by Joan Smith
“Are you game for a short gallop?” Aiglon called. We had drifted a few yards apart. His voice was scarcely audible above the music of the waves. I nodded and held on more tightly to Miranda’s reins. Ariel spurted ahead, and soon Miranda was after him. It was exhilarating: the wind on my face, the tang of salt on my lips when a bit of foam blew upward. Every atom of my body was alive. I felt like Bellerophon riding his Pegasus to heaven. I wished we could go on riding and riding and never have to stop.
At one point, Miranda took it into her head to be the leader, and as I pulled past Aiglon, I saw the reckless smile that curved his lips, the tense, alert set of his head and shoulders, and winced to think that only hours before he had been stumbling drunkenly up the stairs. And in another twelve hours, he would, in all probability, be doing the same again.
Aiglon turned his head to me and called, “Race?”
But Miranda’s moment of daring was already over. Ariel darted on, and I let the distance between us lengthen. When Aiglon reached an outcropping of rock, he stopped and waited for me. He was breathing hard, and I found to my surprise that I was panting.
“You’re doing pretty well for someone who doesn’t ride!” he complimented.
“I used to do a fair bit of it.”
“Do you hunt?”
“Yes.”
“When we go to Westleigh, I’ll fix you up with a hunter,” he said calmly, as though my going to Westleigh were the most natural thing in the world.
He must have seen the shocked look on my face, for he rushed to explain the remark. “It’s not that far away, you know. I thought we all—you, Rachel, and I—might take a run over there one of these days. I have a little business there to tend to. Excellent rocks for garden gazing,” he added, and smiled winningly.
It sounded less shocking now that he explained it, and my heartbeat settled down to normal. I had to wonder why he would dash off to Westleigh if he were involved in any treasonous dealings. Surely he would want to stay here, to keep an ear to the ground for news of arms shipments.
“Let’s gallop back,” he said, and we did, with the same sensations as before.
When we reached the part of the beach close to Thornbury, Aiglon suggested we dismount and walk for a while. I was tired enough, so this sounded agreeable. As there was nowhere to tether the horses, we held the reins and they walked behind us. Soon Aiglon reached out and took my hand in his.
“This is doing me any amount of good,” he said simply.
I took it as an oblique remark on his professed reason for coming to Thornbury, which was to remove himself from wicked company and thereby reform. It galled me that he could utter such deceitful words, and in this idyllic setting, too.
I turned a reproachful face to him. “It will all be undone tonight, though, when you go to play cards again. Don’t tell me two small ales were all you had last night!” Naturally I wished to say a good deal more, but I couldn’t reveal the worst of what we knew concerning his activities with Madame Bieler.
He stopped walking and looked down at me. Contrition and shame warred on his face. “I wouldn’t have gone at all if you had come back downstairs,” he replied. “Help me, Constance. You could cure me if you thought it worth your while,” he urged. The reins fell from his hand, and he look a close grip on my fingers. “Let me make it worth your while,” he added, putting his arms around me right there on the public beach. I pushed him away as though he were a demon and took a careful look around to make sure we were completely alone. His gaze followed mine, and the look he gave me spoke of our privacy.
“Make it worth Madame Bieler’s while!” I shot back angrily, and scrambled back up on Miranda’s back with no help from my escort.
I rode Miranda away, and soon Aiglon was beside me on Ariel. He didn’t attempt any conversation, but his expression looked very thoughtful. I assumed he was preparing some explanation and was quite willing to hear it. We crossed the road back to Thornbury and proceeded along the road that slices through the park. When we were halfway to the house, Ariel turned off to the left and Miranda followed. It was possible to reach the stables by this route, though it was no shorter than staying on the road. I soon learned Aiglon wasn’t heading to the stables but to the ruined chapel. When he got there, he dismounted and tied Ariel to a tree.
My instinct was to continue home, but with Rachel’s command to keep him away for a couple of hours ringing in my ears, I decided to stop and hear what he had to say. Aiglon held Miranda’s head while I hopped down. His other arm was out to assist me. Before my toes touched the ground, he had swept me into his arms for a heady embrace. It was no mere kiss, but a crushing assault on all my senses. The kind of kiss a woman, alone at night, dreams of. It was the kiss of a bandit or a pirate, demanding and wild, hot on the lips and setting the blood singing. Primitive urges stirred in me as I felt the hard wall of his chest shaping my body to his, with those muscled arms holding me fast. I heard the leaves above whisper in the breeze, heard the harness jingle as Miranda pawed the ground in disapproval, smelled the sweet scent of wildflowers and the more pungent aroma of the horses to remind me it was real and not a dream. The kissing bandit had the expertise of a Casanova, moving his lips in irresistible ways that set my toes tingling. Yet there was something of a Romeo in him as well. A yearning, hopeless something. Or was that my own small contribution to the kiss?
Then it was over. Aiglon stepped back and looked warily down at me. “You shouldn’t have looked so adorably prudish. I couldn’t resist” was his apology, or explanation.
He looped Miranda’s reins around a tree beside Ariel, and we walked, as though by prearrangement, back to the rocks we had sat on the day before. I sat down, completely mute, and Aiglon sat beside me, his arm loosely around my waist.
He inclined his dark head to mine and looked at me for a longish while. When he spoke, his voice was normal—not angry or apologetic or anything but normal. “Was it you or Rachel who found the letter?” he asked.
“What letter? What are you talking about?” I asked, even as the blood rose up in my neck, and my eyes faltered in their attempt to meet his.
“The letter that is missing from my top drawer.”
“I told her to put it back!” I gasped, horrified that Rachel should be so negligent.
“She did, but in her haste she put it in the wrong drawer. I was ready to assume Rachel was the culprit, but it seemed unlike her to make such an obvious mistake. Are you saying it wasn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, Aiglon!”
“But you read it? Rachel showed it to you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know at the time where she’d found it.”
“What a sweet innocent you are, Constance,” he said, pushing a stray strand of hair back from my forehead. “We’re talking about my alleged treason, and you worry that I suspect you of a bit of snooping. I was hoping Rachel hadn’t showed you the letter,” he said reluctantly.
“What happened, Aiglon? Was it you who...”
“Sold out to the Frenchies?” he asked, his voice hard. “Not likely! I have a brother on the Peninsula. The letter didn’t accuse me of that!”
“But you were responsible for the safe delivery of the arms,” I reminded him.
“I don’t know how it happened. I just don’t know how word got out about the shipment. The guns were loaded at night aboard a ship with a cargo of pig iron from Bristol. The guns were packed in the same cartons as the iron. The only ones who knew the time of the shipment were the army and the militia here at Folkestone. If word was leaked to the Gentlemen or the French, it had to happen here at this end.”
“Maybe you were drunk and let something slip,” I suggested.
“No, I’d remember if I had,” he insisted.
“You were drunk for two days when you had the duel with Kirkwell,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but I remember every minute of it! I only drank so much at that time because of the lost arms. I felt culpable, but not
guilty of willful wrongdoing.” His head drooped and a weary sigh escaped his lips.
I felt more sorry for him than condemnatory. “At least you’re sorry.”
His head bounced up, his eyes opened wide. “Is that what you think!” he exclaimed, stunned. “Good God, I wonder that you even speak to me! Constance, I’m not that bad! The reason I am here is to try to discover who did this wretched thing and bring him to justice.”
“Wouldn’t the Isle of Wight be a more likely place to look?”
“I’ve been there. The trail leads to Folkestone. If I’m any judge of men, the folks in Wight hadn’t a notion what was on that ship. Rumor there is that it was an outside job. The sailors standing guard that night got drunk on brandy. No English ship would have anything aboard but rum, and even that’s rationed. Someone smuggled brandy to them. That suggests an involvement by either the Gentlemen or the French. Of course, here on the coast, brandy isn’t that hard to come by.”
“Even Rachel buys it,” I told him.
“Yes, but I assume Rachel didn’t know the arms were at Wight. The only ones who knew that were the army and the militia. I don’t think either of those bodies are responsible, but someone discovered the secret from them.”
“Mickey is both a smuggler and a militiaman,” I said, thinking aloud.
“I’m keeping an eye on Mickey. I’ve noticed he frequently asks when another shipment might be expected. On the other hand, he’s sharp enough that I don’t think he’d make an issue of it if he were involved. He’s more devious than that, don’t you think?”
“He has more turns than the coast of England. He’d never deal directly if a more roundabout way were possible,” I admitted. “And how will you try to catch the criminals, Aiglon?”
“When the arms are on their way and the route decided, I’ll be watching,” he said vaguely.
“But you won’t know. The officials in London wouldn’t tell you because of ... of what happened the last time.”
A stormcloud gathered on his handsome brow. “I still have a few friends at Whitehall who don’t think me a traitor,” he answered curtly. “Of equal importance to me, Constance, is, what do you think?” he asked, and gazed at me, waiting for my answer.
“I don’t think you would purposely sell arms to the French. I didn’t know you had a brother in Spain. Rachel never mentioned it.”
“That’s because he has nothing she can steal from him,” he replied, and laughed ironically. “I mean to give Thornbury to him when he returns—give him the use of it, I mean.”
“Then you never planned to sell it at all!” I exclaimed.
“You don’t miss much, do you, my flower? No, of course I could never sell Thornbury. I shall bring it into livable shape before turning it over to Nicholas, though.”
“Why did you speak to Roundtree about selling it?”
“I deemed it a clever notion to put about the story that I’m desperate for money. Desperate men will do awful things—like sell out their country. Especially if someone were to take the notion I’d already sold out once and was in need of funds, he might think it worthwhile to approach me with a proposition,” he explained. There was a playful expression on his face at odds with the seriousness of the charge against him. No one here knew what was said of him in London; the letter was the only clue.
I sat staring, my mind alive with the most pleasant conjectures. “Do you mean it’s all a hoax, that letter from Whitehall? You never were responsible for losing that shipment at all? Is that it, Aiglon?” I asked eagerly, hopefully.
He wouldn’t tell me, but the smile that graced his lips spoke volumes. “Do you think I would leave an incriminating document lying about instead of destroying it if there weren’t a very good reason?” he asked.
“But who was to see it, hidden beneath your linens?”
“I counted on Willard, or Meg, or Rachel herself. Mind you, I didn’t count on meeting someone whom I would hate to have such a bad opinion of me. You mustn’t breathe a word of this, Constance.”
“Oh, no, I shan’t, Aiglon, but neither will Rachel. If you want that story to get abroad, you’ll have to think of something else.”
“Yes, I must get quite bosky this evening at the White Hart and let the letter fall out of my pocket. I didn’t want to rush things, you know. First I establish my insobriety, then I drop the letter. It’s more credible that way, and there’s no great hurry. The shipment won’t be coming for a few days yet.”
I stared at his healthy, vibrant young face. “I knew you couldn’t be an habitual drunkard. Do you go stumbling out of the White Hart at night, too, the way you stumble up the stairs at home?”
“Certainly I do. I considered sobering up before I got home, but servants are such excellent tattletales that I didn’t want my conduct at Thornbury to be startlingly different from what it is abroad,” he explained.
“You really should tell Rachel. She’s very worried.”
“I’d like to, but she sees a good deal of Mick Dougherty. She might refute some other notions I’ve been carefully planting in his head. He talks to so many people, you know, that he’s one of the main sources of gossip in town. I’ve done such a thorough job of convincing him I’m a reprobate that he’s already offered to take me on a run to France on the Mermaid when she arrives.” He shook his head and laughed at what strange twists this double life was leading him into.
I smiled, too, with relief and joy. Aiglon was what he always seemed to be to me. An upstanding gentleman, even heroic and gallant. And here he sat with me, Constance Pethel, on a rock in the garden at Thornbury, soon speaking again of our visit to Westleigh. Anything could happen in the next week or two. It was even possible that when Aiglon left for good, I might go with him.
It was one of the happiest afternoons of my life. A sort of calm before the storm, but I didn’t know that then. I only knew I was fast falling in love, and I thought Aiglon was, too.
* * *
Chapter 8
Love is blind, and though I was enamored, I was still able to see that Aiglon was an extremely accomplished liar. How glibly he had explained the interwoven series of lies to me before he broke down and confessed the delightful truth. The condemning letter from the Admiralty was a hoax—there was no treachery, no drunkenness, and no gambling. The lie about planning to sell Thornbury was to buttress the lie that he was short of money. He was a man who could lie his way out of hell, and it disturbed me that he had such a facility for lying.
Perhaps his fondness for me was a lie as well? What reason would he have for this implied lie? He hadn’t actually said in words that he cared for me. Was I being buttered up in preparation for some part in his scheme? Surely not! My every instinct rejected the very idea, but some measure of cold reason remained.
I listened carefully to every word Aiglon said during dinner. He was teasing Rachel about selling Thornbury, asking if she had made up her mind where she would go to live instead. It could have been construed as cruelty, had he not already told me that he would offer her a flat in London. Of course, Rachel was getting off pretty lightly, considering all the stunts she had played on Aiglon over the years.
He joined us in the saloon after dinner for half an hour. First Rachel was urged to take a seat at the clavichord, then I. Rachel could play well and enjoyed playing for company, so I was surprised when she declined, and in no polite way, either. I don’t play at all and declined more politely. Rachel was restless that evening. I put it down to ill humor over losing her sinecure at Thornbury.
When the conversation flagged, Aiglon announced his intention of taking a run into Folkestone. I was sorry but resigned. Rachel couldn’t conceal her delight. As soon as he went upstairs to prepare himself, she left the saloon, and I waited alone, hoping for a word with Aiglon before he left. It was the matter of Madame Bieler that kept me there. Of course he would say he was going to the inn to see what he could learn about the stolen shipment of arms, but his way with a lie troubled me.
; “You’re off to the White Hart, are you?” I asked when he came down, dressed for outdoors.
“Duty before pleasure, alas!” he said, sweeping me an elegant bow. “Why couldn’t you have been a man, Constance, so you could come with me? Or even a lady of less stringent propriety,” he added.
“Like Madame Bieler, you mean?” I asked, happy to have found a quick and plausible way of mentioning her name.
“No, I couldn’t wish to see you so changed as all that!” he exclaimed, and laughed lightly.
“You’ve met her then?” I was becoming somewhat adept at implying a lie myself, for I knew that he had, but tried to sound surprised.
“In the course of business only. I’m having myself a new gown made up” was his facetious explanation.
“She’s very pretty.” I mentioned this offhandedly but took a sharp look to read his expression.
“She is, and, more important, she is very French,” he pointed out. There was a meaningful look in his eyes.
“Is she in on it, Aiglon?” I asked. This was a startling idea despite her nationality. Madame had been here before I arrived at Thornbury five years ago. She was such an excellent seamstress that her being French was overlooked. She didn’t seem at all the kind of woman to be involved in anything dangerous. She was so exquisitely feminine. Of course, she retailed the silk and small lots of brandy for Mickey, but there was no danger for her in that.
She was completely an indoors woman. One seldom saw her on the streets. So far as the feminine citizens were concerned, she lived in her shop, and the men would only enlarge her horizons to her saloon. She didn’t receive feminine callers in a social way. She was petite, elegant, and cultivated in accent and speech. It would be hard to imagine a less likely criminal, unless it should be myself.