The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  “No.” Hester shook her head and tried to look surprised. “How should we know a highwayman?”

  Her open stare made Mrs. Mayfield look away. She would not want to encourage anyone to think that St. Mars was still around. Better for him to have fled to France as the government believed.

  “There have been stories that some of them come from noble families—younger sons, who would rather rob innocent people than take up an honest trade.”

  Hester shook her head again seriously. “I cannot think of anyone we know like that.”

  Isabella seemed comforted by her assurances, and Mrs. Mayfield evidently preferred to believe her, too, for she stopped posing questions. She told Isabella to get some sleep so that she could look beautiful on the morrow. Recalling what delights awaited them then, she put the robbery behind her. With a great deal of cheer, she bustled about Isabella, tucking her in again, and calling her “my lady” and “countess” until Isabella went to sleep with a smile on her face.

  Hester took advantage of the moment to go unobtrusively to bed. She had not been offered any supper, but she reckoned that a small price to pay for returning from a false abduction with so few questions to address. Conscious of the friendship that had been forged between herself and St. Mars tonight, she, too, fell asleep with a smile.

  Rotherham Abbey was a sight to strike awe even into Mrs. Mayfield, whose raptures on seeing it were restrained by pure amazement.

  It was a noble place, a proud place, and not even the wear of a hundred years could rob it of its impressive facade. Although it might not conform to the current taste for pediments and columns, its size alone was enough to satisfy even Mrs. Mayfield’s wish for grandeur.

  They were ushered in past an army of servants, most in the Hawkhurst livery of bronze and gold. Hester caught the names of a few of the upper staff, as they made their bows to their new lord and his lady. James Henry was not among them, but she overheard the steward informing Harrowby that Mr. Henry would be happy to wait upon him at his convenience as soon as he returned from his lordship’s business in London.

  Lord Hawkhurst’s private chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Bramwell, greeted them inside. He congratulated Harrowby and Isabella on their marriage and assured them of his eagerness to serve them in all things spiritual. Harrowby dismissed him as soon as he could, and the old man retreated to his private sanctuary.

  The first order of business after receiving the good wishes of the staff was the selection of rooms. Since Isabella came as a bride, Robert Shaw, the steward, had wondered if the new Lord Hawkhurst and his lady might not prefer to see the house before choosing their suites. He assured them, however, that all the likely rooms had been made ready for their comfort so that they might choose any chamber they liked.

  Mrs. Mayfield and the lovers were delighted at the prospect of viewing their new domain. Hester followed them as Robert showed them over the first floor. Harrowby seemed averse to taking the chamber that had been occupied so recently by his uncle’s corpse, but he had no qualms at all in choosing the king’s chamber with its adjoining withdrawing room and inner chamber for his wardrobe. For in this day and age, as he pointed out, it could not be presumed that his Majesty would visit any country house but his own.

  As soon as he determined on that one, Isabella was keen to see the queen’s suite. She was, at first, deterred by its distance from her husband’s rooms. They decided to share a bedchamber this week, but in the future, they should each have a suite of their own.

  Keeping separate bedrooms was very fashionable. It was the French style, so naturally not to be debated. Hester wondered that a couple who seemed so besotted with each other would give up a perfectly good English notion of conjugal happiness on the strength of a fashion. Their decision would have made sense if they had married purely for property, as so many did, but they had seemed to be in love.

  Isabella settled on the queen’s bedchamber, and she and Harrowby immediately began discussing how their rooms should be changed. That left the queen’s great chamber for Mrs. Mayfield, and Hester could see how her aunt relished the thought of having a room that had been used by a queen.

  On their way back to the great stone staircase, Mrs. Mayfield peered behind every door until she finally stopped at a very small chamber, which had nevertheless been fitted with a bed.

  “This will do very well for you, Hester. It has everything you can possibly want, and the advantage of lying between mine and Isabella’s so you can be of easy use to us both. And it is not so large or so pleasant that we shall wish to use it for guests.”

  Hester, who never ceased to be amazed by the thoughtlessness of her aunt, thanked her with no demur. She had grown to be amused by the tactless remarks and, in fact, regarded them as one of the minor compensations for the dreariness of her life.

  Taking a moment to examine the room, while the others moved on, she found it did indeed meet all her requirements. She was grateful to have been placed on the first floor and not up under the roof where the servants lived. The room had a window which looked out over the ruins with their crumbling walls and high pointed arches. She had spotted them eagerly from the drive, thinking of her rendezvous with St. Mars. Seen through the large, clear panes, they offered a good place to hide from anyone gazing from the house, since the earth had made an effort to reclaim them, stretching arms about them in the form of trees, uneven ground, and clinging vines.

  It would be a good place to meet someone secretly.

  Fighting off a foolish romantic thrill, Hester turned to examine the other features of her room. It was not without character, for in spite of its small size, a great deal of trouble had been taken in the execution of the carving that adorned the panels on the wall across from the bed. The wood had been worked into representations of fruited vines. A skilled artisan had been employed in the work—surprising for such a tiny space.

  Hester caught up with the others as they climbed the stairs to the second floor and then went out onto the leads. Isabella was charmed by the roof’s summer houses and she projected the supper parties they would give up there.

  As the tour moved on, Mrs. Mayfield overcame her uncharacteristic delicacy to suggest several improvements they could make to the house. Hester was glad that her own room was so modest that she would not have to feel even more ashamed for profiting from St. Mars’s plight.

  Her aunt began referring to everything she saw as old or outdated. The amazing thing was how quickly Harrowby agreed with her, and how eagerly he entered into the notion of changing the furniture in favour of something more in style. Hester wondered that he could so easily shrug off any sense of guilt for usurping his cousin’s place, and she became more determined than ever to discover whether he was the murderer.

  She could not speak immediately to St. Mars’s valet. The house was so enormous that she was unlikely ever to run across him. But, with the advantage of being little more than a superior servant herself, she did not doubt her ability to come up with a solution.

  Two days later, after her aunt and cousin had settled into their country routine, Hester roused herself for an early breakfast, in the hope of having a few moments alone with Robert Shaw. She found him with the butler and two footmen setting up the table in the downstairs parlour where breakfast had been served on the previous mornings.

  Having adjusted himself to the later hours kept by his new master and mistress, he was distressed not to be ready to serve her yet. Hester took advantage of his chagrin to explain to him the nature of her position in her aunt’s household. She had been prepared to meet with a diminution in his courtesy, accustomed to such treatment from Colley, but she was pleased when Robert still accorded her the respect due a lady.

  She told him that her aunt had asked her to inquire about the details of the Abbey management, since it would fall to her to act as messenger between the senior staff and their mistress on many occasions. She explained that her cousin, being young, had not yet learned to assume the responsibility of a la
rge house.

  She found that Robert was a man who took most things at face value. She doubted if he had ever formed an opinion for himself. Certainly he gave no sign of questioning either Harrowby’s right to assume his uncle’s place or the qualifications of his bride.

  His only aim seemed to be helpful to his master, no matter who that might be. It was a pleasant quality in a servant, but Hester cautioned herself that St. Mars was unlikely to discover an ally here.

  Deftly, she inquired about the number of servants, their names and each of their roles. When Robert mentioned his late master’s valet, who had retired on a pension granted in Lord Hawkhurst’s will, she knew she was getting close.

  “If he has retired, who will assist my lord with his clothes?”

  “His lordship has already made use of Lord St. Mars’s valet, and he says the man will suit. He is a Frenchy,” Robert pointed out with distaste, “but they are said to be handy with fashion and whatnot. Lord Hawkhurst did not bring his own man down, because he turned him off, expecting to keep Philippe. Philippe’s the Frenchy,” he added unnecessarily.

  “Yes, well—” Hester grew instantly brisk. She did not want to hear about the other servants now that she had the information she had come to get— “if I might have a simple breakfast, I would like to start interviewing a few of the servants to get a better notion of their duties.”

  She gave him a list with a few of the names he had supplied her with, starting with the cook and finishing with Philippe. If Robert thought there was anything peculiar in her asking to speak to his lordship’s valet, he gave no sign. Truly the time to make these inquiries was while the household staff was having to accustom itself to the new master’s ways.

  Breezing as quickly as she could through the other servants, Hester found that Rotherham Abbey was as well run as she could imagine a house of this size to be. References to Robert Shaw and James Henry told her that most of this efficiency could be attributed to them. She found also that not everyone was as sanguine about the change of ownership as Robert was. Although, as a member of the invading party, she was not to be trusted with their confidences, she found that more than half she talked to expressed a veiled bitterness or grief. Her heart went out to them, and she wished she could tell them that her present activity was nothing more than a ruse to help their real master regain his place.

  It was not to be expected that Philippe would have a moment to speak to her when Harrowby required his services to dress. When Harrowby descended, however, after two blissful hours over his toilette, Robert arranged for Philippe to see her in one of the back parlours.

  She had not figured out how to conduct this interview when she did not know how readily Philippe would accept her as an ally. But she found a quick way into his heart when she instantly switched their conversation into French.

  Hester had learned French from a Huguenot who had married into a Yorkshire family. Without the money for formal instruction, she had known that without at least a spattering of French, she would always be regarded as inferior. So she had traded English lessons for French, and much to her surprise and her teacher’s delight, had turned out to have an aptitude for the language.

  As the only French servant on a staff of more than forty, Philippe was willing to overlook her few errors for the chance to speak a civilized tongue. He politely denied that she made any mistakes, but corrected them nonetheless.

  “I have not spoken my language since my master went away,” he sighed.

  “You were attached to my Lord St. Mars?”

  A reserve settled over him. She was afraid she had cost herself the progress she had made.

  “I was ‘appy to serve ‘im, bien sûr,” Philippe said, with a shrug, “but I shall be just as ‘appy to serve my Lord ‘Arrowby.”

  Hester stifled a smile, wishing that she could plead an ignorance of the proper forms of address and refer to the new earl as “my Lord ‘Arrowby.” While the name might elevate him in birth, at least it would not usurp St. Mars’s right to his title.

  “Well, he is certainly pleased with you,” she said. “He praised your talent at the dinner table yesterday.”

  She was surprised to receive another shrug. She had thought that a conceited man like Philippe would be flattered to hear such a report.

  But all he said was, “It is to be expected, mademoiselle,” putting her in her place, and proving that it was confidence and not conceit that she had discerned.

  “Still . . . .” She let the word linger in the air before saying, “One must wonder if Sir Harrowby can fill a position that was destined for a gentleman like my Lord St. Mars.”

  “You knew my master?” Philippe seemed more alert.

  “Yes, I did . . . and I know someone very much like him now. A Mr. Brown, who lives retired.” She did not know where she had got the inspiration to use St. Mars’s alias, but it proved to be the magic key.

  “Ah,” he said, regarding her eagerly. “Myself, I know this Mr. Brown. You have spoken with him recently?”

  “Quite recently. We encountered him on the road, although my companions did not know him. He was wearing a marvelous blue cloak.”

  At this piece of news, Philippe sat up with delight and clapped his hands together. “So! Monsieur has finally worn his magnificent new cloak! Did it not enhance the blueness of his eyes?”

  “Yes, it did, most magnificently.” Hester could hardly restrain her smile.

  He shook his head sadly, though, as he leaned to speak in a whisper. “I tried to convince him that he should wear it to milord Eppington’s ball. Then, perhaps Madame Isabelle would ‘ave married ‘im instead of Lord ‘Arrowby. But he would not listen to Philippe, and now the cloak will be wasted.”

  “Oh, no,” Hester assured him. She could not share his regret about that, but she could say, “You must not think that. You should have seen how beautifully the satin shone in the moonlight. Sir Harrowby was so struck by it that he cannot stop referring to it.”

  This appeased him slightly, so she made haste to move on. Cautioning him never to mention the cloak to anyone, she told him of the information his master sought. “When you were assisting Sir Harrowby this morning, did you notice whether he had sustained any injury recently?”

  “Non. But mademoiselle must realize that Lord ‘Arrowby does not have the physique that draws the eye. I put all my attention this morning into arranging his lordship’s clothes, but I will examine his arm tonight and tell mademoiselle what Philippe finds.”

  Hester thanked him and assured him that she would get the message to his master. They named a rendezvous for that evening before the others retired to their rooms.

  That night found Gideon sitting at a table in a dark corner of the taproom at the Catherine Wheel in Southwark. Seated on a wing-backed bench near the chimney-piece, with his back to the wall and his face towards the room, he could easily make out the features of anyone stepping through the door.

  At ten o’clock, most of the tables were filled in the low, smoky room. The men who conducted their business in the taproom during the day had given way to others who came to meet their friends and carouse. The general hum, broken occasionally by the raucous roar of male laughter would be excellent cover for his confrontation with the Duke. The busy motion of the drawers as they filled and delivered mug after mug, and of the wenches who flirted with the customers, would offer enough distraction to keep the Duke from spotting Gideon, if he decided not to be seen.

  The innkeeper, sitting on a stool behind the counter, arguing with an acquaintance, had been told at a signal to direct the man who asked for a Mr. Mavors to his bench. Tom was stationed outside to see how many men the Duke brought with him. It would be his job to warn Gideon if the Duke’s servants moved to enter the inn. He could be reasonably certain that his Grace would not call in the law as long as Gideon had his father’s compromising papers, but he might choose to overpower him with a few of his men.

  Neither one was likely to be recognized here, unless th
e Duke drew attention with his dress. Gideon had clothed himself like the tradesmen who frequented the place, and he had instructed Tom to cover his face. It was unlikely that the Duke or his men would know Tom, but in the event of trouble, it would be best if they could not describe him.

  Having arrived much earlier in the evening, Gideon was growing impatient for the Duke’s arrival. He hated to think that his Grace might not have recognized the significance of his notice. If this plan failed, he did not see how he could speak to the Duke without placing himself in too much jeopardy.

  He was working on an alternate plan, when he heard the hoofbeats of a group of horses outside. A minor bustle at the entryway alerted him that someone was about to come in.

  Gideon shielded his face, while keeping a sharp eye on the door, and was soon rewarded by the appearance of the Duke of Bournemouth. He had disguised himself in a suit of unfashionable clothes.

  The innkeeper would not be entirely fooled by an outdated suit, which could only be a legacy to a trusted servant. Not when their wearer was accompanied by a retinue, as this one had been. But he was unlikely to discover the precise identity of either of his two distinguished visitors.

  As the Duke approached this worthy, Gideon gave him a nod, and he pointed to the corner where Mr. Mavors was to be found. Gideon kept the brim of his hat pulled low to protect his profile until his Grace moved directly in front of him.

  He raised his eyes and met with an astonishment he had not expected, before it was quickly concealed behind a satirical expression.

  “Mr. Mavors,” his Grace said, declining to bow. “I had thought you sojourning in France. I had expected your emissary, perhaps. I had not thought you so foolish as to come.”

  “In what way foolish, your Grace?”

  As Gideon had expected, his use of the Duke’s title raised a scowl on his face. He quickly glanced around to make sure that no one had heard it, then fixed his eyes on Gideon again.