by Jane Feather
She threw off the coverlet and reached for her dressing gown. The embers in the grate still glowed but gave off little heat. There was light enough, however, once her eyes had adjusted to locate flint and tinder beside the candles on the dresser. Once the flicker of candlelight illuminated the chamber, she could see the clock face. Three in the morning.
Thrusting her feet into slippers, Cornelia went to the door. As she opened it, she heard the children crying from the nursery. Aurelia, carrying a candle, appeared from her own chamber across the corridor. “What on earth was that?” she demanded. “It sounded like the last trump.”
“Sorry to be prosaic, but it was more like a blunderbuss than the end of the world,” Cornelia responded. “It’s woken the children.”
“Hardly surprising,” Aurelia said. “Linton will be up in arms.” They both turned towards the nursery stairs.
“What was that?” Livia materialized in the darkness of the corridor, her white nightgown floating around her, her face visible as a pale oval beneath the cloud of black hair. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, stubbing her toe on an uneven floorboard.
“We don’t know,” Aurelia said. “Why haven’t you got a candle?”
“Too much of a hurry,” Livia said, moving fully into the circle of light from Aurelia’s candle. “What was it?”
“Nell says a blunderbuss,” Aurelia stated. “It’s frightened the children…you go downstairs, Liv, and find out what’s going on. We’ll be down as soon as we’ve calmed things upstairs.” She gave Livia her candle and hurried after Cornelia, whose own candle was throwing a path of light as she almost ran towards the cacophony emanating from the nursery.
Cornelia reached the nursery first. She dropped to her knees, catching her distraught children in her arms as she murmured soft reassurances. An ashen Daisy held little Franny, who was hiccuping sobs.
“Oh, my poor darling, it’s all right.” Aurelia rushed up to take the little girl.
“What kind of antics are these in a gentleman’s house, I’d like to know?” Linton declared for the second time since Cornelia had arrived. The nurse, swathed in a thick robe, her hair in a gray rope down her back, was rigid with outrage. “Lady Nell, these children need to be back in their beds at home.”
“It was just an accident, Linton,” Cornelia said, stroking Susannah’s hair as the child buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Of course she had no idea whether it was an accident or not at this point, but it seemed the easiest route to soothing the wrathful nurse. “It’s quiet now. It’s all over.”
“What kind of accident, Mama?” Stevie demanded, wriggling out of his mother’s embrace. His dark eyes…his father’s eyes…were fixed round as buttons upon her face. “It sounded like Grandfather’s gun when he’s hunting.”
“Morecombe was hunting mice,” Cornelia said, ignoring Linton’s disbelieving harrumph. “It just sounded so loud because it was inside not outside, and the house was very quiet too. It makes an echo, you see.”
“I thought you hunted mice with traps,” Stevie pointed out with a five-year-old’s logic. “’Least that’s what Nelson said.” Nelson was the head groom at Dagenham Manor, and Stevie idolized him.
“Well, you can do it both ways,” Cornelia improvised, not prepared to question the oracle. “Listen now, it’s all quiet.” She held up a finger, and the children listened intently.
“See,” Aurelia said, wiping Susannah’s eyes as the child’s hiccuping sobs faded. “Aunt Nell’s right, it’s all quiet now.” She stood up with the child. “Let’s go back to bed.”
It took fifteen minutes to tuck them back into their beds, with Linton muttering direly about what his lordship would say to these goings-on and Daisy still whimpering a little in shock’s aftermath.
“We’ll leave the lamp burning,” Cornelia said, turning the wick down low. She bent to kiss her children. “Go to sleep now.” She tiptoed out of the night nursery, Aurelia on her heels.
“They’ll be all right now, Linton,” she said. “I’m sorry you were disturbed.”
“Well, that’s as may be, Lady Nell, but it’s not right,” Linton declared, her arms folded, her expression implacable. “Poor little mites were scared out of their wits. That Morecombe ought to know better…hunting mice indeed.” She snorted.
“We’re really sorry, Linton, and we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Aurelia said with a conciliatory smile. “The children are really all right now. There’s not a peep from them.”
Linton did not look appeased, but she said, “I’ll bid you good night, my ladies,” and stalked off to her own chamber.
“Oh, Lord,” said Cornelia. “That’s put the cat among the pigeons. We’d better find out what really happened. We’ll take the back stairs to the kitchen.”
They hurried down the narrow flight of stairs. As they got closer to the kitchen regions, they could hear the distinct sounds of furniture scraping across flag-stones, and Morecombe’s unmistakable Yorkshire burr raised in a stream of invective.
They emerged into the kitchen to find furniture overturned, Morecombe still flourishing an ancient but clearly functioning weapon as he righted toppled chairs with one hand, and the twins blinking in bleary-eyed indignation at a scene of disarray. Someone had been busy in the kitchen. And cooking had not been the object of the exercise.
“What on earth happened here?” Cornelia demanded.
“We don’t know,” Livia said helplessly. “Look at this shambles.”
Cornelia shivered as a blast of cold air hit her. “Why’s the window open?”
“For the cat, ma’am,” Morecombe declared, finally setting down his blunderbuss.
“The cat doesn’t need it wide open like that.” Cornelia went to close it. The cat, tail bushed, back arched, ears pricked, was standing on the sill outside. “Something frightened you,” Cornelia said. “But then that noise would raise the dead.” She reached for the cat and brought it in side, then slammed the window shut.
“Someone came through that window.” Aurelia put into words the obvious conclusion as she gestured to the chaos around them. China and glass had been taken from the shelves of the Welsh dresser and piled haphazardly across the floor, the flour barrel was upended, its fresh contents spilling across the table together with the contents of most of the storage jars from the pantry. Beans mingled with sugar that formed a paste with spilled oil and vinegar. The canisters containing coffee and tea lay on their sides.
“Why would a burglar break into this house?” Livia asked in bewilderment. “It must be the only house on the square that doesn’t have much worth stealing in it.”
“There’s the silver, ma’am,” Morecombe pointed out, sounding somewhat offended at Livia’s comment.
“Is it still in your pantry?” Aurelia hurried out to check and returned almost immediately to report, “Everything’s there, just as you left it, Morecombe.”
“If you ask me, mum, it’s just mischief makers,” one of the twins stated. “Young ruffians with nowt to do wi’ their ’ands. Jest lookin’ for trouble, that’s all.”
“Aye, ’tis not the first time,” her sister observed.
“What do you mean?” Livia asked.
“Oh, there’s been some strange goings-on, m’lady,” Morecombe said, with something akin to relish. “Ever since Lady Sophia…rest ’er soul…passed away, there’s been bumps and bangs in the night. That’s why I brought this up.” He flourished his weapon. “Nearly caught one of ’em, I did, t’other night. Sent ’im packin’ with more than a flea in ’is ear, I’ll tell you for nowt. An’ when I heard the cat sqawk tonight, I was ready for ’em.”
“How strange,” Livia frowned. “But maybe you’re right. It’s probably a gang of cutpurses, or some such, who thought they would find easy pickings in a house that…” She left the sentence hanging. She’d been about to say, that no one seemed to care about, but she had the sense that Morcombe and the twins wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment.
“It cer
tainly looks like the handiwork of vandals.” Aurelia wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Maybe,” Cornelia said thoughtfully, looking around at the mess again. “Did you see them, Morecombe…before you fired?”
Morecombe shook his head. “Can’t say as I did, m’lady. I fired an’ he was gone quicker’n a will-o’-the-wisp.
“Was there only one of them then?”
“Far as I know, ma’am.”
“Mmm.” Cornelia looked down at the cat, still cradled in her arms. “I wonder if you know something that we don’t, Puss.”
“Well, whatever, or whoever, it was, there’s nothing more we can do tonight,” Aurelia said briskly. “Let’s leave all this and deal with it in the morning.”
“Yes, I don’t think they’ll come back again tonight,” Livia agreed, going to the back stairs. “Come on, Cornelia.” She yawned deeply.
Cornelia made to follow her. The cat wriggled in her arms, and she set her down. Instantly the animal jumped onto the windowsill with a demanding yowl.
“I told you, m’lady, she needs to ’ave the window open,” Morecombe stated with some satisfaction.
“Yes, well she’s going to have to learn,” Cornelia retorted. “She can be inside or outside, but that window stays shut, Morecombe. Now, let’s all go back to bed.”
Sleep proved elusive, though. She tossed and turned, her mind refusing to let go of the conundrum. Why on earth would anyone want to break in repeatedly? The house looked derelict from the outside, and it wasn’t much better on the inside. The only explanation did seem to be opportunistic ruffians on the look out for anything they could steal easily. Yet somehow she was not convinced.
Chapter 8
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Viscount Bonham was at breakfast when Lester joined him. “Something going on in Cavendish Square last night, sir,” the man said without preamble. “Just had the report from the night watch.”
“Have a seat, Lester.” Harry waved towards a chair opposite his own. “This sirloin’s excellent. Help yourself. Ale’s in the jug.”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir.” Lester cut a hefty slice of sirloin and poured himself a tankard of ale. “Seems that someone went in again last night,” he said through a mouthful. “Our boys watched him go in, and they saw him come out in a hurry.”
“The butler with the blunderbuss, I imagine,” Harry said. “They caught him on his way out?”
Lester shook his head. “No, sir. ’Fraid this one slipped through their fingers. They went after him, but he dodged them somehow.”
“Damnation.” Harry drummed his fingers on the table. “So we don’t know if he got what he went in for.”
“Well, our chaps took a peek through the window, once the ruckus died down.” Lester slathered mustard on his sirloin. “Apparently it was a fine mess in there. Crocks and canisters all over the place. Our chaps reckoned whoever it was didn’t know where to look, judging by the shambles. Fair took the place apart, he did. An’ he was still looking when he was disturbed. It should have been a quick in-and-out job, instead…” He shrugged expressively.
“But he must have known where to look,” Harry said frowning. “Maybe it wasn’t where he expected it to be.” He took a draught of ale.
“So someone’s moved it then?”
“Maybe. But no one’s gone into that house without our men knowing it.” Harry set down his tankard with a thump. “If it has been moved, then it must have been by someone in the house already.”
“They wouldn’t know it’s significance, though, would they, sir?”
“No.” Harry tapped his mouth with his fingertips. “If someone in that house found it by accident, then they’ll still have it…and that, Lester, could make our task a lot easier.”
“How d’you mean, sir?”
He pushed back his chair, crossing one booted leg over the other. “Well, one of those women, or one of the servants, must have it. It narrows the search a little, wouldn’t you say?”
Lester looked doubtful. “If you say so, m’lord.”
“Well, we know three women with children are in residence. I’ve made the dubious acquaintance of both Lady Dagenham and Lady Livia.” His lip curled at the memory of his encounter with the ladies.
“Presumably,” he continued, “the third woman is a nursemaid. There are probably a couple of other maids, plus Lady Sophia’s three retainers. We can discount the children and probably their attendants. They’ll be restricted to the nursery quarters, and I doubt our thief would have ventured that far into the house. We need to find a way in, a legitimate way if possible, ask a few casual questions, and see if we can unearth anything. If we can discover which of them found it, assuming we’re not barking up the wrong tree, then we’ll know where to look.”
“And how do we effect this legitimate entrance, sir?”
“You take the servants. I’m sure there’s some pretty lass on the staff that you can persuade to invite you in.” Harry grinned. “Right up your street, eh, Lester?”
“If you say so, m’lord,” Lester repeated woodenly, but there was a gleam in his eye. “And you’ll be taking on the ladies, I assume?”
“Well, one of them,” Harry said a shade grimly. “It’ll have to be Lady Livia. I don’t fancy my chances with Viscountess Dagenham.”
“Really, sir?” Lester looked interested. “How’s that then?”
“She’s something of a shrew. And if I’m going to turn on my legendary charm, I might as well pour it on receptive ground.” A slightly sardonic smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Although I imagine I’ll have to try to mend fences with the viscountess.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you later, Lester. Don’t waste any time.”
“No, m’lord.” Lester rose and waited until the viscount had left the breakfast parlor before resuming his own repast.
Harry went into the hall. “Ah, there you are, Hector. I’m going out, but I’m expecting dinner guests this evening, so inform Armand would you. We’ll dine at eight.”
Hector proffered hat and gloves. “And how many guests should I tell Armand, my lord?”
Harry frowned as he drew on his gloves. “Not entirely sure. Four I think, but maybe five. I shouldn’t make any difference to Armand.”
“No, my lord,” Hector murmured, well aware of exactly how much difference it would make to the excitable and irascible genius in the kitchen. He hurried to open the door for his master. “You’re walking, sir?”
“Yes, I believe I am.” The viscount stood on the top step and surveyed the winter street. A pale sun shone from a sharply blue sky, and the residue of the night’s frost still clung to the iron railings to the steps. But it was an invigorating cold, and he set off with his long stride in the direction of Cavendish Square. He hadn’t decided on how he was going to make his approach to Lady Livia, but maybe an opening would offer itself.
A brisk twenty minutes walking brought him to Cavendish Square. Children’s voices came from the square garden and, curious, he turned aside and entered the garden through the wicket gate. A ball, thrown with more enthusiasm than aim, landed at his feet. He bent to pick it up and looked around for its owner.
A small boy came running towards him. The frilled white shirt of his conventional skeleton suit had dirt on the cuffs, and one of the buttons that fastened his short coat to his nankeen trousers was undone. He came to an abrupt halt in front of Harry, scuffling the gravel with his black shoes. “Did it hit you?”
Harry tossed the ball from hand to hand and smiled at the child. “No, was it meant to?”
“No,” the boy said, regarding him solemnly, rubbing the dusty sole of one foot against the white sock of his other, heedless of the black mark thus left.
Harry knew without a shadow of a doubt that this child belonged to Lady Dagenham. There was something about the set of the head and the very straight gaze that was unmistakable.
“Viscount Dagenham, I presume,” he said, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“Yes, sir.” The
child, impatient now with this conversation, held out an imperative hand. “Please may I have my ball back.”
“Can you catch it? I’ll throw it to you if you stand a little way back.”
Stevie regarded the stranger with sudden suspicion. “You’re not going to keep it?”
Harry laughed. “No, lad, why would I want to do that? I thought perhaps you’d like to play catch.”
In Stevie’s experience, grown men did not usually play catch. Daisy did, and sometimes Nelson could be persuaded to throw a ball once or twice for him, but his various grown-up uncles and cousins rarely seemed to notice him, let alone play with him. Cousin Nigel sometimes ruffled his hair, and once had tried to teach him to play cricket, but Stevie hadn’t managed to hit a single ball, and Cousin Nigel had quickly remembered somewhere else he had to be.
“All right,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “If you promise not to keep it.”
Harry had enough nieces and nephews to find nothing strange in this anxiety. “I promise.”
Stevie ran back a few paces and then stood expectantly, his hands cupped in front of him. “Ready,” he piped.
Harry tossed the ball gently, aiming it into the small cupped hands that showed no inclination to follow the ball’s trajectory, instead waiting patiently to receive. It fell through his hands to the ground, and the child bent to scrabble it up.
“Stevie, where are you?” The quiet, mellow voice preceded the appearance of Viscountess Dagenham from behind a privet hedge. A very small girl had a firm hold of her hand.
Cornelia took in the scene in one quick glance, and her lips tightened. “Stevie, you know you’re not to run out of sight,” she scolded softly, going over to the child, leading Susannah. She bent to refasten the button on his jacket.
“I didn’t, Mama,” he protested. “The ball ran off. I had to follow it, and he was throwing it back to me.” He pointed at the still figure of Viscount Bonham, demanding, “Tell Mama.”
“The ball did appear to have intentions of its own,” Harry said evenly. “Forgive me for intruding, ma’am.” He bowed, watching as she bent over the child, smoothing back the hair from his forehead before pulling up the grubby socks with deft movements that indicated she was accustomed to caring for her children herself. It reminded him rather of his sister Annabel, who kept her hands very firmly on the reins when it came to her own large brood. But his bustling, matronly sister bore little resemblance to this slender, graceful woman. As she bent over the child, the curved fluidity of her posture put him in mind of a weeping willow yielding before the wind.