by Joan Smith
Kestrel moved closer on the sofa for some private conversation. We had to keep our voices low because of Sir Herbert. “Did you ever come across this paralysis of the tongue during your travels?” he asked.
“No, sir. This, if I am not mistaken, is a peculiarly English provincial disease. Possibly contracted from too close an association with sheep.”
“There is something positive to be said about shrews after all. At least they don’t hesitate to use their tongues.”
“As you so kindly imply, mine has never suffered from lack of exercise. I would like an opportunity to talk to you in private, if possible.” This time Kestrel didn’t look as though I meant to throw myself on his neck and make an improper proposal, as he did at the hop-picker’s cottage. Instead he glanced to see if anyone would notice our departure. Before we could get away, the door knocker sounded. We both jumped to rigid attention, ready for trouble.
The new addition to the party certainly didn’t look dangerous. He was introduced as Mr. Harcourt, a neighbor, and he proved to be a younger version of Sir Herbert—already portly at twenty-six or seven, red of face, boring of conversation, unstylish in toilette. Before long, he turned a yearning eye in Miss Longville’s direction. The papa obviously approved the match, as he suggested Nel, the name he called his daughter, show Alfred the new Sheepbreeders’ Monthly that had apparently arrived that day in the post. “An excellent article on sheeprot,” he added as further inducement to romance. Not that Alfred needed it.
With a mutinous scowl, Nel lumbered to the table where the magazine was kept. She had an ungainly walk for a lady. Mr. Harcourt went after her, and they took up seats apart from the rest of us. Sir Herbert turned to me. “Your nevvie is still poorly, you say?”
“His fever is still bothering him. Your daughter was kind enough to ask us to remain overnight.” I didn’t risk a glance at Kestrel, but from the corner of my eye I saw his head slew toward me.
“There is plenty of room. We’re happy to have you,” Longville said.
“If you gentlemen have business to discuss, pray don’t dally on my account,” I offered. My aim was to get out of the room and do some searching around the house and grounds.
Sir Herbert showed interest in escape, but he didn’t seem to think Kestrel was necessary for his business. “I do have a few letters I ought to get out tonight. If you two can amuse each other for an hour, I will join you then for a nightcap.”
Kestrel bowed his acquiescence, I smiled mine, and Sir Herbert lumbered off. I saw where Nel had inherited her gait. The man had scarcely left the room when Kestrel took my arm and led me off a little from the lovers in the corner, courting to the subject of sheeprot. We stood near the door, out of sight of the courting couple.
“You haven’t explained to me what you’re doing here,” he said.
“I did explain. Ronald has a fever.”
“He’ll have a cracked skull when I get hold of him. I told you I wanted to handle this myself.”
“A gentleman should accept defeat more gracefully, Lord Kestrel. We are here, and we shall stay for as long as necessary. Frankly, I think it imprudent of you to have come barging in as you did at this time with no apparent reason. Sir Herbert is bound to suspect something.”
“Give me credit for some sense. I didn’t come barging in with no reason. I took the precaution of having a message to deliver from the Foreign Office.”
“He’ll wonder why the French spies didn’t relieve you of that while they stole the other letter.’’
“He doesn’t know I was held up.”
“Of course he knows! He’s the one who tipped them off the letter was en route.”
Kestrel shook his head doubtfully. “I didn’t say I had a letter to deliver to Longville—I said a message. It was a verbal message, as we didn’t know when I left London who would be the recipient. After some careful consideration, I don’t think Sir Herbert does know about the holdup. You can see for yourself he isn’t the sort to be playing at spy games. I begin to think I’ve made a gross error here. The man’s life is this sheep farm. His family have been here for centuries. And his place is quite prosperous. A man like that doesn’t betray his country.”
“It’s those damned Rambouillet rams he’s after.”
“Ewes! Odd you can’t remember that.”
“I don’t fill my head with useless trivia. Rams, ewes, what’s the difference, except to other sheep?”
“It makes a difference to us sheepbreeders.”
“You! Don’t tell me you’re another mutton man!” This struck me as so ludicrous that a spontaneous laugh escaped my lips. I pictured all sheepbreeders as being similar to Sir Herbert and Mr. Harcourt—country bumpkins. I could no more picture Kestrel raising sheep than I could picture him catching the spies without my help.
Kestrel went into a pucker, and I felt the judicious course was to add sheep to the list of forbidden topics. “I mistook you for a city buck.”
“I expect that is a backhanded compliment,” he decided.
“Before your head begins swelling, I must point out I don’t agree with your reasoning about Sir Herbert. This sheep thing is a ruse to divert suspicion. No one could be that preoccupied with dumb animals. I believe he is an extremely cunning traitor. The question is, how do we set about proving it? Ronald has searched his bedchamber, with no success. What we must do is get into his study this evening after he retires.”
“I still don’t believe it, but as the spies were headed in this direction, and as there’s no one else at the F.O. living near here, I must complete my investigation. Alone,” he added, with a commanding stare.
“It might be best if we work independently,” I agreed. “They say two heads are better than one, and I daresay that means the two heads aren’t stuck together, like the shepherdess and her shepherd there.” I looked toward the corner as I spoke, and noticed that the two heads were, in fact, not together at all. Alfred’s was stuck in the Sheepbreeders’ Monthly, while Miss Longville’s was turned in our direction, looking as if she would like to join us.
“Alfred won’t win her, carrying on in that fashion,” Kestrel said.
“Is he a suitor?”
“Sir Herbert favors him—rather too strongly, in my opinion. He’s given his consent, without Nel’s approval. That’s bound to create mischief.’’
“Why did he do such a thing?”
“She has a handsome young wastrel in her eye. A local fellow named Bernard Kemp. If it weren’t for some good connections on his mother’s side, he wouldn’t be allowed into respectable houses. He’s run through his own fortune and is looking about for another one to marry. Miss Longville is extremely eligible. That is why her father takes her to London.”
“And Mr. Harcourt?”
“Likewise. Their farms march together. It would be an excellent match so far as real estate goes.”
“Good God, I never heard anything so gothic in my life!”
A satirical eyebrow lifted in my direction. “It’s by no means unusual. I made sure you would have a string of eastern customs to top it. Brides bartered for camels . . .” A quizzing smile egged me on to make a fool of myself again.
I was still embarrassed about my tirade over dinner, especially after mentally chastising Ronald for the same thing. “I was merely trying to find something other than sheep to discuss at dinner. I daresay I ran on longer than anyone enjoyed.”
Kestrel was well-bred enough to apologize for his jibes. “I, for one, enjoyed it, my behavior to the contrary. Any little shots of irony were mere ill humor at discovering you had worked your way in here against my wishes. Or perhaps it was your mistaking me for Nel’s father that got my feathers ruffled. I come to see you are a lady who doesn’t take anything sitting down. We have that in common, you know,” he warned, with a gleam of amusement darting out from beneath his drooping eyelids.
“Then it seems we are at an impasse. You don’t want my assistance; I have every int
ention of forcing it on you. One of us immovable objects of stubbornness should be watching for the arrival of the spies. Sir Herbert cannot have met with them yet. Unless— Good gracious. Kestrel, he could be meeting with them right now while we stand here twiddling our thumbs!”
He shook his head, peering toward the door. “No one’s entered his study. I’ve kept an eye peeled. Why do you think we’re standing uncomfortably behind a sofa, instead of sitting on it?”
“The spies might have been in there waiting for him. Or there could be a secret passage. This isn’t good enough. You must go and investigate. Pretend you want to talk to him.”
“I? I’m honored that you place the duty on my shoulders.”
“It would seem more natural coming from you.”
“Very true; I know the difference between a ram and a ewe. I’ll go and cadge a drink from him.”
He walked off, and I lent an ear to the lovers in the corner. Alfred’s wheedling voice was low, but audible. “Why not, Nel?” he begged. “You know your papa will make you have me in the end. I’ve put a new carpet in the saloon—blue, just as you like.”
“Papa needs me,” she replied firmly. “While he still works at Whitehall, I cannot abandon him.”
“He’s said a dozen times his sister would go to London with him. You have a beau there, haven’t you?” he asked jealously.
Miss Longville lifted her square chin and looked away, not deigning to answer. As she turned her head toward me, I quickly looked in another direction. I happened to spot a carafe of wine and some glasses on the sofa table. Kestrel’s excuse for interrupting Sir Herbert was ill chosen, but it gave me something to do till he returned. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down. Within a minute Kestrel was back, carrying a glass in his hand. He joined me on the sofa.
I pointed to the wine. “Next time, choose your excuse more carefully. There’s wine here.”
“Wine? Oh, I was after brandy.”
“Is that what you’re drinking! Kestrel, you know where brandy comes from! It’s smuggled in from France. If Sir Herbert has brandy—well, it’s perfectly obvious he’s in league with the smugglers. They bring him brandy, and he ships out secret documents. Imagine his being stupid enough to offer you brandy.’’
I expected surprise, perhaps a word of praise for my deducing. It was no such a thing. Kestrel’s lip curled in derision. “If having a keg of brandy in the cellar were enough to condemn a man, there wouldn’t be a pair of trousers in all of Kent walking free, including my own.”
“Do you mean to sit there and tell me you actually contribute to the French economy at a time like this? Putting money in Boney’s coffers to buy cannons?”
“No, money in our own English smugglers’ hands. And before you point a finger, I might just remind you that the silk in that pretty gown you’re wearing also comes illegally from France.”
If he thought to gain a point there, he was badly mistaken. “Of course it does! It belongs to Miss Longville.”
He looked with some interest at the gown. “I thought it was not quite in your style,” he said. The gown, you recall, had been described as “pretty.” I noticed when he said it that a compliment sounded out of place on his lips. Determined not to show my pique, I changed the subject.
“What was Sir Herbert doing when you saw him? Was he alone?”
“Just he and his ink pot. He was writing to Sussex to purchase some sheep-dip. Our own Kent supplier is better, but Sir Herbert is an experimenter.”
“He won’t meet the spies till we all retire. I believe I’ll do it now and save myself a lecture on sheep-dip.”
A mocking smile raked my face, lingering while Kestrel thought of a clever retort for my insulting the sheep-breeders. “Lectures on subject matter foreign to the listener do tend to become tedious,” he said blandly.
“I haven’t mentioned the East since I came back downstairs!”
“I noticed it, and I am extremely grateful for you forbearance, Miss Mathieson.”
“You said you enjoyed it!” You may imagine with what a chilly air I took my leave of him. I stopped to say good night to the couple in the corner as well. Alfred stumbled to his feet and bowed. Miss Longville said she hoped I slept well. I told her I was extremely fatigued, to prevent her stopping at my room later, and I left.
Nothing had been settled about searching Sir Herbert’s office, but I fully intended to do it, whatever about Kestrel. I stopped off to see Ronald. He had his lights out and his window open, with his head stuck out to hear what went on, as vision was poor.
“What’s afoot?” I enquired.
“It’s silent as a tomb out there.”
“I have officially retired for the night. I’m going to go out and scout around.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you’d best stay here in case someone decides to check up on your fever. If you hear anyone approach my door, tell them I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“What if it’s Kestrel?”
I gave him an icy stare, invisible, of course, in the dark room, but my tone was also frosty. “I shouldn’t think it at all likely he would do anything of the sort.”
“But if he does?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ronald! Use your head. You can tell him what I’m doing.”
Ronald gave an arch laugh. “That’s what I thought,” he answered.
Not knowing what I might end up doing outdoors, I deemed it wise to change back into my own traveling suit. It would be difficult to explain a rent or grass strain on her “pretty” gown to Miss Longville. To prevent the possibility of being seen if I went out by a door, I opened my bedroom window and let myself down by a thick branch of ivy that clung to the wall of the house. Not a word will I write about having had more perilous escapes abroad; the trip made tatters of my gloves, but they were already beyond polite use. Once on the ground, I took my bearings before doing anything else.
It was a chilly night. The soughing of the wind in the branches was strong enough to be heard above the breaking of the waves at the shore beyond sight. The sky was covered in layers of long, ragged clouds. If there was a moon, it was invisible, but a lightening at the edge of some of the clouds suggested it was up there, trying to shine.
My bedroom was at the back of the house, looking toward barns and outbuildings. It was possible Sir Herbert would come out this way later, but at the moment there was no sign of life, and I didn’t intend to enter that cavernous, black barn alone. What I wished to investigate first was what Sir Herbert was up to, and with that in mind, I skirted the house to his office. His drapes were partially drawn, but by standing on my tiptoes I had a view of him. He still sat at his desk, scribbling away. From time to time he looked at a magazine, or checked some address in a book by his side. What was he writing there, looking as innocent as the sheepfarmer he pretended to be?
I looked sharply for a long letter bearing a seal, which would indicate he had already got the letter stolen from Kestrel by the Frenchies. Nothing of the sort was seen. A little later, Mr. Harcourt stuck his head in at the door, smiled, said a few words, and left. Was Harcourt in on this nefarious business with Longville? It was possible. I nipped around to the front of the house, waiting for Harcourt to come out. He didn’t, but not much later I heard the sound of hoofbeats and the jingle of a harness, and saw Harcourt cutting across a field from the direction of the barn. Naturally, he had stabled his mount when he came calling. I knew no letter had been passed to Harcourt for delivery, so I forgot about him and returned to Sir Herbert’s window.
Miss Longville was with her father now. She wore her mulish face, Sir Herbert one of frustration. His arms flailed and his lips moved angrily. Whatever he said threw Nel into a fit of tears. She pulled out a handkerchief, raised it to her eyes. Then she lowered it, said something in a bold way, stamped her foot, and stalked from the office. Sir Herbert mumbled and poured himself another glass of smuggled brandy. It wouldn’t take a genius to realize
the father had been urging her to marry Harcourt.
Poor girl, I could feel sympathy for her predicament. How perfectly wretched to be shackled to a dull sheepfarmer for life, especially after a taste of London excitement. If time allowed, I might try to help her after we caught the traitor. In fact, I doubted Harcourt would be so eager to have her once her papa was revealed for the villain he was. They do say every cloud has a silver lining.
Sir Herbert was an extremely uninteresting villain, insofar as his activities that night went. He wrote another letter, put out his lamp, and left the office. If he was going to meet with the spies, this was the time for it. I rather thought Kestrel might join me, preferably with his pistol in his hand. I crept back to keep an eye on the barn and the rear of the house; for it seemed unlikely spies would enter by the front door.
For fifteen minutes I skulked in the shadows, feeling quite cold and uncomfortable. Not a single thing happened. There wasn’t even an owl or night creature stirring. I decided to make a circuit of the house, and went softly around the corner, back toward Sir Herbert’s office. I hardly bothered to glance at it, but my eye was caught by a flicker of light. Not a lamp, but a smaller light, moving freely through the room.
My heart thumped with excitement as I approached the window and put my nose to the pane. There was someone searching the office! A spy had come to get the stolen letter. Sir Herbert had secreted it in some prearranged spot. Probably all his scribbling was intended for Boney’s eyes as well. I was in a fever to let Kestrel know. He was the one who had the pistol, and a pistol would be required to catch this spy.
The candle was raised, held at arm’s length. The flame was so weak I couldn’t get a clear view of the man holding it. Not till he put it on the table and riffled through Sir Herbert’s correspondence could I make out the black slash of brows, the arrogant nose, and square chin of Lord Kestrel. He had taken my hint and gone to search Sir Herbert’s office after all. I was a little piqued that he hadn’t asked me to help him, or at least stand guard. I thought of tapping on the window and giving him a fright, but decided against it. He wasn’t having any luck in the office, so why should I waste time on him?