“Don’t speak, sir, just do as I tell you. We must be sure to divert suspicion from you.”
Trussell blanched, but made no further effort to resist or question what his valet was doing.
Using the back of the razor, Wyke quickly wiped most of the soapsuds from his master’s face, then pulled him to his feet. “Hurry, go out and join the others on the terrace, quick, before they come looking for you.”
“In my shirtsleeves?”
“Yes, of course in your shirtsleeves, now hurry—run, tell them you heard the shot.”
“Oh, yes, of course, how clever of you.” Trussell departed, if not at a run, then at least more briskly than usual.
Now the only remaining problem was the gun. Wyke took it out and inspected it. A dueling pistol, and quite expensive by the looks of it. He could only hope that Trussell had been smart enough not to use one he had purchased himself.
Shoving it into his pocket, Wyke cautiously opened the door to the hallway and checked to be sure he was not being observed. Then, as if he had not a care in the world, he sauntered casually toward the stairs.
When he reached Lord Leatham’s study, he tapped gently on the door once, then a little louder the second time. Receiving no answer, he opened the door and peered cautiously inside. Empty. Perfect for his plan.
Hugging the edges of the room so that he could not be seen through the French doors by anyone looking in from outside, he circled the room. Then standing concealed behind the curtains, he took the pistol and carefully tossed it through the open doors and into one of the bushes.
That accomplished, he made haste to retrace his steps, emerging at last into the safety of the corridor. His heart was pounding but all his senses were alert.
A few minutes later he was out on the terrace mingling inconspicuously with the majority of the other servants, who were all preoccupied with the broken crockery and singulary uninterested in what should be their most important task, namely finding the gun.
He could not simply tell them to go look in the bushes, nor would it suit his plans to find the gun himself. For a moment he was stymied, but then he decided to try setting them an example, in hopes that they would follow his lead.
Deliberately picking the wrong bushes to look in, he made a great show of pushing branches aside, all the while being careful not to catch his sleeves on any twigs.
“And what do you think you’re doing?”
Wyke turned to see Muggs, one of the grooms who had vastly more brawn than brain, glaring suspiciously at him. The perfect unsuspecting helper.
“It occurred to me that whoever fired the shot might have disposed of the gun by throwing it into the bushes.”
It took a moment for that thought to penetrate the thick head of the groom, but then he reacted just as Wyke had hoped.
“Hey, Patrick, Will, Harry, the rest of you. Come help me look for the gun. ‘Tis prob’ly in these bushes somewhere.”
Quite casually, Wyke moved away from the area of the search, and he was standing next to his master when one of the young grooms called out, “Here it is. I found the gun.”
“But that cannot—” Trussell started to say, but Wyke grabbed the towel around his master’s neck and under the pretext of wiping the rest of the shaving soap from his face, managed to muffle whatever the idiot was about to say.
* * * *
“People are talking, Leatham. I thought it best I ride over and tell you what is being said.” Thorverton looked down at the glass of brandy in his hand, then continued. “They are saying you are the one who fired the shot.”
“That is preposterous.” Bronson paced his study, so angry he wanted to smash everything in sight. “I would never hurt anyone, least of all those boys.”
“I believe you, and anyone who knows you would never suspect you of such a dastardly deed, but there are those in the neighborhood who do not know you except as a tall stranger who appears briefly and then vanishes just as quickly. They are the ones who are whispering that you have the most to gain if the twins meet with a fatal accident. Unfortunately, it is not only servants and tradesmen who are ready to believe the worst of you, but also some of the more socially prominent citizens.
“It is unfortunate that your travels have kept you from becoming really well known in the district, or the gossip would never have spread to this extent.”
“I see. So because I do not stay at home in Devon paying polite social calls, I am suspected of attempted murder? Pshaw!”
“You may scoff, but there are many who see nothing strange in the idea of a man murdering two children in cold blood so that he might inherit a title and a vast estate.”
“I have a title and an estate already.”
“But people are saying you are not satisfied with being the second Baron Leatham, that you wish to be the sixth Marquess of Wylington.”
“That is total nonsense. However you look at it, such suspicions are not rational.”
“But then, so few people are rational. I believe it is their own greed that makes them so willing to believe the worst of their fellow man. And you must not forget, you not only have a motive—”
“I have no motive,” Bronson bellowed, releasing some of his aggressions by smashing a rose-colored vase off a little octagonal table with one swipe of his hand. He looked down at the shards on the rug and said in a shaken voice, “And besides, I am not prone to violence.”
His friend glanced at him with sympathy, then continued calmly, “You do not only appear to have a legitimate motive, but the gun was proved to be one of the set of dueling pistols belonging to you—”
“Which I keep in my bedroom, the door to which is unlocked, so that anyone might have taken it at any time—”
“And the shot came from the general area of the house where you were known to be at the time it was fired.”
The room was silent while Bronson continued to pace. Then he threw himself down in the chair next to his friend. “I am in the devil of a dilemma, is what you are saying. So what do you suggest I do about it?”
“I assume you have tried to discover who really fired the shot?”
“Of course. Everyone has an alibi, but they are all equally unsubstantiated. Not only that, but no one else has a motive, however flimsy.”
“There I would beg to differ with you. From the tales I have heard at the Red Stag, the twins have played some rather wild pranks on people. Perhaps a disgruntled servant?”
Bronson grimaced. “As strange as it may seem to an outsider, in spite of being the target of the twins’ tricks, the servants all appear to have a genuine fondness for the boys. It would not surprise me at all if over their pints of ale they were actually bragging about the twins’ ingenuity.”
“But it would only require one servant who nursed a grudge ...”
“Dear Lord.”
“Have you thought of someone?”
“Yes—no—that is to say, no one connected with this affair. Just someone who is even now at the Red Stag waiting to hear from me—and who probably thinks I have forgotten all about her.”
“Her?” A slow smile spread over Thorverton’s face. “You have imported a female friend? You, who have no interest in women, or so you informed me not long ago in London.”
“She is Trussell’s discarded mistress,” Bronson said flatly. “And the mother of his son. And the boy looks enough like the twins to be their brother, so there is no doubt that she is telling the truth.”
Thorverton whistled. “That puts a different complexion on things. Although I fail to understand why it is up to you to settle Trussell’s obligations.”
“There is no obligation on my part, but I cannot help feeling sympathy for the poor woman. She is gently born and the daughter of a vicar, who of course set an example of proper Christian mercy by throwing her out of his house when he learned she was increasing. In any event, she is not asking for money from me. I merely promised I would try to find her a position. She has been supporting herself until now
as a cook, but her former employer is deceased, leaving her with no references. You would not happen to know of anyone needing a cook, would you?”
“Who me? I could find positions for any number of grooms and stable lads among my acquaintances, but most of them care more about their horses’ feed than about what they put in their own stomachs.”
“You could have your mother ask around.”
“Are you mad? To begin with, my mother is too self-centered to lift a finger to help anyone but herself. Secondly, the gossip about you is bad enough without adding to it. If it were to become known that you are involving yourself in this woman’s affairs, everyone will assume that you are the father of the boy.”
“I suppose this is not the time to tell you that I am paying her shot at the Red Stag?”
To Bronson’s surprise, Thorverton began to laugh. “Oh, my, such an innocent you are, Leatham. How could you be so ignorant of the perils and pitfalls of society? You, of all the men I know, most need a wife to look after you. But since you are determined to remain a bachelor, I suggest you ask Anne for advice. You hired her through some employment agency in London, did you not? She is bound to have some connections who can help find a position for the poor woman.”
Ask Miss Hemsworth? She was the last person Bronson would turn to. She had already judged him once and found him guilty of neglecting the twins. No, this was a matter to be handled privately by men. He would do what he should have done right from the first day, and ask his valet. Daws would know what to do.
* * * *
“It is working. My plan is working beautifully.”
Trussell was almost prancing around his bedroom in glee, as if he were responsible for the success of the fake assassination attempt instead of Wyke. The valet did not, however, bother to point out to his master who it was that had snatched victory out of defeat. It would not suit his purpose, namely blackmail at some future date, to emphasize that he, Wyke, was equally guilty as an accomplice after the fact.
“Now, then, Wyke, we must not let any grass grow under our feet. We must strike while the iron is hot, move to consolidate our position.”
Merciful heavens, his master was truly dicked in the nob. After their previous narrow escape, was he actually plotting fresh mischief?
“The first thing we are going to need for my new plan is ether, which I managed to procure in Tavistock yesterday.” Trussell pulled a blue bottle out of his pocket and held it up proudly.
Ecod, the man was clearly insane. Wyke cast around wildly in his mind for a way to stop the fool before they both ended up swinging from Tyburn.
The widow. Yes, it was time to summon the wealthy widow to Devon. She could distract Trussell from any further scheming. He would be so busy trying to defend himself from her determined advances, he would have no time for plotting another disaster.
* * * *
“I don’t know, m’lord. It is a rare employer who will hire a woman with a child.” Daws was showing a marked reluctance to come up with a solution to the problem of Martha Miller.
“She does not have to admit she is unmarried. She could say she is a widow,” Bronson pointed out.
‘Tis the child what is the problem, not the ring on her finger. Most rich folks don’t want someone else’s brat in their house, making noise and tracking in dirt. The only thing to do that I see is just hire her yourself.”
“Hah! What a wonderful idea. I should bring her to Wylington Manor, where no one would dream of linking my name with hers. Really, Daws, I expected better from you.”
His valet cast him an affronted look. “I said nothing about bringing her here. I was suggesting you hire her as cook at your own residence in Sidmouth. It is far enough away that no one would think to connect her with you—other than as an employee, of course.”
“My residence?” It had been so many years since Bronson was in Sidmouth, he had almost forgotten he still owned a town house there.
“Not that you need a cook since you’re never there, but it would be a fine place for a boy to grow up, so near the sea and all. And Mrs. Uglow, your housekeeper, is not a woman who would judge another person harshly. She has a goodly amount of true Christian charity.”
“I shall have to take your word for that.” Bronson thought for a minute or two, but could find no flaw in his valet’s proposal. “Very well, I shall do it.” He quickly gave Daws directions for finding Martha Miller and escorting her and her son to Sidmouth.
Relieved to have that chore off his mind, he went to find the twins and Miss Hemsworth, secure in the knowledge that he had stopped any potential gossip.
* * * *
Mrs. Pierce-Smythe sat propped up in bed sipping her morning chocolate and sorting listlessly through her mail. Nothing but tradesmen’s accounts—no billet-doux from any cicisbeo, no gilt-edged invitation to attend any of the last-minute festivities being squeezed in before the end of the Season.
Toward the bottom of the stack, however, one envelope stood out from the others and caught her attention. Opening it, she scanned the short message quickly, then rang for her maid. Tapping the letter against the fingers of her other hand, she contemplated this new information. Then a slow smile spread across her face.
“Suzette,” she said when her maid finally appeared, “start packing immediately. We are leaving for Devon tout de suite.”
“Oui, madame.”
“And send John Coachman to me, also. I have something to discuss with him concerning the trip.”
“Comme vous voulez, madame,” the maid replied, but she later told the cook, “She’s at it again. Got ‘er sights set on another titled gen’leman, the old bag does. She oughter be ashamed, at ‘er age. Still an’ all, I ain’t never seen Devon yet. Per’aps I’ll find me a rich young smuggler there, who’ll give me a silk dress and a ring on my finger, you never know.”
* * * *
“There, now if you connect those two stars in Ursa Major and extend the imaginary line beyond them, you will come to a particularly bright star, and that is the North Star.” Anne was lying on her back in the grass on a little hillock near Wylington Manor, and her three companions were likewise horizontal, all four of their heads virtually touching and their bodies angled out like points on a compass. “Do you see the one I mean?” She pointed up at the starry heavens.
“I think so,” one of the twins replied.
“I am almost positive I know which one it is,” his brother remarked.
“If you are navigating a ship,” Lord Leatham said in his deep voice, “you must do more than be almost positive, else you will likely run your ship aground on a reef. If you are interested in learning more, I have some star maps inside somewhere that you are welcome to study, and your father used to have a telescope, although I have not seen it for years.”
One of the twins said, “We know where to find it.”
There was a long silence after that remark, and Anne stifled a laugh. One thing she was thankful for: In the last few days Lord Leatham had learned not to question the boys too closely as to how they had acquired various bits and pieces of information. Ignorance, he had discovered, was more conducive to sound sleep, or so he had informed her privately.
“Look at the moon,” one of the boys said. “It seems so close, as if we could reach out and touch it.”
“Or go there,” his brother added.
“Do you suppose if someone made a balloon big enough, he could float up to the moon?”
“Perhaps,” the other twin allowed, “but it’d probably be better to use rockets.”
“Rockets?” There was a note of incipient panic in Lord Leatham’s voice.
Anne decided it was time to intervene. “Scientists say it is about two hundred and forty thousand miles to the moon. So at the rate of twenty miles per hour—”
“Which is about the fastest a human being has ever traveled—” Lord Leatham picked up on her cue.
“How long would it take to get to the moon?” she asked.
; The boys mumbled to themselves for a minute, then one of them said, “About five hundred days.”
“Plus another five hundred to get back,” Anne pointed out.
“And no posting houses along the way,” Lord Leatham added. “Which means you would have to take all your food along with you.”
“And water,” Anne said.
There was a long silence while the boys contemplated this. “That’s over three years,” one of them said finally. “That’s a long time.”
“Speaking of time, it is now well past your bedtime.” As much as she was enjoying the evening and the pleasant companionship, Anne knew she must not neglect her responsibilities as governess.
“Do you suppose, Uncle Bronson, that maybe tomorrow night, if we find the telescope—” One of the boys got up, his head tilted back, his gaze still on the heavens.
“And if it’s not raining or too cloudy—” The other boy scrambled to his feet also.
“Maybe we could all come out here again—”
“And look at the moon. Please, Uncle Bronson?”
“I should like that, too,” Anne admitted. “I have never seen the moon through a telescope.”
Lord Leatham stood up and looked down at her. “What is this, Miss Hemsworth? Have we finally found some area where your knowledge is deficient?”
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable lying flat on her back while he was looming over her, Anne sat up. Lord Leatham reached down to assist her in getting to her feet, and the feel of his hand holding hers only increased her agitation. “I am sure I am not half as experienced as you are.”
Realizing abruptly that her remark could be taken more than one way, she quickly attempted to clarify it. “That is to say, in your travels around the world, I am sure you have had many novel experiences.”
“To be sure, Miss Hemsworth, undoubtedly you are correct in your assumption that I am more experienced than you are.”
His words were conventionally polite and his voice sounded normal, but she was still left with the unsettling feeling that she had amused him. She looked up at his face, but since his back was to the moon, there was not enough light to see if he was smiling.
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