by Cindy Anstey
Bobbington’s brow furrowed into deep ruts. “He has to know this is a hanging offense. Why would he do it?”
Spencer shook his head and shifted, staring sightless out the window. “Money. Perhaps power as well. All self-interest. Try not to think on it … he might get transportation instead. He has connections.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be better.” Bobbington put his plate on the table beside him, tart untouched.
“’Fraid it means we’ll have longer shifts again, Northam.”
Spencer shrugged, suppressing a sigh. Hours spent peeking around corners in disguise, waiting for Stamford to devise a surreptitious method to contact Lady Pyebald, was not high on his list of pleasant pastimes. No, not when those hours could be spent in the company of Miss Juliana Telford.
Luckily, he did not have to be vigilant overly long; the French communiqué was passed with flamboyance and verve within the huge crowds of Ascot Heath just a few days later. The crème de la crème of the beau monde were in attendance for their first horse race of the season. All were atwitter—in a dignified manner, of course—and all were dressed in their finest, top hats and beautiful bonnets required.
Spencer, no stranger to these environs, had no need of a disguise and could meet and greet and observe as openly as he wished. It proved to be a great boon, as the milling crowd offered cover, and the number of acquaintances supplied the reason to flit back and forth.
Unaware of the scrutiny, Stamford approached Lady Pyebald when Lord Pyebald briefly left the ladies to their own devices—likely to visit the necessary. A polite bow, a dropped program, and, voilà, the one retrieved from the dirt had extra pieces of paper added. Neatly done.
The look of relief on Stamford’s face as the Pyebalds disappeared back into the crowds was clear even from where Spencer was standing. Unfortunately, Stamford turned just at the wrong moment and saw Spencer watching. Their eyes met, they bowed their heads slightly, very slightly, in acknowledgment of each other, and then they went about their business.
Spencer dove back into the throng and found Winfrith hovering on the periphery of the Pyebald entourage. Their conversation was of short duration and would have confused anyone listening.
“Have you seen the latest program, Winfrith? I’m thinking there’s more in it than meets the eye.”
“Indeed. Young Pup has had a good run, but I think Skirts has come into her own.”
“You could be right. But I wouldn’t bet too heavily as Young Pup might still have some life—certainly has the eye. Won’t be overshadowed, I’m thinking.”
“Probably best to leave well enough alone.”
“I agree.”
Spencer left Ascot Heath with a sense of foreboding. He would do his best over the next few days to reclaim his reputation for easy living and hope that the gossip filtered back through the Ton—and to Stamford. It would be no small disaster if the traitor were to shout a warning to Lady Pyebald, just as the communiqué was about to cross the Channel.
CHAPTER
16
In which a leisurely stroll through the Vauxhall Gardens is most rudely interrupted by a deadly chase
“I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE,” Aunt Phyllis wailed. It wasn’t a loud lament; in fact, it was all the more pitiable for its lack of resonance. “I have done all you have asked, Mr. Reeves. Have I not? I have smiled, I have nodded, and I have strolled. May we not retire? If I see another back turned upon me, I will melt into a puddle right here.”
“Yes, my dear, you have done admirably.” Uncle Leonard raised his voice ever so slightly to indicate that he no longer addressed his wife, but instead the couple walking in front as well as the couple walking behind, although the group proceeded in such a tight knot that he need not have bothered. “I believe that the evening’s frivolity must come to a close, children. Shall we take the Grand Walk to the front gates?”
“Oh, no, perhaps the South Walk or the Dark Walk would be better. It will be quieter, less peopled,” Aunt Phyllis almost whined.
“That would defeat the purpose of the evening, my dear. We are here to show how unaffected we are by the Pyebalds’ vicious gossip. To scuttle away on one of the lesser walks would ruin the effect that we have built up all night. No, my dear, we are going to snub as many as we can from here to the gate.”
“I thought they were snubbing us.”
Uncle Leonard turned his head and looked behind him. He winked at Juliana, who was walking sedately on Spencer’s arm. “No, indeed, there is your mistake.” Once again he faced forward. “We want nothing to do with them, not the other way around.”
Juliana smiled; it was almost as if Uncle Leonard was enjoying himself. But this parading through Vauxhall Gardens among the Ton’s finest—was it really necessary?
Juliana glanced up at Spencer. Their eyes met. The tension that she had observed in him just a few days ago had disappeared. He had regained his affable nature, no longer suggesting that she leave Town. It was both enlightening and confusing in equal measure, for she was almost certain it had to do with the lack of Pyebalds in the Reeves town house.
“Poor Aunt Phyllis,” Juliana kept her voice very low. “This is extremely difficult for her.”
“It will not last long. I can almost guarantee that this time next year, the beau monde will know the truth about the Pyebalds, and your family will no longer be in shame.”
Juliana heard the conviction in Spencer’s voice as well as the veiled meaning. She slowed her steps, allowing some distance to grow between them and the Reeves family—but not too much. “Could you elucidate, Mr. Northam?”
Spencer opened his mouth as if he would do just that, but then a frown flashed across his face. Had Juliana not been watching closely, she would have missed it.
“Yes, I would very much like to explain, but now might not be the best time.” He glanced toward her aunt and uncle, making the reason for his hesitation quite plain. “There is many a discussion that needs to take place, and to do so in privacy.”
The grin and decided excitement in his eyes nearly took Juliana’s breath away. She smiled back, wishing that they could find that privacy immediately … for without said privacy, she could not even ask why he needed it.
“Well, some other time then.” Juliana nodded as if content, when she was anything but. That, however, had much more to do with their heated stares than the strange comments about the Pyebalds. Eventually, Spencer would explain about that horrid family, but for now it was sufficient to imagine the exclusion of that beastly group by the same nasty gossips that hung now on Lady Pyebald’s every lying word.
Poor Aunt Phyllis. It had been a week of canceled invitations and withdrawn support. The Ton was captivated by the surprising expulsion of the Pyebalds from the Reeves town house.
Only this morning, Nancy had come giggling to Juliana’s bedchamber with another lurid tale of why the Pyebalds were now taking up residence in Cheapside with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, fourth cousins on his mother’s side. This one had to do with drunken boot boys running naked through the halls. Honestly, some people simply did not have enough to do to keep themselves occupied.
The constantly changing saga had already provided a large helping of hilarity both above and below stairs. The only person not enjoying the ridiculous nature of it all was poor Aunt Phyllis. She really did care what strangers thought of her.
Juliana kicked at one of the larger pebbles on the Grand Walk and watched it skitter across the path and stop in front of a gaggle of well-dressed matriarchs and their daughters watching their approach. It was amazing that they could see anything before them, as their noses were so high in the air. Juliana snickered quietly, but not quietly enough as she saw Carrie turn on Lord Bobbington’s arm and peek back at her. They shared a look of exasperation and mutual sympathy.
“Spence, my boy,” a loud booming voice with great dramatic appeal addressed them from the Grove.
Spencer turned slightly and then stopped. “Uncle James,” Spencer greeted a p
ortly man in an elegant burgundy waistcoat striding purposefully toward them.
A couple, somewhat younger than the man Spencer addressed as uncle, stepped smartly forward, also showing eager enthusiasm for the meeting. They were dressed in the height of sophisticated fashion. The lady’s large feather bonnet alone would have put a healthy dent into anyone’s purse.
“Well met, my boy.” Uncle James’s voice still boomed despite the close proximity. “Sorry we were tardy; last-minute papers to deal with, you know. But never you mind, we are here now. And what a trail of happy gossips you have left meandering through the Gardens. You were easy to find. We simply followed the blathering nonsense and listened for the indignant harrumphs.”
“Thank you, Uncle. I am so glad you could make it. Mrs. Reeves is in a bad way, I’m afraid.”
“Oh dear me. Introductions, nephew. Quick, before she melts before our very eyes.”
Juliana laughed. She couldn’t help it. James Grafton had a contagious friendliness about him, as did Cousin Jason and his wife, Evelyn. With twinkling eyes and bright smiles, Spencer introduced the two groups to each other. The members of Spencer’s family made it perfectly clear that they welcomed the association. If they noticed the speculative looks cast their way by the others on the Grand Walk, they hid it very well. In a matter of moments, Aunt Phyllis left her dejected shadow persona behind and transformed into the vivacious socialite they knew so well. Uncle Leonard smiled his appreciation to Spencer.
As the swirl of amiability settled about them, Juliana felt a disquieting tension grow. What would these kind people think if they knew that Spencer had singled her out for attention? Would they still be here, at the Gardens, showing moral support to this ragtag family with problems? Or would they regret the connection?
Juliana looked up at Evelyn. The woman was not as young as she first appeared; little laugh lines decorated the corners of her eyes. She was tall and slim and had the carriage of a woman comfortable with herself and the world around her. She was the kind of woman whom Juliana tried to emulate.
Evelyn met Juliana’s eyes and frowned slightly. She subtly maneuvered away from the chatting group and beckoned Juliana to do the same.
“Is all well, Miss Telford? The brightness has suddenly left your pretty eyes.”
Juliana was taken aback. Such plain speaking. “Yes, thank you. I … I was merely thinking, no, wondering.” What was she going to say? “Lovely weather we are having. Are you enjoying London?”
Evelyn laughed.
Who could blame her? The question was insipid and had no relevance. Juliana swallowed and took a half step back—trying to escape her discomfort.
“I am, indeed. London has many diversions … but I much prefer the calm environs of verdant fields to the bustle of cobblestone streets, as do you, Miss Telford, from what I understand. Much easier to study insects in the country.” Evelyn glanced at Spencer for a moment before continuing.
Juliana blinked. Evelyn knew, or at least she had guessed, that there was an attachment of some sort. So involved in her relief, Juliana almost missed her next comment.
“In fact, I believe there is to be a journey to the country fairly soon. Will you be returning to Lambhurst as well?”
“Lambhurst?” Juliana turned to look at Spencer and saw him looking speculatively at them. He raised both his eyebrows in a mute query and stepped forward.
“Mrs. Grafton mentioned Lambhurst.” Was this then the reason for urging her to end her Season? Spencer wanted her closer at hand … to continue their association. Juliana tried to keep the grin from her face. “Are you leaving London, Mr. Northam?”
Spencer shrugged and breathed deeply, almost a sigh. “Unfortunately, Bobbington has been called home on some business matters, and I will accompany him. I’m not sure how long I will be away.”
“Oh.” Juliana did her best to not look disappointed. Trying to guess the direction of Mr. Spencer Northam’s train of thought was proving to be rather difficult. As soon as she decided, definitively, which way his was going, he would head off in the opposite direction.
Mired in her own thoughts, Juliana considered for what must have been too long, for when she rejoined the conversation, it wasn’t a conversation at all. Both Evelyn and Spencer were staring at her, their expressions nonplussed.
“Pardon?”
“I wondered about Lambhurst,” Evelyn clarified. “Whether you were going to quit London as well?”
Juliana smiled. “I was just mulling over such a possibility; my purpose for being in Town is all but secure now. Publishing my research with my father, as you probably know.”
Evelyn nodded, proving that she did, indeed, know.
“And I believe the family has lost its interest in the frivolity of the Season for the time being. Yes, the more I think on it, the more I find it a most acceptable notion. There are many lovely private spaces in Grays Hill Park—particularly in the gardens.” Juliana met Spencer’s gaze and watched as his bright, lopsided smile returned in full force.
“Excellent plan!”
Though she was not certain, Juliana thought she heard him add. “And at St. Ives Head.” She must have been mistaken … for his lips never moved.
* * *
LOST IN THOUGHT, Spencer enjoyed the relaxed, convivial atmosphere of this family gathering and imagined it as a template of the future. Holidays and hot summers spent at his estate in Somerset with all these lovely people filling his manor with laughter and bringing that marvelous sparkle to Juliana’s eyes. With a benign smile tugging at his lips, Spencer caught an abrupt movement, or rather, an abrupt pause.
A significant collection of dandies had come to a sudden halt in the center of the path facing their party. Talking behind their hands, and all but pointing, the young men shook their heads, squared their shoulders, and made a show of stepping out of the way. Only Lamar Stamford was left standing in the center of the path, staring from Bobbington to Spencer with an expression of growing horror.
This was a pretty pickle: a lose-lose situation. Stamford had made the connection; he was going to run. But would the traitor just run fast and far or would he try to head off the Pyebalds? And if Spencer gave chase, would the gossipmongers do the job instead?
“We should be going, Bobbington.” Spencer grabbed his friend by the arm, pulling him out from the inner sanctum of the company. He really had no choice. Gossip could be countered … refuted … twisted; the warning of a confederate could not.
“What? Whatever for—” Then he noticed Stamford standing agape not twenty feet away. Bobbington’s appraisal of the situation was similar to Spencer’s. “Lawks!”
The happy chatter was silenced by the vulgar exclamation, and all heads turned their way.
But there was time neither to explain nor to apologize for the rough language—Stamford had turned on his heels and was now hightailing it toward the Dark Walk.
Spencer rushed after him. Gesturing Bobbington to the right, Spencer directed his friend up the Grand Walk; they would trap Stamford between them. The pleasure garden was built on a grid, and they could easily guess Stamford’s direction—out. The traitor wanted to escape. He knew the jig was up—if he wanted to survive, he had to get away.
The race was not easily won.
Stamford took to the greenery, where there were no obstacles of the people kind but trees and shrubbery aplenty. Still, despite the stitch in his side and the inability to breathe properly, Spencer gradually caught up to Stamford. Inch by inch. Closer and closer he approached, until the villain suddenly veered behind a huge rhododendron and disappeared.
Spencer slowed and came to a halt. Bobbington reached his side, and they stared at the tangled branches.
“Done for now … trapped himself,” Spencer panted.
“The side entrance!” The shout from behind was none other than Lord Winfrith, gesturing wildly to the left.
Startled, Bobbington and Spencer recovered quickly and ran in the general direction of Winfrith’s
flapping hands. It was blind faith, for Spencer had no idea that there was a side entrance to Vauxhall. It was fortunate that Winfrith knew what he was about.
No sooner had they raced down the path than the swinging gates of the smaller entrance and the surprised expressions on patrons’ faces told Spencer that Stamford had, indeed, run this way. Increasing his speed in a surge of desperation, Spencer beat Bobbington through the gate.
Just as he burst through, he heard a loud pop and saw a puff of smoke up ahead—wafting out from behind a tree. Rushing over, he found Stamford trying to hide behind a narrow trunk with a two-shot pistol in his hand—aimed directly at Spencer’s chest. Without a great deal of consideration, Spencer chose not to check his momentum but allowed his speed to send him careering into Stamford. The pistol fired—safely into the sky.
It was all over in a trice.
Bobbington helped turn Stamford facedown on the ground, and—though there was much complaining and cursing—they sat on him. They did not have to use Stamford as a settee for too long as Winfrith quickly arrived with two burly constables; they dragged the traitor away posthaste before any of the beau monde deigned to inquire too closely about this most irregular behavior.
By the time Juliana and family came rushing through the gate to join them under the leafy canopy of Kennington Lane, Stamford was gone. Bobbington and Spencer looked up, did their best to wear expressions of surprise, and acted as if nothing untoward had occurred—at all.
Spencer fobbed off questions with an unlikely excuse of seeing a friend who owed him money. Bobbington merely nodded—he was still a little winded.
Passing off the incident as a bag of moonshine fooled no one, least of all Juliana.
“If it was all for naught, then why has your wardrobe undergone a significant alteration?”