The road had become a quagmire. The carriage hit deep ruts and rocked violently on its springs. Strathairn planted his Hessian boots on the floor to brace himself.
His thoughts returned to the gold cravat pin. The Corsican count was a Bonapartist who had never accepted defeat at Waterloo. Forney had gathered a group of conspirators together with the plan to wreak havoc and destabilize England in the hope of freeing Napoleon from his island prison. Such a plan never had a chance of success.
Strathairn rubbed his neck. Might Forney still be alive and have unfinished business in England? His pulse raced at the possibility of crossing swords with him again. Remembering Mrs. Nesbit’s sad eyes geared him up, and he tasted revenge, sour on his tongue. He carried a knife in a sheath in his boot and a pair of Manton’s pistols buckled into a leather bandolier on his chest, which fairly begged to deal with the count.
Strathairn rasped his hand over his chin and yawned. Might he have lost his objectivity? Had the work become too important? Once the excitement got into a man’s blood, he was lost. Some agents became careless, took too many chances, and ended up dead, like Nesbit.
But all that might change soon. With Bonaparte gone, the war department had lost its relevance. There was now a hue and cry to disband military intelligence. Bow Street dealt with crime and government agents with international matters. They rarely worked together with the military.
These changes could have him out of the game whether he wished it or not. But not yet. Was it foolish to want to leave his mark? To have his work acknowledged? Then what would he do? Retire to his estate and his horses, he supposed. It seemed a lonely, aimless prospect. He indulged in the vision of Sibella strolling with friends in the long gallery at Linden Hall, her laughter filling the empty rooms with life. He stretched his legs and contemplated his muddy boots envisaging Hobson’s vociferous disapproval.
Strathairn expected he would marry when this job no longer appealed. But Sibella would be long married by then. There was little point in dwelling on it. He gazed out of the window and smiled as the carriage overtook a slow cart on a hill where a faithful dog perched beside its master in the rain.
The coachman slowed the horses at the tollbooth while the groom paid the gatekeeper, and they were away again. The rain beat against the window, running down in rivulets. The Great North Road was one of the better roads on which to travel, but it, too, was potholed and too dangerous to travel by night.
Aiming to reach Biggleswade before nightfall, they made good time. The carriage reached the Crown Inn just as dusk set in. Strathairn climbed down and stretched his legs as an ostler hurried out to greet them. The proprietor who kept a room for Strathairn on a regular basis, greeted him in the warm taproom where smoke, tallow, and hops mingled with the rich aromas from the kitchen.
“Still employ the same cook, Job?” Strathairn asked.
“But of course, my lord.” Job chuckled. “Now, why would I sack me own wife?”
Strathairn grinned. “Most unwise when Mary is such a fine cook.” He could almost taste her admirable beef pie with its feather-light crust he’d enjoyed when last there, washed down with a tankard of ale.
Chapter Four
The night before the family departed for York, Sibella gazed around Lord and Lady Felstead’s dull soiree whilst fanning herself. Strathairn wasn’t there. Nor had he appeared in Rotten Row when she hired a hack and rode that afternoon.
Georgina, Duchess of Broadstairs, approached on her husband’s arm. Strathairn’s pretty dark-haired younger sister was unlike him in appearance.
She dipped a brief curtsey. “Is your son well, your Grace?”
The lady’s dark eyes danced. “Bonny, thank you, Lady Sibella. He is fair and has blue eyes like his Uncle John.”
“Lord Strathairn does not attend this evening?” Sibella tried hard to sound indifferent and not let her disappointment show.
“No, he visits his Yorkshire estate.”
“Come, my dear, we must take our place for the cotillion.” Broadstairs bowed and drew his wife away.
So, Strathairn had gone north without suffering the need to speak to her. She’d hoped an apology for the kiss might be forthcoming. He had not appeared at all apologetic at the time, so why expect more from him since? He probably kissed women all the time, at every given opportunity. And she’d certainly given him an opportunity, gazing at him like a fool in the moonlight. She would not do so again.
Sibella’s feelings for Lord Coombe warmed as he escorted her onto the floor for the dance. Unlike Strathairn, Coombe had attended every social engagement her mother had dragged her to. And here he was now dancing attendance on her.
They took their places as part of the square and the musicians began to play. Coombe bowed. Why did he always look so solemn? Though she tried in earnest to enjoy herself, she remained awkward in his company.
“Do you like to dance, my lord?” she asked, when they came together.
“I like to perform it well. I trust that I do?”
“Indeed you do.” She eyed him demurely. “You’ve never stepped on my toes once.”
He rewarded her with a faint smile, but the lack of flirtatiousness in his nature bothered her. A reserved man it seemed. Might the real Coombe emerge when they became more familiar with each other?
When the dance ended, Coombe politely left her with her sister.
Maria sipped a glass of lemonade. “I am parched!” She gestured with her glass. “Look! Sir Horace Leister is now courting Anne Talbot. Poor Anne. Remember when Sir Horace was a suitor of yours?”
“How could I forget?” Some of her suitors had recently retired. Sibella could only feel grateful.
“Every time Sir Horace revealed a wish for a private audience with you, Aida, Cordelia and I found ways to distract him.” Maria giggled. “It was funny at the time. Fortunately, he was easily distracted. Luckily, Mama didn’t like him either.”
“No, thank heavens.”
“An awful prospect.” Maria whispered behind her fan. “Black dye applied to his hair doesn’t make Leister appear younger.” She gave a peal of laughter. “I do believe I heard him creak and suspect he wears a corset.”
Sibella spread her fan to hide a grin.
Maria slid her a sidelong glance. “I don’t see Strathairn here this evening.”
Sibella fluttered her fan before her face. “His sister tells me he has gone to Yorkshire.”
“So I gathered.” Maria’s green eyes probed hers. “A good thing, for it gives you time to deal with your feelings for Lord Coombe. He certainly appears to be an ardent suitor, does he not?”
“It would seem so.” How she wished Maria wouldn’t carry on so, but her sister was uneasy about her.
“Mama was extolling his virtues to Chaloner.”
Sibella sucked in a breath. “Was she?”
“It surprises me, somewhat,” Maria mused. “Coombe seems quite staid, doesn’t he? Mama had a proclivity for rogues when she was young. I believe she almost married one.”
Sibella blinked. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Before she met Father, of course.”
Thankful for the change in subject, Sibella laughed. “Who told you that?”
“Edward. In an unusual burst of loquacity. I suspect he was in his cups.” Maria giggled. “And that’s not all I managed to get from him. Father wooed a famous actress in his youth.”
“Pish, where would Edward have learned such a thing?”
“Opera dancers and the like are sought by unmarried men, are they not? Not to marry, however. Oh there’s Harry.” Maria motioned to her fiancé with her fan.
“Don’t wave in that fashion, Maria. You look like a hawker at a fish market.”
“Harry has seen us.”
Harry approached with a special smile for his fiancée. “Why are the two prettiest ladies in the room sitting alone?”
“This one is waiting for you to dance with her, Harry.” Maria put down her glass and rose to tu
ck her hand in his arm.
Harry bowed in Sibella’s direction before he led Maria onto the dance floor to take their places for the quadrille.
Sibella gazed after them fondly. They were so much in love. It did her heart good to see them together.
Edward emerged from the throng to join her. “Not dancing, Sib?”
“I complained of fatigue. Coombe understood.”
Edward gave a derisive snort. “He looked dashed annoyed when I saw him.” Edward took the seat beside her and beckoned to a waiter. “And you weren’t too fatigued to ride in the park earlier.”
“I wasn’t then.”
“Looked like you were searching for someone.”
“You are a tease, Edward.”
“Not Strathairn, I hope? You have taken heed of my warning?”
“Stop fishing.”
Edward laughed. Then he sobered, dark brows beetling over a pair of green eyes like those she saw in the mirror. He crossed one leg over the other and considered one of his black evening pumps. “Might you have seen Vaughn of late?”
“Not since we came back to London, why?”
“Nothing important. I just wondered.”
“Edward, don’t think you can drop this in my lap and then discount it as nothing.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “What concerns you?”
“It’s just that I know what a mother hen you are with all of us.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “This concerns Vaughn?”
“I discovered him at Watier’s, Byron’s dandy club, a few nights ago. He was in his cups and betting heavily.”
She fanned herself. “Oh. I see.”
“That club is no place for Vaughn. Reckless all-night gambling goes on. He is too wild. Needs a strong hand, or he’s going to get into trouble.”
“Vaughn can only lose his allowance. And it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“He might be tempted to borrow from a money-lender.”
She bit her lip and nodded slowly. “Cannot Chaloner speak to him?”
“Our brother is busy with his estates and bills before the Lords. And Lavinia runs to him with every little thing. You know how he’s been lately. He only half listens when you speak to him.”
“I’m very fond of Chaloner’s wife. That’s not fair, Edward. Chaloner takes his position as head of the family very seriously. How can you judge what he’ll do about Vaughn unless you ask him?”
“All right. I will.” He grinned. “Lord Coombe approaches with a glass of Madeira for you. Don’t you hate that drink?”
She groaned inwardly and rewarded Lord Coombe’s attentiveness with a nod and a smile while addressing her brother sotto voce. “Will you visit Vaughn at his rooms at Albany tomorrow?”
“Yes. I plan to.”
Relieved, she gave her brother a speaking glance. “Please let me know how he fares.”
Edward inclined his dark head. “Are you enjoying the evening, Coombe?”
“I am.” Lord Coombe held out his offering as if it was a chalice encrusted with jewels. “An excellent affair.”
*
Drawn by fresh horses, Strathairn’s carriage departed Biggleswade after breakfast. He was an impatient traveler and tapped his fingers on the window ledge as the carriage swayed on its inferior springs along the rutted roads. He disliked being enclosed within the confines of a vehicle, and this hackney coach was a less than sterling one at that. His own having a broken wheel.
Some hours later, after stopping again to change horses, they crossed the Wetherby Bridge over the River Wharfe with hours of daylight remaining. Wetherby nestled in a bend in the river. It was good to be home.
Strathairn put down the window. A hint of the dank river carried on the breeze, blended with the aroma of baked goods and meat. Thursday was market day when farmers traded produce in the shops known as The Shambles.
A long-forgotten memory from the history of his discordant relationship with his father rose from somewhere, clear as if it was yesterday. On occasion, as a child, he’d slip away from his tutor and go to market with his father’s servants as they traded the estates vegetables for other goods. Once he’d been right next to a pickpocket in the crowd when a red-faced man turned to find his pocket watch missing. Strathairn had been accused, held by the ear and searched until his father’s bailiff appeared and explained he was the earl’s son. His father got wind of it and had taken the stick to him for evading his tutor. Although he wasn’t able to sit down for a week, the lesson hadn’t been learned, for it wasn’t long before he did something else to cause his father’s ire. There was a pattern there, he thought ruefully.
Carts unloading their wares in the high street held up the carriage. Villagers came to his carriage window to welcome him and advise him of the local news until the carriage moved on.
Once free of the town, the horses fell into a fast trot as if sensing they neared home. The gray stone houses left behind, Strathairn watched fields stretch away dotted with sheep and cows, in a lush green landscape. In the distance, the rolling countryside changed to purple moor grass, limestone, and the dark bulk of the Pennines.
The coachman drove through the gates of Linden Hall and entered the park along the road lined with chestnut trees. The carriage stopped on the sweep in front of the columned portico of the majestic house, the westerly sun warming the York stone.
In the great hall, Strathairn’s steward, Peters, hurried forward with a smile of welcome. “Good to see you, my lord.”
Strathairn shed his coat, hat, and gloves into a maid’s hands. “Unfortunately, it’s a short stay this time.”
A skeleton staff remained in the house all year around, for he came here whenever he could, regardless of the time of year. Once the London season ended, the Mayfair townhouse would have the knocker taken from the door, while the staff repaired to Yorkshire. Strathairn put up at Grillion’s Hotel if he had to return to the city.
“Shall you be here for dinner, my lord?”
“Yes. I’ll dine at six.”
Strathairn called for his bailiff and ascended to his bedchamber. As he walked the long corridor, he yanked at his cravat, eager to change into riding clothes after being confined for hours in the coach. His footsteps echoed across the parquetry floors. He’d expected the restlessness he suffered to leave him here in Yorkshire. His estate had never failed to lift his spirits before. How often had he come here, wounded mentally and physically, and been made whole?
In his riding clothes, Strathairn walked to the stable mews, keen to see his horses. His two hounds, Jasper and Rosy, greeted him with joyful barks, calling for him to admire their new litter. In the stables, he knelt to stroke their silky fur and offer his approval of the sleek, plump puppies. An inspection of his horses along the row of horse boxes followed. “That muscle problem has gone?” he inquired of his head groom, while patting the dark neck of one of his favorite mares.
“Yes, milord. Healed up well,” Joseph assured him.
Strathairn mounted Ulysses and rode out over his lands. He urged the horse into a canter and then a gallop, the breeze whipping his face. The cold rush of country air perfumed with summer grasses and damp soil helped to banish the grim reality of his friend’s death. Confident in his horse’s ability, he took fence after fence, exhilaration imbuing him with new energy. When they both tired, he walked the horse back to the stables. Leggy foals gamboled in the verdant paddocks. Was there anywhere on earth better than Yorkshire?
Back at the house, he spoke with his housekeeper, gamekeeper, and bailiff. Several hours passed before he’d finished attending to business. Alone again, he looked forward to a decent dinner, but the night stretched before him. He was sick of his own company. Even the idea of attending a dull assembly Saturday next, where he would be called upon to do his duty by the young debutants appealed, especially with the opportunity of dancing with Sibella.
Damn. It was going to be a very long night.
He stood and walked to the window. A dis
traction was what he needed. Perhaps he might seek out his neighbor, James Kent. He might be available for a game of chess.
The next day dawned gray beneath a lowering sky. Strathairn breakfasted late having enjoyed his neighbors company into the wee hours. It was past noon when he rode into York, the ancient city of Roman walls and dark narrow streets.
The magistrate informed him that a Frenchman caused some disruption in Manchester, stirring up the people who were already disturbed by the Corn Laws.
“He encouraged workers to drill with staves with the obvious intent to cause an uprising. The situation is combustible. Orator Hunt is agitating for change and the people are suffering because of the high cost of bread.”
After finishing with the York magistrate, Mr. Pugh, Strathairn spoke to one of his informers. “Do you think this Frenchman’s still in the town?”
“We don’t know, my lord.” The shabbily dressed man shifted his feet and lowered his head. “We followed ’im to York, but then we lost ’im.”
“Describe him.” Strathairn said.
The fellow, one of Sidmouth’s spies, undernourished and dull-eyed, shrugged. “Big chap.”
“Big? You mean tall?” Forney was tall, but slightly built.
The man nodded. “Huge, the shoulders on him!” He gestured with his hands to a width that Strathairn doubted even Gentleman Jackson could claim.
Whoever the fellow was, he was not Count Forney. Despite this knowledge, Strathairn joined the constable to make a reconnaissance of the poorer guesthouses, hotels, and alehouses. They found no trace of the Frenchman.
“He’s likely moved on, my lord,” the constable said. “Nothing much to keep him here.”
Strathairn dismissed the episode as unrelated to his present concerns and returned to Linden Hall.
At the end of a slow week spent visiting his tenant farmers, Strathairn drove back to York in the evening for the assembly.
Seducing the Earl Page 5