Love, Lies and Spies

by Cindy Anstey

  Juliana tried not to gloat, but perhaps there was a smallness in her after all, for she greatly enjoyed Vivian’s inability to distract Spencer.

  “I think I will get some air,” the pretty schemer whispered into Juliana’s ear. She stood and straightened her skirt into an artful display.

  “Should you not wait for your father? Or perhaps your brother?”

  “No, just let Mama know that I will be back presently. That is, if she ever comes up for a breath.”

  “You will not. Vivian, sit down!” The woman was apparently adept at talking and listening at the same time.

  “But, Mama,” Vivian said smoothly, “we have discussed this.”

  “Indeed, we have, and you know my feelings perfectly. A scene is the last thing that we need right now, and if Lord Pyebald were to—well, as you said, we have discussed this. You will not wander about without my company.”

  Vivian smiled at her mother. She stepped behind Lady Pyebald’s chair and whispered in her ear.

  “Very well.” The corpulent woman disentangled her daughter’s arms from around her neck, grabbed her reticule, and pushed her chair back. “I apologize.” She nodded toward Aunt Phyllis and Carrie, who were pretending not to be interested in the disagreement.

  The ladies, however, did not make it out of the box. Just as they approached the back, Mr. Stamford and a foppish young man with a canary-yellow waistcoat pushed the curtain back and entered.

  “Lamar.”

  Juliana heard breathy excitement in Vivian’s reaction.

  The four standing in the shadows stared at one another for some moments before the conversation began.

  “See, Vivian, I was sure Mr. Stamford would not neglect his friends.” Lady Pyebald’s smile was tight. With a reluctant nod to propriety, she turned to the company. “You recall Mr. and Mrs. Reeves and their daughter.”

  Juliana was not acknowledged, but then neither was Mr. Stamford’s friend.

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Stamford hesitated for an instant then stepped forward and inclined his head. As he did so, Juliana noticed that his eyes swept past her aunt and uncle and into the audience. As soon as the greeting was complete, he stepped back into the dim light.

  “We haven’t seen you in so long.” Vivian had yet to take her eyes from Mr. Stamford’s face.

  “Yes, indeed, it has been some time.” His voice had lost its edge as he addressed her. “Too long.”

  “Yes, and if you wish to see the inside of Ryton Manor again, I suggest a little boot licking, my boy.” Lady Pyebald reached into her reticule and pulled out a sealed paper. “Until then, I wanted to issue you an invitation.” She passed the paper to Mr. Stamford.

  He bowed, but when his eyes were once again level, there was a decided sparkle in them. “I thank you, but I am not yet ready to dangle after Lord Pyebald’s good opinion.”

  “Still high in the instep, I see. Well, then I recommend a hasty retreat. His Lordship will be returning presently.”

  “Yes, yes, I will be go—”

  “Oh no, stay,” Vivian interrupted.

  Juliana had never seen the usually calm, conniving girl in such a state. There was no denying that Mr. Stamford had made an impression on her.

  “Please—” Vivian started to say.

  “I must go,” he said softly. He used his chin to point his companion through the curtain while keeping his eyes fixed on Vivian.

  Juliana hoped that Lady Pyebald had not seen the wink as the two men disappeared. She would not like it.

  Vivian glared at her mother, then lifted her chin, and sashayed to her chair. She lowered herself with great aplomb and turned her gaze back to the stage. Suddenly, Hamlet was of more interest to her than it had been all night.

  “Are we entertaining?” Aunt Phyllis asked Lady Pyebald once she, too, had regained her seat.

  Lady Pyebald’s brow puckered into fleshy folds. “No, Mrs. Reeves, why do you ask?”

  “You extended an invitation to Mr. Stamford.”

  “Ah, yes, that. I was hoping to see his mother, Emily Stamford, when we return to Lambhurst.”

  “In the summer?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But that is two months from—”

  “Please, Mrs. Reeves, I am trying to hear. If you did not wish to see the play, you should have stayed home. Really.”

  Juliana actually heard Aunt Phyllis’s jaw snap shut. It was rather pleasurable to witness such an unabridged set-down. She smiled and looked to Carrie, hoping to enjoy the moment, but the final scenes of Hamlet enwrapped the girl.

  Juliana turned to Spencer, hoping that he was not once again traipsing around the theater. She was pleased to see that he wasn’t. He was comfortably ensconced in his box and staring in their direction. He was smiling. It was a broad, contagious smile that made Juliana’s cheeks lift even farther. She knew that Spencer could not have heard the set-down, but he seemed to have caught her mood, for the tension that she had seen in him earlier had disappeared. In fact, if she were to describe the look on his face, she could only say that he looked like a cat that had swallowed a canary. It was a strange expression for a sedate evening at the theater.

  * * *

  SPENCER RUBBED THE SMILE FROM HIS FACE. His initial reaction upon realizing the true identity of the traitors was surprise, followed immediately by a sense of victory. But, in fact, the mission was far from complete. While it was now apparent that the French messages were passed through Lady Pyebald by way of Miss Vivian, Stamford, and Hart—not Lord Pyebald and his feckless son—it had to be determined how Hart received the information he dispatched and whether Lord Hart was involved. Victory was still a distant figure running in and out of shadows.

  Bobbington returned from his vigil—watching the nominally guiltless Lord Pyebald and his son—not long after Stamford and Hart had quit Juliana’s box. The news of the ladies’ duplicity had not surprised Bobbington as much as it had Spencer. Bobbington had merely nodded and explained that the need for power and money shone brighter in Lady Pyebald’s eyes than it ever had in Lord Pyebald’s. Bobbington should know; he had lived in the same town with them all his life.

  Spencer wished that his reticence had abated earlier. It might have saved a lot of conjecture, not to mention legwork.

  And so Spencer stewed with undefined impatience. The Pyebald men remained restless throughout the evening, and eventually Maxwell Pyebald led Bibury outside and into the dark backstreets. Bibury had yet to report in, but Spencer was not concerned. Pyebald was no longer a threat to the security of the Commonwealth. He was more of a nuisance, and they would not be watching his comings and goings hereafter.

  Spencer did not have much of an opportunity to enjoy Juliana’s company following the curtain drop. They met in the vestibule for smiles, nods, and benign praises of Shakespeare. Then Mr. Reeves, who apparently had more than his fill of merriment, rushed her off to the carriage. It left Spencer and Bobbington to the clutches of Lady Pyebald and Mrs. Reeves. Fortunately, they were distracted. The women figuratively and literally bumped into as many of the aristocracy as they could, introducing the beautiful innocents at their sides as they did so.

  * * *

  “WELL, this was certainly a night of surprises.” Bobbington stood next to the fireplace in the drawing room of Spencer’s apartment, staring through the cut crystal of his wineglass at the mesmerizing deep burgundy liquid.

  The atmosphere in the room eased Spencer’s tension and allowed him a modicum of relaxation. For the first time in some weeks, it did not reek of artifice.

  Spencer downed his port and rose from his chair. “I can’t believe I missed it.” He shook his head as he pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured himself another stiff drink.

  “Well, they fooled the lot of us. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

  “The capes,” Spencer muttered. “I should have realized. Their hoods were up. How many men do you know conduct business hooded? Caped, yes, but hooded? Cold spring night be d
amned.” He waggled his finger in Bobbington’s general direction and then sat again. “It does make a perverse kind of sense. A lady of good repute and a chit in her first Season are not the first suspects of treason. They would think themselves safe from detection. If I had not seen the exchange myself, I would not have believed it.”

  “As I said earlier, I have lived in Lambhurst all my life. The woman’s ploys are legendary. Her tastes run to champagne and fine silk, where the family coffers can barely afford mutton. It is not hard to imagine Lady Pyebald seeing the financial benefits of free-trading, let alone betraying the very soil she stands on. Likely sell out her soul, that one.”

  “Yes, but Miss Vivian. How could Lady Pyebald draw her own daughter into something this sordid?”

  “Do not underestimate Stamford. He might have been the one to make the connections. He could have charmed Miss Vivian into participating. The girl could have drawn in her mother, rather than the other way around. An inexperienced chit like that, she likely fancied herself in love.”

  “To a confirmed rake with no funds. No wonder Lord Pyebald tossed him out on his ear.”

  “Yes, indeed, that would explain the necessity of a public meet.” Bobbington dropped down into the chair beside his friend and loosened his neckcloth. “So what happens now?”

  “Well, now we feed Hart the wrong numbers and locales of our troops until he takes the bait and misleads Boney.”

  “Are you going to arrest everyone involved?”

  “Not until they are no longer of use.”

  “You do realize that Miss Telford is likely to be tainted by proximity. People are judged by the company they keep.”

  “Yes, in fact, now that we have determined that it is the women of the Pyebald household, not the men, she is in more danger of being ruined by their avarice.” Spencer swallowed hard, forcing the bile back into his stomach. “She will be painted with the same brush of scandal.” She needed to go; somehow he had to make her see that it was in her best interest to leave … without ever telling her why. He would use all his powers of persuasion to send her home. The only problem was that she might listen.

  Spencer needed a drink. Where was his glass? “Karl,” he called.

  “Yes, sir,” the man answered almost immediately.

  Spencer looked over his shoulder. Karl stood in the doorway with Bibury at his side.

  “Sir, you have a visitor.”

  “Come in, Bibury. You may go, Karl.” He flicked his hand toward the hall. “Oh yes, before you go too far, can you bring us some fresh glasses?” He glanced at the almost-empty decanter. “And some more port, too.”

  Karl bowed with great dignity. “Very good, sir.”

  Spencer rose to greet Bibury properly and stopped halfway to the door.

  Bibury’s lip was swollen and split; dried blood crusted his chin. “Bibury, whatever—Karl, forget the port. See if you can get us some ice, will you?”

  Spencer heard a murmur of assent from the back of the apartment. “Whatever did you get yourself into?” he addressed Bibury once more.

  “Do I look that poorly?” the man asked with wide-eyed innocence, before grinning and resplitting his lip. “I am sure that I will not be complaining as much as Pyebald come morning.”

  “Lord Pyebald?”

  “No, indeed. Maxwell in-deep-with-the-money-lenders Pyebald. I followed the bugger to a Hell, but he no sooner stepped across the threshold of The Pigeon Hole when he was drug out for a thumpin’. I thought they were going to kill the prig, so I jumped in. The bugger didn’t even stop to thank me. Simply run off like the sapskull he is. A fine gentleman.”

  “Indeed.” Spencer shook his head. “A fine gentleman.”

  He had to get Juliana out of that house.

  CHAPTER

  14

  In which Uncle Leonard takes it upon himself to aid his niece in scholastic matters

  JULIANA SHIFTED IN HER CHAIR AND LIFTED THE letter slightly, only sufficiently to get it out of the glare of the early-afternoon sun streaming in her window. Her father’s hen-scratch hand was hard enough to read as it was, without adding the overbrightness of the day to her straining eyes. She sighed and read the last few words again.

  Yes, indeed. There it was. Despite his stoic references to doing quite fine without her, and his assurances that all was well, he mentioned twice—not once but twice—that Miss Gilson had asked the curate to dine at Hartwell. Juliana could feel anxiety emanating from the pages. The possibility of her old governess and the curate forming an attachment fairly screamed horror in the ink. They would be running away together any day now.

  “Poor Father,” she said to the empty room. “He is so afraid that life will change. And he is putting on a brave face for my sake.” She neatly refolded the page and then held it on her lap while staring into space. She could almost see his furrowed brow as he wrote the letter: her gentle, graying father with a ready smile, who relied so heavily on his routine.

  Oh well, if all went as planned, if their research was accepted and then published, life was going to change no matter what, as life was meant to do. But it would not be a tremendous alteration—simply a shift of their focus: onto the next stage in development of the fascinating Coccinellidae. This change, he would welcome … he just didn’t know it yet.

  Juliana felt that she had no choice; it was publish or lose the recognition of their research. Her father had advocated a delay, always wanting to add, to clarify, and to elucidate further. Juliana would have been content to let it be, for a few more years at least, had it not been for Mr. Redmond, Mr. Thurstan Redmond. A Friday-faced cad with earnest questions—cutting shams about his research, all the while intending to use their discoveries for his book. It was hard to imagine the devious nature of some people.

  No, the Telford research had to be under the Telford name. There was no going around it.

  The tap of footsteps approaching her half-open door pulled Juliana from her trance. She pulled her foot out from under her and dropped it to the floor. It was a comfortable position but not seemly, and heaven forbid in this correct household that one be caught sitting on one’s leg.

  Another set of feet approached, and Juliana listened—more with resignation than interest—to the muttered exchange. It had been a topsy-turvy day, and she had no inkling as to what other histrionics were waiting. It almost made her not want to leave her room. There was an exception, of course, and it went by the name of Mr. Northam.

  Carrie burst through the door with her eyes sparkling. Naturally, she hadn’t knocked.

  “Oh Juliana, we have guests. Nancy just came up to let us know.”

  “Goose, we cannot receive without either your mother or Lady Pyebald. And as far as I know, they are still indisposed.” That was a polite euphemism for Lady Pyebald’s hysterics upon discovering the ruination of her son’s face and person.

  Maxwell Pyebald had walked into the morning room with a faltering step, a cloth around his arm, and the look of suffering written across his motley-colored face. It was very dramatic and well staged. Last night’s actors could have taken lessons.

  But Juliana thought he got much more of a fuss than he had expected. Granted, it was the worst black eye that she had seen, but it would heal, as would the split lip, cut knuckles, and pulled elbow.

  But Lady Pyebald had used Maxwell’s sorry appearance as an excuse to throw the household into a frenzy, screaming for a physician and cursing the evil men who partook in such uncivilized behavior. That they could cut down a young man in the prime of his life was tragic. The world was a vile, vile place. It was almost as if Maxwell had died as opposed to coming out on the wrong end of a scrape.

  Naturally, Maxwell had been sent to bed. Poor man didn’t even get a nibble of the hearty breakfast he had served himself. It was declared dangerous. Juliana smiled. She had seen a cup of chocolate and a large bowl of broth being carried to his room. He would not find either very filling.

  “As far as I know, Lady Pyebald is
still with Mr. Pyebald, as is Vivian. And your mother is lying down with a sick headache.”

  “But Papa is downstairs.”

  Juliana laughed. “Since when does your father entertain guests? No, best inform Nancy…”

  “Lord Bobbington and Mr. Northam.”

  That silenced any argument Juliana was going to make.

  “Apparently, they are in the library.”

  Juliana stood and quickly crossed to the looking glass. She had to make sure that her dress was not rumpled. It had nothing to do whatsoever with checking that her hair was in place and flattering. No, no. That was not her intent … at all. She swept her arm toward the door. “We best not keep them waiting. The library will likely be very quiet until we get there.”

  “Poor Papa. He is not a talker.” Carrie’s eyes were bright, and her color had grown slightly in the past few minutes. “We had better rescue him … them.” She jumped ahead of Juliana and fairly skipped down the stairs.

  But upon arriving in front of the library door, they were greeted with enough voices and laughter for a gathering of many.

  “Do we have other guests, Chester?” Juliana asked just before he pulled the door to.

  “Yes, Miss. Lord Bobbington and Mr. Northam.”

  “No, besides—” Juliana didn’t continue as the door was now wide open and showed quite clearly that, indeed, there were only three men. They were talking, laughing, and chortling about someone called Tom Cribb, and they did not immediately realize that their male bastion had been invaded. Words such as facer, ropes, and prizefighting leaped out of the jumble.

  Chester cleared his throat twice before the men looked toward the hall. Then all three looked guilty, like little boys caught with their fingers in the honey.

  “Ah, yes, there you are.” Uncle Leonard came forward to greet them as if they had not been in his company just a few hours ago. “Lord Bobbington and Mr. Northam are here,” he added needlessly.

  Carrie advanced ahead of her, and Juliana noticed the shy underlash look she gave Lord Bobbington before she sat down. By the sudden flush on his cheeks, Juliana thought he might have noticed, too.