Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1)

by Jayne Davis

  If they were right, the decision about what to do with the spy would be beyond the local magistrates. Who could advise him on this?

  “It would be better to take him to London,” he said. “This information may well have come from there.” Sir John Tregarth, Harry’s father, might be able to help him find the right person to deliver the man to.

  “I don’t think you should do that.”

  Will looked up in surprise. “Why ever not? Oh, is he too unwell?” It would not do for him to die before he could be questioned.

  Connie shook her head. “No. I mean, he is too unwell at present, but I was thinking about what Sandow will do if his… his cargo disappears.”

  “Oh, yes.” Revenge of some sort, naturally, and aimed at himself and Connie. Will was not going to let anything happen to Connie. “I’d like to kill the bastard.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  Will thought that he could, very easily. “After what he threatened to do to Sukey? And has doubtless done to many others?”

  Connie looked away, then down at her hands. “Killing is wrong, I know that, but in this case…” She raised her eyes to his, her expression troubled. “In this case, I cannot help thinking the world would be better without him. I was thinking of your father. If you are arrested for murder—”

  “He wouldn’t let me hang.” Not before Will had sired an heir, at least.

  “You’re here because you put your life at risk fighting a duel. Won’t he sell this place?”

  “Damn it.” Of course he would, and with it would go Will’s independence.

  “We can’t just let the spy go when he is well enough, can we?” Connie asked.

  “No.” That would be betraying their country. He tried to read Connie’s expression; her words had sounded doubtful, as if she knew it would be an easy way out, but not one they should take.

  What if he took the letters? They might provide a clue about the source of the information. He tried to recall what time the stage coach left Exeter; some God-forsaken hour before dawn, he thought, which would mean not arriving in London until the day after tomorrow. Then another whole day to come back, at least, plus the time he needed in London to find the right person to tell his story to.

  “Connie, I could take the letters to London, but I’d be away at least three days, probably longer. I might be able to bring back someone who can arrest Sandow and the spy, and to protect the people here until Sandow is dealt with. Sullivan may have some evidence against him to add to whatever we can persuade the spy to say.”

  “Three days… Can you send Archer with the letters? You trust him.”

  He rubbed his fingers through his hair. “I thought Tregarth’s father might know who I should show them to. But if he’s not there, Archer wouldn’t know who else to try.”

  “And probably wouldn’t be able to get to see them in any case.” Connie sighed. “You need to go, then, but the spy must still be here when you return. I suppose Sandow will not want the man dying on the way to France, so I can impress upon Warren and Mrs Curnow how ill he is, and how dangerous it would be to move him.”

  That could work. “Will they believe you?”

  “If it’s really necessary, I can give him laudanum to keep him here. I don’t like to do that, but I will if I have to.”

  “Right, in that case, the sooner I go the better.” He could ride until he found somewhere to hire a post-chaise—or another riding horse if necessary. Either of those options would be quicker than the stage. He could be in London tomorrow night.

  “They might take him anyway,” Connie said. “What then?”

  “Did you say he still has a packet, but with blank paper in it?”

  “Yes. Should I copy the letters then put the originals back?”

  A good question. “That would mean possibly allowing the information to leave the country before we know what harm it might do.”

  She bit her lip. “He… the spy… didn’t want to undo the packet, he just wanted to see it. If he doesn’t open it, no-one will find out until he is in France.”

  “The blank paper he’s already got will do then, but it would still be best if you can keep him here until my return.” He stood and strode to the door, shouting for Warren.

  “My lord?”

  “Warren, Nancarrow had an urgent letter for me from my father. I have to go to Marstone Park right away. I’ll ride, but put up a couple of clean shirts and my shaving gear, will you?”

  Closing the door behind the butler, Will went to stand in front of his wife. “Connie, I will tell Archer to be vigilant.” He’d give Archer his pistols as well. “If there’s a chance that Sandow, or anyone else, might be a danger to you, Archer will take you to Nancarrow. He’ll arrange for you to stay somewhere safe until I return.” The extra men he’d asked Nancarrow to send would not be here for a few days, and he wouldn’t be here to brief them, in any case.

  She blinked, then nodded, wide-eyed.

  “In fact, if that soldier is still too ill to be moved, you could let Captain Burke know you are worried in case some of the villagers try to get their revenge on him. He could send a couple of men to stand guard.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She put a hand on his arm. “Will, please eat something before you go. An extra half-hour won’t make any difference.”

  “Take care, Will,” Connie said, low voiced, as they stood on the terrace waiting for Archer to bring Mercury round. She’d be in charge here for days—a daunting task, but she would manage.

  Will met her eyes, his hands on her shoulders. “Connie, you did well today. Very well.”

  His praise warmed her, bolstered her confidence. They had worked it out together.

  Then he put his arms around her and pulled her close. “You look after yourself,” he said in her ear, giving a quick squeeze before stepping back.

  Connie watched as he mounted and rode down the drive, still feeling his closeness and warmth. His words to her hadn’t masked his relish in having something active to do. She could understand his father’s reluctance to let his heir join the army, but Will would have enjoyed the life.

  Would he take care? If he really intended to be in London tomorrow night, he would have no time to rest on the way. A fall from a horse when tired…

  No. He had more sense than that. She should concentrate her worries on the spy.

  She sat with a book, but gave up after her eyes had passed over the same page several times without any recollection of what she had read. Instead, she continued working on her new gown, trying to focus on her stitching and not on wondering how far Will had got, or if Sandow might come to see his passenger.

  Mrs Curnow reported that the injured soldier had taken more gruel during the evening, and now seemed to be sleeping naturally. The spy, by contrast, was still restless, muttering in his sleep. Warren had brought another pallet in, and proposed to sleep there himself.

  “If I can, with him mumbling on all night,” the butler said. “Still can’t make out a word he’s saying.”

  “He’s probably dreaming,” Connie said. She would check first thing, and if the spy showed signs of talking coherently in English, she might have to resort to dosing him with laudanum.

  Tuesday 8th July

  The sun was already warm on his back when Will caught sight of the spire of Salisbury Cathedral rising above the trees. His rear ached from riding all night, and he had at least another twelve hours to go, possibly more if he had trouble changing horses.

  It was time to take a short break. They knew him at the Rose and Crown, so he stopped there to ask for a quick breakfast and a fresh horse.

  While he ate, he checked the coin in his pocket, trying to work out if it would stretch to a post-chaise for part of the way. Normally, he’d have provided himself with more cash before a journey, but he’d had little in the house.

  It would pay for a post-chaise, he reckoned, but only if he could guarantee getting more money in London. If Tregarth was out of town, he wasn�
��t sure who else he could ask—not without risking someone gossiping and his father finding out he’d already broken the terms of their agreement.

  Not yet three weeks since he was last here, he thought as he rode out of the city half an hour later. Then, he’d still been resenting his forced marriage; now, he couldn’t imagine wanting to be without Connie.

  Was she changing her mind? She hadn’t flinched from his touch or his closeness when they were skimming stones, or when he’d said goodbye the day before.

  Was she still safe? That was a more important question. He shook his head—thinking about that now was futile. Pray God that she would do as he’d said, and go to Nancarrow if there was the least sign of danger. In the longer term, everything came back to getting rid of Sandow.

  What if he could take over the smuggling himself?

  The hired horse skittered as he jerked on the reins, and he patted its neck in apology. His counting of coins must have prompted that idea, but it was worth considering. And something to think about during the miles yet to go.

  Connie checked on the wounded soldier first. Mrs Curnow reported that he’d eaten a dish of coddled eggs before going back to sleep again. “Reckon that captain can take him away if he comes today,” Mrs Curnow said.

  That wasn’t really what Connie wanted to hear, not with Will absent. She’d have a quiet word with the captain about the dangers of wounds reopening in a jolting carriage.

  In the cellar, the spy was much the same. “Still can’t understand a word,” Warren said. “Is he a Frenchie, do you think?”

  “I suppose he could be,” Connie said. “The smugglers buy in France, after all.”

  Unlike Warren, she could make out a few words. Papiers, urgent, important—words that differed only in pronunciation from their English equivalents. It was time to start dosing him with laudanum.

  “He’s not making any sense to me either,” she lied. “I hope he’s not getting worse. It wouldn’t do for him to die here, but if they try to move him he’s likely to.”

  “No, my lady.” Warren’s widened eyes showed much more than the concern due to a stranger. “What will we do if he gets worse?”

  “I’m not a physician, Warren, I don’t know. My… my mother used to make an infusion that helped me to sleep. We could try that, I suppose.”

  Warren nodded eagerly.

  In the stillroom, she made a tea with valerian, then added a few drops of laudanum. She wasn’t sure of the dose, and it wouldn’t do to give him too much, but she would see how well this amount worked first. She stirred in some sugar to mask the taste, and carried the cup to the cellar room.

  “Help me sit him up, Warren.”

  Warren lifted the man’s shoulders, and Connie persuaded him to take the warm liquid. As before, he seemed to respond to words in English, and obediently sipped until half the liquid was gone.

  “I’ll sit with him for a while, Warren.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Warren—if someone comes to see how he is doing, it might be unwise for them to find me here.”

  She could see this idea had not occurred to him.

  “The outside entrance to the end room needs to be blocked up, or locked from the inside,” she added. “You may explain, if you need to, that Lord Wingrave remembered using it in his youth and ordered it locked.” Hopefully that would not make plain to anyone else—Sandow—that she and Will knew their cellars had been used.

  “I’ll see to it, my lady.”

  “And Warren, if you cannot stop someone coming for him, make sure there’s enough time for me to get out of the way first.”

  Warren swallowed visibly. “Yes, my lady.”

  She rubbed a hand across her face as Warren left. Keeping track of who knew what—who they thought knew what—was getting too complicated. She’d spent too long deceiving her father; she hadn’t thought she’d have to continue in her new life.

  The sick man’s eyes had closed as soon as he lay down, his breathing quickly becoming slow and even. She wasn’t sure if the laudanum had made his sleep deeper, or only helped to ease his anxieties. Not that it mattered; the main thing was that he was no longer muttering.

  Chapter 34

  Wednesday 9th July

  A night watchman called two o’clock as Harry Tregarth banged on the door of his father’s house in Wimpole Street. Will leaned on the railings, bone weary. He desperately needed sleep, and his legs hurt from spending too long in the saddle. The walk from the inn where he’d left the last hired horse had barely relieved his stiff muscles.

  A footman let them in, and went to wake Sir John. Will collapsed onto a chair.

  “What is it, Harry?” Sir John descended to the entrance hall, swathed in a banyan, a nightcap covering his head and a candle in one hand. “It’s gone midnight. It’s just as well your mother’s with Sarah for her lying in, you’d have terrified her knocking the house up like this. It had better be important.”

  “It is, Papa. Will—”

  “Wingrave?” Sir John’s scowl deepened. “I might have known you were involved. I thought Marstone had banished you to the country.”

  Will flushed. “I apologise for disturbing you so late, sir, but I assure you it is of the utmost importance.”

  Sir John glared at him for a moment, before relenting. “Oh, very well. We’ll go into the library.” He turned to the footman who had answered the door. “Jenkins, you may retire.”

  In the library, Sir John lit more candles. Will told his tale again, giving a few more details than he had to Harry. At the end of his recital, Sir John held his hand out and Will gave him the lists.

  Sir John’s brows rose as he scanned them. When he looked back at Will, his expression seemed thoughtful rather than censorious.

  “You did right to come to me, Wingrave. I don’t know what these are, although I have my suspicions.”

  “Do you know who I should take them to, Sir John?”

  “I have a very good idea. However I will take them. You will stay here for what is left of the night.”

  “Sir John, I must—”

  “Wingrave, the person I am taking these to may well wish to talk to you, but not necessarily immediately. Your… contribution to the discussion is likely to be more valuable if you have had some sleep.”

  He was right, of course.

  “Harry, you’d better stay here too. I’ll leave it to you to sort out somewhere for the pair of you to sleep.” Sir John left without waiting for a reply.

  Jenkins woke them at nine the following morning, knocking until Tregarth called out for him to go away. Instead, he opened the door, bringing in two jugs of steaming water and setting them on the wash stand. “Breakfast will be served in half an hour, Lord Wingrave, Mr Tregarth. Lord Wingrave, I am asked to inform you that you will have a visitor shortly thereafter.”

  Will groaned and swung his legs to the floor. “We’ll be there.”

  Jenkins bowed himself out. Will caught sight of his saddle bags resting on the floor by a chair. The one’s he’d left at Tregarth’s lodgings.

  “How did they—?”

  “Dickson.” Tregarth pointed to a set of clothing draped across the foot of the second bed. “Brought a change for me, too. A most efficient valet.”

  “I’d tempt him away if I had the money,” Will said. If he’d had a man as reliable as Dickson, instead of the weaselly Ferris, he’d not be in this situation now. But then he wouldn’t have Connie either.

  He splashed water on his face and washed away the sweat and grime of more than twenty-four hours on the road. A bath would have been better, but a shave helped, as did a fresh shirt and neckcloth. However, there was little he could do about the road dust that seemed to have worked its way into the fabric of his coat and breeches.

  Sir John was already in the dining room, and greeted them with a nod. Will tucked into breakfast eagerly, finishing off a large helping of ham, eggs, and sausage with several cups of coffee.

  “Mr Talbo
t.” The butler announced their guest and withdrew.

  Talbot was a slight man, half a head shorter than Will, with uncomfortably piercing eyes. Will took in his ornately embroidered coat, powdered wig, and the jewelled pin in his neck cloth. He looked dressed for a social engagement, not a discussion on national security, but Will had to trust that Sir John knew what he was doing.

  “You are excused, Harry,” Sir John said.

  Tregarth looked from his father to Will, then shrugged. “Father, Mr Talbot.” He nodded at the two men, and left the room.

  Talbot pulled out a chair and sat opposite Will, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Your tale, Wingrave?”

  They listened carefully as Will related the story yet again. Talbot’s face remained expressionless, his eyes on Will’s face. He asked Will to describe his other encounters with the smugglers. Will told of his efforts to watch them, and what he had observed on the night the dragoons attempted to arrest them.

  “I understand you originally wished to join the army,” Talbot said, when Will finished his recital.

  “My father forbade it.” Talbot already knew that, he was sure. Sir John certainly did.

  “So instead you gambled, fornicated, and duelled the years away.”

  “I… yes.” It was true, after all. “How is that relevant?”

  “Such activities, if you continue, could leave you open to blackmail.” Talbot leaned back in his chair and looked down his nose.

  “What are you implying?” Will glanced at Sir John, but his expression gave nothing away. “Are you saying I’m—?”

  “I’m saying nothing at all,” Talbot replied. “Merely stating a fact. Are you sorry to be giving up that way of life now you are married?”

  “That’s none of your business.” Will managed to keep his voice calm, in spite of his rising temper.

  “Hmm.” Talbot tapped his fingers on the table. Finally, he rose to his feet. “Later today I will inform you what is to happen.”