Chapter Three
The morning sun streamed through the windows of Gwenda's room, patching the bed with squares of light. She could feel the warmth upon her face, but she could not seem to force her eyes open to confront the breaking of day. Nor did her limbs seem to want to move, either. She felt as though she had been swathed in cotton batting from head to toe with some of the fluffy whiteness actually stuffed inside her head. A low groan escaped her lips, some part of her mind registering the fact that she had just passed a very strange night. It was not natural for her to sleep so heavily, so deeply without dreams She always had some sort of dreams.
With great effort, she managed to shift her legs from beneath the coverlet. Something warm and moist was licking the soles of her feet. Gwenda struggled up onto one elbow and regarded the black and white blur at the foot of her bed through bleary eyes.
"Bertie," she tried to call but hardly recognized her own voice. When had her tongue gotten to be so thick?
The dog stretched, then ambled along the length of the bed. She patted him, coming slowly more awake as he nuzzled her.
"That'll do, Bertie." She chuckled when his rough tongue tickled her ear. She caught the dog's head firmly between her hands and mumbled, "I trust you will be a good dog today and behave more civilly if we chance to meet Lord Ravenel again."
Bertie gave a sharp bark as though he understood.
She yawned, scratching his ear. "Aye, like all rogues, you are most quick with your promises, sir."
She knew full well Bertie would conduct himself as outrageously as he always did. Not that it mattered. There was little likelihood they would see Lord Ravenel again. Even if he hadn't gone, she sensed that his lordship would dodge her company. Why could she simply not leave him alone? It was one of her own principles to rigorously avoid any gentleman with too much starch in his collar. She had often found it denoted a most humorless outlook on life.
She might certainly have put Ravenel down as the stuffy lord he appeared to be, striking eyes or no, if she had not chanced to be walking toward the front of the inn at a particular moment yesterday afternoon. It was then that she had seen Ravenel as he stood and waved good-bye to Miss Carruthers. He must be more in love with the lady than Gwenda had at first supposed, for he had appeared not so much high in the instep as unhappy and vulnerable. Gwenda's intuition told her that Lord Ravenel was a lonely man, and she could not bear to see anyone left lonely. But what could she do to alter Ravenel's case? He was obviously not the sort of man to accept anyone's advice.
"I doubt my interference did any good at all, Bertie," Gwenda murmured to her dog. "Most likely he used my book to light the fire as soon as I was gone, and the next time he woos Miss Carruthers or any other lady, he'll make the same mistakes all over again."
Gwenda sighed, then shrugged. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing she had tried. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Through eyes yet dulled with sleep, she squinted at the small china clock ticking on the mantel. Good heavens! Five minutes after the hour of nine. If that time were correct, then the morning was more advanced than she had at first supposed. She was not ordinarily a late sleeper.
"Colette?" Gwenda called, stretching her arms over her head and suppressing another yawn. She spoke more sharply when she received no answer. "Colette!"
There was still no response from the adjoining chamber.
"Rot that girl. Sleeping in again and deaf as a post besides. I tried to tell Mama she would never do." Grumbling, Gwenda pushed herself to her feet and was surprised to feel that her legs were a little wobbly. Even the swat of Bertie's tail against her calves seemed enough to unsteady her. She staggered to the white porcelain washbasin She strained to lift the heavy pitcher and splash a small quantity of water into the bowl.
Taking a deep breath, she heroically dashed some of the cold water onto her face. Although she gasped with the shock, it felt good, setting all her pores a-tingle, and driving off the last wisps of fog that clouded her brain. As she reached for a linen towel to dry herself, her gaze fell on a soiled glass left on the nightstand.
Her nose crinkled at the curdled remnants of the milk she had drunk last night. Beastly stuff. She would not have bothered with it if Colette had not pestered her so. The milk had had the most peculiar undertaste. She must remember to speak to Mr. Leatherbury about it.
But the first order of business was to rouse Colette to help her dress, then make inquiries as to whether that dratted coach brace had been mended.
Gwenda shuffled barefoot across the carpet to the door of the small chamber that adjoined hers and rapped loudly. "Colette!" This time she did not wait for any response before unceremoniously shoving the door open. The sight that met Gwenda's eyes momentarily drove all thoughts of her errant maid from her head. She gave a tiny gasp and stood frozen in the door frame
Her portmanteau, which had been arranged so neatly along the wall of Colette's room, were now tumbled about the room. The lids were flung open, the trunks empty except for a few trifling articles of clothing strewn over the floor. It took Gwenda's stunned senses a few moments to recover before her mind assimilated the truth.
"I've been robbed," she said, a sick feeling striking in the pit of her stomach. But how and when? She could not forbear a nervous glance about her as though she might find the thief yet lurking behind the curtains or beneath the bed.
No, she was being nonsensical. The deed had obviously been done under cover of night. She bent down and righted the small casket that had contained her jewels, now distressingly empty.
Her shock slowly faded, with anger taking its place. "The wretched villain," she cried, "sneaking in here while I slept but yards away." The mere idea of such a thing caused a shiver to work its way up her spine.
She turned to glare at Spotted Bert. "And you, Bertie! A fine watchdog you are! It would not surprise me if you had licked the villain's hands and then helped retrieve things to put into his sack."
Bertie cocked his head, appearing confused by the reproachful tone.
"You might at least have barked. Goodness knows, you are never quiet on any other occasion."
Gwenda broke off her scolding as a thought struck her. Perhaps Bertie had barked and she had been so deeply asleep she hadn't heard him. But what about Colette? Surely she must have noticed something was amiss.
Gwenda's eyes traveled toward her maid's cot and she stiffened. So startled had she been upon first entering the room to find her trunks rifled, she had not noticed the smooth linen sheets turned carefully back, the feather-tick pillow plumped to perfection. It was obvious Colette's bed had not even been slept in last night.
As Gwenda stared at the cot, unwelcome suspicions began to sift into her mind. The untouched bed, the odd-tasting glass of milk Colette had pressed upon her, her heavy sleep that was almost as though she had swallowed a good dose of laudanum or some other drug.
Feeling much troubled, Gwenda sank back on her heels and wrapped her arms about her dog's neck. "No, it won't do, Bertie, to go leaping to conclusions without proof. I know it looks bad that Colette is not here, but then she never is when I want her. Why, for all I know the poor girl could have been kidnapped by the thieves. As Mama would say, a good general would never court-martial anyone without first obtaining all the facts."
Gwenda rose thoughtfully to her feet and walked back to her own room. At least her wrapper was still there, laid out over the back of the chair. She tugged the soft peach-colored robe over her linen nightgown and looked for her slippers, but they were gone.
"I do trust that was the thief at work," she said sternly to her dog, "and not you, Bertie."
Spotted Bert allowed his tongue to loll out, assuming his most innocent expression.
Gwenda strode past the dog. Opening her door, she stepped into the corridor and was fortunate enough to encounter one of the inn's chambermaids, a strapping country lass with blooming cheeks and a cheery smile. She bustled past with an armload of fresh towels. Gwenda, who
had a knack for recalling names, even down to the lowest menial in the kitchens, remembered that the girl's name was Sallie.
She summoned the girl to her side and asked, "Sallie, have you seen my maid belowstairs this morning?"
"Mamzelle Colette? No, miss. I'm sure I haven't." The girl sniffed. There was a disdainful edge in her voice that Gwenda had oft heard from other female servants when they spoke of Colette.
"Oh, dear," Gwenda said. "Well, I'm afraid something dreadful has happened." She beckoned for the girl to follow her into Colette's room, where she exhibited her empty trunks.
"You will perceive that I have been robbed," she said.
Gwenda was completely unprepared for the maid's spectacular reaction. Sallie emitted a small shriek and dropped her towels. Turning pale, she shrank back against the wall, clasping her hands over her bosom.
"Oh, lawks, miss! Lawks!"
"You needn't act as though I've just shown you a dead body," Gwenda said, growing a trifle impatient with these Cheltenham theatrics. "Though I will admit the thought of a sneak thief is most distressing. And the disappearance of my maid only further complicates the matter."
"Oh, miss!" Sallie exclaimed again.
"And I am not quite sure how I ought to proceed," Gwenda said, thoughts of constables and Bow Street Runners chasing around in her brain. In any event, she saw that the excitable chambermaid was not going to be of much help beyond wringing her large hands and moaning "Oh, miss! Oh, miss!" at suitable intervals.
Gwenda supposed she could begin by determining exactly what had been taken. As she squatted down, she thought ruefully that that was not going to be difficult since, in truth, not much of her belongings had been left. The jewels and money, of course, were gone and most of her clothes except for her second-best bonnet and a drab merino traveling gown. She could not help reflecting on how Colette had always regarded those particular articles of her clothing with scorn.
Aside from that, she found the copies of her novels scattered by the bed, her chipped ivory hairbrush, and a pair of stockings with a hole in it. But just beneath the stockings she saw the glint of an object that made her cry out with joy.
Her pearl-handled pistol! The thief had somehow missed or discarded it. It had been a special gift from her mother.
"A general's granddaughter ought to know how to use a weapon, Gwenda," Mama had said. "Those books you write are quite entertaining, all about how the dashing hero rescues the fair lady at the last possible moment. But the sad truth is, my love, that a gentleman can never be depended upon to arrive for anything on time."
Dearest Mama. Always so practical, Gwenda thought as she scooped up the pistol. Somehow the loss of everything else did not quite matter so much now. She raised the pistol in her hands, cocking back the hammer, and lovingly tested the balance of the finely wrought weapon.
She momentarily forgot the presence of the jittery chambermaid, until the girl let loose an ear-splitting scream.
Only minutes earlier, several doors down, the newly arisen Ravenel, garbed in his scarlet brocade dressing gown, had lathered his face with shaving soap. Bending toward a small cheval glass, he cautiously wielded a straight-edged razor beneath his chin.
It had been some time since Jarvis's hands were steady enough to perform this task for his master. It stretched the baron's ingenuity considerably to find excuses why he should shave himself, inventing other pressing duties for Jarvis that would salvage the old man's pride
This morning Ravenel had been unable to think of anything else better than expressing an earnest desire that Jarvis read aloud to him. Regrettably, the only material available for such an exercise seemed to be Miss Vickers's wretched book. Jarvis appeared momentarily astonished by the request, but then he obeyed with alacrity, intoning Miss Vickers's nonsense as though he were reading a sermon from the pulpit.
"…and the dismembered hand crept nearer and nearer to the terrified maiden, a trail of blood dripping from its severed stump."
"Good Lord!" Ravenel muttered. What a ghoulish imagination Miss Vickers had. He wasn't certain he cared to hear about blood and dismemberment when he was wielding a razor so close to his own throat. "Jarvis, skip that bit. Go further ahead."
"Very good, my lord."
Was it Ravenel's imagination or did his valet sound disappointed? As his lordship negotiated the sharp steel over the curve of his jaw, he heard the rustling of pages.
"This part in Volume Two must be of exceptional quality, my lord," Jarvis said. "I see that Miss Vickers has taken some pains to mark it."
The baron opened his lips to protest, but Jarvis had already begun to read. "Count Delvadoro drew the fair Emeraude against his manly bosom. The soft glow of adoration in his handsome blue eyes made the lady long to weep for joy.'
Ravenel pursed his lips. That Vickers woman was always going on about eyes, he thought, remembering her comment about his own. He couldn't refrain from stealing a furtive glance into the mirror, studying the skeptical dark depths reflected back at him. Did she really think that his eyes were handsome?
Ravenel drew back feeling sheepish and disgusted with himself.
"The count pressed his lips fervently against Emeraude's fingertips," Jarvis contined reading in his stately tones. "Oh, my heart's treasure, if you will not consent to be my own, I shall—"
The count's intentions were lost in the next instant, interrupted by the sound of a woman's muffled scream. Ravenel was so startled that he very nearly sliced off his chin.
"What the devil!" He swore and grabbed a handkerchief to stem the drops of blood where he had nicked himself. His eyes met Jarvis's alarmed gaze.
"I don't know, my lord." The valet rolled his eyes to the book in his lap as though he half feared the sound had emanated from the pages of The Dark Hand itself.
Ravenel heard a flurry of movement in the corridor beyond. As he strode toward his door, he could not begin to guess what the commotion was, but he harbored a dreadful certainty that he was going to find Gwenda Mary Vickers the source of it.
He flung open the door and stepped into the hall, only to be nearly knocked down by a fleeing chambermaid gibbering like a terrified monkey.
"Come back here at once, you goose," a familiar feminine voice shouted at the maid.
Miss Vickers erupted from her room, brandishing a pistol.
Good God, Ravenel thought as the chambermaid dove behind him with a frightened squeak. That Vickers woman was more crazed than he had feared.
As she waved the pistol about, Ravenel sucked in his breath, bracing himself for a loud report and the feel of a ball searing though his flesh.
Miss Vickers's eyes flashed scornfully as she peered past him at the cowering chambermaid. " It is not loaded, you idiotic girl." Her assurance did nothing to calm the maid, who went off into hysterics, but the baron sighed with relief.
All the same, he caught Gwenda's wrist and carefully forced her to lower the weapon to her side. "What the deuce are you doing with a thing like that?"
"My mother gave it to me," Miss Vickers said. "It was a present for my last birthday."
Ravenel swallowed an urge to point out to her that most mothers gave their daughters gifts like pearls or parasols. "No. I meant, why are you—"
But his question was broken off since by this time the other guests staying at the Hart came rushing out into the hallway: a stout dowager clutching her wrapper about her, her scrawny daughter hard on her heels; several elderly gentlemen still wearing their nightcaps; and from Ravenel's own room, Jarvis, adjusting his spectacles to peer with interest at Miss Vickers. Everyone spoke at once, demanding to know what had happened in varying tones of fear and indignation. To add to the din, Miss Vickers's dog leaped about, setting up a fearful barking.
Mr. Leatherbury charged onto the scene, his plump face flushed red from the unaccustomed exertion of running up the stairs.
"What?" he said, huffing. "What is the meaning of all this?" His gaze traveled from the pistol still gripped in Gw
enda's hand to Ravenel's face. The baron became conscious of a fresh trickle of blood going down his chin and groped for his handkerchief again.
"Miss Vickers!" the landlord said in shocked accents. "Never tell me you have gone and shot at his lordship."
"Don't be preposterous," Ravenel muttered from behind his handkerchief.
"Certainly not," Miss Vickers said. "But I have been robbed."
Her blunt statement caused a fresh sensation: more outcries from the other guests, more sobs from the chambermaid, and more barking from Bertie.
"Robbed?" Leatherbury said, his face turning purple with outrage. "Here at the White Hart? Impossible, Miss Vickers. Quite impossible."
"It is very possible, you silly man," Gwenda retorted. "You have but to go look in my room."
In the face of Leatherbury's obvious disbelief, even the imperturbable Miss Vickers began to get a trifle agitated. A most spirited quarrel developed between her and the host of the White Hart. Several of the waiters and the boots came crowding into the corridor to add their voices to the hubbub.
"Eh? What's happened here?"
"Dunno. I think one of the guests has been robbed."
"Brigands!" the dowager shrieked. "We might all have been murdered in our beds."
"Nonsense. Utter nonsense," Leatherbury replied huffily.
Ravenel had had all that he was prepared to endure. He was not accustomed to tolerating confusion, especially not in the morning before he had even had his coffee and beefsteak.
"Quiet!" he thundered.
The authoritative tone of his command immediately reduced everyone to silence. Even Bertie subsided after one more small yap. Ravenel took advantage of the hush to snap out a series of brisk orders that sent the waiters back to their posts and the other guests scurrying for their rooms. He had the boots lead away the sniveling chambermaid and put Jarvis in charge of Bertie. Strangely enough, even the dog seemed to recognize the dignity of Jarvis, for Bertie went quietly without offering to leap upon him.
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