by Kate Archer
The sound of glass shattering clattered on the pavement. The sound startled Khan, and Richard held tight to his reins and laid a hand on his nose for comfort.
Bellamy called to his master from where the thick window had once been. “He’s escaped!”
Richard cursed himself for a fool. He’d tried to break that blasted window with no luck, it had been far too thick to be shattered with a chair. He’d not tried working around the frame and pushing it out, which Bellamy clearly had.
Still, there was no time to ponder his stupidity. He leapt onto Khan and spurred him onto the road.
He was spotted instantly.
“Lockwood!” Dalton bellowed. “Get back here and bring back my horse!”
Richard waved over his head and galloped into the night.
Though he did not think either Dalton or Ashworth would have a fighting chance of catching up to him, Richard weaved his way through the streets of London, never taking a straight path or well-traveled thoroughfare. Some streets were dark as pitch, as if the lamplighters could not be bothered with them, others showed puddles of light in regular intervals.
He passed by all the usual suspects who might be found on dark streets at night. Revelers from the theaters, suspicious-looking men with pinched faces, ladies wearing too much paint, and boys keeping an eye out for a drunkard who might not notice his watch had flown from him. The occasional carriage trotted by, the inhabitants securely guarded by an armed man outside.
Richard had endured hour upon hour of solitude as Dalton’s prisoner, and so he’d had ample time to develop his plan. He would ride Khan to an old school friend thirty miles north. From there, Khan could be returned to London at his leisure while Richard joined with the mail coach. It would not be a comfortable ride, but if he timed it right, he could be in Yorkshire in two days. He might risk using his own post horses waiting for him at various inns, but if Dalton intended to follow him, that’s precisely where he would look. This way, his friend would find himself on a goose chase.
But first, he must ensure that his valet got word from him. It was all well and good to arrive to Yorkshire as fast as possible, but it would do him little service to arrive without suitable clothes following him. In any case, Kingston must be wondering where he’d gone off to by now. He reined in his horse at spotting a likely-looking lad to carry the message. “You there, do you wish to earn some scratch?”
The boy, a dirty and disheveled specimen of about nine or ten, leapt up from the bench he’d stretched himself out on and said, “Yes, sir!”
Richard took out the note and said, “Take this to thirty-three Albermarle in Mayfair. Give it to my valet, his name is Kingston—I’ve written him to pay you.”
“Yes, sir, I will sir!” the boy said enthusiastically.
“What is your name?” Richard asked.
“Charles, sir,” the boy said, casually resting an elbow on the side of the bench. “There’s them what call me Charlie, but I prefer Charles, as was king. The second one, mind. The first was foolish enough to lose his head and I’m mighty fond of my own.”
Richard smiled at the boy’s audacity. “Very well, King Charles the second, see you do not fail me.”
“I ain’t never failed a person in my life, t’would be against my personal code,” Charles said, chin jutting out.
“I believe you,” Richard said, laughing. He spurred Khan and galloped out of London.
*
Sybil had descended to the drawing room determined to master her willy-nilly emotions. She did not know as fact that Lord Lockwood was to imminently arrive, and yet she felt certain of it all the same. She was only not certain of her opinion on the matter. She had argued with herself that there must be a hundred Lock-somebodys in England and Betty had not been at all sure of the name. Still, she had a deep and unwavering conviction that it must be Lord Lockwood.
Lady Hugh rushed to greet her at the door. “Ah, my dear. You do look lovely. Now, let me introduce you to some people. Here is Sir John.”
Sir John Prescott was a gentleman of twenty-five or so, tall and lanky and having the sort of features one might expect atop a lanky frame. His face was a touch too long, his chin a bit too reticent, his hair looked as if it did not have the energy to do more than droop. He was neither striking nor repellant, but a model of British averageness. Sybil was aware that he was a local baron and, while not placed over-high in society, had done exceedingly well with his estate.
“Lady Sybil,” he said, bowing. His voice struck Sybil as a bit too high, perhaps from nerves.
“Sir John,” she answered kindly.
“And here is Miss Mapleton,” Lady Hugh said.
If Sir John was all averageness, there was nothing average about Miss Mapleton. She was tall and sleek, dressed in a marvelous sea green silk with a delicate chiffon overlay. Her hair was as fire, it being not one color but a swirling of red and gold, the sort of hair that mesmerizes with its brilliancy. Her eyes were a dark blue and penetrating, this was not a shy miss. But what stood out most for Sybil were her delicate features. Miss Mapleton seemed more a painting by a master than a living and breathing female.
Sybil curtsied and said, “Miss Mapleton.”
“Dear Lady Sybil,” Miss Mapleton said in a confidant and cheerful voice, “I cannot tell you how glad I am to find another lady of my own age. I hope we will be friends.”
Despite Sybil’s wish, which she only at that moment perceived, to be on the coolest terms with the spectacular Miss Mapleton, she found she could not hold out against the lady’s charm. Before she knew it, Miss Mapleton had led her to a cozy window seat overlooking the park.
“I understand you were out this past season,” Miss Mapleton said. “I am to be out in the next and find myself a magpie searching here and there for clues to gather into my nest. How did you find it? How really did you find it?”
Miss Mapleton’s way of expressing herself was so open that Sybil felt she need not deliver a carefully composed London-like answer.
“It certainly had its challenges,” Sybil said. “The entertainments were wonderful, but other things were not so wonderful. A dear friend of mine had quite a trying time.”
“Miss Knightsbridge, of course,” Miss Mapleton said. “I heard she was wonderfully brave in the face of it.” Miss Mapleton paused, then said softly, “I have shot a gun myself, you see. My eldest brother showed me once.”
“Miss Mapleton,” Sybil said, “you may consider your secret safe with me, though thanks to Cassandra I do not think the news would be as shocking as it once was.”
“In truth,” Miss Mapleton said, “I am not looking forward to spending a season in town. I am sure it is very wrong of me to say it, but so it is. I like the country, I like the quiet little corners of my father’s house and making improvements here and there and riding out on my mare. Even York feels frenetic and makes me jump.”
“London is not for the faint of heart, Miss Mapleton. However, I think you shall find you are not friendless there.”
“Oh, do be my friend and call me Poppy,” Miss Mapleton said. “My real name is Perpetua, but nobody uses it. It sounds too much like perpetual, and nobody wishes to be a perpetual anything. I was named after a grandmother and though I do not like to say so, she was perpetually cross.”
Sybil found herself laughing, which was a welcome relief from what her feelings had been this day.
“I suppose you have heard of the unwelcome visitor who is poised to arrive?” Poppy asked.
This brought Sybil back to her earlier frame of mind. She said, “My maid said something of it, but she did not know the name of the gentleman.”
Poppy leaned close to Sybil and said softly, “It is Lord Lockwood, you will know him from Miss Knightsbridge’s troubles. I have heard Lord Hugh and your father talking about him and they do not sound very enthusiastic, to say the least. I only wonder why he comes.”
Sybil wondered the very same, though she could not help again feeling it was to view Miss
Mapleton. She would not embarrass the lady by saying so and instead said, “I suppose it will be made more clear when he arrives.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Though, I for one cannot condone the lord’s behavior, or that of his friends. I do not know Miss Knightsbridge, but that matters little. We females must band together as one force.” Poppy looked down at her hands and said, “At least, that is my opinion, though you may find it too countrified.”
“As it happens, Poppy,” Sybil said, “I do not. I quite agree with you. Lord Lockwood worked for weeks to get back into my good graces and I would have none of it. Loyalty over everything.”
Sybil, if she were of a mind to examine her flip-flopping feelings, would have acknowledged that it was more than loyalty to the female sex that cheered her about Miss Mapleton’s pronouncement. The lady was not inclined to look upon Lord Lockwood with any sort of favor, and Sybil found she could not be sorry over it.
*
Richard had ridden Khan hard with only short stops to rest and give the horse water. Khan was a war horse used to hard slogs over rough ground and took it all in stride. Richard thought he rather liked the excursion. As well he might, a horse used to galloping forward into battle must feel constrained on the slow and congested streets of London. It would be a relief for him to stretch his powerful legs.
It was near dawn when he reached the turn to Dogmoore Cottage, home to his old friend Matthew Dresden. Richard had spent many a school break at Dogmoore—the shooting was good, the house was comfortable, the wine cellar excellent, and the nearest town had a jolly, if rather loosely supervised, assembly each week.
Now, the sky lightened as the house came into view. It was a sturdy grey stone structure of ample size sitting atop a low rise with newly-built stables to the left. While the master of the house would not have stirred at this early hour, housemaids moved through the lower floor, opening curtains one by one.
Richard galloped onto the drive and reined in Khan. He shouted, “Dresden! I need food and a bed!”
It was not a minute gone by before an upper window opened and there was Dresden himself, still in his nightcap.
“Lockwood? What do you do here? Tell me it was not a duel! Have you killed a man?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Richard called back up. “Dalton had me imprisoned in his house and I have broken out of it.” He laughed at the look of surprise on his friend’s face.
“Good Lord,” Dresden said. “They will let you in and I will be down in a moment.”
Richard dismounted just as the front doors swung open.
Dresden’s breakfast room had always been a favorite of Richard’s. No feminine touch had prettied it up, it was all wood paneling and sturdy chairs. His butler, Cringle, understood how to put on a good sideboard. Even at this early hour, Cringle had rustled up rolls, butter, cheese and ale while the cook worked feverishly below stairs to produce coffee, eggs, chops, bacon, sausage and his specialty—hot cheese on toast with strong mustard.
Richard had piled a plate high with rolls and cheese and attacked it with gusto as Dresden came in.
As always, his friend was impeccably dressed, his snowy neckcloth starched beyond reason and not a hair out of place. Dresden looked askance at Richard’s rather disheveled appearance.
“Should I enquire why Lord Dalton was holding you hostage, my friend?” Dresden said, taking a roll off the sideboard.
“Stupid business,” Richard said. “He was determined that I not attend a house party in Yorkshire and I was determined that I would attend. And so…”
“And so?” Dresden said, appearing amused. “I am certain there is more to the story, but as Dalton is at the center of it, I may find myself all the better for not hearing the details. Is it likely he is to turn up here to retrieve you?”
“No,” Richard said, “though I will need you to return Khan. He’ll be put out about my riding off on his best horse.”
“Blast and damn,” Dresden said. “Dalton is never just put out about a thing—he is enraged, temperamental and prone to break things, if he is anything at all.”
“Though be a good chap and wait a day or so,” Richard said cheerfully. “No need to have him on my heels. He ought to calm himself.”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted by your consideration of his feelings,” Dresden said drily.
“For myself,” Richard said, barreling on, “I need a bed for a few hours, a shave and a press, and then I need to catch the mail coach. Am I right that it will come through town at just past eleven?”
“Yes, and you are welcome to a bed and the services of my valet. Though your chances of getting on the coach will be hopeless. It is always full.”
Richard smiled and said, “Nothing and nobody shall keep me off that coach. I am determined to be on it.”
Dresden sighed. “Then God help the coachman.”
Chapter Five
For two days, Sybil had passed her time both pleasantly and uncomfortably. It was lovely to see her two parents so relaxed and happy. Them being reunited with old friends, and her mother finding herself in the neighborhood of her youth, had put them both in high spirits.
They were a small party. The other guests were not set to arrive until the time for the regatta had grown near. The current occupants of the house were all on intimate terms with the Hugh family and there was an ease in it that Sybil appreciated.
Sir John was a genial dinner partner, if not particularly interesting. He was solicitous of her comfort and had for the most part mastered the art of the usual dinner conversation. Though, despite his efforts to keep his conversation in range of what a lady would prefer, he did have a habit of drifting into soliloquies about horses. He even went so far as to mention Lord Cabot’s reputation at racing, but then Sybil had been forced to explain her denunciation of all of the gentlemen of the pact and he said no more about it.
Poppy Mapleton proved to be a welcome companion, and Sybil discovered more about her connection to the house. The county being what it was, Poppy had known the Hughs and Sir John all of her life. Sir John’s estate was only seven miles from her own. Lady Hugh was Poppy’s godmother and would take her to town for the next season—Mr. Mapleton was a widower and not at all inclined to attend balls and routs. The Hughs, not having any children of their own, were determined to launch Poppy creditably and see her well-settled. They did not generally spend much time in London, preferring their own little corner of England, but Lady Hugh had arranged to rent a house at a good address and Lord Hugh had resigned himself to it.
For her own part, Sybil had promised to assist Poppy in navigating the treacherous waters of town. She thought privately that, of anybody, Poppy would need that help. A lady with her sort of looks and generous dowry was bound to be approached endlessly by an alarming number of gentlemen, not all of whom would be sincere in their regard or even respectable.
Sybil thought it rather remarkable that a girl blessed with Poppy’s looks had not grown conceited and difficult. The lady seemed to be no more aware of her effect on others than if she had been the local milkmaid. At first, Sir John could barely get a coherent sentence out in her presence, and yet Poppy would encourage him until he’d finally managed to say what he meant. It turned out they both had an interest in architecture and Poppy was as horse mad as he was, and so Sir John seemed to go on more comfortably after settling on those two common interests.
Sir John planned to renovate and expand his house and had even gone so far as to sketch out his ideas and hear Poppy’s opinion of it. They had already had a long discussion of sunlight and where and when one might wish to see it indoors. As for the horses, they had been to the stable to see Sir John’s beloved Caesar, a muscular Cleveland Bay said to be as loyal as he was strong.
Sybil had joked with Poppy that she must have seen Caesar dozens of times before and how it was kind of her to humor Sir John. Poppy had claimed she had not seen the creature, nor even Sir John since he’d returned from the war. Then, the girl had positively b
lushed and mumbled something about him seeming older since he’d found himself a soldier.
The day before, Lady Hugh had taken the ladies on a charming picnic to the lake that was to be the scene of the fabled regatta. Sybil had been ashamed to realize that she did not often consider a servant’s plight when she had noticed it then. Tables, chairs, linens, silver, and every other accoutrement needed for a meal had been packed and brought by wagon. Baskets of cold meat, rolls, biscuits, cakes, fruits, mayonnaise, mustard, various jams, lemonade and a tea service had been unpacked and set up. Hours later, it was packed into the carts again, only to be unpacked at the house. It had been a warm day and Sybil could not help but notice how the footmen perspired at their labors.
As pleasant as a picnic was, Sybil thought that when she was mistress of her own house, she would not often plan one. It might be pleasurable to go out in one’s carriage with edibles packed in a basket, but this sort of elaborate parade must be taxing on everybody. She thought she might confirm her opinion by asking Betty what they said about it below stairs. Though Sybil well knew it was the fashion to remain oblivious to what servants thought about anything, she also knew that discomfited servants could make one’s life miserable in a thousand small ways. From forgotten messages to badly built fires that smoked and sputtered, staff could exact their revenge if they had a mind.
Whatever her final opinions on picnics might be, there had been no sense in not enjoying the one she’d found herself attending. The tables and chairs had been set up close to the shore and a light breeze coming off the lake ruffled the ribbons of the ladies’ bonnets.
Sybil had been astonished at the size of the lake—it seemed to her more of a sea. To their right was a long line of docks holding dinghies of various sizes, colors and configurations. Lady Hugh said most were owned by her lord and that any gentleman invited to the regatta might borrow one and try his luck. That was with the exception of Sea King, which proudly bore a painted Union Jack on its side and was Lord Hugh’s favored vessel.