering our hero with land, a title and even money—the latter something Prinny has precious little of, I should add. Are you paying attention, Rigby?”
“He could have just said he finds Miss Foster attractive. That might have appeased Clarice somewhat,” Rigby mumbled into the neck of his wine bottle.
“We’ll continue without you, then,” Darby said. “Unless my question—yes, I’ve finally arrived at the sticking point—brings you back to attention. Cooper, requiring an honest answer of either yes or no—if we cannot find and stop the blackmailer, for the sake of all the others in similar predicaments but most especially in aid of you, dear friend, and if the blackmailer goes through with his threat to publish some truth in Volume Three—is it more than just conjecture that your life very likely will be forfeit?”
Finally. “Yes.”
Darby retook his seat. “I see. Well, then, what do we do next?”
“Next being tomorrow morning, I’m forgoing my appointment with my supposed new tailor and taking Miss Foster to Bond Street to buy her a betrothal gift. You, Rigby—yes, the answer was yes, so are you going to close your mouth anytime soon?—will please me by escorting your beloved to Mrs. Yothers’s dressmaking shop, armed with a bit of gossip.”
“Gossip? Clarice lives for gossip. Oh, thank you, Coop. You may have just saved me. What is she supposed to say?”
“That, my friends, might take another bottle. Because I don’t know which of you two will first selflessly fling yourself forward as volunteer.”
“I’m game,” Darby said without hesitation. “I take it you have reason to believe this Mrs. Yothers is in the employ of our blackmailer?”
“I can’t be sure, no, but Dany—Miss Foster—seems to think it’s possible. If she’s correct, and if our blackmailer isn’t just tidying up all his victims before setting sail for parts unknown, another note demanding payment for silence could arrive on your doorstep within a few days.”
The viscount nodded his understanding. “You have considered the possibility that Mrs. Yothers is simply a gossip, and could tell several of her customers, any of whom could be in the man’s employ?”
“I did. But we have to start somewhere, damn it all.”
“I agree. Just be sure to make this gossip something suitably salacious. I do have my reputation to uphold, you understand.”
