“What affects me affects Lady Sibella and our future life together,” he said stiffly.
The fellow was jealous. Well, he was familiar with that emotion. “There is no reason for gossip, Coombe. And I can assure you, I have nothing scandalous in mind,” he said mildly.
“See that you don’t.”
Really, this was too much; the man was overbearing and rude. “Is that a threat? If I should offend you in some way, you’ll challenge me to a duel?”
“I would not duel with you, Strathairn. That would be to your advantage. There are more subtle ways of dealing with such as you.”
“And what would they be?” Strathairn studied the tight face of the man before him, as his concern for Sibella grew. He stared at him in disgust. “Don’t threaten me, Coombe. That would certainly not be to your advantage.”
Coombe narrowed his eyes. “I suggest you do not risk finding out.”
“And I suggest you take very good care of Lady Sibella, who is a thousand times worthier than a mean-spirited individual like you,” he said, as rancor sharpened his voice. “If you hurt her, you will feel my sword pinking your belly. I promise you.”
Coombe’s laugh was cynical, and his brown eyes burned with loathing. “An idle threat, my lord?”
“I never make idle threats, Coombe.”
Coombe swiveled and strode back into the ballroom.
Strathairn strolled behind him with a desire to examine Coombe’s innards splayed across the terrace. He had become interested in Lord Coombe. Very interested indeed.
*
Strathairn, not wishing to cause Sibella further distress, avoided approaching her again. He asked a young debutante to dance and spent the next twenty minutes attempting to put her at ease as she moved stiffly in his arms.
After the last dance ended, the musicians packed up and left the podium. Everyone began to say their goodbyes and moved toward the front door.
Strathairn was seeking his host and hostess when Guy approached him.
“I meant to mention that Mr. Eacock, the man you stationed in my street, reported seeing a woman outside my house,” Guy said. “Probably nothing. She was dropped at the end of the street and on several occasions walked up and down before returning to her carriage.”
“Did he describe her?”
“A dark-haired attractive lady stylishly dressed in a midnight blue cloak, so he said. She pulled the hood over her head as she approached my house. Eacock questioned her, and she said she was looking to buy a house in the area, and particularly admired mine. After I learned of it, I watched out for her, but she didn’t come back again.”
“Sounds innocent enough,” Strathairn said.
“It does. She was French.”
“French?” Strathairn didn’t like it. “What are your plans?”
“The baby is with Hetty’s aunt tonight with Eacock posted outside. I’m removing them to Rosecroft Hall tomorrow.”
“A wise move. Hetty agrees?”
Guy’s blue eyes grew steely. “For the baby’s sake. An invitation arrived this morning for Lord Harrington and Lady Maria’s wedding at St. Paul’s which has set the cat among the pigeons. Naturally, Hetty is bitterly disappointed to miss it. We haven’t announced it, but we are expecting our second child.”
“That’s wonderful news.” He slapped Guy on the back. “Congratulations! But of course she would be disappointed. Poor Hetty.”
“Still, it’s very difficult for anyone to get into Rosecroft Hall past my butler and burley footmen,” Guy said. “And no doubt you’ll sort things out quickly.”
He wished he shared Guy’s confidence. “I’ll miss you at my side.”
“Zut! I hate not being in the thick of things. You must spare a few days with us at the hall when next you can.”
“Not for some time, I’m afraid.” The people ahead left the Brandreths and continued out the door. “I must say my farewells. I see Hetty converses with Lady Brookwood. Please convey to your lady wife how sorry I am to lose her bright presence from the social scene.”
“I doubt I shall, Strathairn.” He winked with good humor. “It will only add fuel to an already blazing fire.”
Strathairn couldn’t help but grin as he approached the Brandreth’s. Chaloner looked mighty pleased with himself, the dowager fatigued, while Sibella beside her, laughed with what he suspected was false gaiety at something Edward said. Coombe glared at him.
He entered the square still troubled. Sibella had refused to look at him when he said his goodbyes. He hated to see her like this. She was ordinarily so bright and spirited. Whatever Coombe had said still upset her. Not a mere tiff then, but something far more troubling. He buttoned his coat while he tamped down the desire to question her more thoroughly about Coombe.
He gazed out the window of the carriage at the dark streets. Coombe had some business in the West Indies. He would make inquiries as to what it entailed, but surely Chaloner would have thoroughly investigated the man before he consented to the marriage.
When he alighted in Grosvenor Square, a man emerged from the shadows. “Lord Strathairn?”
“Billings, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord. I bring unwelcome news. Irvine has been wounded.”
Strathairn cursed. “How bad is he?”
“I don’t know, my lord, but he lives.”
“Take me to him.”
Billing’s explained what little he knew as the carriage raced full tilt through the dark streets. “It was while Irvine shadowed Countess Forney. Someone shot him.”
Irvine remained unconscious in the surgeon’s house in East London. Strathairn spoke to the grim-faced doctor who was cleaning his instruments in the next room. “How bad is he?”
“Not good. The injuries to his leg and arm are not life threatening if we can keep the infection down, but I’m afraid one shot damaged his liver. He lost a lot of blood on his way here.”
“Take good care of him. Can he remain here until he’s well enough to be moved? You’ll be well paid.”
“Certainly. If he survives. It’s up to the good Lord now.”
“Can I take a look at what you dug out of him?”
Dr. Pinkerton held out the bowl, and Strathairn picked a ball out, turning it in his hands. His scalp prickled as he wiped the ball of metal in his handkerchief, then shoved it in his pocket.
Driving past his club in Pall Mall, he was tempted to order the carriage to stop. He had more than one good reason to drown his sorrows. Instead, he removed the ball from his pocket and reexamined it as the carriage continued through Mayfair. In a few hours, it would be morning. He’d send a message to Parnham to alert the home secretary. This investigation was not over.
Strathairn prayed Irvine would be alive the next day. He decided to stay awake seeing it was close to dawn. A few hours’ sleep always made him feel worse than none at all.
In the library, he took the tinder box from the mantel and lit the fire, then settled in the wing chair as his thoughts turned again to Sibella. He must pen a few letters to probe Lord Coombe’s business dealings. And time grew short.
*
Sibella glanced up as her mother entered her shadowy chamber. “No maid, Sibella? I will dismiss that lazy girl without a reference.”
The air was smoky; the candles in the candelabra guttering, the fire reduced to a glow of embers. Slowly undressing, her limbs heavy with lassitude, she yawned and stretched, in no mood to argue. “I’d prefer you didn’t. Sarah is an excellent lady’s maid. I sent her to bed. It’s almost dawn. I expected you to have retired by now.”
“I’ll sleep well past noon. I wanted a word.”
“Oh?” Sibella laid her delicate gown carefully over a chair for Sarah to deal with in the morning.
“You looked beautiful tonight. Everyone said so.”
“Thank you, Mama.” Sibella pulled off her petticoat. Where was this leading? The urge to compliment her wouldn’t ordinarily keep her mother from her bed. Such things would surely w
ait until daylight.
Her mother moved the dress aside and sat on the chair. “Of all my daughters, you are most like me.”
“In nature?” Sibella rolled down a stocking. She doubted she would ever be as outspoken.
“No, Cordelia is like me in nature when she concentrates on anything other than her music. Sweet Aida takes after your grandmother. You inherited my figure and my cheekbones. I’m annoyed so many seasons have passed without you marrying and marrying well. We both know why Chaloner and I have pushed you toward this marriage with Coombe. You’ve been allowed far too much latitude in the choice of your life partner.”
My, what had caused her mother to have such a bee in her bonnet? This was going over old ground, surely. Too tired and dispirited to discuss it, she pulled her lawn nightgown over her hips. “Maria is the beauty of the family.”
“Maria looks just like my sister, Fenella. But you are like me.”
Sibella faced her, curious where this was heading. “Oh, Mama, both you and Aunt Fenella took London by storm in your first season. I had only moderate success, and that was some time ago.”
“Fenella and I were quite the rage for a time.” Her mother’s eyes grew thoughtful. “A heady time indeed.” Her gaze cleared and focused on Sibella. “One must enjoy every moment of one’s youth. It is fleeting.”
“I am trying to.” Sibella bit her lip to stop from protesting that if she’d loved her fiancé she would be happy indeed.
“I’m aware you don’t love Coombe,” her mother said as if reading her mind, “but what became obvious to me tonight is that you don’t like him.”
She was surprised, not by her mother’s acuity, but that she should broach this now. She opened her mouth to tell her what had happened between her and Coombe but shut it at the sight of her worried parent. She hadn’t noticed before that her mother grew older and had lost some of her strength and verve. Should she agree and send her parent off to bed deeply anxious? Her mother would take her side against Chaloner, who would consider her reasons ridiculous. She hated the idea of them arguing over her. She had made her plan and would solve this herself.
“Perhaps I pushed Coombe a little too far tonight. I am trying to understand him. He’s not one to reveal his emotions.”
“Some men can’t.” Did a little relief show in her mother’s eyes? In most things, she was a pillar of strength and a font of wisdom, but it was too much to ask it of her now. “We can’t always expect fulsome praise and showy acts of devotion. It doesn’t mean they don’t love us or care.”
Sibella felt a pang of sorrow. For all her protestations, was her mother’s marriage less than perfect? Her father had been a busy man not often in their company.
“I’ll try to be patient with him.” Sibella pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek.
“Good.” Her mother pursed her lips. “You still have time, Sibella, to learn more about Coombe before you are wed.”
Sibella stared thoughtfully at the door as it closed behind her parent. Her mother just offered her support if she found marriage to Coombe impossible. It was impossible! With a sigh, she placed all her hopes on her trip to Arrowtree Manor.
If only John would help her, but she could hardly ask him again. She hugged to herself all that was left of her shredded pride. Any feelings they had for each other lay in the past. She had to be careful though. Coombe observed her so closely she feared she would give herself away.
Chapter Sixteen
After an early breakfast, Strathairn swore out a warrant at Bow Street and urged the constables to act immediately. Consumed with impatience, he prayed Irvine still lived as the carriage took him to Stepney.
At the surgeon’s house, he found Miles Irvine not only alive, but conscious. “Milord.” He weakly lifted his head from the bed. A bloody pad was fastened to his right side, his arm and leg bandaged.
Strathairn eased him down again with a hand on his good shoulder. “Easy does it. Can you tell me what happened?”
Irvine swallowed audibly, his eyes dark with pain. “We followed the countess to her dressmaker,” he said, his voice faint. “I was stationed at the back entrance and had two men guarding the front.”
“Yes, go on.”
“She came down the back stairs several minutes later, dressed in a dark blue cloak, and hailed a hackney. I managed to keep her in sight as it took her to a ramshackle house in a street in Seven Dials. Left my carriage and crept to the house to see her talk to a big brute of a fellow with shoulders like a five-barred gate.” He grimaced and laid his head back on the pillow.
“Take your time.” Strathairn waited as Irvine’s normally smooth-skinned face, was deeply furrowed in pain.
“Watched them through the window. The giant took metal parts from a crate—which fitted the description of the one Dawes brought ashore, milord! He assembled a gun on the table.”
“Assembled it? Did you recognize the type?”
“Never seen the like. A double-barrel rifle, but nothing Thomas Manton has made.” Irvine continued between gasps. “Brown lacquer, and the block, barrel and action parts fitted together like the fifth wheel on a carriage, real smooth like. It appeared to be breech loading…”
Strathairn’s eyebrows rose. “Hells teeth!”
Irvine nodded, his eyes wide. “They talked for several minutes… I wasn’t able to hear what they were saying… She emerged from the house without warning. I raced into the alley and fell over a pile of rubbish.” He dragged in a shuddering breath with a cringe of pain. “They heard me. The countess boarded her carriage and took off, and I was left to run for mine where it waited down the road. He shot me before I reached it.” Irvine gritted his teeth. “It was extraordinary, milord. He fired three shots in quick succession,” Irvine grimaced, “and I’m afraid he got me with all three of ’em.”
Strathairn stared at him. “There were no others there?”
“He was alone. The shots came from that rifle.”
Strathairn read the concern in Irvine’s eyes as they silently came to the same conclusion. It was a new style of gun not yet seen in England. “How did you manage to get away?”
“He came after me. While he was reloading, I managed to reach the carriage. Several shots struck the carriage as we took off, but they missed me and the jarvie who cursed me in fearsome fashion. Couldn’t blame him. Good fellow, didn’t desert me when most would have. Knew of this doctor and brought me here.”
“Well done, Irvine.” Strathairn nodded. “Do you wish me to inform your father?”
Irvine’s mouth tightened. “We don’t speak.”
Irvine’s father disagreed with his choice of occupation. Most fathers who cared at all did, including Strathairn’s own. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”
“No, I’m cozy here, thank you, milord. The doc says I can stay for a while.”
“Get some rest. I’ll return this afternoon to see how you fare.”
Irvine coughed and closed his eyes. “Thank you, milord.”
The door opened, and a young woman brought in a tray with a steaming bowl, spoon, and a plate of fragrant bread.
“This is my daughter, Miss Gresham, my lord,” the surgeon said. “She is nursing Irvine.”
The pretty freckle-faced brunette curtsied.
Strathairn smiled. “You have my utmost thanks, Miss Gresham. A pretty nurse is exactly what Irvine needs.”
He left the house feeling a little more confident about Irvine. Was the countess here in England to take up her dead husband’s cause? An act of revenge? But the man with the gun made him suspect there was a good deal more to it. This time she would not be so gently handled. She would expect Irvine to have been dealt with, and might have considered it safe to return to Richmond.
When someone banged on the door, Strathairn was catching up on his sleep in the library. He had visited Irvine again last night and found him a little better. Then he’d returned to wait for news from Bow Street.
It was too ear
ly for the butler and most of the servants to be at their stations. He opened the door and cool, lilac-gray dawn light filtered into the hallway. He recognized Clancy, a Bow Street runner he’d had dealings with in the past. “A note for you, my lord.” Exhausted, the man drooped against the doorjamb.
Strathairn took the missive and nodded his thanks. “Do you require an answer?”
“No, milord.”
“Care to come in? You look as if you could do with a drink.”
Clancy’s brows shot up. “Kind of you, milord, but I’d rather get home to m’ bed.”
Strathairn returned to the library fire where he scanned the missive from Parnham. Countess Forney had been arrested during the night in Richmond as she packed her things. She and Crutchet were taken to Bow Street for questioning. They would appear before the magistrate at two o’clock.
He rubbed his tight scalp. Were they finally coming to grips with the situation? He went upstairs to bathe and change. His valet had laid out his clothes for the day and the hip-bath stood by the fire in readiness. Hobson had been his batman during the war and almost knew what Strathairn needed before he did himself. Strathairn lay back in the bath and wondered what the day would bring as Hobson poured more warm water over him.
“You look tense, my lord,” Hobson observed. “A massage will set you to rights.”
“No time, Hobson.” He stood, shedding water over the sides of the bath onto the floor, and stepped into the waiting towel. “After breakfast I must go out.”
An hour later, he was on the road in heavy traffic. An hour after that, he pulled his phaeton up outside the surgeon’s house. He alighted and threw the reins to his tiger, Jem.
Miss Gresham opened the door. She curtsied, a flush on her cheeks. “Good morning, my lord.”
“How’s the patient?”
“He is eating his breakfast.”
Strathairn swallowed the gasp of relief, seeing Irvine propped up by several pillows. The bed linen, although heavily mended, was spotlessly clean. Morning sun flooded through the window onto the embroidered coverlet. The aroma of hot food filled the air.
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