by Joan Smith
“Things have come to a fine pass when it takes an Irish smuggler to bring two English gentlemen to propriety!” Rachel declared.
“You’re on terms with Dougherty, Rachel. Can’t you find out what’s going on?” I suggested. My voice took on a new, harder timbre. There was no longer any point in pretending Aiglon wasn’t as black as the ace of spades. He was a confirmed villain, and I quite agreed with Rachel that it was our duty to outwit him. Unlike Rachel, however, I did not put the illustrious name of Howell before the safety of England. If we couldn’t contrive the matter ourselves, I would enlist Captain Cokewell and Lord Ware and anyone else I could think of to help us.
“I, on terms with Mick Dougherty?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting up to her hair. “Like the rest of the world, I speak to him because of his mother. I don’t know what you imply by the word ‘on terms,’ Constance, but if you’re suggesting anything more than common civility, I must ask you to explain yourself.”
There’s no point arguing with Rachel when she runs to high ground. Pressing the matter would only freeze her up like a pond in winter, and that would do no good.
“Well, what do you suggest we do?” I asked.
“My groom has orders to dog every step Aiglon takes, unless either you or I are with him. Willard sent him down to the chapel when he returned. The cold was punishing Willard’s back, and he couldn’t stay. As you know, our groom has a brother. When Jeremy comes back from the chapel, I’ll send him home to enlist Jake’s help as well. Between the two of them, they’ll harry Aiglon and Dougherty till we discover who they’re dealing with. As to Retchling, I believe he’s only a tool, an errand boy. Mind you, we’ll watch him as much as possible, too.”
While we were still discussing our strategy, Jeremy came bustling in at the back door. Jeremy Chubb was a husky young fellow of nineteen or twenty, redheaded, capable, and handy with his fists. “They’re acoming home, milady. Mick took the bag of gold home with him. From what was said, it seems the night after tomorrow is when they make their move.”
“You see!” Rachel crowed, smiling with success. “It is only for two days, Constance.” Then she turned her attention back to Jeremy. “Could you learn anything of when and where the arms will be stolen?”
“They was talking about boats, milady. That’s all I could make out, Mickey, he seemed to think wagons would be used, but his lordship, he said that was all a ruse.”
The accomplished liar had struck again, leading Cokewell to believe the arms would come by land! I was more determined than ever to stop him. I’d see Aiglon’s lying mouth begging for mercy before I was through.
“Are they on foot or mounted?” Rachel asked.
“All the nags is in the stable,” Jeremy answered.
“Excellent. Well, then, we had best disperse, had we not? We wouldn’t want the gentlemen to begin wondering what we’re all doing gathered around the table at one o’clock in the morning.”
This suggestion was followed with all haste. Jeremy was out the door, Rachel and I grabbed our cocoa and ran for the stairs, while Willard extinguished the candle and shuffled off to his room just above the kitchen.
Rachel stopped me at her door. “One of us ought, by rights, to listen at the door and hear what Aiglon and Retchling have to say,” she informed me. “They’ll stay in the kitchen, for privacy’s sake, I should think. If you station yourself just this side of the door, Constance, you shouldn’t have any trouble overhearing them. Run along now, and you’ll be there before they come in.”
There had never been any doubt in mind which of us would be chosen for the job, but I wasn’t reluctant. I handed her my cup and ran back downstairs to take up my post. I didn’t have to wait long before the back door opened and steps were heard.
I listened for voices while they went about the business of lighting candles and was very much surprised to hear one I had never heard before. It wasn’t Retchling’s high, fluting tone or Aiglon’s deeper one, but something in between. I put my eye to the crack in the door and saw that it was Retchling who spoke but not in Retchling’s voice.
“How’s the cellar here for a decent wine?” he asked.
“You should know, Beau!” Aiglon answered, laughing. This sounded mighty like a hint that Retchling had already been in our cellar, and it was soon confirmed.
“I was too busy scaring the pretty young lady to read labels,” he answered lightly, and looked around for the cellar door.
“You’re sure she didn’t recognize you?” Aiglon asked.
“She’d have said something if she had. The only look on her face when I went into my Retchling act was one of astonishment. Pity she thinks me an idiot,” he added.
“Count your blessings. She thinks I am a traitor,” Aiglon replied.
It is a sad comment on my vanity that I experienced some pleasure at hearing myself discussed in this flattering way. With such interesting comments being exchanged, however, I soon had more important thoughts. “She thinks I am a traitor.” Surely there was some implication in this that he was not a traitor?
“I should bloody hope so!” said the man who was not Retchling, but who had borrowed his name, just before he went downstairs for the wine.
Aiglon was writing something on a piece of paper. When the man whom I shall continue to call Retchling, for want of a better name, returned, he held two dusty bottles in his hands.
They opened them and wasted a few moments in proclaiming the claret “beautifully sound.” Each took his own bottle and drank from it without benefit of a glass.
“Can we count on Dougherty, do you think?” Retchling asked.
“With his neck in a noose and his foot on a patch of ice, we can count on him,” Aiglon answered.
“I prefer voluntary cooperation to press-gang tactics myself. Who’s to say he won’t take the money and run?” Retchling queried.
“He won’t run, Beau. I’ve kept an ace up my sleeve,” Aiglon answered, and laughed sardonically. “There are some things money can’t buy. Fortunately for us, Mickey isn’t one of them. I don’t know who is the greater scoundrel, Cousin Rachel or Mickey Dougherty.”
Retchling made a tsking sound in Rachel’s defense. “A fine lady, she struck me. I’m just surprised she keeps herself stuck away here at Thornbury,” he said.
“She’d live in a bog if it were rent free. What I can’t understand is why Miss Pethel stays here with her.”
“Not exactly a member of the nubility, old bean. Mean to say, pretty and all that, but...”
“Is that a slur on the lady’s age or lack of a title?” Aiglon asked, sharply enough to please me.
“Oh, dear, I come to see no slur on anything but her domicile is acceptable. Fine, she is an Incomparable. Shall I call her a duchess as well? Or is it a countess you plan to make her?” Retchling asked. His voice, ironic and unpleasant, gave me an idea of how he would look as he said this.
“You’re an ass, Beau. Pray don’t become an egregious ass or I shall be tempted to dispense with your services.”
“My regular services, milord, or these highly irregular ones you are currently involving me in? If the F.O. had the least notion what you’re doing down here, they’d have your head on a platter.’’
All the assurance of “She thinks me a traitor” was blown away by this last speech. The Foreign Office wasn’t sponsoring this mission then, as I had begun to hope. And on top of that disappointment, Aiglon had called his friend an ass for hinting at a possible marriage to me.
“Both,” Aiglon said. They each took another drink of wine and sat in silence for a moment.
“You know what to do tomorrow?” Aiglon asked a moment later.
Retchling’s voice still bore traces of having taken offense. “Have you ever found me to fail you in the past?”
“Not fail, precisely, Beau, but you have a somewhat troublesome way of succeeding. I’m referring to letting that bag of golden boys in the cellar be seen. I hope the ladies don’t take it into their heads to do
something stupid.”
“Surely the Incomparable Miss Pethel is above stupidity?” Beau asked, still in his ironic vein.
“I never said she was clever, Beau. Just pretty.”
I weighed this piece of condescension and found it wanting. Not clever? We’d see about that!
“And what will you be doing while I find a suitable ship for hauling the guns?” Retchling asked. The very blood in my veins curdled. Why did they have to find a ship for hauling guns unless they meant to ship them to France? The army would have its own ship if the guns were to come down to Folkestone from Bristol by water.
“I’ll be having a tête-à-tête with the enchanting Madame Bieler,” Aiglon replied, with more satisfaction than I liked.
“Another Incomparable!” Retchling exclaimed.
“I seem to be drawing good luck this time,” Aiglon agreed blandly.
“Yes, indeed. You were fortunate to come across such a woman—outside of a brothel, I mean.”
“The stream of gentlemen who enter her door usually leave with a bag under their arms. She isn’t selling anything but brandy and a little silk. It’s small-town gossip that has added that other aura to her. She’s not a loose or vulgar woman. In fact, Mickey assures me her lineage is old and noble,” Aiglon answered haughtily.
“I looked into it in London, as you requested, milord. Her ancient lineage can be traced back as far as the orphanage, where her mother dumped her. The orphanage is old and has a noble patroness. That’s closer to the truth man you usually find Dougherty straying, I fancy, from what I’ve seen of the bleater.”
“You actually learned something about her?” Aiglon asked, surprised. “I hardly thought it worthwhile to have you check up. What do they know of her there other than her lack of parents?”
“The chief clerk at the F.O. has a list of Frenchmen living in England who are considered not precisely guilty but suspicious. When the arms shipment lost en route to Folkestone was looked into, Madame’s name was added to the list. It was learned that she has invested more money than her legitimate trade could account for in real estate in Ireland. It was done over several years, however, and we assumed she either dealt with the French or had a rich patron.”
“I fancy Mickey has a few sheckles stashed away, but I can’t see him buying land in Madame’s name. No reason not to buy it in his own,” Aiglon said.
“As she is apparently selling nothing but brandy and a little silk, and only entertaining Mr. Dougherty for money, we seem to be wending our way to the conclusion that she deals in something else besides. Her Irish holdings are considerable—more than retailing a spot of brandy could account for. No, my friend, Madame is in deeper than that. She’ll make an interesting partner in crime, n’est-ce pas?”
That last was added in a playful way. But still it was added. Aiglon and Retchling were involved in something the government wouldn’t countenance. Whether they did it for money or to clear any stain on Aiglon’s character, I had no way of knowing. It was disturbing enough that they meant to involve themselves with Madame Bieler in some havey-cavey business, whatever the cause. I listened sharply for Aiglon’s answer.
“A dangerous one, Beau. I do enjoy tangling with a dangerous woman,” he said.
I felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to rush in and chastise him.
“You don’t have to tell me. I know it well,” Retchling said. His weary voice implied that such entanglements were frequent enough to have become a bore. “I’m about ready for the goose feathers. How about you?”
“More than ready.”
There was the sound of scuffling feet as they stood up. I ran up the stairs before they could open the door and discover me with my ear to the keyhole.
Rachel’s door opened a crack, and I fled into her room. “What did you learn?” she asked eagerly.
“They’re going to hire a boat and get hold of the arms somehow. Mickey and Madame Bieler are in on it as well.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” she announced, her face glowing with triumph. “Well done, Constance. You can leave the matter in my hands. Better get along to bed now. I’ll plan our strategy. Day after tomorrow, Jeremy said. It won’t be long till they’re gone, and we’ll have the place to ourselves again to ... to get back to normal,” she finished, but her eyes bore a shifty look that I couldn’t account for.
The bag of gold was explained in a way that didn’t involve Rachel with Mickey and his smuggling. But still I felt she was mixed up with him in something. She was in a pelter to push me out the door before Aiglon and Retchling mounted the stairs, and I went without protest.
I tried to make some sense out of all the strange things I had heard and overheard, but it seemed the more I learned, the less I could figure out. There were intrigues here within schemes, like a Chinese puzzle. “She thinks me a traitor” didn’t jibe with the F.O. having Aiglon’s head on a platter.
Rachel’s shifty-eyed eagerness to have Aiglon gone from Thornbury didn’t jibe with her not being involved in some wicked and probably highly profitable scheme. It must include Mickey, or why was she suddenly seeing him so often? Ordering a ship didn’t jibe with anything but sneaking the arms off to France. How were all these skeins to be untangled in the two days before Aiglon and Retchling meant to make their move?
The one bright strand in the knot, Aiglon’s defense of my attractiveness, was considerably dimmed by his admiration of Madame Bieler. I wondered if it were at all possible that this dainty, porcelain lady actually led a life of crime on the side. It seemed much more probable that Mickey had pulled her into his wickedness. So much going on under my nose and I unaware of it, as Rachel had said.
Mickey’s affair with Madame didn’t surprise me much, but that he might be serious about her came as a shock. Lord Ware, and even his own mother, would disown him.
And just before I finally dozed off, I found a moment to wonder who Beau Retchling really was. Aiglon called him Beau, even when they were alone. Was it possibly the great Beau Brummell who had come amongst us? But, no, Aiglon spoke to him as one speaks to an employee. Riddell was the first name that popped into my mind. Aiglon had mentioned Riddell’s coming the very night he arrived. Hadn’t there been some stammering over his R’s, too, a few times? I seemed to remember hearing him say “R-Retchling.” But why would Riddell come incognito? It was too much to conjure with, and at last I slept.
* * *
Chapter 11
In the morning, I was curious to learn whether his picnic with me or his visit to Madame Bieler would be the first item on Aiglon’s agenda. As things turned out, a haircut took precedence over both. Aiglon and Retchling both jogged into Folkestone, with Jeremy skulking behind them. When Jeremy reported to Rachel later, the only item of any interest whatsoever was that Mickey Dougherty had also gone for a haircut. Obviously it had been prearranged, but Jeremy wasn’t artful enough to discover any manner in which he could overhear their conversation from outside the window. They had talked “thirteen to the dozen” for half an hour, and not a single word of it all was brought home to us!
“They’ve arranged the whole thing, Rachel, and we are none the wiser,” I pointed out..
“Arranging is one thing; doing is another” was her elucidating comment.
The weather was not conducive to a picnic. I was sure it would be proffered as an excuse to cancel or, at least, to delay my outing with Aiglon, but it was no such a thing. It only changed the nature of the trip. We were to go for a drive in his closed carriage. It was agreed that I was to monitor any suspicious actions, leaving Jake and Jeremy free to follow Mickey and Retchling.
I suggested a drive to Dover for our destination as we had already been to Folkestone once.
“We’ll do that another time, if you don’t mind,” Aiglon countered. “I have a little business in Folkestone, which I hope to mix with the pleasure of this outing.”
“You were there this morning. Why didn’t you tend to your business then?” I asked, but I was interested t
o learn what business he might have in mind all the same. “Has it something to do with the Mermaid?”
“No, it’s only a bit of shopping.”
“Dover’s shops are as fine.”
“I daresay what I want is equally available in Dover, but I don’t know the shops there. I know exactly where to find good silks in Folkestone. They’re difficult to get a hold of in London, you know. I want to surprise Mama by bringing her a few ells,” he explained. His face was as innocent as a newborn babe’s. A pair of guileless eyes were turned to me.
“I can’t think you’ll object,” he continued blandly. “Most ladies of my acquaintance consider it an accomplishment when they can persuade their gallant to go on the strut with them. Till now I have been immovable in my resistance. But you can talk me into anything, Constance. ‘‘
“Without even trying!” I said sharply, for I was not pleased to share my bit of time with Aiglon with his other flirt.
He turned his laughing eyes on me and replied, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of effort to lead me. And don’t think it hasn’t been appreciated, too, but there comes a time, you know, when a little proprietary interest from a lady is not taken amiss.”
I had to remind myself that Retchling was termed an ass for suggesting Aiglon’s interest in me might be serious. This sort of conversation had no excuse except “honorable intentions” on the gentleman’s part. “I try to restrain myself from displaying any proprietary interest in things that aren’t my property,” I replied.
“Strange how little of Cousin Rachel’s ways have rubbed off on you. I’ve noticed it more than once. The crystal pendants would look better on you than on her, too,” he added, using this speech as an excuse to scrutinize my face in a frank way that was extremely disconcerting. “Don’t feel obliged to restrain yourself quite so hard, my flower,” he added, taking my hand in his.