by Sahara Kelly
“Oh…yes. Yes indeed,” she nodded. “Thank you, Woodleigh. Your words are a comfort sorely needed at the moment.”
“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Cook has prepared a light repast for you in the small parlour. Miss Prudence is already there.”
“Then I shall join her,” she replied. “In case I haven’t mentioned it, Woodleigh, Hartsmere House is an exceedingly well organised establishment, and I do believe we have you to thank for it.” She smiled. “So thank you.”
Somewhat flustered, he coloured up, bowed again, and took himself off a little more quickly than usual, leaving Ivy to smother a chuckle.
God bless butlers, she thought to herself as she turned to the small parlour. Where would we be without them?
*~~*~~*
Friday dawned clear and sunny, for which everyone was most grateful since plans involved being outside, and a pouring rain would have interfered in the worst way possible. It was, of course, why nobody had mentioned it, since talking about the weather was held to be an invitation for it to change immediately.
Ivy rose early, dressed in her favourite gown—a delicate green and white lawn dress with darker green ribbons—and took out the matching bonnet, laying it on the bed with her gloves and shawl. She probably wouldn’t need the shawl, but the gloves and bonnet were necessary.
Preparations were well underway, both for this afternoon’s guests and for the party tomorrow, so Ivy spent some time in the kitchen, chatting with Cook and her busy underlings.
The scent of fruit pies made her mouth water, and she had to laugh when Prudence peered around the door, sniffing at the luscious aroma.
“It’s a siren’s song for one’s nose, isn’t it?” She laughed again as Colly’s head topped his niece’s. “I see it works on gentlemen too.”
Cook preened and waved them to a side table where a few tartlets were cooling. She dropped a quick curtsey. “‘Ere yer are, yer Grace. I knows that soft spot yer got fer them fruit tarts.”
It was a good start to the day; laughter and excellent food.
And there was enough to do for the following day’s event that Ivy found the hours winging past quite rapidly. She was grateful for it, since there was little or no time to worry.
Until the knocker heralded the arrival of their friends.
Lydia had travelled with Rose and Miles, and announced that Matthew would be along later, separately, so as not to attract attention.
Shortly thereafter, Judith arrived with Ragnor, and the last to appear was Mowbray.
It was half an hour before Miss Ringwood was scheduled to arrive, so there was a brief conference before everyone took their positions.
“I am armed,” nodded Miles. “So I’m all set.”
“Me too,” added Ragnor. “Pulled out my favourite pistols.” He patted his pockets. “I brought them both just in case.”
“Mowbray?” The Duke glanced at him. “Did you bring your own weapon or do you trust mine?”
“I have my own, if it’s all the same to you, your Grace.”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to borrow one of yours, your Grace,” Lydia looked up at him. “Since I’m not allowed to have one of my own.” The disgust in her voice was quite clear.
“You certainly may.”
Ivy gave her husband many silent cheers for not even arguing the point with Lydia, just handing her one of his elegant duelling pistols.
The tension grew as the minutes passed and they began to relocate to their assigned positions, tucked variously away behind heavy curtains, a thick hedge and concealed by shadows cast by the bright sunlight. Silence fell, an expectant kind of hush, into which the large grandfather clock in the hall chimed loudly.
Ivy nearly jumped, but before the sound of the hour had faded away, there was a knock on the front door, and Woodleigh made his way across the hall.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ringwood. Sir. You are expected.” He welcomed them into Hartsmere House without batting an eyelash.
Ivy swallowed down her nerves and moved into the hall. “Hallo, Miss Ringwood. I’m so glad you were able to visit this afternoon.” She turned her eyes to the man removing his hat.
Miss Ringwood curtsied. “Good afternoon, your Grace. May I present my fiancé Sir Timothy Barrett? He’s been kind enough to escort me this afternoon.” She managed a weak smile. “We are both looking forward to seeing this unique garden. It is so kind of you to arrange it.”
“Not at all.” Ivy nodded at the silent man as he bowed. “Sir Timothy. A pleasure, sir. Won’t you both come this way? We’re so fortunate to have sunshine today. It shows off our new garden to its best effect, I believe, but I’ll let you be the judge…” His eyes were ice, she thought, cold, expressionless. But the rest of him was unremarkable. His air was elegant, his manners polite, and his gleaming cane clicked on the tiles as they walked. He didn’t resemble Fiona at all.
Chattering away, Ivy led her two guests down the hallway and into the back room where the French doors were open to the fresh air.
Neither were aware that far from being empty there were several people concealed within.
It really was quite lovely, and Miss Ringwood’s gasp of pleasure as she stepped outside was warranted. Ivy smiled. So far, so good.
The small outdoor space was now filled with colours, tall delphiniums behind shorter marguerites, roses scenting the air, and many elegant containers spilling pansies, nasturtiums and greenery down from their rims like brilliant waterfalls. The sunlight danced off the hues and directed the eye to the taller rhododendron shrubs, their blooms past now, but their leaves shining and moving in the slight breeze.
“Oh how lovely…” Miss Ringwood stared as Prudence emerged and joined them. “I’d never have imagined something like this in town.”
Ivy swallowed down nerves. Prudence had provided logical arguments as to why she should join Miss Ringwood outside. But it still worried her aunt.
“I’m so glad you like it. It’s the best birthday treat I could possibly have wished for.” Her voice was friendly and correct. “Everyone has worked so hard. I cannot truly believe the wonder of it.” She moved a little. “You must let me show you the fountain. I believe we have some milkweed underneath it. Perhaps we shall see butterflies soon.” Both girls strolled to one end as Ivy remained beside Barrett at the other.
“Are you interested in gardens, sir?” A natural question.
“Everything interests me, your Grace,” he replied politely. “And this is a most pleasant arrangement.”
“Indeed. We are very content with it.”
He raised his cane and pointed at a large urn. “Pray enlighten me, your Grace. What are those delightfully bright blooms?”
“Ah, the orange ones? Those are nasturtiums. Cook asked me to plant them. She favours them for some of her dishes. So lovely to have a dual purpose for such beauty, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Good afternoon.”
Both Ivy and Barrett turned at the sound of the Duke’s quiet greeting.
“Ah, here’s my husband. I’m sure you’d rather speak with him than listen to us women rhapsodising over our flowers,” she laughed. “I must join my niece and make sure she names the blooms correctly.”
“Of course, Ma’am.” Barrett bowed, then turned to the Duke and bowed again. “Your Grace.”
Ivy strolled away toward the other women, but her ears caught the conversation she left behind her.
“Delightful of you to come, sir,” said Colly, in tones she recognised as ducal. “A pleasant afternoon.”
“Indeed,” came the response, equally polite. “You have my congratulations.”
“For…”
“Both your garden…and your recovery.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Duke’s blood chilled as he heard the soft voice speak those words. “I appreciate the sentiment, Sir Timothy.”
“Do you?” The other man moved away slightly. “I wonder.”
The Duke also moved, to
ward the house, putting some distance between them. The goal was to ensure that whatever Sir Timothy said, it would be clearly overheard by those surrounding the garden. In this position, the other man’s words would definitely find their way into the eagerly listening ears.
“I’m not sure as to your meaning, sir,” he said over a rosebush.
“Come now, your Grace. Could you be naïve enough to believe I don’t know why you brought us here today?”
The Duke tilted his head to one side as if in puzzlement. “Again, I must reiterate. I am not sure of your meaning, sir. You speak strangely. This afternoon is for Miss Ringwood. She chose to bring you, not I.”
“Hah.” The snort was quite clear. “You mean to finish me and you’ve used Beatrice to do it.”
The Duke blinked. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” He stared at Barrett. “That is utterly ridiculous.”
By this time, the young ladies had moved back into the house, entering through a side door into another room where there were refreshments set out. Miss Ringwood was now, to all intents and purposes, confined to the house. Ivy would be watching the men from near the French doors while Woodleigh and Rose remained on guard with Prudence and their unsuspecting guest.
For a moment, Colly’s attention was distracted as a workman appeared at the far end of the garden, but he carried a bag of tools, and knelt down to do something at the base of the fountain. Colly returned to his strange conversation with Barrett.
The man ran his fingers over a rose. “Thorns, your Grace. Wherever there is beauty, there will inevitably be thorns, don’t you think?”
Confused, the Duke simply nodded.
“Just as wherever there are pleasures, there are always pains to bring trouble as well.”
This was rambling talk, realised Colly. The man wasn’t making much sense at all. “And yet the fragrance and beauty of the rose is worth a scratch or two, isn’t it?”
“I wonder.” He strolled around again, ending up facing the Duke, on the other side of the central garden feature. It was a thick planting of greenery, a stand of flowers with a small birdbath topping the whole arrangement. It concealed Barrett from the chest down.
The Duke froze, realising that if Barrett was armed, he could draw his weapon before it became visible. He, the Duke, was a sitting duck.
He tensed, his shoulders straightening. He had to believe that everyone in the house was focused on Barrett and that should he do anything so foolish as to attempt an attack, he’d be immediately brought down.
“Are you a rose or a thorn, Maidenbrooke?” Barrett’s voice was a little louder now as he stared at the Duke.
“I…cannot resolve such a question, sir,” he replied. “It makes little sense…”
“It does to me.” The answer shot back, filled with contempt. “You are definitely a thorn. You bring pain and trouble wherever you go.” It was a hiss now, but a loud one. “Just ask my sister.”
“Your sister cried off our engagement. You know that. It was nothing to do with me.”
“She wouldn’t have if you’d been nicer to her,” came the response. “It was your fault, not hers. You drove her away and into making a terrible mistake.”
The Duke shook his head. “You are in error, sir. That is nowhere near the truth.”
It wasn’t clear if Barrett even heard him. “And I’ve made sure everyone knows what you’re doing with your groats, my fancy lord Duke. It’ll be some time before the mud you’ve brought down on the Maidenbrooke name gets washed away. If ever.” That was a sneer, and Barrett’s face disclosed his hatred.
“Why, Sir Timothy? Why did you put out such calumny? Why spread lies about me? What did I ever do to you?”
“You live, damn you. I lost everything I had because of you and your failure to become a husband to my sister. Don’t you think that’s more than enough…?”
He spat the words, a curse, an exclamation revealing the depths of his hatred. And as he did so, he shook his cane. The cover flew off, exposing a slender gleaming blade.
The Duke stilled, and the seconds stretched into impossibly long moments as Barrett moved his arm and aimed the sharp weapon through the flowers at Colly’s heart.
His focus narrowed down to that shining point and he instinctively moved backward. But before Barrett could thrust it, Ivy screamed, distracting the man enough to throw him off balance.
With flurry of gown and bonnet she tore across the brick walk, throwing herself toward Colly…and then…
A shot.
Definitely a shot. But from where? Inside? There was confusion as people ran all over the place, and suddenly there was a loud thud. The Duke turned toward the sound and saw the workman lying prostrate on the tiles beside the fountain.
Standing over him was Prudence, holding a cricket bat like a club and glaring down at the body at her feet. “It’s Streatford,” she shouted, never taking her eyes off him. “He’s the one with the gun. He shot at you, Uncle Colly.” She kicked him for good measure.
At that point, utter pandemonium descended on the Maidenbrooke back garden.
Everyone left inside the house rushed out, all talking at once. The Duke, his arms full of his wife who persisted in making sure he wasn’t injured, tried to see who was where and what was happening.
Two men in dark jackets were holding Barrett firmly, and looking rather smug since everything had gone pretty much according to their plan. A third was frowning and walking toward the inanimate body of Streatford—which hadn’t been planned, nor even anticipated.
“It’s all right, Prudence,” he called. “They’re from Whitehall.”
His niece stared at him, maintaining her grasp of the cricket bat, blinking as she absorbed his words.
“They’ll be taking Sir Timothy away with them now. They have some questions about his contacts in the north. He’ll not trouble us again.” He tried to reassure her, then tried to suppress an inappropriate laugh at the sight of his niece holding a cricket bat over an unconscious man while various members of the nobility wandered around, armed to the teeth. It was a somewhat strange moment in time. “Prudence my dear, you can let them have Streatford too.”
“Are you sure? Should I hit him again just to be on the safe side?”
“Er…Miss?” One of the Whitehall gentlemen approached her with caution. “You can put that down now, Miss. He’s out cold.”
Prudence pouted, but relaxed her stance.
Colly opened his mouth to say something, but was distracted by his wife’s hands all over his body.
“You were shot…” she kept patting him. “Somebody shot you, Colly.”
He took a second or two to discover if anything hurt. “No, I wasn’t…I’m not shot, Ivy…the bullet must have missed me.” He looked at her, then gulped. He untied her bonnet and held it in front of her face. “You—you—good God, Ivy. What were you thinking? Look…”
Miles came up to them at that moment and he too stared.
In the very centre of the raised and ruffled brim, right between the rows of emerald green lace, was a neat hole.
“I’ll be damned,” said Miles. “That bastard has killed your bonnet.”
Ivy’s jaw dropped as she gazed at the damage. Then her eyes rolled back into her head and she fainted away in her husband’s arms.
*~~*~~*
Sometime later, the chaos finally abated.
“I didn’t faint,” protested Ivy, a glass of brandy at her elbow.
“I beg to differ,” said Miles. “Your eyes rolled and you went out like a candle in a stiff breeze.”
“Nonsense. I never faint.” She lifted her chin and glared at him. “I was merely overcome by the heat.”
“Hah.”
“Children, please.” Lydia’s voice cut across the squabble. “Everyone was very brave, Ivy included. Nobody was killed, and in fact none of us fired a shot at all. Which,” she frowned, “I personally find very disappointing indeed.”
Rose laughed. “Never mind, dearest. You
can come and visit Linfield Lisle and shoot whatever you want.”
“Er…Rose?” Her husband blinked. “Be careful. She might decide to cull the servants.”
Under the general conversation, Ivy leaned against Colly. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”
“And again, I answer yes.” He smiled at her. “Not a scratch on me thanks to my brave defenders.”
“Ahem,” said Mowbray, tapping his teacup with his teaspoon and making his voice heard over the hubbub. “I have questions.”
“Go ahead.” Rose waved her cup at him. “I think we share a lot of ‘em, and I shall be glad to hear the answers.”
“Right then.” Mowbray cleared his throat. “Firstly, Miss Prudence.” He turned to her. “How did you know it was Streatford dressed as the worker, and where did you find the cricket bat? Also, if you’re free in July, there’s a spot for you on the Linfield cricket team. I’ve never seen a more convincing hit in my life. A six, without a doubt.”
His words were followed by a polite round of applause for Prudence, who blushed, stood, curtsied and sat down again before replying.
“Well, firstly, I heard that stupid giggle. Streatford’s laugh is unpleasantly unique. It attracted my attention and after a second look I knew exactly who it was.” She paused. “I just wasn’t quite sure what to do about it until I saw the bat behind the door. So I grabbed it and managed to sneak up behind him as everyone was watching you, Uncle Colly. Then I pretended his head was a cricket ball coming at me down the pitch. I swung. And I hit him.” She beamed. “I’m quite proud of that, actually, even if the sound was rather nasty. But it paid him back for the trouble he caused us all.”
“Indeed it did,” laughed Lydia. “I truly wondered if you’d killed him for us, which wouldn’t have been such a terrible thing if you think about it.”
“Bloodthirsty wenches, aren’t they?” Mowbray looked at the Duke.
“I had no idea.” Colly shook his head. “Remind me never to make any of ‘em angry.”