Charlotte Louise Dolan

by Three Lords for Lady Anne

  “Well, his idea of taking care of the brandy was guzzling it down as fast as he could. Regular old tippler, he was, usually so soused he couldn’t walk straight.”

  “That ain’t the point. The point is, who gave her the right to interfere in other folks’ business? Like you—why do you care if she does catch you having a tumble in the hay? It’s not as though everyone here don’t know already how quick you are to spread your legs.”

  “Harry, you know, you’re right. She got no business saying who I can cuddle. It’s my own business to decide who I want to kiss and who I don’t want to kiss.”

  “That’s more like it. Come here and—”

  With all the force in her arm, Sally slapped him across the face, almost knocking him off his feet. “And I say I ain’t going to have no more to do with you, Harry. You’re a lazy good-for-nothing and a sorry excuse for a man. Miss Hemsworth says I can do anything I set my mind to, even learn to read, so I don’t need you. I can do better than you.”

  “You? Learn to read? That’s a laugh.”

  Before he realized what she was about, Sally had made his second cheek sting like the first. Then, sticking her nose into the air, she turned and walked back to the house.

  Both hands pressed to his face, which still stung from the slaps, Harry watched the maid disappear from sight. That was one more account he had to settle with Miss High-and-Mighty Hemsworth, who was no better’n him, no matter what airs she gave herself. By the time he finished making a fool out of her, all the rest of the servants would realize it, too.

  * * * *

  It had been a long evening. Bronson had dined privately with Lord Grenville and Mr. Fox, who had quizzed him for hours about the slave trade in Africa. He had been able to give them much detailed information, which they proposed using in Parliament, where it appeared the anti-slave-trade bill might soon be passed.

  They had tried to persuade him to remain in London and take his seat in the House of Lords, where they could count on his vote, but he had declined. Although he had been in London less than a month, he was already starting to feel the boredom he always felt when he remained long in one locale.

  Arriving finally at the town house belonging to his wards, which he normally used as his residence for the few days a year he had business to conduct in London, Bronson was met at the door by his manservant, Daws, who traveled with him and took on whatever role was required, whether that of valet, groom, or even butler.

  Taking his top hat and cane, Daws said in an undertone, “There is a man waiting to see you.”

  “At this hour? The devil you say.” It was past two in the morning, and Bronson was not in the mood to play the convivial host.

  “He didn’t give his name, but I believe he’s the same Bow Street runner what you dealt with earlier. He’s been waiting since ten o’clock.”

  After his long hours of intense discussion on weighty political issues, Bronson was not in the mood to consider the relatively trivial problems connected with his guardianship. “Ask him if he can return tomorrow—no, wait, I shall see him tonight. It must be important for him to have waited this long.”

  Bronson entered the anteroom and saw that his valet had been right in his assumption. “Mr. Black, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s more like what I have to report to you. Came across something else smokey and thought it might tie in with your interests.”

  Pouring out two glasses of brandy, Bronson offered one to the other man. “Proceed.”

  “I found out this evening that Trussell hired a new governess for those two wards of yours.”

  “And? There is nothing strange about that. In general, I leave the hiring of the servants up to him since I am so frequently out of the country.”

  “Well, it happens that this time, contrary to what is normal, he only interviewed one candidate for the post.”

  “One candidate? I see nothing suspicious in that. Perhaps he was satisfied with her credentials and saw no need to waste his time with further interviews?”

  “Aye, p’rhaps. Or p’rhaps he was intending to install an accomplice in Wylington Manor. Right handy that would be.”

  “What makes you think there is anything ... smokey, I believe you termed it, about this person?”

  “Not so sure she’s respectable. Got a face what would get her on the boards at Drury Lane just for the asking. And a figure that would get her off again just as quick as the gen’lemen got a glimpse of her. So why’d a woman like that want to earn twenty pounds a year trying to cram a little education into some brat’s head?”

  It appeared to Bronson that her career choice tended to prove her respectability, rather than cast doubt on it. “I assume you have more, or you would not be troubling me at this hour of the morning?”

  “Course I’ve got more. I discovered Trussell sold his lease on that little house in Mayfair to some banker, who took possession of it lock, stock, and barrel. Included in the furnishings was the red-haired bird of paradise. And Trussell has packed up his things and skipped out without paying his landlord a shilling on account.”

  “From what you say, it would be just as logical to assume that he is running off to Gretna Green with a rich heiress, in which case I can only wish him the best of luck.”

  “On the contrary, he caught the evening stage and appears to be heading for Devon, where that so-called governess is already installed, ready to hand, if you get my meaning?”

  “This is all rather far-fetched. You are implying that Trussell has established his new mistress in Wylington Manor and is passing her off as a governess? On the face of it, it is too preposterous to believe.” The Bow Street runner continued to stare at him stoically, so Bronson decided he would have to play out the game. “Very well, what is this woman’s name, and what do you know of her background?”

  Satisfied that he was being taken seriously, the runner pulled out his occurrence book and made a great show of flipping through the pages. “I been checking into things, you understand, just on the chance that you’d still be interested in having a little investigating done. The woman’s name is—” he scanned another page, then seemed to find what he was looking for, “—Anne Hemsworth, and her references would appear to be impeccable.”

  “Then I fail to see what grounds you have for further suspicions.”

  “You’re a fine gentleman, m’lord, but I’ve been in this business since before you cut your eyeteeth. I said her references would appear to be impeccable because I learned long ago that anything what can be written and signed can be forged. Why I could tell you tales ...”

  Ceasing to listen closely to whatever story the runner felt called upon to relate, Bronson rubbed his forehead wearily. Really, when one thought about it, the whole case against the governess was unbelievably flimsy, like a huge, carefully constructed house of cards, which one breath of reality would more than likely topple to the ground. He opened his mouth to tell the runner that he was not interested in paying any money out for an investigation into the background of any Miss Hemsworth, when he suddenly realized he had heard that name before.

  In what connection, he could not immediately recall, but there was an overtone of unsavoriness that lingered in his mind. Abruptly, he reversed his decision and wrote out a bank draft and handed it to the runner.

  “I shall be leaving in two days for Devon. Even if you are not finished with the investigation into the governess’s background, I wish you to come here and give me a partial report of what you have learned before I depart.”

  The runner folded the bank draft into a small square and tucked it down into an inside pocket of his overcoat. “As you say, m’lord. I shall see you in forty-eight hours’ time.”

  I have likely thrown away ten pounds, Bronson thought as he wearily climbed the stairs to his room. My solicitor would be sure to say I am chasing after shadows. If only I could remember in what connection I have heard the name Hemsworth.

  But even when he awoke in the morning, he could n
ot.

  * * * *

  Something was wrong. Anne could not tell where she was getting that impression, but the feeling was too strong to ignore. Aunt Sidonia’s words came back to her. “What people are inclined to dismiss as a woman’s intuition is usually based on something she has heard or seen, or discrepancies that the woman has observed in the back of her mind without even being aware of them. The trick is to become aware, so that one does not have to be dependent upon the whims of intuition.”

  Without appearing to, Anne quickly catalogued her surroundings. The day was beautiful, with none of the signs that would herald an unexpected storm. The twins were already on their horses, and her horse, a great black beast, stood saddled and ready for her to mount.

  Based on its appearance, she might assume that she was being tricked into riding a vicious or even an unbroken horse, except that she had been riding on the same animal twice before, and although spirited, he had been beautifully trained and had presented no problem at all for a proficient rider such as herself.

  Extending the area of her attention, she looked around the stable yard. Two stable boys were brushing down a pair of carriage horses, another was scrubbing the cobblestones, and Harry, the groom with whom she’d had the slight contretemps upon her arrival in Tavistock, was cleaning tack ... and studiously ignoring her. The other three boys could not keep from occasionally glancing with curiosity at the riding party, but Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the bridle in his hands, as if he were completely alone. He looked not only totally preoccupied with his work, but also rather smug.

  Anne rechecked her mount. Perhaps a loose cinch? She tugged at it, but it appeared to be firm.

  On the other hand, the horse seemed not to approve completely of what she had done. Just for a moment, he showed the whites of his eyes.

  “Hurry up, Anne. What is taking you so long? Mr. Mallory is expecting us within the hour. He sent over a note saying Dancer’s Darling had the prettiest colt born day before yesterday, and he is letting us name it,” one of the twins said impatiently.

  She looked across the yard again. The three stable boys had stopped their work and were looking at her in open puzzlement, but Harry still kept his eyes resolutely fixed on his task and evinced not the slightest curiosity as to why she was standing and staring at her horse instead of mounting.

  “I have decided that today I prefer to ride bareback,” she announced with decision.

  At her words Harry came to life, springing to his feet and rushing to her side. “Allow me to assist you in unsaddling your horse,” he said hurriedly, reaching for the cinch.

  “No, no, I am quite capable of fending for myself. Please return to your other job.”

  He hesitated, as if uncertain how to proceed.

  “Now,” she ordered coldly, and he walked back across the yard, throwing her a look that was openly angry.

  The saddle, when she removed it, seemed to be in perfect condition, as did the cinch. Instead of pulling off the saddle blanket, however, she merely flipped it over on the horse’s back. Stuck to the underside of it was a short section of cane from a bramble bush.

  “Oh, I say, Tony, you didn’t—”

  “Course I didn’t, Drew. That’s a childish prank.”

  “Right. Then who did? You there, Harry,” the Marquess of Wylington called imperiously. “Who saddled this horse today?”

  “I couldn’t rightly say, m’lord,” the groom replied. “I was too busy with my own work to notice.”

  The three stable boys became totally preoccupied with their work.

  “Well someone has tried to play a vicious trick on a lady—”

  “Intending to hurt her. And whoever that person is, he is mean—”

  “And malicious—”

  “And a rotten coward, who deserves a beating.”

  No one in the stable yard moved a muscle.

  Finally Anne said quietly, “I believe I might as well wait until another day to ride bareback.” Removing the thorny branch from the blanket, she saddled her horse again, mounted it without assistance, and led the way out of the stable yard.

  * * * *

  Confound it, did that overgrown female have eyes in the back of her head? How could she have known about the thorns? More than likely she had bribed someone in the stables to spy for her. In disgust at the failure of his grand plan, Harry threw down the cloth he had been using and carried the bridle into the tack room and hung it up.

  Well, she might have caught on to his trick today, but there would be other days. She could not always be on her guard.

  Emerging from the tack room, he stopped abruptly in his tracks. All the grooms and stable boys employed on the estate were gathered in a semicircle around him.

  “We know who saddled Miss Hemsworth’s horse today,” said Patrick, the groom with the most seniority.

  “So, what if I did?” Harry knew he could brazen his way out of this tight spot the way he had always done.

  “It was a mean thing to do,” one of the youngest stable boys spoke up.

  “Don’t talk that way to your betters, you sniveling little brat. No one cares what your opinion is.”

  One of the other grooms spoke up. “Well, you see, Harry, we’ve decided Joe here can talk to you any way he likes, because he ain’t a coward—”

  “And you is,” Patrick finished. “And like his lordship just said, cowards deserve to be beaten.”

  “When pigs fly!” Harry felt the sweat run down his back, but he kept up his show of bravado.

  Muggs, the strongest and normally the most even-tempered of the grooms, moved forward. “And we’ve decided to give you what you deserve.”

  Abandoning all pretense of bravery, Harry turned his back and scrabbled desperately for the handle to the tack room door. He found it too late.

  One broken nose, two black eyes, three loose teeth, and four bruised ribs later, Harry agreed that he would never again make the slightest attempt to harm Miss Hemsworth or in any way be less than respectful to her.

  He was quite sincere and meant every word of his promise. He was not, after all, completely stupid.

  * * * *

  Fifty-five thousand pounds, and what did he have to show for it? A few new clothes on his back and not enough brass left in his pocket to afford to travel post. Creighton Trussell, having been forced to ride for hours elbow-to-elbow with his own valet, and in the company of a fat farmer and his even fatter wife, a clergyman, and a motherly woman who kept smiling at him, scowled out the window of the stage and cursed his own misfortune.

  Blackmailed, by Jove! How had it come to this? It had seemed such a golden opportunity when he had met that wretched widow and she had proven to be such an easy mark. He should have known there would be something havey-cavey about anyone he encountered in what was little more than a gambling hell.

  It was the outside of enough! She claimed connections with all the best families, but even with her money she could not pry open the doors of society. Yet she expected him to introduce her and her daughter to all and sundry.

  Confound it, the woman had windmills in her head if she thought she could compel him to comply with her demands.

  No, if she continued on her course, she would find she had sadly misjudged her man. No matter how deep she had sunk her claws into him, he would find a way to escape her clutches.

  The easiest solution would be if he could “borrow” the necessary funds from his nephews’ estate—but even that recourse was denied him, the twins’ own maternal uncle, because their father had been fit to appoint Lord Leatham as sole guardian, and he was nothing more than a second cousin.

  It was a disgusting arrangement. Leatham was absent from the country more days than he was in England, and while he was gone anything could happen to the estate without his knowing of it. Except he always seemed to find out. It was doubtful if a groom could pilfer a cup of oats without Leatham’s discovering it. That man should have been a demmed accountant, such a head he had for figures,
and a memory for details like a steel trap. Probably knew to the penny what the income from the estate was, and the cost of each item purchased down to the last tallow candle for the smallest housemaid.

  It was to be regretted that Leatham had not simply vanished permanently on one of his trips to heathen parts, never to return. Then, after a suitable delay, Creighton could have had the courts appoint him guardian, since he was, after all, the twins’ nearest relative.

  Staring out the window, he let the motion of the stage lull him into a light doze. When a halt was made to change horses, he awoke with the answer to all his problems staring him in the face. His plan was not perfect, depending as it did upon Leatham’s presence at Wylington Manor, but something could be worked out.

  It was indeed fortunate that the baron was in England, so chances were good that before he left her shores again, Leatham would make a quick visit to Devon. With a little judicious planning, Creighton decided, that short visit could be turned into a long visit, and that long visit turned into ... what? Public disgrace for Leatham? At the very least. And perhaps ... dare he dream? Transportation for Leatham?

  It all depended on proper planning. Creighton settled down to serious consideration of details and methods, and well before the stage arrived in Tavistock, he was quite pleased with himself and not the least bit worried about the widow and her demands.

  * * * *

  Mr. Black laboriously consulted his occurrence book before beginning his report. “I have not been able in the short time available, to track down any of the previous employers of the woman in question.”

  Bronson suppressed his impatience with the way the runner was couching everything in obscure terms, as if he were investigating someone’s cheating wife or mistress, which he was probably more accustomed to doing.

  “Working through sources that appear to be accurate, I have ascertained that the subject has been employed as governess on three previous occasions.”

  Undoubtedly the runner had merely gone to the employment service patronized by Creighton and asked some lowly assistant for the information.