Mandy

by Claudy Conn

  “Ouch,” he yelped and brushed his nose, “I don’t see that was called for.”

  “Don’t you? Too bad, for then it means it might happen again,” his sister answered.

  The duke watching the two barked a laugh. “Get back to your story, gamine.”

  “Aunt Agatha has inherited Celia’s funds…all of them. Apparently from what Sarah overheard, they are while not sizeable, quite enough to cover Aunt Agatha’s debts and then some.” She glanced around and found that the duke was the only one who seemed to appreciate the significance of this.

  Ned shrugged and asked, “What’s that got to do with anything? ‘Tis only natural that she would inherit as I’m not supposing poor Celia even had a will. No doubt it was that trust fund she had inherited from her father. Stands to reason his wife would inherit it.”

  “Precisely. Ned, don’t you see? Aunt Agatha must have known that.” She made an impatient sound and added, “Aunt Agatha was in dire straits. Sarah told me Rawlings had said that she needed Celia’s money.”

  “Gadzooks, sis,” Ned said as dawning lit on his face. “But, you aren’t suggesting she was wicked enough and strong enough to strangle Celia… are you?”

  “Yes I am,” Mandy said. “Aunt is a large woman. Uncle used to call her ‘his Amazon’ and I believe she is most capable of doing the awful deed. She despised Celia, you know and perhaps she was just desperate enough.” She frowned and wagged a finger in the air at no one in particular, “I suggest to you, that it is as likely she killed her as you did.”

  “Well, it certainly gives her motive,” the duke said quietly. “Even though, if she was hoping to get the entire Sherborne estate if Ned were incarcerated, she would not. It is entailed and would go to you Mandy, though the title would go to the closest living Sherborne.”

  “Yes, but I am out of the way, am I not, as Ned is, we are fugitives and once your guardianship is over, she would take the running and handling of our accounts, wouldn’t she?”

  The duke’s brows went up, “I suppose she might try, though I should not allow that to occur and would tie it up in the courts, so you have no fear on that side.”

  “That is not my point. My point is that Aunt Agatha had motive for killing Celia.” Mandy returned.

  No one spoke for a moment and then the duke said, “Indeed, it is worth thinking about, but my instincts tells me that while it was I believe in your Aunt’s eyes, a lucky convenience for Celia to die at this time; I don’t believe she was the murderer.”

  “Aye,” said Ned. “I’m with the duke on that score. Don’t like our aunt, but don’t think she murdered Celia.” He turned to Chauncey, “What do you think ‘ole boy?”

  “’Ole boy, is it? I’ll pull yer whiskers, I will young’un,” Chauncey said with a grin and then rolled his lips upwards to add, “No, never cared much for your aunt, but I’m with the duke on this as well. Don’t think she was the murderer.” He got to his feet and announced, “Going down to the river. Do a little fishing.”

  Ned scrambled up, took a couple of tarts and wrapped them in his plaid napkin and said, “Capital idea!” He turned to the duke. “Do you join us?”

  “Not now lads, but enjoy and stay out of sight,” the duke warned.

  Mandy watched them leave and suddenly found herself wrapped in the duke’s arms. He snuggled her ear and whispered, “I can’t get you out of my mind. Kiss me woman,” and without waiting for her to comply, he bent his head and lightly brushed her lips with his own.

  Magic, bright and shiny magic.

  That was what he was, like a star she had somehow found, reached for and actually touched. She closed her eyes as she kissed him back and softly told him, “I had not expected you back today.”

  “I was worried when I left. I wasn’t sure Chauncey would come back with anything substantial for you to eat, and my gamine, you seem to be getting thinner each day. I wanted to bring you some food and make certain you ate,” he answered on a frown. His hand flicked her nose as he released her. He didn’t wait for a reply but sighed and commented thoughtfully, “There is, however, something about the Barings in York that nips at my memory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am not certain, but it will come to me.” He stared down into her eyes and she felt her breathing quicken. “When this is all behind us, I mean to give you a London Season and see you established as you should be.”

  Her jaw dropped with her heart into the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t speak. What was he saying? He wanted to marry her off to another? Was he already thinking of how he would be rid of her?

  “I see,” she said quietly.

  “Now, I must go, but don’t leave the Abbey while your brother is gone, if not for me, for him.”

  “I would never do anything to hurt my brother, so please don’t feel it necessary to point out what I should or shouldn’t do. I don’t like it,” she answered curtly.

  He eyed her oddly, “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He bent to brush her lips with his own but she took a step back from him and he stopped and frowned down at her before saying, “Till later, love.”

  She watched as he strode to the barn and then watched as he mounted his horse and started off. He looked back at her and his blue eyes twinkled even as his lips curved into a warm smile.

  Against her will, her hand moved to wave. What was wrong with her? She stood like a love-struck simpleton, waving at a man who would forget her the moment she was out of sight.

  She rebuked herself as soon as she could no longer see him in the distance. She had wanted to experience what it would be like to have the woman in her aroused by such a man. Right. She had and it had been all consuming and now?

  Now she had gone and done it. In love, desperately in love, but happy? Oh, no. She was in love with a man who wanted to give her a season and be rid of her.

  Fine. Just fine.

  Chapter Eleven

  ALFRED SPEENHAM GLANCED down his narrow nose and found that his pewter of ale was nearly empty. He brought his languid gaze up and surveyed the tavern galley of the Cock Pit with a show of ennui.

  There was no one worth conversing with and no sport to be had, except the wench washing down the oak tables. He’d had her many times and she certainly was a lively one in bed. He smiled as he called out to her.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he invited and patted his thigh. “Can’t you see I’m fair stalled? Come sit on my knee and sing me a song.”

  “Go on wit ye, darlin’ man. He’ll have m’head, he will. We are short a gal tonight and I have got to do double m’work.” She gave him a saucy smile and added, “But there is no telling what will happen later when no one is lookin’.”

  The tavernkeeper stepped out and pointed at her, “Here now, Dee…cook needs ye.” He glanced between her and Alfred but said nothing more as he turned away.

  Speenham called Bailey, the innkeeper back, “Eh, my man. I hear tell there is a runner putting up here.”

  Bailey eyed Speenham speculatively for a moment before he answered, “Do they say so? Don’t know of any runner. Have but the one guest this week, a Mr. Fowler and he don’t call ‘imself a runner.”

  Alfred shrugged. He knew the tavernkeeper liked Ned and didn’t like him. He had always known that. Fact was that most of the locals had always liked the Sherborne twins. There was no understanding that, but he pursued. “So then, you don’t think this Fowler person has come to Harrowgate to search out my cousins?”

  “I don’t know naught about it. ‘Ceptin the young lord did no more kill that poor girl than he would his own sister!” snapped the tavernkeeper.

  “There are those who think he did,” returned Alfred carefully, playing with his fork and not meeting the tavernkeeper’s eyes.

  “And there’s more that know otherwise,” retorted the man sharply.

  This conversation was doomed to failure. It was at that moment interrupted as a shadow filled the tavern entrance and Speenham looked up to find an imposing figure
standing in its large opening.

  * * *

  “Your Grace,” Alfred hailed with a welcoming smile and an overdone flourish, as though pleased to exhibit a friendship with such an imposing figure.

  “Ah,” returned the duke, going toward him leisurely, “Mr. Speenham.”

  “May I invite you to join me in a bumper of ale?” Speenham asked.

  The duke didn’t hesitate, but nodded and took up a chair. Speenham put up two fingers and motioned to the waitress.

  “May I ask what news you have regarding my cousins?” Speenham inquired lightly, before taking a long pull on his tankard.

  “I am afraid I have nothing to report. They have hidden themselves well. In fact, I have reason to believe they are being put up by some loyal friends of young Sherborne’s, some distance from Harrowgate.”

  “I would have thought the viscount would have housed them…as he has been their friend a lifetime,” Speenham remarked. “But you are staying with Skippendon yourself, are you not?”

  “They are too smart to stay where they might be found. The viscount’s residence would have been too obvious,” answered the duke. “Servants…talk.” The duke said this last with meaning and was gratified to find Speenham regard him curiously. However, at that moment, a newcomer entered the galley and the duke’s gaze shifted to him.

  The duke noted that the man was short and wearing a low-crowned felt hat, an old-fashioned coat buttoned across the breast, and open over a large belly. He was hailed by the tavernkeeper as Mr. Fowler, but the duke felt that he would have recognized him anyway.

  “Excuse me a moment,” the duke said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.

  “What the deuce are you doing?” Speenham asked.

  “Why, I am going to have a word with Mr. Fowler. I understand he is new to Yorkshire and is looking to buy property,” said the duke, raising his brow as though challenging any interference.

  “But, Your Grace,” murmured Speenham, “I…I think the fellow is a runner…”

  “Indeed? I, on the other hand, am quite certain of it,” the duke smiled and gave Alfred his back as he strode across the main galley and approached the man with cat-sticks for legs.

  “Mr. Fowler,” the duke said with an utterly charming smile. “Won’t you join Mr. Speenham and me at our table?”

  “Eh? How did ye know m’calling, and who might ye be?” asked Mr. Fowler. He eyed them with open suspicion.

  The duke inclined his head. “I am Brock Haydon, Duke of Margate. I have heard that you are looking for land in the vicinity. As it happens, a friend of mine has a parcel that he is thinking of putting up for sale.”

  “Is that so? Well, Yer Grace…”

  “Come, do sit with us so that we may be private,” the duke interrupted him in his most gracious manner.

  “Thankee, think I will,” replied the runner taking up a chair and sinking heavily upon its stiff wood seat.

  The duke procured a tankard of ale for the man and took up a chair beside him, noting that Speenham looked uncomfortable. He had to wonder at it.

  Mr. Fowler took a long pull of his ale before setting his pewter mug down. “There now, you say this friend of yers has some land?”

  “Indeed yes, he is looking to sell off a sizeable plot,” the duke answered auspiciously.

  “May I know his name then?” Fowler asked looking at the duke with his narrowed gaze, reminding the duke of a wary cat.

  “Of course, though I must caution you that this is most confidential.”

  Mr. Fowler acknowledged this by nodding. Alfred Speenham continued to watch in silence.

  “It is,” the duke lowered his voice, “the Viscount Skippendon’s land. Though I am not familiar with the terms, I do believe the price may be most attractive,” suggested the duke blandly.

  “Is that so? Well, I am most particular about what I want. Looking for something near water, ye see.”

  “Just so. This parcel borders the Wharfdale River, you know,” the duke offered enthusiastically.

  “Well, well, does it now?” Fowler gave nothing away from his stolid expression. “When I’m ready, I shall be happy to approach him then, I will, but for now I think I’ll jest keep m’eyes out for I’m looking for something in particular.”

  “In particular?” Speenham finally spoke.

  “Aye, most particular I am,” Fowler said and leveled a curious look at Speenham.

  The duke could not help but note that Speenham squirmed in his chair and was surprised by it. Well, well, now what was Speenham hiding? Hiding something he most definitely was.

  The duke felt someone approach and looked up to find an elderly and bald man, portly of body and holding a beaver top hat in his hand. He came to take a stand near Fowler’s elbow and cleared his throat. The duke noted that he was clothed in what the he thought of as a cit’s attire, like a man of business and his brow went up to hear Fowler say, “Ah, Mr. Rawlings.”

  Well, well, thought the duke, so this was by appointment then—and must be the Rawlings that Mandy had spoken of. What was Agatha Brinley’s banker doing meeting with Fowler?

  Fowler got to his feet, drained his tankard and said, “Gentlemen, do please excuse me, as I have an appointment.”

  Without another word, Fowler took up Rawlings elbow and led him away. Now this was damned interesting. What the devil did the runner want with Aunt Agatha’s banker? And what was it he had read about this bank in the Chronicle? Why wouldn’t it come to him? Something about the Barings Bank of York…?

  “Why on earth did you invite him over here?” Speenham almost spluttered as the words hissed out of his mouth.

  “Why? I though it clear. He is looking for land—I offered him some,” the duke answered glibly.

  “Indeed, I know nothing about any land that Skippendon has for sale,” Speenham returned indignantly.

  “You wouldn’t would you…after all, you and Skip are scarcely friends,” the duke returned as he found he could not keep his lip from curling derisively.

  Speenham ignored this and continued, “And he is a runner…after my cousins. You know that and still invited him over.”

  “Yes, you are quite right. He is a runner. Why Alfred, are you so suddenly concerned?”

  “After all, one doesn’t want one’s own cousins captured by a London runner!” Speenham snapped.

  “Indeed—when it was your own father who turned Ned over to the authorities for questioning even before he had instituted an investigation of his own?”

  “That was quite different,” Speenham spat back at the duke sullenly.

  “Was it indeed? I fail to see the difference.” The duke rose and pushed away from his chair. He had all that he needed for the moment. “Good evening, sir.” He found he could not stomach Alfred Speenham. When he had his Mandy safely out of this situation, this was one connection he would see to it was totally cut out of her world.

  His Mandy? How easily he had begun to think proprietarily about her. How did that happen? When had that happened? He knew the answer. From the moment you kissed her! His mind shouted. He shook this off. He couldn’t think of that now. Now, all he wanted to do was clear her brother and end his guardianship.

  As he mounted his gelding, a familiar figure on horseback approached him, the light from the courtyard torches casting an eerie shadow over the man’s face. Here was another man he wanted out of Mandy’s life.

  “Margate!” Sir Owen called.

  He eyed Sir Owen unsmilingly and nodded, “Good evening, Owen.”

  “Are you returning to Wharfdale Manor?”

  The duke gave him an inclination of his head and waited as he gazed at him coldly. He didn’t trust the man and he didn’t like him.

  “I am myself returning home and as our paths are for a time the same, I thought we might talk along the way.”

  “Not, sir, if your conversation carries some of yesterday’s strain,” the duke returned curtly.

  Pleasant apparently when it suite
d him, the duke’s brow went up as Sir Owen chuckled and curious, he waited.

  “Come now, you can’t think me such a rum-touch. What I had to say, I said to Skippendon’s face—not behind his back. Now admit it, Margate, you can have no quarrel with me on that score. There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

  “Indeed? Do tell?” the duke returned dryly.

  “I should like to discuss…well this is about Amanda Sherborne,” Sir Owen blurted out.

  The duke felt his entire body stiffen. “What about Miss Sherborne?”

  “She is your ward and therefore I thought it not expedient, but polite to inform you that I intend to marry her,” Owen returned.

  “Because you stand in need of her fortune,” the duke stated, not asked.

  “I admit I am in such straits that I must marry well, but that is not totally why I want to marry her. I am enchanted with her.”

  “Do you seek my approval? If so, you are out, Owen. Mark me, I will stand in your way,” the duke answered on a hard note.

  “I don’t need your approval, Margate. If the lady will have me—and I rather think she will, I will take her and keep her and try and make her happy. I am quite fond of her…indeed, how could any man with eyes in his head, not be?”

  The duke wanted to knock the man off his horse and then blacken his eye and break his nose. However, he asked, “And the lady in question—why do you think she may marry you?”

  “How could she not? Stuck here in the wilds…now a fugitive, what choices does she have?” Owen shrugged, “And I am running out of time. She comes of age in a month or so and my creditors won’t be held back much longer than that. I have a horse running soon and chances are he might bring me in enough to cover me in the meantime…”

  “Scoundrel! You shan’t have her, so look elsewhere for your fortune,” the duke could hardly contain himself. He damn well was going to beat the man to a pulp if he stayed in his company much longer. He stalled these feelings by asking himself what all the heat was about. “Besides,” he stuck in, “She wouldn’t have you if you were the last man on earth. You don’t know her.”