Hammerly raised his glass to examine Lyndell in that obnoxious way of his. She hadn’t found the ratty squirrel shawl in Felicia’s clothespress, and wasn’t about to ask Sarah if it was in the Bennetts’ ransacked closet, so she wore her own green cape. Hammerly stared long and hard at it, as if trying to recall it or to remember whether the inn proprietress had been so slouchy the day before. He lowered the walking stick and moved on, with a brief “I trust you will enjoy it,” leaving the distinctive imprint of left boot heel, right boot heel, then small circle where the cane made its mark. He should have been easy to trace, but none of the visible tracks they were following had that third impression.
“So the cane is just another affectation, only for the public, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Cheyne replied, “just like his drawl. And just like your stoop and those absurd spectacles. You can take them off now, before you walk into a tree. Here,” and he removed them for her, taking the opportunity for a gentle kiss. Lyndell motioned toward the boy and Cheyne laughed. “The ideal chaperone; he won’t tell anything! But, Sam’l, did you notice the snow on Hammerly’s boots? He must have left the road at some point not too distant, so keep an eye out. Here, try Ajax on this.” He presented a glove taken from Hammerly’s room. Instead of sniffing it to fix the scent in his head, the dog grabbed the glove for a game of tug-of-war, then stood shredding it when the marquis let go, laughing.
The boy and the dog dashed ahead. Cheyne took Lyndell’s hand in his, as if it belonged there. It did.
“Wesley,” she asked as they walked, off the hard-packed road now and through snow, “are you so sure it’s Hammerly? What if it was Crowley or Dodgett, or someone else entirely, who hasn’t even come yet?”
“I was not quite so sure until this morning. As for the others, Crowley was sent by Lord Wilkerson to see if I needed any assistance.”
“That old reprobate, working for the government?”
“Oh no, my dear. Earls don’t work, they volunteer. He’s very handy, you know. Gets everywhere, talks to everyone. He’s really a fine chap.”
“Well, what of Dodgett? He could have stashed the seals in his telescope and no one would be the wiser.”
“Sorry. Dodgett is one of the foremost tacticians for the Admiralty.”
“That moonling? I can’t believe it!”
“You’ll have to, pet. The stargazer’s a brilliant logistics expert. Advises the entire fleet on weather, tides, wind-shifts. His loyalty is unquestionable.”
“What about Willy, then?”
Cheyne laughed. “My cousin Willy? He hasn’t two thoughts to rub together! Whatever made you think of him?”
“I didn’t, not really; it was just your suspecting the Bennetts, who practically raised me.”
“The Bennetts? I never even considered them. They’d just arrived, for one thing. And Mrs. Bennett is one of the starchiest ladies I know, a lot more moral than the Almack’s patronesses!”
“Then you didn’t search their rooms last night?”
“Of course not. Why do you always think the worst of me? I wonder, though ...”
Ajax was barking and hopping around excitedly while poor Sam’l tried to restrain him before the dog obscured the trail ahead. It was not easy, without a collar on the animal, the dog so big, the boy so small, until Cheyne ordered him down. The dog sat, wagging snow all over his back, but he sat. Lyndell and the marquis were able to see where the footsteps circled right around a large tree, before doubling back toward the inn on a path a few feet away. At the rear of the tree there was a hollow in the trunk, and a large stomped-down area. Cheyne looked in the depression, then felt around it with his gloved hand.
“Nothing. But I doubt the seals were here. See how he paced around in back? And there doesn’t seem to be a dry spot where a package rested. No, I think this was an old hiding place and he came here out of desperation, thinking Quinn may have moved the seals from the inn before leaving. I’d bet they were supposed to be in Quinn’s quarters, Mrs. Bennett’s rooms. Hence last night’s search.”
“But they weren’t there, nothing was. And Hammerly didn’t find them, or he’d not have come out here. So what now?”
“Now he should have to contact Quinn, unless he already has. He should be getting anxious. Anxious enough to make a mistake. Then we’ve got him!”
Chapter Twenty-three
“No, Lord Cheyne, you shall not spend the night in my bedroom!”
“What happened to ‘Wesley’?” Lyndell and Cheyne were having tea in the parlour alone, and he was quietly explaining his plan. “It’s the only way, pet, besides my most favourite wish. And here I thought ... ?” There was that devilish grin, the one that made her insides feel like pudding. “No? We shall have to talk about it later. For now, it is one thing to use you for bait, quite another to throw you to the wolves. If I hint to Sir Frauncis that you have the seals, and you’re ready to go to the authorities, he will have to try something, something you couldn’t handle but I could. Therefore, during dinner you will disappear, with everything you’ll need for the night. An empty room or Felicia’s or mine—no, I wouldn’t trust Willy. Either way, you will not be seen in the halls after dinner. If Hammerly comes to your room, which I’ll leave unlocked, he’ll prove his own guilt.”
“What makes you think he doesn’t share your interest in sharing my bed?”
“You would most likely slap me if I told you. No, he’ll be there for less pleasurable purposes, and I’ll be waiting for him. Farrow will be on the alert, and I’ll tell Bennett to keep watch.”
“What about Jamison? Shouldn’t we notify him?”
“Ah, the captain. I have a feeling he’ll know. We can send for him tomorrow if this plan fails.”
“But what if Hammerly sends Quinn or someone else, another smuggler? Or more than one?”
“You are borrowing trouble. Miss Riddley. Quinn would not dare show his face, firstly, and secondly, Hammerly is only expecting to deal with one female. He won’t send in the troops. To make sure, I’ll tell Bennett to see that no one else gets up the stairs. We’ll have to make certain anyone seeking rooms is turned away. The fewer people around, the safer for everyone.”
For everyone but you, Lyndell thought, but she did not say it.
* * * *
“How lucky, Signora Fravielli, some of your countrywomen are staying here too. Sisters of the Blessed Virgin, I believe. You’ll be able to converse with them at dinner. You can’t stay? How unfortunate. I’ll give your regrets to the sisters.”
* * * *
“A room. Lord Minhard, for you and your ... two companions? Room Fourteen is the only one available. I think they’ll have removed the bodies by now.”
* * * *
“I’m so sorry, Lord Reynald, we have no suite for you and ... Lady Reynald. Most of the inn is let to the Slovakian National Dance Band. They are practising here before touring London. We do have a small room ...”
* * * *
Dinner was stuffed goose and gossip. The marquis skillfully directed the conversation down light, non-personal routes, alternating between on dits and sporting talk, for Willy’s sake. Willy and Sir Frauncis had almost nothing in common, neither age nor interests, and it was only the younger man’s courtesy that hid his boredom and disdain. He excused himself before the port, at his cousin’s nod. Then, not having to face any awkward questions from Willy, the marquis was able to come to the point.
‘Tell me, Hammerly, do you think old Crowley could be right about Miss Riddley, that she’s just a vapourish female, given to imaginings?”
“Did Crowley say that?” Hammerly swirled the wine in his glass, looking at Cheyne through pale, red-rimmed eyes.
“Oh, you know Crowley. He thinks every woman would be better off with a quick toss. But that woman does have some dashed peculiar notions.”
“Oh?” The man was good, Cheyne decided; he’d be a hard one to read at cards.
“Yes, she keeps nattering on about some evidence in
a courier’s death. Something about a spy ring. If it’s true, she ought to go to the authorities, I told her. But I don’t know, it could all be a hum. You’ve been in this neighbourhood before. Do you know anything about it?”
“I do recall something of that nature, rather dreadful occurrence, to be sure. Does the lady have the evidence though? You’d look foolish calling in the Home Guard or whatever one does, on a woman’s whim.”
“Just what I thought! She said something about seals, but she wouldn’t let me see them, doesn’t trust me, I suppose.” It occurred to the marquis, and not for the first time, that Miss Riddley did not, in fact, trust him at all. He had given her every opportunity to unburden herself, to tell him one good reason for the blasted disguise, to tell him just what she was hiding. He felt he was almost ready to accept any excuse she might give, no matter how damning, as long as she gave it. He knew she thought him a libertine and a philanderer; he could cross that bridge with time. This deeper mistrust, the basic lack of sharing, was an insurmountable gulf, a chasm between them.
“Perhaps she just doesn’t like men. You know those dried-up shrews.”
Cheyne remembered those kisses, and smiled. “Perhaps. Ah, well, I suppose we’ll never understand women. What do you say to a hand of piquet to while away the evening? Fine. I’ll just look in on Will first. He was looking a trifle peaked. Be back immediately.”
What Cheyne was doing, actually, was offering Hammerly a chance to stew. The marquis didn’t want to give him too much time, or a chance to flee altogether, just enough to come up with the most likely solution: stealing the evidence. Cheyne also wanted to warn Willy and Farrow that the trap was sprung, to be on guard. He brought a book of poems of Sir Walter Scott into Miss Riddley, safely, but not serenely, locked in the maid’s room.
“Thank you. How kind. Did you tell him?”
“Hmm?” The marquis was lost. Here was the real Miss Riddley, whoever she might be. The soft reddish curls, the glowing skin, an emerald robe making her eyes appear even greener. Maybe it didn’t matter, after all.
“Sir Frauncis—did you hint to him that I had the seals?” She spoke a little louder, breaking his reverie.
“Shh. Yes, and he seemed so indifferent he’s either a masterful actor, or thoroughly innocent. I had better go keep him occupied, and you had better stay in this room, my love, or it will be bellows to mend with you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” she answered demurely, then added, “Please be careful.”
He winked at her before turning to go back down.
Lyndell paced. Then she read a poem from Cheyne’s book, trying to think of him reading it, wondering which were his favourites. Then she paced some more. This was absurd! It could take hours, most likely would, before Hammerly took any action; it wouldn’t be until long after all the lights were out, and the men were still downstairs. And how was Cheyne to get into her room without Hammerly seeing or hearing him? Felicia had not even come to bed, so Lyndell had no one to talk to, to tell of her doubts and fears. What a stupid plan!
* * * *
As it turned out, it was not so much the fault of the plan, as the failure to account for all the players. Cheyne had overlooked Hammerly’s hole-card, the joker of the deck, and had misdealt the queen out of the game. The marquis found himself playing solitaire, while Lyndell gambled at Hazard.
When Felicia finally came to bed, she was carrying a note addressed to Miss Riddley. “I found this on the table in the hall. Who is it from?”
“It does not say,” Lyndell murmured, distracted. What it did say was: “If you ever want to see your brother Jasper alive, be at the King’s Mark coach house at one hour past dawn, and bring the seals. Come alone.” There was no signature, but none was needed.
Lyndell’s first thought was to go straight to the marquis. But no, he had told her to stay. Her second thought was that if she got a message to him in time he would insist on going with her, or instead of her, putting himself in danger again. The hours she had already spent worrying over him convinced her to keep her own counsel for now.
She knew the coach house—of course, she did—and how it was situated on a rise, away from all other buildings, with the grooms’ chambers upstairs giving an open view of anyone approaching. No, stealth could not save Jasper; nor could a whole troop of rescuers, not without the seals. If she rode to Jamison to fetch a company of soldiers, to surround the coach house and demand surrender, Jasper would be killed and named as the traitor, with no way to prove otherwise. Then again, what if that slimy Jamison did not believe her, would not bring his men? No, she would have to do it herself, with or without the dratted seals.
There was something of the night’s tension in her resolution, and something of rebellion against her recent thoughts of giving up her hard-won independence. And there was something else, a lesson she had learned long ago, taking a horse out of the stable without permission. That mare had been too big for a twelve-year-old Lyndell, but her pony was no more challenging than a rocking horse, and she would just show Bennett and those Riddleys how well a Markham could ride, see if she didn’t. It had taken a great, painful while for her to mount, the stepping block still not giving her the full height she needed. Then she had stood on the fence beams, but the horse moved and she was on the ground. Her next effort sent her right over the mare’s back, and onto the ground again. Finally she had been up, for two minutes, until Bennett whistled to the horse. Insignificant penny’s weight on her back or not, the mare was going to have her lump of sugar. The animal had headed for the gate—and Lyndell had headed for the ground. The mare had gotten her sugar, Lyndell had gotten the wind knocked out of her, and then a thrashing from Joshua Riddley, tears from her mother, and a moral from Bennett:
“ ‘At’ll teach you to bite off more’n you can chew.” It didn’t. What it taught Miss Markham was not to get caught, and not to fall off.
She mightn’t have the seals, but what Lyndell did have, besides her determination, was money and prestige. She had not met the situation in many years where her family name and a full purse could not work wonders. As much as she might deplore the hypocrisy and insincerity of aristocratic trappings, they were handy when dealing with prigs like Hammerly, to whom social standing and wealth meant everything. She also reassured herself with the fact that while a dead Miss Riddley might cause a local stir, a murdered Miss Markham would create a furor that Hammerly could not hope to avoid.
She no longer had to worry over Cheyne’s well-being, and she felt confident of her own. As for Jasper, he would be safe until she could get to him at dawn. Lyndell acknowledged that concern for Jasper himself had not been a large factor in her early actions. But as much as she might wish to have him drawn and quartered, she would do her utmost to see no one else harmed him! The fear of scandal no longer mattered either. If the Marquis of Cheyne could not accept poor Miss Riddley with her weasel-principled brother and no dowry, then Miss Markham would just retire from society altogether. She’d live at King’s Mark and raise pugs, and Aunt Hardesty and the others would recover as soon as a new scandal brewed. Of course, Lyndell did not really like the pop-eyed dogs, but for now she would concentrate her worry on waking up on time. As soon as Felicia’s breathing softened, Lyndell pulled open the curtains, so the morning sun could come in. The bed looked too warm and soft, so she piled blankets around her on the chair, then drowsed a bit. She woke the first of many times with a trembling start, hearing a pug’s asthmatic wheeze. Gads, who would have thought Felicia snored? At least there was no chance of oversleeping!
* * * *
“Fine game, Hammerly. You almost had me, that last hand. Think I’ll turn in now. What about you?”
“Oh, not so early. I’m used to Town hours, don’t you know. Didn’t realise it was so dashed boring in the country. What do the locals do? I think I’ll stay by the fire here; at least the brandy is good.”
Hammerly’s plan suited Cheyne, who had time to go to his own room, fetch his pisto
l, put Farrow on the alert, and position the chair in Miss Riddley’s room to face the door. He settled down to his uncomfortable vigil as Hammerly called out to the barkeep for another bottle. Cheyne, of course, could not hear the dandy offer Bennett a glass or insist on it, as a token of his appreciation for excellent service. And Cheyne, upstairs in Lyndell’s bedroom, certainly could not see the white powder that trickled into Bennett’s drink along with the wine.
Chapter Twenty-four
The note had said one hour past dawn. Was dawn sunrise or first light? Lyndell did not know. As soon as it was bright enough to see, she splashed some cold water on her face and put on her dress. She had not brought any of her own gowns to Felicia’s room, so the brown bombazine would have to do, but she combed her hair till sparks flew and pinched her cheeks to offset the fabric’s muddy tones, then covered it with her own emerald green cloak before creeping down the stairs. Bennett was asleep at the hall desk, his head on the ledger. He’d always tried so hard to protect her, poor dear, Lyndell was glad she didn’t have to lie to him. The inn was still, except for his breathing, and every creaking step she took toward the front door—away from the light-sleeping Sarah—sounded like a thunderclap to Lyndell’s ears. The door moaned like an actress in a Cheltenham tragedy, but Bennett didn’t move, nor was there a challenge from the kitchen.
Lyndell was out, watching her breath make smoke in the air and hurrying back toward the stables, when Ajax barked. “Hush, you miserable beast,” she shushed him, running up to him and pushing the dog back through the stable door. His bark was about to change to a welcoming yelp when she shoved her leather glove into his mouth. She led him to the loose box which had become his bed, hoping to calm him back to sleep, or at least keep him occupied. Ajax ran into the stall to begin shredding the glove, and Lyndell followed. There was Sam’l, sitting up on a straw pallet, rubbing his eyes. His blankets were all about, showing where he’d spent the night, instead of the nice room they’d fixed for him in the grooms’ quarters overhead.
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