The Earl Returns
Page 17
Ashleigh looked as nonplussed as if the soup had spoken.
Merton was sitting back with a grin on his face. “I was wondering how long you would put up with him.”
Alice could not quite smother a giggle, a mixture of horror and delight. This strange young woman had spoken rudely to her brother? She bowed her head to avoid catching anyone’s eye and bit her lower lip in an effort to hide her smile.
“Perhaps, Your Grace, I should explain that since Ambassador Adams has left London to take up his position as Secretary of State and Ambassador Rush is unable to arrive before November, our government asked my father to carry some messages and conduct some inquiries while he is here.” Miranda shrugged. “Purely informal, you understand. However, that has meant that my mother and I had little time for shopping. We were too busy dining at Carlton House, visiting with Lord and Lady Castlereagh and, of course, trying to determine the fate of our impressed seamen.”
“I see,” said Ashleigh, taken aback but not yet defeated. He pressed on. “And did you enjoy your visits with Lord and Lady Castlereagh?”
Miranda considered. “Lady Castlereagh and my mother had been friends in their youth when they both came out, and they enjoyed renewing their friendship. Lord Castlereagh seems a bit distant, but he is, of course, brilliant and can also be quite charming. However, I fear he is fundamentally mistaken. He seems to think that the world can be restored to the way it was before the revolution in France. People are not going to forget notions like liberty and equality just because their rulers say they should. Nor will they ever again feel obliged to view those rulers with awe now that they have seen them tremble before Napoleon.”
“You are an admirer of Napoleon?” Ashleigh asked the question with a touch of frost in his voice.
She shrugged. “No, I would not care for an emperor any more than for a king. However, were I an ordinary Frenchman, I think I would prefer Napoleon to the Bourbons. You must remember that the best government for a duke may not be the best government for a cobbler.”
Lady Talmadge intervened with a nervous smile. “You are something of a political philosopher, Miranda.”
“Hardly.” Miranda returned a gentle smile. “But at home when we had guests, such topics were often discussed, and your brother did ask for my opinion.”
Lady Talmadge looked uncertain. “Your father permitted you to speak so?”
“Of course.” It was Miranda’s turn to look uncertain. “My parents always discussed the events going on in the world, and encouraged me to do the same. I realize this is not the case with my uncle’s family, but surely such discussion is not forbidden in England, is it?”
Lady Talmadge twirled her wine glass and watched the candlelight reflect off the wine. “Not forbidden, no,” she said slowly, “but not encouraged either. It is considered the behavior of scandalous women like Lady Holland or of bluestockings, and no young lady wishes to be considered a bluestocking. Men dislike it, you know, so girls are taught that they must confine themselves to less controversial subjects if they wish to find a husband.”
Miranda looked at her with pity. “How very… confining,” she said, but she felt a sudden chill of fear.
Ashleigh took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I apologize, Miss Rokeby. I confess that I assumed you were simply a fool, a witling out for a title, but I should have trusted Tom’s judgment. He may be a reckless idiot, and far too naïve and trusting, but he’s never been foolish enough to be duped by toadeaters. I should have realized that you would be—how should I put it?—a person of substance. I sincerely beg your pardon, and I hope you will allow me to call you Miranda.”
Miranda gave him a smile, but she was not quite prepared to hand over her trust. “That was a lovely apology, Peter. I hope we will truly be friends.”
The seed of doubt had been planted. She determined to ignore it, at least for the moment. There was something else to be dealt with first.
She took a fortifying sip of wine, put down her glass, and looked from Ashleigh to Merton and back again. “However, I do have a problem, and it is a problem with both of you. Are you gentlemen planning to pretend I am some sort of fragile creature who must be protected from harsh reality? Because if you are, I must warn you, I won’t put up with it.”
They both nervously attempted to look blank. She gave an exasperated sigh. “Really, you know, I am not a fool. I saw the board pop out from the hull of the boat, perfectly straight on all sides. That could not happen by accident. Someone sabotaged the boat. Someone tried to kill you again, Tom. Who? Is it the same person who had you kidnapped?”
Alice gave a gasp, but Merton grinned and saluted Miranda with his glass. “I should have known you would not fail to notice.”
She did not salute him back. “But just in case I didn’t, you weren’t going to mention it, were you?”
He shrugged apologetically. “I was afraid your parents might object to your marrying someone who is in danger of being killed at any moment and who might put you in danger as well. But I have since realized that I had to tell you, as I will have to tell them. After all, you nearly were killed as well this time, and I cannot promise that there will not be another attack. And I have to warn you, you could be in even more danger as my wife.”
She shrugged that aside. “The more people are aware that someone is trying to kill you, the less likely it is that someone will succeed. Does anyone else know at present?”
“I didn’t know myself until the boat was sabotaged.”
“After those years in the navy, you certainly knew you had an enemy,” said Ashleigh, sounding impatient. “I know what you said about protecting your grandmother and all, but I still think you should have made more of an effort to find out who was responsible. Pretending the problem doesn’t exist has obviously failed to make it disappear. You will now have to tell Lady Merton. She cannot keep forcing you into intimacy with your cousin and his family.”
Merton sighed and turned to Miranda. “My grandmother has always had a sense that she needs to make things up to Edgar somehow. We were both brought up in her house, but I was the heir even though Edgar was older, and I was my grandfather’s favorite.”
“Understandably,” said Ashleigh dryly. “Edgar’s idea of riding was to trot sedately down the road on a docile old nag. Tom’s was to go racing neck or nothing across the fields on a half-broken stallion. The old earl would try to scold Tom, but anyone could see he was bursting with pride. And he had trouble keeping the contempt out of his voice when he spoke to Edgar.”
“Then Edgar went whining to his mother, who went crying to our grandmother, who scolded our grandfather for making the poor boy cry.” Merton made a face. “It was a scenario that was played out many times in our childhood.”
“You are no longer children,” said Miranda.
Merton nodded. “I know. And I know my enemy has to be Edgar or his mother or Pamela or her father. When I first came back I could think of no better punishment for them than to see me restored to my title and position, undoing all the mischief they had wrought, and making it clear that I would not be responsible for any debts they ran up.”
Lady Talmadge gave a small snort of laughter that made them all look at her. She was flustered by their attention, but managed to speak. “That was more of a punishment than you probably realize. I must tell you—I heard shortly after your return that Mrs. Wortham, Mrs. Edgar Wortham, that is, went to Madame Eugenie to order some new gowns and was told that would not be possible until she had paid for those she had already received. I fear Mrs. Wortham did not take this well. She created something of a scene, which was, unfortunately for her, overheard by a great many people. As a result, the tale spread all over town and now all the modistes know of it. I collect she is having some difficulty finding someone who will provide her with a wardrobe on credit.”
Ashleigh scowled. “Wortham has an income of his own, does he not?” Merton nodded. “Then she will simply have to learn to live within it.”
The evening ended pleasantly enough, but when Miranda went to bed she had difficulty finding sleep. She had been discounting the views of Aunt Fanny and Lady Merton, assuming that the first was simply silly and the second too old-fashioned in her thinking to deserve attention. But Lady Talmadge was neither silly nor old, and she had been undeniably shocked at Miranda’s views on politics. Or rather, shocked at the idea that Miranda might have any views on politics.
Tom did not seem to see that as a problem, and even the duke did not object. Well, perhaps he did. His apology had been for thinking her a fool, not for thinking her unsuitable. However, if Lady Talmadge was typical, there might well be a problem in society as a whole, at least in the society to which Tom belonged.
But surely society included different circles here, just as it did at home. Her mother and her friends felt no hesitation in discussing politics, but that did not mean that all women did, or wanted to. For that matter, not all men were interested either.
Still, there was no stigma attached to women’s interest in affairs of state. She could just imagine Abigail Adams’ reaction if someone told her to tend to her needlework and leave such weighty matters to the gentlemen. Miranda grinned just thinking about it.
And surely it was the same here. Lady Holland might be considered a bit odd, but gentlemen flocked to her table to discuss all sorts of weighty matters. Princess Lieven—all right, she was Russian, not English, but she was a powerful figure in London society as well as being very definitely engaged in political manipulations.
No doubt there were men who preferred women to be simply decorative and think about nothing more important that household affairs—as if running a large household were not every bit as complicated as running an estate! The question was, what did Tom want? She did not think he wanted a docile doll who would hang on his arm and expect him to make all decisions. He had never behaved like that with her. But she needed to be realistic. Suppose that was what he wanted? They had not known each other very long, and while their physical attraction was certainly powerful enough, there were matters they needed to discuss.
It would be bad enough if other people expected her to be nothing but a decorative ninny without a thought in her head for anything but fashion and gossip. She could not bear it if Tom expected that as well.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Black Boar had served the village of Schotten for centuries. No one knew quite how many. Tradition had it that the name of the tavern was originally the White Boar, the emblem of King Richard III. When that monarch died on Bosworth Field, it had seemed politic to apply a new coat of paint to the sign, altering the name.
Since that time, Cavaliers and Roundheads had raised their tankards here, though rarely at the same time, recruiting officers had offered the king’s shilling to adventurous young men, and farmers had come in after market day to celebrate good prices or to drown their sorrow at low ones.
It was a long, low building with no claims to beauty. Will Hobart, the landlord, brewed a decent ale and an even better cider. His wife kept the place clean and could provide a hungry patron with a plate of stew that had some meat in it accompanied by an honest loaf of bread. Villagers, workmen from the shipyard, local farmers and servants from the Hall rubbed along here comfortably, with no problems beyond a bit of rivalry over a game of dominoes.
Rarely had the tavern seen as much gloom as it did that evening.
It was crowded, even more crowded than usual, but it was quieter than usual as well. The customers all knew Merton’s small sailboat. They had seen it often enough, and a smart little craft it was. Some of them had seen it the previous afternoon, but they all knew that it had not returned to the cove where he kept it. Those at the Hall might believe he would run off with his young lady in a tiny boat like that. Those in the tavern knew he had better sense. They downed more ale than usual and muttered to each other. Will Hobart should have been pleased at the increased trade, but he was no more cheerful than anyone else. He phlegmatically filled the pints and took the coins but tried not to think about the future.
Dick Hodgson sat off in a corner, holding his mug in front of him and looking no more cheerful that the others. Yesterday, after he had spoken with Lady Merton, he had organized the men from the shipyard into search parties. There had been nothing they could do during the night. But come morning, they had driven out in wagons, dropping men off along the coast to search the shore for any sign that a boat had come ashore. Most of them had returned, but there was no news. They all stayed, and a hum of worried mutters remained steady.
Hodgson’s mood had been growing blacker and blacker ever since Miranda had told him about the man she saw. He had recognized Montague instantly from her description and all the old fury returned, the old, impotent fury. He had almost gone mad in the days after he received the letters telling him about Elspeth and Billy. Perhaps he had gone mad, because much about those days remained a blur. All he could think now was that it would never have happened if he had been there, and he would have been there had Montague not kidnapped him for duty on the Ulysses. He could have saved them if he had been there. They would be alive were it not for Montague.
Montague should never have had the kind of power he wielded. God, what kind of lunatic system gives creatures like Montague power of life and death over decent men? He’d have it still if Tom hadn’t been an earl. That was what made the difference. It made no difference that Tom was a decent man, a good man. The only thing that mattered was that Tom was an earl. Montague had flogged Johnson and God only knew how many others to death and no one cared. But he had once flogged an earl and, for that, the gentlemen of the navy disowned him.
What a system. Rotten through and through. Montague hadn’t even been punished. Not really. They didn’t want to embarrass the navy. They didn’t want people to know how rotten the system was, rotten through and through. If people ever realized what swines their “betters” were, they might start to wonder, they might ask why these creatures ruled. You could pick up a dozen beggars off the street and set them to rule. They couldn’t do worse than that fat fool of a regent and vicious bastards like Liverpool and Sidmouth who wanted to hang anyone who spoke out. They were no better than Montague. None of them.
It was a rotten system.
Hodgson began listening to the mutters. Merton’s message had arrived, but he did not share it. It was partly that he did not want the news that Merton was alive to reach the Hall—whoever had arranged the “accident” had to be uncertain, wondering if it had been truly successful or not. He had asked the searchers to watch out for anyone else who might be searching, and he was still hoping there might be some word about that. Meanwhile, he was learning something from the mutters.
These men, some of whom had fought for king and country while others had been born and lived all their lives on the Earl of Merton’s land, had no more fondness for their government, for their betters, than he did. He had realized this in a detached way earlier.
There had always been copies of Cobbett’s Political Register passed around in the tavern. Men had cheered back in June when a jury refused to convict James Watson of treason on the word of a government spy after the Spa Fields meetings. Some of the men had actually been at Spa Fields. They had seen and heard Orator Hunt in his white hat and could quote what he’d said. Some, the ones that could write, had even signed his petitions demanding the vote for everyone and annual parliaments. The regent didn’t accept the petitions, of course, though there were thousands of signatures. Those with power and privilege always want to keep things the way they are.
Merton was the exception, the only nobleman the men here trusted. From everyone else, they expected nothing but injustice and oppression. Radicals who were calling for revolution were not embraced, not yet, but they were being heard with increasing sympathy.
Hodgson
understood them better than they knew.
A few men came to join him, Curry among them. Hodgson sipped his ale and studied them. Curry may have been young but his eyes were old, and anger smoldered in them. The other two, Parsons and Brown—without an e—were closer to Hodgson’s age but had not lost hope. Not yet.
“We’ve covered as far west as Piddinghoe with no sign of them,” said Parsons. “A few went farther, on to Brighton, but they’re not back yet.”
“They couldn’t have made it any farther than that,” said Curry. “Not with the storm last night.”
There was a commotion at the door just then, and everyone turned to look. The newcomer, a stocky, red-faced man with a shock of graying hair, shook his head, and the men returned to their ale. “That’s Jed Hastings,” said Brown, standing and waving the newcomer over to the table. “He was searching east.”
Hastings snagged a mug of ale and came over to join them. He sat down and drank off half the mug in one long swallow, then set it down with a sigh. He shook his head. “I went as far as Eastbourne. No sign of his lordship or of the lady either. But I heard something about a stranger who’d been hanging about recently. He was staying at the Star in Alfriston, but he left sudden-like this morning. Unfriendly he was, they said. Sounded like a gentleman, but spoke like they was all dirt. Had a scar.”
Hodgson caught his breath, and the others also looked at him intently. Hastings nodded and smiled slightly. “Thought that might be important. Is he the one then? The one after his lordship? I didn’t hear any more of him. Don’t know where he might have gone.”
It was a moment before Hodgson could move. “Yes,” he said softly. “He’s the one. I’ll go with you to Alfriston in the morning. Could be we’ll be able to track him down.”