by Joan Smith
“Will his lordship mind that you used the castle for this job, Mickey?” I asked. Ware was known to be temperamental where his stepson was concerned. More temper than mental, actually.
“He was in alt. Especially to see I was on the side of the angels—for a change,” Mickey admitted bluntly. “He wanted to be here for the show himself, but my mama was helpful in getting rid of him. They’re dancing their dear hearts out this minute at Lady Moire’s ball in London.”
I ransacked my mind for any other details that had been nagging and asked, “Did Aiglon set the bonfires on purpose tonight?”
“Devil a bit of it. He was here all along. Firing the stacks was Shiftwell’s contribution to the project. We had to keep old Captain Moustache busy, or he’d have had a regiment here to alert the Frenchies that something was afoot. At first, Aiglon took the cork-brained notion that Cokewell might have been the loose screw in losing the first batch of arms, you know. He was one of a small handful that knew when and by what route they were coming. We kept him half in the dark all along, though Aiglon did give him some explanations. Enough to keep him quiet,” Mickey explained.
“How did you ever convince Aiglon to trust you, Mickey?” I asked. “I imagine you were one of that small handful as well.”
“I was, and no denying it. But then I’ve embraced the old Blarney stone as often as I’ve embraced a lady, so I have a little ease of talking my way out of a corner, as you might say. Now don’t look at me like that, my flower. It was all a misunderstanding about ...”
He gave me a wary look. The blank incomprehension on my face told him I was less aware of things than he had assumed, and he fell silent. “What was a misunderstanding? Who did sell the information to the French the first time? I hope they catch the traitor and hang him,” I said vehemently.
“Ah, there was no treason in it at all. ‘Twas a misguided act of patriotism is all it was. You English are a bloodthirsty lot, and unforgiving.” He shook his head sadly and walked away.
It was another hour before the French prisoners had been hauled away and before Cokewell and the militia had either left or were doing guard duty on the guns.
“It’s time we all go into the saloon and celebrate with a bottle of my stepda’s finest,” Mickey declared.
Aiglon, Mickey, Retchling, Aiglon’s servants, and I went into Lord Ware’s saloon and were treated to a few bottles of champagne. There was a loud, self-congratulatory discussion of the night’s activities. At one point, Aiglon and Mickey drifted off to the far side of the room for some private conversation. It wasn’t entirely peaceful, to judge by the gesturing of hands and the scowling expressions, but eventually they came to terms and rejoined us.
I happened to glance at the long-case clock in the corner and noticed that it was three o’clock in the morning. “Good gracious, look at the time! I’ve got to get home! Rachel will be wondering what happened to me!” I exclaimed.
“How did you get here, Constance?” Retchling asked. The formality of “Miss Pethel” had been abandoned with the second glass of champagne.
“I stole a horse and gun,” I said, yawning, and looked around for the gun.
Mickey picked it up and examined it. “It’d be John Forman’s old white mare you borrowed. At least this is his weapon. It would have blown up in your face if you’d tried to fire it. Just tell me where you tethered the nag, Constance, and I’ll see it’s returned.”
“I’ll have to ride it to Thornbury. I can’t walk home!”
“Every man in the room except myself is going to Thornbury. One of them can squeeze you into his rig,” Mickey said, shaking his head at my foolishness. It was fatigue that rendered me so obtuse.
When we all prepared to leave, it turned out that Aiglon’s servants had ridden and Retchling had come to Ware Castle in the curricle with Aiglon. Retchling borrowed the stolen mare, leaving me to occupy the other seat in the curricle. I wished it had been the closed carriage, for I just wanted to curl up and fall asleep. The night air was chilly, but Aiglon had a rug in which I swaddled myself for the trip. A few details still bothered me, and before my eyelids closed, I asked Aiglon about them.
“Did you find out who it was that’s responsible for losing that first shipment of arms?” I asked.
“Madame Bieler weaseled their route and time of arrival out of Mickey. He’s convinced me he had no idea she meant to steal the guns. She was wise enough not to try to enlist his help. It seems she has wide-flung connections with the French element in England. She sells silks to ladies as far away as Wight and even London. At times, there are messages wrapped up in the parcel, I expect. It makes a simple means of communication. All of her messages weren’t billets-doux, as mine was.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Mickey to have been in on it himself.” I yawned, ignoring his taunt.
“No, I acquit him of that. When he learned of it his anger was genuine. It was a share of the money he first lamented, you see. That had a touch of unrehearsed honesty to it that convinced me,” Aiglon said, smiling. “I agreed to help him relieve Madame of her ill-gotten gains. He knew where she stashed her gold, in the cellar of her shop, but in the end we had to give it back, or she couldn’t have bought this second load—of rocks. Catching Madame and her crew was the main thing, but we got the money in the end, too, so it’s no matter.”
“Mickey didn’t get it, though,” I pointed out. “The money, I mean.”
“No, but he got his stepda’s approval, which is an entirely new thing for him. Ware could do something fine for Mick if he would bestir himself. I, for one, would like to see him suitably settled.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“He has a flexible conscience, to be sure. I must count this bag of gold when we get home. But he’s as willing to forgive others as himself. He feels no rancor toward Madame. She’s French, and for her to help her own people is seen as patriotism, not treachery. I’m afraid I have to agree with him there,” Aiglon said. “I’d do much the same thing if I were living in France. But I’m not, so Madame had to be apprehended.”
“Did you think to have someone keep an eye on Madame during these proceedings?” I asked. The cold night air was reviving me. Or perhaps I had passed beyond sleep.
“It was the job of the constable at Folkestone to lock her up at the signal of the bonfires. We had to let him in on that trick, but it seems he didn’t give us away.”
“You put the whole countryside through a deal of unnecessary bother, Aiglon.”
“No, actually I was astonished Cokewell had never had a dress rehearsal,” he objected. “There ought to have been one to prepare the citizens for the real thing. One hopes it won’t happen, of course, but it’s best to be prepared.’’
“It certainly caught Rachel and me off guard,” I admitted. “But she was marvelous! You’ll be happy to hear she saved your carriage and team.”
“For that I can forgive her much,” he said. “Who’s driving them?”
“Willard. I harnessed them up for him...sort of.”
At this speech, Aiglon whipped his grays to a faster pace, muttering fears and threats as to the safety of his animals. It became clear at the first corner that his passenger was in more danger, for I nearly fell out of the curricle. My arms were hobbled by the blanket, and this prevented me from holding on as tightly as I should have. He slowed the team to a trot then and put his arm around me for greater safety and better lovemaking.
“So far I’ve been doing all the explaining, old flower,” he said, inclining his head to mine and lowering his tone to flirtation. “Now let’s hear the tale of the stolen horse and useless pistol. Just what brought you to Ware Castle? Most of all I’m curious to learn why you aimed the thing at my poor self and not the Frenchie!”
“I’m too tired to do the story justice,” I objected, resting my head on his chest.
“Try. I thought I had convinced you I was on the right side. Though, to be sure, I did have a doubt when your headache came on so suddenly t
his morning. When it recovered in time to send you off to Cokewell, my doubt soared toward certainty. Your expression, a gentle blend of guilt and regret, assured me Cokewell hadn’t revealed what he knew of my plans.”
“I guess it was the night you and Retchling met Mickey at the old burnt-down that I started wondering.”
“The old burnt-down what?” he asked in confusion.
“The chapel, of course.”
“Of course! It is the fact of its not having burned down that confused me. It was knocked down by Cromwell’s firebrands, according to the manuscripts at Westleigh.”
“Anyway, Rachel sent me to listen at the kitchen door that night while you talked over your plans,” I said sleepily. “Beau said the F.O. wouldn’t like what you were doing, so I believed it was something illegal.”
“Oh, they like what I’m doing right enough, they just wouldn’t care to know beforehand exactly how I meant to do it, as a few laws had to be twisted. For one thing, they didn’t share my suspicion that someone in the militia was leaking information about strategic shipments. But I knew none of my people in London were responsible. That left Cokewell and whoever he had told of it here, I expect my paying a little too much of the government’s money for Lord Ware’s derelict boat won’t go down too well, either. Fortunately, they didn’t know the state of its hull and how easy it was to arrange for it to sink. That was part of the bribe to ensure Mickey’s help,” he explained. “It was a good investment in the long run.”
“Part of the bribe? Yes, I remember you saying you had an ace up your sleeve. You haven’t paid Mickey for the boat yet, and he’s taking a good part of the money to keep for himself. Is that it?”
“I don’t know what larceny he may have in mind there, but, as I said, that’s part of it,” Aiglon answered.
“What’s the other part?”
“You’re too guileless, Constance. I anticipate a good measure of fun with Rachel over the other part, and if you knew, that creature would have it out of you in seconds.”
“She’s worked her way into Mickey’s confidence. I know that much,” I murmured.
“And vice versa.”
“I know she knew all about using Ware’s boat and why he gave Madame back the money and all that. What excuse was Madame given to account for recovering it?”
“I believe Mick fabricated some story about one of his smugglers having stolen it. I stopped by her shop with you the next day to try to gauge her attitude toward me. It was crucial to know whether she had connected me with any of the unusual goings-on.”
“She didn’t appear to. I think she connected you with a possible new source of income entirely.”
“That’s why I was at pains to let her believe my pockets were to let,” he said. His voice seemed to be coming from far away. “Only for Mick’s sake, of course,” he added to annoy me.
I was warm and comfortable wrapped up in the blanket and Aiglon’s arms. The regular clip-clop of the grays was as peaceful as a lullaby. I dozed off to sleep about halfway between Folkestone and Thornbury, and when I opened my eyes again, I was being lifted bodily from the curricle by Aiglon. We were home. The windows of Thornbury were all aglow, which told me that Rachel and Willard and Meg had gotten here before us. How happy I was to be back! When I had left several hours ago, I feared I would never see Thornbury again.
“It’s so good to be home,” I said.
“In my arms, you mean?” Aiglon asked, and began walking toward the door.
“No, I just meant back at Thornbury. You’d best put me down, Aiglon. Rachel would be scandalized to see me being carried.”
“She’ll have to get used to it,” he objected, but he did set me on my feet.
We walked together to the front door with his arm around my waist. “Do you suppose Rachel would be scandalized to see me kiss you good night, too?” he asked with his hand on the knob.
“Outraged, sir. And so would I.”
“Then you must close your eyes, Constance,” he warned, and swept me into his arms for a good-night kiss that sent my senses reeling. I thought that night had brought more than enough new experiences, but this kiss was more surprising than all the rest. It was tender and fierce, frightening and reassuring; it was demanding and giving, a promise and a fulfillment; it was too long and much too brief. In short, a perfectly satisfying kiss. Most surprising of all was that Aiglon was able to speak as soon as he released me, while I was quite certain my lungs had collapsed or burst.
“You can open your eyes now,” he said.
“Oh, I thought I had fallen asleep,” I gasped, embarrassed to be caught in such a ridiculous position, standing up straight with my eyes closed.
“I’ve quite overwhelmed you with my ardor, I see. I don’t usually put them to sleep on their feet. Go to bed, Constance. I’ll do better tomorrow, and that’s a promise.”
Then he opened the door and we went in.
* * *
Chapter 16
You may judge for yourself how the invasion scare rocked the very foundations of everyday life when you hear what greeted our eyes upon entering the saloon. Of Rachel there was no sign, but comfortably ensconced on the best gold-plush sofa were Willard and Meg, with a bottle of brandy, a jug of water, and two glasses on the table between them. Before Aiglon or I had a chance to speak, Meg squinted her eyes at me and said, “She knows we’re here,” in a most testy voice.
Poor old Willard tried to get to his feet, but age or perhaps brandy got the better of him, and he only rose up halfway.
“We’re very relieved to see you got safely home,” Aiglon said. “Do you happen to know if my servants have arrived yet, Willard?”
Willard’s head had settled on Meg’s shoulder. He half opened his eyes, smiled inanely, and snorted. “Slap-bang team. First-rate fiddler...bloods...drove ‘em...”
These were oblique references to his having driven Aiglon’s team. Meg was quick to remove the worried frown from Aiglon’s brow. “Your horses are safe and sound in the stable, never fear, and your servants in my kitchen.”
“Where is Lady Savage, Meg?” I asked.
“Gone to bed hours ago,” Meg replied, and began gathering up the empty glasses.
“You should do the same,” Aiglon advised me.
“So should you.”
“Yes, and so I shall, as soon as I check my bloods. A demain. “ He executed a small bow and fled to the stable.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and wondering if I could make it or if I should go back to the saloon and sleep on a chair. Finally, I dragged my tired body and sore feet up by clinging to the banister for support.
In my room, I lit the lamp and glanced in the mirror at a strange and extremely disheveled lady. Her hair was blown around her face in wild abandon. As for her face, it was streaked with dirt and dust, and the gown was the same. A large rent left her skirt hanging open for twelve inches, displaying the plain cotton petticoat beneath.
I lifted a hand to tidy my hair and saw the dirt beneath my nails from scrabbling up the hill to the bonfire. Two nails were broken to the quick, and one knuckle was skinned. I looked for the world like a street urchin who hadn’t washed for a month. To top off this calamitous spectacle, I was smiling like a moonling. I wondered how Aiglon had had the stomach to take me into his curricle, let alone his arms.
It would require at least an hour to clean myself, and then I would have to do it with cold water, so in the end I merely removed my gown and went to bed in my petticoat and filth. I slept like a baby, too. By morning I was refreshed enough to tackle the monumental job of making myself presentable. Before I set toe downstairs, I bathed and changed, coerced my hair into some semblance of order, filed the rough edges of my fingernails, and put a plaster on my heel. I felt nearly human again, and was extremely curious to hear the details of Rachel’s night.
She was at the breakfast table with Aiglon and Retchling when I went down. Willard had apparently not revived sufficiently to serve us, for it
was Shiftwell who handed around the plates.
“What a night it was, to be sure!” Rachel was saying. “I shall never forget it. My first thought on hearing of the invasion was for the safety of your team and carriage, Aiglon. I trust there is nothing amiss with them?”
His expression was remarkably ungrateful. “Nothing irreparable, my groom tells me. He has a fomentation on that sprained foreleg. At least Willard hadn’t strength enough to destroy their mouths. The wheeler is coming to put on a new wheel and repair the cracked axle.”
I looked fearfully at Rachel during this litany of complaints, but she was only nodding her head. “How soon do you think we can get away to Westleigh?” she asked when he had finished.
“In a day or two if all goes well,” Aiglon replied.
“Shall I join you, milord, or will you want me to return to London to handle things there?” Retchling asked.
“Oh, you must come with us, Riddell,” Rachel exclaimed. I wasn’t surprised to have his name confirmed, but I was a little surprised to hear Rachel utter it so matter-of-factly.
“When did you change your name, Beau?” I asked.
“Never, ma’am,” he answered. “We selected the nickname of Beau as it is the one my friends in London call me. As to the other Retchling, he will be aux anges to learn he starred in a divertissement. I expect he’ll write it all up in a story or drama, don’t you, Aiglon?”
“Not at all. It’s too long for a pensée. He hasn’t the staying power for anything beyond five lines.”
“I don’t quite see the necessity for calling yourself anything other than Mr. Riddell,” Rachel said, her tone inviting an explanation. “I understand your letting on to be in the basket, Aiglon, to encourage the disreputable element to approach you. I daresay Mickey never would have opened up to a perfectly respectable gentleman, but why did Mr. Riddell have to assume an alias?”