He looked around desperately. “Lady Evelyn, please!” he said. “You need to know. Follow me and see for yourself?”
He sounded as if he was pleading. Evelyn was too angry to care much. She stared at him.
“How can I trust you?”
He shook his head sadly. “Follow me. You don't have to trust me. I'll show you.”
Evelyn looked at him askance. “Why must I go anywhere with you? If you know I think you're a murderer?”
Lord Everett ran his hands through his hair. “For Heaven's sake, my lady! If you don't believe me, I don't blame you. But the fact is, someone else is the murderer. Not me. And if we don't do something soon, they may well kill your cousin too. I can show you. Please?”
Evelyn sighed. She gave a reluctant nod. “I'll come with you.”
“Thank you.”
He led her back to the house, then gestured that she pause. He led her round through a tall wrought-iron gate and into a yard of sorts that the narrower Everett Heights evidently shared with the neighboring houses. He went to a barn-like construction and opened it. It was evidently a coach house. Evelyn hung back, still not trusting him.
“Have a look. I promise I'll go inside too so you don't fear being locked in,” Lord Everett said. He sounded desperate.
Evelyn nervously followed him in.
The coach house was large enough to house two coaches. There was one already there as well. This one was a spectacular affair of burnished wood, its sides lacquered and firm. Standing proudly on the door was a scarlet and white coat of arms – a rather flamboyant one with red-painted knights holding a red shield, a strange winged device on it. She looked closer and noticed it was a winged heart. The motto was on the ribbon underneath: “Semper paratus.” Always prepared.
It was the shield of the Finley family. She knew they owned the house next door. It was an easy shield to remember, which was the only reason she recognized it.
The other place where a coach would have stood was empty.
She sighed.
“Now do you believe me?” Lord Everett asked in a voice that sounded almost apologetic.
“Yes,” Evelyn sighed. “I believe you.”
“Good,” he nodded.
Evelyn turned round in the quiet, empty space. Wan sunlight fell on the dusty stone-flagged floor. When they spoke, their voices echoed in the gap left by the absent coach.
“If you sold it,” she said slowly, “who has it now?”
“Good question,” Lord Everett said. “I don't know the answer to that. But I know where we might find out.”
“Where?” Evelyn asked. She was trying to arrange her loose hair, but it was not working well. She sighed and let it lie. Let London think she was a loose woman, if they dared.
“In Hudson's ledgers. Come on, now!” he said. He was already turning away, heading back to the door. “We don't have much time.”
Evelyn followed him. He shut the door and together they ran, panting, hair streaming, shoes loud on stones, down the drive and back to his home next door.
He led the way in, heedless of the shouts coming from outside. Evidently the collier and the merchants were having a loud altercation at the rear gate. It already had the sound of a brawl with street urchins laughing and making a carnival of the whole occurrence.
“Here!” he led her to a dark room at the end of the corridor and lifted a leather-bound book from the desk. “Now, we sold it in October – I remember that...” he ran his finger down the lists. It was early April, and he had to page back from the marker by a few months to reach the older entries. Evelyn waited, her impatience steadily rising.
“Here!” he said. He turned to show her the book. “On October the thirteenth. Unlucky number, that,” he chuckled sheepishly. Evelyn took the book and peered at the entry.
“It was sold to an L. Leyfolgey.” she said, squinting to read the writing.
Lord Everett looked blankly at her, and then his focus sharpened. “Leyfolgey?”
“Yes,” Evelyn said. “That's right. Why?”
“Le Folgoet?” he gave the name a French intonation, spacing the two words distinctly.
Evelyn shrugged. “It could be? Is that important..? Maybe Hudson did not know how to spell it!” she gave a hesitant chuckle.
Lord Everett was already leaving. He headed to the hallway where he lifted hat and gloves from the stand at the door and hurried out.
Evelyn, her hair disheveled and her bonnet loose, decided that at least one of them looked presentable, and hurried behind him, skirt held in her left hand so it did not tangle her steps.
“To Vauxhall,” he called breathlessly up to the first cab he saw. Having just stopped it by the expedient of stepping off the pavement in front of the horses as the carriage started up, Evelyn thought Lord Everett looked remarkably calm.
“Yes, guv'nor. And mind yersel' next time – coulda laid you low!”
Lord Everett bit back a response to the cheeky driver, helped Evelyn in, and then slid in himself.
“I'm sorry, my lady – have you more coin?” he asked, fishing about in a desultory way in his coat.
Evelyn opened her bag. She started to laugh. “I'm sorry, dear friend - we're tuppence short.”
They both laughed. The laughter was healing, if somewhat hysterical. The drive to Vauxhall Gardens took them across the River Thames on the new bridge. The sunlight was hitting the water now, breaking the fog and making the surface a gilded ribbon that hurt the eye.
Evelyn put her hand on her heart as she looked down, moved by its beauty.
Lord Everett smiled at her. “Lovely, isn't it?” he asked.
“Yes,” Evelyn breathed. “I do love London.”
“I do too, usually,” Lord Everett admitted. “When I'm not lying on my floor pretending I'm not at home.” He was unwinding his white neck-tie and she wondered for a moment what he was doing, but he was doing it in such a businesslike fashion that she did not want to guess.
They both laughed again and, as the ride drew to an end, discussed a plan to deal with the tuppence shortfall.
They drew up in a leafy, beautiful neighborhood, set in parks and gardens. The houses Evelyn could see were all new, all surrounded by greenness, walls whitewashed. They were not large houses, but they were charming and lovely.
She looked up to see Lord Everett wink at her.
She took the fee – tuppence short – out of her purse and handed it up to the driver with a grin. Lord Everett stood behind her, face schooled to a calm sobriety.
“Beggin' yer' pardon, mistress – 'tis tuppence short,” the driver began.
At that moment Lord Everett let out a bellow of the magnitude Evelyn had only ever heard in the street during a military parade. At the same time he waved his white necktie just within the vision of the coach's horses. He must have known the correct pitch, or one of them was scared by the waving whiteness, for the horses heard it and bolted off.
Evelyn watched as the coach was drawn onward up the street, the driver trying desperately to make them slow.
The two of them stood together, silent with mirth. Then they shook themselves and headed up the road at a leisurely pace.
They walked a ways, until they came to a whitewashed cottage on the river's edge. Lord Everett gestured. “If memory serves me, this is it.”
Evelyn raised a brow. It was serene and beautiful. Just like any other house in the rows, only with a particularly well-tended garden and a climbing rose thick over the door, which already had some buds.
Lord Everett knocked on the door. Evelyn watched him neutrally.
She did not comment when he lifted the side gate and, pausing lest anyone rush out, walked calmly inside.
He looked around and then returned. “House is empty. Come in. Follow me.”
Evelyn followed him through the gate, then watched, horrified, as he briskly went to a window and slid a long flat wire he drew from his coat pocket under the latch. He worked a second and then turned to her. He leve
red open the window.
“Are you good with heights?”
Evelyn stared at him. “It depends.”
“Well, is that window too high for you to climb in?”
Evelyn shook her head. It was perhaps four feet off the ground. With an unladylike stance she could probably step up over the sill.
“You are a rare spirit,” he said admiringly. Then, without further elaboration, climbed through the window and held out a hand. “Inside?”
Evelyn bit her lip. He had made it seem so simple. Knowing she was about to do something undignified and not particularly minding, she lifted her skirt in her right hand, balling the cotton skirt so that it was above knee height. Then she stepped in over the threshold. She showed a good eighteen inches of stocking and was glowing red by the time she stood in the middle of the room, so embarrassed with her unladylike manners.
Lord Everett was kindly looking the other way, pretending to be absorbed in the molded ceiling while she twitched her skirt to hang becomingly again. Then she turned to him.
They were standing in the middle of a parlor, or she guessed it to be one. It had silk paper on the walls and a white molded ceiling. The curtains were white chintz, decorated with red leaf patterns and they matched the chairs. There was a cabinet of china and the chairs were carved wood with elaborate work on the backrests, a plethora of porcelain everywhere.
To Evelyn's eye, it looked like a home of a prosperous merchant. Small, but highly decorated, each piece chosen primarily for value and not necessarily to make a harmonious scene. The whole place also had an over-sweet quality – a little too countrified for her liking, as if it reached for the pastoral idylls of the previous decade and made them too sugar-sweet.
“Where are we?”
“The home of a tailor,” Lord Everett said. “Or if memory serves it is. If I'm wrong we just invaded the house of someone's dear aunt and we are about to be sorely punished for it...”
She laughed. “Why are we here?”
“Well, this is the home of a prosperous tailor,” he said. “A French tailor. One called Michel. Michel le Folgoet.”
Evelyn stared at him. “How do you know?”
He shrugged easily. “Who do you think made my clothes for five years, until I was bankrupted?”
Evelyn took a guess. “The coach was to pay your tailoring debt?”
He inclined his head in a deep bow. “Very astute, my lady. I would have to wake very early in the morning to foil that keen mind.”
Evelyn chuckled. “Flattery, as you know, is a gilt-washed coin.”
He grinned. “If you think so,” he chuckled. Then he paused. “Well, let us see what our tailor has lying around, eh?”
Evelyn shrugged. “If you think we can learn something from it?”
“Well, we might learn more from looking than we would have by questioning the man,” he said. “And we'd best hurry before we have to answer some serious questions. Breaking and entering is still a crime in this country, not so?”
Evelyn chuckled, surprised. “I thought so,” she added. “Then I did it myself. So I shall reserve judgment on that one until we leave this place.”
His laugh echoed to her from where he followed the hallway toward the rear of the house. “Very good thinking.”
They walked to what was certainly the tailor's bedchamber. A small room decorated in the same way as the others, with a profusion of orange-patterned chintz and a tall wardrobe.
Which Graham Everett quickly opened.
He riffled through the neat racks of suits, and Evelyn, watching, could see how well-made they all were – of the finest quality, too. If Lord Everett had bought such suits they must have been most elegant, she decided. Just as she was wondering if the tailor was retired and if she could order a suit for Bronson for a special present, Lord Everett exclaimed loudly.
“Oh! So.”
“What?”
A cloak. Black and dense material. A black suit. Black boots. With them all, a black mask.
Evelyn felt her belly turn to water. She wanted to be sick. She put her hand over her sternum, whole body rigid with shock.
They had found one of the masked men. They had Lord Everett's coach.
Suddenly, they knew so much more. They knew beyond any shadow of a doubt who had threatened Emilia, who had claimed money from her. As well as who had probably killed Lucian.
But why?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MAKING A PLAN
MAKING A PLAN
Lord Everett took the clothes. He considered wearing the cloak himself, but decided against it. It was too hot, and, besides, it would have been too eye-catching. They did not want to draw attention to themselves. They thought about the problem and then bundled them up inside Lord Everett's own cloak. He carried it under his arm and, if it looked a bit odd, no one was likely to stop them and ask them here.
“Shall we go to one of the parks?” he asked as they left the cottage house and headed back up the street where the coachman stopped.
“Lord Everett?” Evelyn asked. She had enough secrecy, enough mysterious events to last a lifetime. She had to know the answers.
“What, sweet lady?” he asked gently.
Evelyn smiled up into his face a little sadly. “Lord Everett? What is going on?”
“I'll tell you. Shall we walk?” He bent his arm at the elbow and Evelyn placed her gloved hand in the crook, feeling a little awkward. She was a married woman, and he was not her brother or any other form of relative. However, they had no choice – they would be any other couple taking a walk on the wide, leafed streets toward the park this way. Anything else would have looked strange.
“Why is the tailor masked and cloaked too? Why did he abduct Emilia?”
Lord Everett smiled. “He probably didn't. But people like him did.”
“People like him? Explain, please! I shall be driven wild.”
They had reached the gate to a park and together they walked in. They followed a stone-paved route to a bench and sat down.
“You told me of these masked men,” he said slowly. “The ones who threatened Emilia. You yourself said there were five of them.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said cautiously.
“Well, I think they are a society. You know, like these clubs gentlemen have – the fancy sort with their own signet rings and passwords, that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” Evelyn agreed. She knew of the clubs, mainly because Bronson flatly refused to join any of them, finding the whole idea vaguely childlike.
“Well, this is a different sort of society. I have no idea what they do, but I think it's more important than meeting to taste brandy and chat about women.”
Evelyn chuckled. “Good.”
He smiled a little sadly. “This one is more radical, I think.”
“Radical?” Evelyn frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“I don't know,” he sighed. “But I do know one thing.”
“What?”
“Lucian belonged to it too.”
Evelyn covered her mouth with her hand. “Lucian?” Her voice was shrill, though she had not meant it to be. “But...”
He smiled. “I know. Lucian was always so principled. However, he was perhaps too principled. In addition, something he said made me suspect he was doing something he didn't want me to know. Some references he made...” he sighed.
Evelyn stared at him. “So what you are saying is that Lucian belonged to some radical society. This radical society. And that they are the ones who abducted Emilia. Yes. And they are the ones to whom she owes debts...to whom Lucian owed debts.”
She covered her face with her hands, suddenly. Everything abruptly made sense. A horrible, inevitable sense. Why no one knew about the duel. Why no one could know. Why no one could help.
When she looked up, Lord Everett was looking back at her, his eyes hard like a cold sky.
“We know who killed Lucian. And why. And now we need to stop them from killing your cousin.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MOMENT OF UNDERSTANDING
MOMENT OF UNDERSTANDING
“Where are we going?” Emilia asked.
She and Oscar were walking through the village. Or, rather, Oscar was walking and Emilia was hobbling, step by painful step. Her right knee had swollen to twice its size and it ached so that she could put no weight on it. Their plan was to find a carriage for hire and leave as soon as possible.
Oscar had washed off some of the blood and gathered their things. He had found a staff for Emilia to lean her weight on, and now they walked on foot, him carrying their two small suitcases, teeth clamped on his lip to distract himself from what must have been immense pain.
He paused and looked at her fondly to answer her question. “We're going north,” he said shortly.
“We are?”
“As north as we can get without actually leaving England,” he said with a smile. “We'll lay low a while on the border and then decide what to do next. I have been a complete idiot,” he added under his breath.
Emilia shook her head vigorously and winced at the pain. “No, Oscar!”
“I have. I have been blind. A willfully, dangerously, blind fool.”
“I know you too well to believe that,” Emilia said, valiantly increasing her pace though her knee burned every time she stepped on it. “Whatever you did was well meant.”
He snorted. When he looked at her his blue eyes were an ocean of pain. “Thank you for believing in me,” he said quietly. “I do not deserve it.”
“You do. Now, if we are going to be walking much further, you will simply have to tell me what is going on. I need to be diverted from how painful my leg is right now,” she added with a laugh.
“You need to know,” he agreed. “Well, not much to tell. You will have guessed by now that our friendly chap at the inn was another of the Brothers. He would have called himself my brother.” he snorted mirthlessly. “And I would, until a week ago, have called him mine too.”
An Earl To Remember (The Yorkshire Downs Series - Love, Hearts and Challenges) (A Regency Romance Story) Page 51