Again, that wistful sigh. “Yes, I suppose so. If you’re ready, we’ll go back downstairs.” With a brightness that seemed somewhat forced, she added, “Did you notice the suit of armor in the hall? When I was little, Claudia and Jamie used to tell me it came to life at night and prowled about the corridors. I was terrified of it!”
Pickett, eager to give her thoughts a happier direction, expressed his interest in being shown this object of her childhood nightmares, and they prepared to head back downstairs. As he turned away from the nursery, however, the morning sunlight struck the bare floorboards—children, it seemed, did not warrant such luxuries as carpet, no matter how wealthy their parents—and he noticed a curious sight.
“Do you know if anyone uses the nursery anymore?” he asked as they descended the stairs.
“No, but I doubt it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I daresay it is not even cleaned with any frequency. Did you notice the dust on the floor?”
He had indeed. And he had also seen, in the shaft of sunlight, a path of footprints crossing the room, leaving shiny spots on the floor where the dust had been disturbed.
Apparently the Runyon ghost was fond of children.
Chapter Four
In Which John Pickett
Makes His Bow to the Local Gentry
“I’m afraid I shall have to beg off, my lady,” Pickett apologetically informed his wife later that evening, after they had retired to their room to prepare for dinner at nearby Brantley Grange. “My head ...” He raised one hand to his temple and tried to look pathetic.
In fact, his head was not troubling him at all, but he wanted to explore the nursery more thoroughly without having to explain his actions to Julia or her parents. The injury he had sustained a fortnight earlier seemed as good an excuse as any to avoid a dinner he had no desire to attend in any case.
Displaying a shrewdness that he found disconcerting, Julia regarded him with one eyebrow skeptically raised. “Your head, is it? When it has not troubled you all day! Confess, John, you are fighting shy of being paraded before Somersetshire society!”
“Well, now that you mention it—”
“It won’t be so bad, I assure you. They are not the sort of aristocracy one might meet in London, but only country gentry, most of whom I have known all my life.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you—”
“Do you think I am ashamed of having married you?” she demanded, with the light of battle in her eyes. “Nothing could be further from the truth! Why, after Frederick was murdered, you cut quite a romantic, even a heroic, figure. You would not deprive me of the opportunity to show you off just a little, would you?” she added coaxingly.
Privately, he doubted her friends and neighbors would be very much impressed, but when she looked at him like that, he could deny her nothing. “Very well, then, if you insist,” he said with a sigh, abandoning at least for the nonce his plans for laying the Runyon ghost.
“I knew you would not fail me,” she said, and stood on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss before turning to the evening garments spread out on the bed. “Now that that’s settled, we’d best hurry. Papa has ordered the carriage for seven o’clock and he hates for his horses to be kept standing.”
Pickett tugged his cravat loose and tossed it onto the bed. “Far be it from me to offend your father any more than I’ve already done,” he said, unbuttoning the placket of his shirt and pulling it over his head.
Julia, having put on fresh stays, clutched this undergarment to her bosom and turned her back to present the laces to her husband. “Darling, would you?”
In a week and a half of marriage, Pickett had acquired a layman’s knowledge of ladies’ clothing. He began lacing the strings, while Julia issued instructions.
“Tighter ... tighter ... no, that’s too tight! I can hardly breathe!” She looked over her shoulder to regard him with mock severity. “It seems to me that in a very short time you have become far more adept at taking them off than putting them on.”
“What can I say?” Pickett pondered mournfully as he tied the knot at the proper tension. “My heart isn’t in my work.”
“Wicked man!” she chided him playfully. “And I supposed you to be all innocent and unspoiled. Never was I so deceived in anyone!”
The mention of deception wiped the smile from his face. She had not deceived him, exactly, but her jesting accusation was sufficient to recall her undisclosed fortune to his mind. “My lady, when were you going to tell me you have an income of four hundred pounds a year?”
“Then you did not know after all?” She turned to face him, pleased out of all proportion by his ignorance and wishing only that her mama might have been present to witness it. Then again, considering the fact that he stood before her in nothing but his smallclothes, and she in only her petticoat and stays, Lady Runyon’s absence was probably a good thing. “But surely you must have done! You were present when Frederick’s will was read, were you not?”
“Yes, but I didn’t remember all the details. I never dreamed they would affect me beyond my investigation into Lord Fieldhurst’s death.” A new and horrible thought occurred to him. “My lady, you cannot think I married you for such a reason as that!”
Seeing his distress, she was quick to reassure him. “Of course not! You married me for the same reason I married you: because neither of us could bear the prospect of being parted from one another again.” She lifted the flounced hem of the gown lying on the bed and disappeared headfirst into its silken folds. When her head emerged, she found him still staring at her with the same stricken expression on his face. “Darling, don’t take it so much to heart. It may have been my money before, but it became yours by law the moment we were wed. Does it really matter where it came from?”
“Yes, it does,” he insisted. “A man wants to believe he can support his wife. Your father accused me of being a petticoat pensioner, and it appears he spoke no less than the truth. It’s—it’s emasculating.”
“If that is your only concern, I will be more than happy to address it after we return,” she said with a coy smile. “In the meantime, we are due at Brantley Grange within the hour. Pray don’t let’s quarrel on the very night we are to make our first social appearance as man and wife!”
Pickett sighed. “It is not my intention to quarrel with you at all.” He turned away to pick up a clean shirt, muttering under his breath, “But I won’t touch a farthing of what is rightfully yours.”
In spite of his misgivings, Pickett took some comfort in the knowledge that no fault could be found with his appearance as, clad in his wedding finery, he followed the squire and his lady into the Brantley domicile with Julia on his arm. If he was lucky, he reflected, Julia’s former brother-in-law would be in attendance with the new Lady Buckleigh and, in the flurry of congratulations that were sure to follow, no one would take any notice of his own humble self at all.
Alas, these hopes were soon dashed. “Sir Thaddeus and Lady Runyon,” the butler announced, “and Mr. and Mrs. John Pickett.”
The effect on the occupants of the room was immediate. At the mention of the newly married Picketts’ names, the smiles which had greeted their appearance froze on the faces of some half-dozen couples, who now stared open-mouthed at the new arrivals. The spell was finally broken when the hostess came forward to welcome them. Sizing her up at a glance, Pickett saw a woman of late middle age, built along formidable lines which dwarfed the frail Lady Runyon and, indeed, all the other women present and not a few of the men.
“Lady Runyon, Sir Thaddeus,” she boomed, “always a pleasure! And my dear Julia, it has been far too long since you graced Norwood Green with your presence.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brantley. Please allow me to present my husband,” said Julia, gesturing toward Pickett. “I appreciate your allowing me to bring him on such short notice.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Mrs. Brantley assured her, the inconvenience of having to rearrange her table at the eleventh
hour more than compensated by the realization that her dinner party would be the talk of the neighborhood for at least a month. “I fear you young people may find us very dull, however. I did not arrange for dancing, since you were in mourning—or so I thought,” she added, with a darkling glance at Pickett.
Having progressed so far without being thrown out on his ear, Pickett was now obliged to run a veritable gauntlet of ladies and gentlemen, their facial expressions ranging from shocked disbelief to thinly veiled condemnation, as he bowed, shook hands, and tried to fix names with faces. This process was perhaps mercifully interrupted by a new arrival, a man in the scarlet regimentals of the cavalry officer, whom Pickett had no difficulty identifying even though he’d never set eyes on the fellow. Although Jamie Pennington must have been in his mid-thirties, his ginger hair was untouched by gray and his smile appeared curiously boyish. After exchanging greetings with his hostess, the man made a beeline for Julia.
“Little Julia, all grown up!” he exclaimed.
“Jamie!” she cried joyfully.
She offered her hand and, although he took it in both of his own, he did not raise it to his lips, but pulled her toward him and kissed her heartily on both cheeks. Releasing her, he turned to Pickett and held out his hand.
“So this must be the luckiest man in London.”
Pickett grinned and shook his hand, liking the man in spite of his earlier misgivings. “And fully aware of my good fortune, I assure you.”
“My husband, John Pickett,” Julia said by way of introduction. “Mr. Pickett is the Bow Street Runner who came to my rescue after Frederick was killed. John, this is Major James Pennington, a very dear old friend. But Jamie, how did you know I was married again?”
Was it his imagination, Pickett wondered, or did Major Pennington check ever so briefly before shrugging his epaulet-adorned shoulders? “News travels quickly in the country, you know. We none of us keep our secrets for long.”
“I am glad to know that you, at least, do not hold it against me that I remarried before the year of mourning was through,” Julia said.
“You forget that I have been fighting on the Continent for the past decade,” Jamie reminded her. “War has a way of stripping life down to its bare essentials. On the battlefield it is not unusual for war widows to remarry immediately, rather than face the rigors of attempting to return to England alone. As long as you and your husband are happy, what has anyone else to say to the purpose?” He turned to glare at Pickett with exaggerated sternness. “You will make her happy, will you not?”
“I’ll do my best, Major,” he promised with a smile.
The conversation was interrupted by a pair of new arrivals. The butler entered the room to announce a distinguished-looking silver-haired man of about fifty, accompanied by a very young lady whose light brown hair was her only identifiable feature, as she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the carpet at her feet. Pickett, assuming she must be the man’s daughter and nervous at making her own social debut, fully entered into her feelings of discomfiture.
Then the butler made his pronouncement. “Lord and Lady Buckleigh.”
Pickett heard a sudden intake of breath, although he could not have said whether this came from Julia, who turned pale and clutched his arm, or Jamie Pennington, whose jaw clenched. Lord and Lady Buckleigh made their way slowly about the drawing room, his lordship presenting his bride to each of the other guests in turn, until at last they reached Julia.
“My dear little sister,” said Lord Buckleigh, taking her hand and raising it to his lips with practiced grace. “May I present my new bride? I know you are too kind to hold it against her that she takes the place once held by your poor sister.”
Julia forced a smile. “Of course not. Pray accept my sincerest felicitations on your marriage, Lady Buckleigh.”
She was rewarded with a murmured thanks and the briefest of glances from wide hazel eyes before Lady Buckleigh’s gaze once more sought the floor.
“But I have recently remarried as well, my lord,” Julia continued. “Allow me to present my husband, Mr. John Pickett.”
“Mr. Pickett.” His lordship nodded in Pickett’s direction. “I hope you will not think me presumptuous in welcoming you to a family of which I am no longer a member, save for the bonds of affection.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Pickett said, returning Lord Buckleigh’s nod. He noticed his lordship made no attempt to offer his hand, but Pickett’s welcome thus far had not been so warm that he could afford to read slights where perhaps none were intended.
“Major Pennington,” continued Lord Buckleigh, nodding curtly at Jamie.
Jamie’s demeanor, so warm and friendly with Pickett, had undergone a dramatic transformation. “Your lordship,” he responded with the merest jerk of the head.
“I confess I am surprised to see you here,” observed Lord Buckleigh. “I had believed you fixed on the Continent with your regiment.”
“Did you indeed? But then, life is often full of surprises, is it not?”
Lord Buckleigh’s smile, already far from warm, seemed to freeze on his face. “I fail to take your meaning, sir. Would you care to explain yourself?”
Jamie seemed to consider the question for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I don’t believe I would.”
Lord Buckleigh’s countenance turned dark, but before he could reply, the butler returned to announce dinner. Jamie immediately turned to Julia, his sunny temperament apparently restored. “Julia, may I have the honor of escorting you to dinner?”
“Indeed, you may,” she declared, and took his proffered arm.
Pickett, who had been warned in advance by his bride that married couples would not be seated together at table, turned to the only person present who seemed to share his own discomfort.
“Lady Buckleigh, will you do me the honor?”
Startled hazel eyes flew to his, and a strained silence descended upon the room, broken only by a short bark of laughter from Mr. Brantley, who was shushed immediately by his wife.
“I say, Mr. Pickett,” put in Jamie, pitching his voice so that the whole room might hear, “I suppose it’s dashed unsporting of us to cut out our elders by laying claim to the most charming ladies in the room. If you will surrender Lady Buckleigh to our host, I shall relinquish your wife to my father. Papa, will you serve as my deputy in taking Mrs. Pickett in to dinner?”
There followed a series of complicated maneuvers which Pickett could never afterwards recall, but which resulted in his offering his arm to a spinster lady of advanced years and bringing up the rear of the promenade into the dining room. Here he found Mrs. Brantley’s dinner both plentiful and palatable, but he could not enjoy it as he might have hoped. Painfully aware of having committed some ghastly faux pas (although he was not at all certain of the exact nature of his crime), he was terrified of embarrassing his wife with some further infraction, and so sat between his elderly dinner partner on one side and Mrs. Pennington, the vicar’s wife, on the other, wishing the floor might open up and swallow him.
It did not, which proved to be a great pity. For the conversation at length turned to the impending retirement of the vicar, an occasion which had been delayed many years ago when his son, who was to have succeeded him, had abandoned his studies at Oxford and chosen the army instead.
“What do you intend to do with your time, Mr. Pennington,” asked a woman whose name Pickett could not recall, “once you no longer have to write sermons and visit sick parishioners?”
“Oh, I daresay I shall continue to study the scriptures and visit the sick,” confessed the vicar. “After all, the habits of forty years are not so easily forsaken. As for the rest ...” he shrugged his shoulders, clearly at a loss.
Sir Thaddeus spoke up from his position at his hostess’s left. “Perhaps Mr. Pickett might have some suggestions. I believe his father is retired, is he not?”
“In a—in a manner of speaking,” said Pickett, squirming in his chair.
“Is he
indeed?” The voice was the vicar’s, and kindly enough, but it seemed to Pickett as if every eye at the table was suddenly fixed upon him—and that he had forgotten to put on his clothes.
“Er, yes sir.”
“Pickett ... Pickett ...” His host, Mr. Brantley, pondered the name from the opposite end of the table. “I once knew a Gerald Pickett in Wells. I don’t suppose you have family in Somersetshire, young man?”
Pickett shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Mr. Pickett hails from London,” his father-in-law explained. “That’s where he met my girl. Daresay his father still lives there, is that right?”
The fear that, upon his next visit to London, Sir Thaddeus might feel an obligation to make his father’s acquaintance prevented Pickett from agreeing and thus putting an end to an uncomfortable line of questioning. “No, sir. That is, my father is originally from London, but now he is—is farther east.”
“Kent, then?” the vicar guessed. “Ah, the garden of England!”
“No, sir,” said Pickett, sliding lower in his chair. “Still—still farther east.”
Mr. Pennington chuckled. “I wasn’t aware that one could go farther east than Kent and still be in England—unless, of course, you refer to the coast of Suffolk, or perhaps Norfolk.”
Afterwards, Pickett was to wonder how differently the evening might have ended, had he seized upon this explanation. But he had no idea what connections in these counties his father might be supposed to have had, and so he elected to stick to the truth, so far as he was able.
“There’s the thing,” Pickett confessed. “He’s—not in England anymore.”
“Dangerous time to be traveling abroad, what with Boney running amok,” observed Sir Thaddeus, scowling. “Come, man, don’t be mysterious! If not in England, where is your father?”
“Botany Bay,” Pickett said miserably.
This pronouncement had the effect of reducing the party to silence. “Do you mean to tell me,” Sir Thaddeus began, his face turning purple with suppressed fury, “that my daughter is married to the son of a common felon?”
For Deader or Worse Page 5