The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne

by Madeline Hunter

  “I think he has found an excuse to avoid the social expectations attached to his title, by occupying himself with more serious concerns.”

  “If we find him a woman, he will not mind the social expectations so much. We must put our minds to that, and soon.”

  Kendale held up a hand, stopping their little march at the end of Compton Street. He moved his horse so he could see them. “It is the fourth door down from the next crossroad. The other woman lives there alone now, with only her servants. When she returns, it would help if you two would arrange to keep an eye on her, to see if she meets with the Lyon woman again, or anyone else suspicious.”

  “When she returns?” Darius’s gaze swung from the familiar door to Kendale, sharply.

  “There has been no carriage in the carriage house all day, not since dawn. I looked again right before I met you. She has taken a journey, I believe, and I curse myself that I did not call the two of you to the task sooner so we knew where she has gone.”

  “No doubt she is only visiting a friend in town,” Darius said. “She does have some, of course.”

  “Possibly. However, I have been wondering if she went to her father’s property in Kent. If so, well, think of it—she meets with the Lyon woman, and a mere two days later travels to the coast.” Kendale’s expression assumed its most military severity. “I think these two women are up to no good.”

  “I think you are making much out of nothing, and boring me while you do so,” Ambury said. “It is all too vague.”

  “I do not deny it is vague, but you can’t deny it is also more than a little coincidental, and peculiar.”

  “Only if it happened. There is no proof it did, except in your imagination,” Ambury said.

  “As it happens, I knew Maurice Fairbourne, the man who fell from the cliff walk,” Darius said. “I frequented his auction house. His property in Kent was not far from mine, so we had further cause for acquaintance.”

  Ambury, who had evidently not made the connection between the other woman and Emma Fairbourne until this moment, turned his attention on Darius with unabashed curiosity.

  “Do you know his daughter too?” Kendale asked.

  “We have been introduced.”

  Kendale chewed that over.

  Ambury sent Darius a slow, sidelong look. “I expect that this other woman is still in mourning, Kendale?” Another sly glance let Darius know that one of his friends had not forgotten his concerns about kissing and pursuing a grieving woman.

  “She is, which is why her long absence today causes concern. It is unlikely she has a full social agenda now. It is convenient that you have met her, and knew her father, Southwaite. You can keep that eye on her without it being too obvious.”

  “Now, that is convenient,” Ambury muttered under his breath.

  “I will turn my attention to her if you insist, Kendale, although I believe your suspicions are the product of a warrior’s mind in search of a battle.”

  Kendale frowned. “If you think it would be wrong…ignoble, since you have a social connection already, I suppose that Ambury could—”

  “No, better if I do it. I am less likely to misunderstand things, since I know the lady already. I will turn my mind to it at once, and start by discovering if her absent carriage means she has taken a journey, and if so, where she has gone.” Darius moved his horse forward.

  “How will you do that?” Kendale asked. “Damned hard to track a missing carriage.”

  “Only if it is indeed missing,” Ambury pointed out with exasperation.

  “Have no fear, Kendale. I have my ways,” Darius called back.

  His first way was the easiest. He would go question Maitland, the butler, and no doubt receive assurances that Miss Fairbourne was doing nothing more suspicious than spending the evening with Lady Cassandra and her aunt.

  Chapter 16

  The house had been closed for more than a month, and held the odor of stale air that spoke of absence and dust. Emma immediately threw open some windows upon her arrival, glad to have something to do so she would not succumb to her emotions.

  She had not been here in close to a year. This property hugged the coast about halfway between Deal and Dover, where the Downs gave way to the Straits. It had been Papa’s retreat, and not a family place. She had not even come after he died. Rather, he had been brought back to her in London, for a proper burial next to her mother. Now the sea breezes flowed into the kitchen, carrying memories of the few times she had accompanied her father here.

  “I’ll be washing these curtains,” Mrs. Norriston said, as she held one to her nose. “Was meaning to do that when he was here last time, but he—” She caught herself, flushed, and looked at Emma with apologies.

  Mrs. Norriston lived in the nearby village of Ringswold, and served here on occasion when her father was in residence. Emma had stopped by and picked her up on the way. She did not really need a servant for the brief visit she was making. She wanted Mrs. Norriston with her for other reasons, which she now broached.

  “I am here on a mission, Mrs. Norriston. I hope that you can help me with it.”

  “It is not likely I can help such as you, Miss Fairbourne. I am a simple woman. You need cooking and cleaning, that is fine. But a mission sounds too important.”

  “You have lived in these parts your whole life, my father once said. It is exactly such as you from whom I need help. You see, I want to talk to some of the smugglers who work this coast. I thought perhaps you know someone who knows them, and who could get word to them that it is important I have this conversation.”

  Mrs. Norriston quickly shook her head. “No one knows who they are. They like it that way, don’t they? ’Tis their business not to be known and seen.”

  “Some of them are well-known, and their faces have been seen by those who aid them. I am not a magistrate. I am not seeking their arrest. There are those in the village who could do this for me, I am sure. Why, when I visited the village last year there was a man hawking French soap from a cart in the village green.”

  Thick and sturdy, with a large white cap that covered most of her gray hair, Mrs. Norriston lumbered back and forth in the kitchen, putting away the cheese and ham and bread that Emma had bought on the way. She checked the larder for staples and smelled the dripping jar’s contents.

  Emma waited a solid five minutes for Mrs. Norriston to say something. When it became obvious the housekeeper chose to ignore the request for help, Emma changed the subject.

  “Do you know how far away the Earl of Southwaite’s estate is? It is near Folkstone, I think.”

  Mrs. Norriston tapped her chin while she thought. “Six or seven miles south, that would be. Said to be a hard man, he is. Smiles enough until he is crossed, I’ve heard.” She reached for a pan. “I’ll warm the ham for supper. Your coachman will be glad for a bit of hot food, I think. I’ll get him fed, then call you when I have it all set for you.”

  Knowing she had been dismissed, Emma left the kitchen and went up the stairs, noticing as she did how her steps sounded overly loud and the shadows seemed to stir as she approached.

  She had not come here very often, so the house did not feel like her home. Yet she could not escape that the entire cottage reminded her of that anteroom to Papa’s apartment in London. His presence seemed to have impressed itself on this place in ways that time had not obliterated yet. Maybe his retreat and isolation here caused something of him, something almost tangible, to remain.

  The sensation that she was closer to him here than she had been since his death pressed on her as she opened the door to his bedchamber. It did not frighten her or make her uncomfortable, but it seeped into her soul and demanded acknowledgment.

  A small painting graced the north wall of his bedroom, and her gaze went there immediately when she entered. Its vivid colors could not be obscured by the gathering shadows. They glowed from painterly light, the reds like rubies and the blue as pure as the lapis lazuli from which the pigment had been made.

>   She could see the subject very clearly. St. George, clad in Renaissance armor, speared a fantastic-looking dragon in a mountainous landscape. A lovely woman in an ancient gown stood to the side, watching her protector with love and gratitude. It was not Raphael’s only painting of this subject, but her father had always insisted it was his finest.

  She glanced away from the painting, to the bed and chair, and the stack of books on a table. Her chest thickened painfully until it felt as if a weight had lodged above her heart. She strode over to the painting and removed it from the wall. She was about to carry it out when her surroundings captured her attention again.

  Where were the other paintings?

  There used to be two others in this chamber, a small mythological scene by Botticelli and a portrait of a cardinal by Sebastiano. Papa had sold the bulk of his collection to raise the funds for the move to Albemarle Street, but he had held back those two because they were his favorites.

  She set down the Raphael and looked under the bed and in the wardrobe. She went down to the sitting room to check there, but neither painting could be found. In fact, the walls were bare.

  They had not been stolen, if the Raphael remained. No thief would take them and leave the bigger prize. Her father must have sold everything else, however.

  She returned to the bedchamber to retrieve the Raphael, sure now that Papa had been trying to help Robert. Perhaps the demand for the money to keep Robert safe had arrived at a time the hundred pounds was otherwise not available. As for this last painting, she knew why it had been spared. He had not sold it because he believed it was not his to sell. He had bought it for her mother, who in turn had said she wanted her daughter to have it upon Papa’s death.

  In her own chamber, she wrapped the small panel in a long linen and nestled it at the bottom of her valise. Then she spent the evening deciding how to arrange a rendezvous with men who were expert in never being seen.

  That night she slept alone in the house. Mr. Dillon’s presence in the outlying carriage house allayed any misgivings, but could not keep the ghosts away. Memories of her father and brother kept haunting her thoughts.

  She remembered the last time they were all here together, not long before Robert left on the journey from which he never returned. There had been a small row between him and Papa, now that she thought about it. She had been in the garden but she had heard their voices raised. The next day Robert had confided to her that he would be making a journey to the Continent soon, to purchase his first collection to sell at Fairbourne’s on his own account.

  Only he never got there, it appeared. Nor was he returning from Italy on that ship that went down.

  Where had he gone instead? Had he even left England. That was what she wanted to find out. Tomorrow she would go to the village and find a way to talk to those who might know, even if she had to bribe someone.

  Mrs. Norriston had returned by the time Emma went down the stairs the next morning. The old woman served breakfast, then positioned herself at the side of the table while Emma ate. She frowned, and her eyes glinted with displeasure.

  “He will reach out from the grave to smite me if harm comes to you,” she said. “So you do this the way I say, do you hear?”

  Emma nodded obediently.

  “Eleven o’clock tomorrow you go to the village, to the Prince’s Sword there. Don’t wear your weeds and don’t look too fine. No carriage and no coachman either, I was told to say. Just go there and wait.”

  “Yes. I will do that. Just as you say.”

  “A conversation, you said. There’ll be nothing more. Best bring some coin. Weren’t clear if you would need it, but best if you expect so.”

  “I will bring what I have.” She reached over and took Mrs. Norriston’s hand in her own. “I thank you. Do not worry about being smitten. It will be broad daylight, in the middle of a village, and no harm will come to me.”

  Mrs. Norriston did not look convinced. Shaking her head, she aimed her heavy steps back to the kitchen.

  The next day Emma donned an old brown pelisse over her rose dress, and tied on a simple straw bonnet.

  Both items had been left here from a visit more than a year ago, and as she put them on she remembered the scents and sounds in this house when she last wore them. The memories came to her so vividly that she thought she really heard her father’s step on the floorboards in the chamber next to hers.

  Gritting her teeth against a flood of emotion, she left the house and walked the mile inland to the village.

  The buildings displayed the ravages of sea air. Some badly needed new paint and whitewash, but others had been better maintained. The houses had gardens and were small in size. Families of fishermen lived in most of them, but the village possessed a store too, and was big enough to support the living of a tradesman or two.

  Her walk down the main lane garnered some passing attention, and also a few greetings from people who recognized her from her occasional visits to her father. She stopped outside the Prince’s Sword and looked through the window. It was too early in the day for a tavern to have many patrons, and the tables were mostly empty. A man sitting near the window peered up at her as she peered in at him, then lost interest in her presence.

  She had never entered a tavern before. It was not a place for women like her at any time. She wished her smuggler had set this meeting for the churchyard. He had not, however, and if she hoped to learn anything about her brother, she must enter.

  Enter she did. The few patrons inside barely noticed. The proprietor merely glanced her way. She chose a rough table away from the window, and sat down to wait.

  The unmistakable odor of beer and ale filled the air. It mixed with other smells, of food being cooked. Somewhere out of sight a meal was being prepared, perhaps for selling along with drink. Her nose twitched. Mutton stew, she decided.

  A long ten minutes passed while she sat alone beneath the timbered ceiling. Then the door to the street opened and a man entered. No one paid him much mind. He strode over to her table and slid onto the bench so he faced her.

  In her mind she had expected to meet with an old, grizzled fellow, one very coarse and red-faced from the sea winds. Instead her smuggler appeared no more than his mid-thirties in age, and thin in a wiry way that spoke of some strength. He looked almost stylish in his long brown frock coat and loosely tied neckcloth. The only odd part of his appearance was his facial hair. A neatly groomed mustache and short beard hid most of his face, and thick dark eyebrows framed his blue eyes.

  “You are alone.” His quiet voice made it both a statement and a question, enough of the latter that she felt compelled to nod.

  “That was foolish,” he said.

  “You left me no choice. Would you have entered just now if I brought an escort?”

  “I shouldn’t have anyway. Some woman pled your case to a good friend of mine, though, so here I am for a few minutes. No more.”

  She took that as an invitation to speak. “I need your word that you will not repeat anything that I tell you. I cannot risk anyone in authority learning these things, and—”

  “For a woman I am seeing as a favor, you have conditions?” He laughed softly.

  “I am sorry, but I must make them. I must ask for your word as a…as a gentleman.”

  He did not laugh at that. Instead his blue eyes examined her with curiosity. He nodded.

  “I am Maurice Fairbourne’s daughter. He owned the property down on the—”

  “I know of him.”

  “My brother, Robert, went missing two years ago. I think perhaps he is being held by smugglers.”

  “Not by any that work this stretch of coast.”

  Her heart dropped. She had been stupid to hope this would be simple, and that the answers just waited for her questions. “Are you sure? There might be others besides you who thought to make easy money this way.”

  He looked at her with some exasperation, and also, she thought, some sympathy. “There are some who put in here at times,
who are not from these parts, the sea being what it is. It is discouraged, though.”

  She wondered how, but guessed she should not ask. “Have you ever heard anything about this, then? About my brother, or if those from other parts are holding a young man? You see, everyone thinks he is dead, but now I am sure he is not, and I must try—”

  A gesture from him, a raised hand, abruptly commanded her silence. His attention shifted from her to the window. The man sitting there also gestured, calling for attention while he peered intently out the window, craning his neck to see something on the street. Everyone in the tavern, even the proprietor, stilled like animals alerted to danger.

  Another gesture from the man at the window, a calming one, and a quick glance in their direction spoke reassurance.

  Her smuggler relaxed. “Would be a hell of a thing to find myself in gaol for letting your story touch my heart,” he said. “As for your questions, I’ve heard nothing about a man being held.”

  “Do you think you would have learned about it? Do you all speak among yourselves?”

  “I would know for certain if it were near here. As for the rest of the southeast coast, there’s gossip, just like in your drawing rooms. A man drinks and he talks, and such as that can become known. Or not.”

  She hated asking the next question. The disloyalty of it sickened her, but she really should find out what she faced. “Did you…Did my father or brother ever trade with you or the others?”

  She thought she saw pity in his eyes, enough that she was not sure he would be honest. “I would not have minded it. Things come to us that would do better in a place such as his. But he did not trade with such as us. Not me or my lads, at least. However, it is a very long coast, and I don’t know about any of the others.”

  That was something, at least, and it gave her some heart. As for the rest, she sadly accepted that she would have little to show for this small adventure. “Learning that you know nothing is learning something, I suppose. I will not wonder if Robert is easily within reach, but languishing due to lack of effort on my part. I thank you for the kindness of seeing me so I could discover that much, at least.”