A Beguiling Intrigue

by Jane Toombs

  Now, with the danger past, tears stung her eyes and she began to shiver uncontrollably. She hugged herself.

  Rodgers came to her and put a comforting, fatherly arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him while she drew in ragged breaths.

  After long moments she recovered enough to step away from him and dab at her tears. “How can I ever thank you for what you did?"

  Rodgers smiled. “Thank me? I should be the one to thank you. All my rather drab life I've dreamed of heroically rescuing a young lady in distress and now you've given me the opportunity."

  "Would you really have shot Lord Alton?"

  "Oh, yes, certainly. To shoot a lord, particularly this lord, would have given me great satisfaction. Robin Hood"—he nodded at her Sherwood Forest garb—"found that a bow and arrow was a wonderful leveler of the classes. A pistol is even better."

  "Did you see me leave the Manor tonight?” she asked. “And followed me here?"

  Shaking his head, Rodgers said, “Not at all. The stableboy Alton hired happened to be the red-haired boy you told me was having a problem with a horse. I befriended him, suggested keeping an animal in the horse's stall, and today the lad, suspecting skullduggery of some sort, told me what he knew and so I followed Alton. The bastard.” Rodgers inclined his head. “Pray pardon my crude language."

  "Pardon you? Why should I have to pardon you when your word describes him perfectly?"

  "Just so. Lord Alton, I suspect, will have left the Manor before morning. And you will have nothing to fear from him later when you return to London."

  "London?” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “No, Rodgers, I've had quite enough of the so-called gentlemen of the ton. I intend to make my home in Gravesend, not in London."

  CHAPTER 17

  Rodgers, his arms folded, gazed across Whitechapel Road

  at the Lord Devon's narrow, three-storied house. So this was Devon's famous, or perhaps infamous would be the better word, retreat from the world, this modest, aging structure built of red bricks placed in uneven rows as though by a slightly besotted bricklayer.

  He crossed the cobbled street, climbed the narrow steps to the small porch, raised the brass knocker and rapped three times. There was no sound from inside the house. After patiently waiting for several minutes, Rodgers knocked again, louder and more insistently. The faint tapping of footsteps came from inside, he heard the rasp of a bolt being drawn and the door was flung open.

  Rodgers, who prided himself on being remarkably imperturbable, drew back in surprise. Whoever he had expected to answer his knock—an aged manservant in old-fashioned livery, perhaps—he was not prepared to be greeted at the door by Lord Devon himself. Not only Lord Devon but a Lord Devon, a gentleman usually garbed in the height of fashion, sans waistcoat and sans cravat, a Lord Devon who wore trousers marred by inelegant wrinkles and creases. Despite his discomfiture, Rodgers managed a deferential bow.

  "Do you bring a message?” Quentin asked eagerly.

  Rodgers shook his head.

  "Is this more in the nature of a call on a matter of business?” Quentin asked him.

  "You might term it that,” Rodgers said.

  Quentin raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. With a weary shrug of his shoulders, he stood aside. When Rodgers hesitated, Devon said, “Come in, Rodgers, and when you do, pray stop staring at me as though I had broken some code of sartorial honor. You will allow me to dress as I see fit in the privacy of my own rooms, will you not?"

  "Of course, my lord,” Rodgers said, stepping into the entry.

  As Quentin led him along the hall, Rodgers took care not to look about him, not wanting to appear overly inquisitive. It was impossible, however, not to notice the sparse and inelegant furnishings both in the hallway and in the interiors of whatever rooms he was able to glimpse from the corners of his eyes.

  "My living quarters are on the ground floor,” Quentin told him, “the upper rooms are used only for storage.” He opened a door toward the rear of the house. “This is where I spend most of my time when I come here to Whitechapel Road

  ."

  Rodgers had been surprised that Quentin had taken it upon himself to answer the front door; he was even more surprised at what he now saw. The large chamber, well-lighted by hanging oil lamps, rose two stories high with windows only on the back wall and those at least fifteen feet above the floor. The walls themselves were completely devoid of decoration.

  The room was furnished with four long wooden tables, each containing an assortment of devices that Rodgers could not identify—iron cylinders girded by wires, black oblongs of metal protruding from large glass containers with wires looping away to black boxes, two silver balls, both larger than a man's head, mounted on the top of two long wooden poles rising almost to the ceiling, and wires, wires everywhere, strung endlessly back and forth between posts. At one side of the room was a desk cluttered with papers, several chairs and a cot covered by a blanket.

  "A laboratory?” Rodgers ventured.

  "Quite right.” Quentin threw his hand aloft in a sweeping gesture taking in the room and its equipment. “I have always had an abiding interest in electricity, its properties and its possible uses. Hence, this laboratory."

  Rodgers shook his head. “I admit to being completely flabbergasted."

  "During the last few years,” Quentin said as he led Rodgers across the room, “my efforts have turned to the problem of sending messages across great distances by means of an instrument known as a telegraph."

  "And that accounts for these wires?"

  "Precisely. We have known for years that electric impulses can be sent through wires, but to date our methods for transmitting messages have been very crude. One cumbersome device I examined recently used twenty-six wires, one wire for each letter of the alphabet, but my notion is to use only one wire and to indicate the letter by varying the length of the electric impulses and interpreting the results by means of a code."

  Quentin tapped his forefinger on an open ledger, then sat at his desk. “This is my log book where I record my experiments."

  Rodgers, who had remained standing, nodded. Glancing at the book and reading the listings upside down, one of his many useful skills, he noted that the last entry had been made more than three months before. It appeared that in the ten days since returning to town, Lord Devon had accomplished nothing.

  Without preamble, Rodgers said, “Miss Riggs leaves town tomorrow for Gravesend. I believe she intends to reside there indefinitely, much to the distress of Mrs. Baldwin. And of myself."

  Quentin sprang to his feet and paced back and forth in front of his desk. “Damnation,” he muttered. “She intends to return to her star-gazing, I warrant. That young lady has a cursed stubborn streak. Will nothing bring her to her senses?” He paused. “How is she?” he asked, his voice suddenly tender.

  "Unhappy with all of the gentlemen of the ton, or so she has declared.” He had decided to say nothing about the unpleasantness involving Lord Alton.

  Quentin sat down in his chair, raising both hands head-high in a gesture of hopelessness. Suddenly leaning toward Rodgers, he said, “I called on her shortly after she returned to London from the Manor, after I heard she had refused Gavin Spencer. She refused to see me. So I wrote to her only to have her return the letter unopened."

  "I believe, my lord, that proud might be a more appropriate word to describe Miss Riggs than stubborn."

  "Proud. Stubborn. The end result is exactly the same. Misery.” He sighed. “When I thought she had accepted Spencer, I spoke briefly with her at the masquerade ball and she may be under the impression I called her judgment into question. Perhaps she is still annoyed that I would ever think she would accept Spencer."

  "Mr. Spencer,” Rodgers said, “is reported to be readying another expedition."

  "True enough. I was told at White's that at this moment he is gathering a crew of young gentlemen to sail to the eastern Mediterranean in a replica of an ancient Greek ship. When he arrive
s there, he intends to recreate the heroic journey of Odysseus from Greece to Troy and home to Greece again."

  "A journey which will certainly produce another exciting and informative book. I intend to reserve a copy at Mr. Cloverly's shop."

  "Alicia Mallory.” When Rodgers looked a question, Quentin shook his head, declining to explain his cryptic remark.

  "Mrs. Baldwin and her friends,” Rodgers said, “were exceedingly disappointed when Miss Riggs refused the overtures of Mr. Spencer, expecting her to give him a quite different answer. Now they seem to despair of ever finding a suitable gentleman for her."

  Again Quentin stood, this time striding to one of his work tables. With a sweep of his hand he sent a jar of water hurtling to the floor where it smashed into a hundred glittering pieces. Rodgers narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, but made no comment.

  Quentin came and put his hands palm down on the desk, leaning toward Rodgers. “Once, I truly believed that my work, this laboratory, my privacy and my freedom were the most important things in my life. Now I see this means nothing, nothing at all. Once I thought women were merely a distraction, a necessary evil. Now—” He shook his head, sighing. “It will not do, Rodgers, it will not do at all."

  Rodgers suppressed a smile. “No, my lord, it will not do."

  "She refuses to see me.” Quentin scowled. “Perhaps not without reason from her perspective since I suppose I can be viewed as overbearing at times. There are even those, Alton for one, who have called me worse than that."

  "He has indeed, my lord. Or so I have heard."

  Quentin gave him a speaking look, but plunged on. “As you must be aware, Miss Riggs has a habit of challenging me at every opportunity and in every conceivable way. This refusing to see me or read my letters is her latest challenge, I expect."

  Rodgers nodded.

  "Hers is a rather annoying habit,” Quentin went on, “since she carries it to ludicrous extremes. She succeeds in becoming especially aggravating because she emerges victorious more often than not. I wish that once, only once, she would resist her urge to compete with me.” Quentin sat once more in his chair. “Pray pardon my ranting, Rodgers. I mentioned her challenges because I was about to make a suggestion. I do believe I should turn the tables on her by issuing a challenge myself."

  "Excellent. If I may be allowed to use a mixed metaphor, my lord, you will be throwing down the gauntlet and then waiting for her to rise to the bait."

  "Exactly.” Quentin leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Now what shall my challenge be? You must help me decide."

  "Allow me time to give the matter some thought,” Rodgers said. “And also let me approach Miss Riggs and engage her in conversation so I may better judge the lay of the land."

  "My fate, Rodgers, is in your hands. As soon as you ascertain the lay of the land, I shall throw down the gauntlet and she, I sincerely hope, shall rise to the bait."

  * * * *

  Justine gazed from the front parlor window of the Baldwin town house at the bustle on the street outside. A boy rolling a hoop by striking it with a stick ran along the walkway, a landau driven by a stout and pompous coachman rumbled past, a rabbit woman stood beside her cart crying her wares of fowl and small game.

  Justine sighed. How she would miss London! The city pulsed with excitement, every new vista charmed her more than the one before, even the dirt and the dust and the smells, even the smoke and the fog failed to give pause to her enthusiasm. She had never felt more alive in her life.

  Even more than the city, she would miss all those who had befriended her. That very afternoon they had gathered at the Baldwin house for tea to wish her farewell. Her eyes misted as she recalled each of them presenting her with a small gift of remembrance—a deck of tarot cards from Daphne, an assortment of fastening pins from Gerard of his own unique design, a riding crop from Ogden, and an envelope from Prudence that she was cautioned not to open before she reached Gravesend.

  She had been looking forward to returning to her small observatory at Gravesend, but when she had walked into the garden the night before and looked up at the panoply of stars, they seemed strangely cold and distant. Could it be that her enthusiasm for astronomy was waning?

  Despite these nagging doubts, she was determined to leave on the morrow. She had made up her mind to go back to Gravesend and she would. She could not, however, suppress a sigh as her thoughts returned, as they did so often, to Quentin. Once more she pictured him riding out of the mist in Hyde Park, again she relived the moment he kissed her on Round Hill and recalled the magic of his embrace beneath the willow. With an angry shake of her head she tried to drive him from her mind.

  "Miss Riggs."

  Startled, she turned from the window to find Rodgers standing beside the marble-topped table, his hand resting lightly on the Bible.

  Coming to her, he said, “I wanted to tell you how much all of the servants, but especially myself, will miss you."

  Justine thanked him and, sitting, invited him to be seated, but he demurred. When she insisted, he reluctantly perched on the edge of a chair near her, his hands folded in his lap, his kind hazel eyes watching her.

  Suddenly she found herself telling him of her misgivings about returning to Gravesend, her frustrated hopes for a new life in London and her nagging fears that she might be making a mistake. When she finished, he reached to her and pressed her hand between both of his.

  "I bring you a message from Lord Devon,” Rodgers said. Her heart leapt.

  "I went to him in his retreat on Whitechapel Road

  this morning, which, by the bye, is not what many suspect it to be. Lord Devon has built a laboratory there where he conducts experiments with something he terms a telegraph, a mechanical device for sending messages by means of electrical impulses carried on wires over considerable distances."

  She gaped in surprise. A laboratory? Quentin had never hinted at such a thing. What else had he kept concealed from her? “His message?"

  "He challenges you to a race on horseback over the distance of one mile,” Rodgers went on, “a race to take place tomorrow morning in Hyde Park."

  "He challenges me to a race?” Disappointed and confused, she shook her head. “No, I think not.” Remembering how she had, from the first, constantly challenged Quentin, Justine felt a pang of guilt. Now, when she wanted something very different from him, he was offering her a challenge. Had he experienced a similar frustration when she was the challenger? Was this his revenge?

  "Do you recall,” Rodgers asked, “after we had that unpleasantness with Lord Alton you said you wanted to thank me in some way? You can—by agreeing to meet Lord Devon in the morning."

  She frowned, puzzled. “My racing him would please you, Rodgers?"

  "I believe in completing whatever one has left unfinished, in the tying off of loose ends. Have you noticed how much of life takes place in the form of circles, whether in the rotation of the earth about its axis or the revolving of the planets around the sun or the arc of a man's life from the helplessness of infancy to the feebleness of old age? You came to us, to Mrs. Baldwin and myself, after you raced Lord Devon in the park, because you raced him, so it seems only right to me that you should leave us only after racing him again."

  "You sound like a hopeless romantic, Rodgers. To me, most of life seems to consist of those dangling loose ends."

  "It does, unfortunately. All the more reason to tie those that we can. So, yes, Miss Riggs, to answer your question, it would please me mightily if you accepted Lord Devon's challenge."

  Justine placed her hand on his. “Then I shall,” she promised. “For you, Rodgers."

  * * * *

  The next day, as the first light of dawn shimmered on the rising wisps of the morning fog, she rode beside Rodgers to Hyde Park astride Fitzwilliam, a four-year-old chestnut, a gelding Rodgers swore was the equal of any horse in all of England. She wore the same jockey attire she had worn months before when she came to the park for her
first fateful race against Quentin.

  As they neared the agreed-upon meeting place, her heart pounded even though she had steeled herself against still another disappointment. She came here this morning, Justine told herself, only as a favor to Rodgers.

  "This is where Lord Devon told me we would find him,” Rodgers said as they reined in beneath a magnificent oak. He peered hopefully into the mist. “He planned to come with Mr. Willoughby, who may have delayed him. And we are somewhat early."

  Time passed slowly for Justine. Rodgers made sporadic, half-hearted attempts at conversation, but she said little in reply, telling herself that she should never have listened to Rodgers. No, she had to be honest with herself. Rodgers or no Rodgers, she would have come here this morning if only to see Quentin one last time.

  Hearing hoofbeats, she glanced to her right and her breath caught as she saw him, saw Quentin, much as she had that first time, riding out of the mist. Rodgers said something; his words meant nothing to her. Another rider followed Quentin; she was only vaguely aware of his presence, she had eyes only for Quentin.

  Justine rode toward him, saw him staring at her as though the sight of her had dazed him. She reined her horse to a halt; he stopped only a few feet away from her, his green eyes dark and intent. Suddenly he swung to the ground and reached up for her. Letting herself fall toward him, she felt his strong hands grip her about the waist and then he swung her to the ground. For a long moment they gazed into each other's eyes, neither of them speaking.

  "I was lost without you, Justine,” he said at last. “I could do nothing, I wanted to do nothing. I forgot to eat, I couldn't sleep without waking to thoughts of you, how terribly I missed you."

  "Quentin,” she murmured. Being with him was all she wanted. She would do anything for him, he had only to ask, if only she could be with him now and forever.

  "Justine,” he said. “Justine, Justine, Justine,” he said, repeating her name over and over again. “I love you, Justine. Will you marry me?"

  She gasped. For an instant speech failed her. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, overcome with joy, “I think I loved you from the day we met."