Unmasking Miss Lacey

by Isabelle Goddard

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘Because he means to plot against you.’

  ‘That is ridiculous, Molly. What has Humphrey Partridge to do with me?’

  ‘He suspects you or at least he suspects Mother. She were the only other person who knew about Lord Frensham travelling in the district. And he knows I’m your maid. She’s certain that he’s put two and two together. Very angry, he was, Mother said—talking about thieves encroaching on his patch and making a mull of it, and likely bringing the Runners down on him.’

  Her words stopped Lucinda in her tracks. The man from Bow Street could not be far away and for a moment she felt the shadow of a great trouble hover over her. But then, annoyed with her timidity, she said staunchly, ‘If he were so angry, he would surely be more careful to guard his words.’

  ‘Not if Mother were meant to hear ’em.’

  ‘Even so, to hatch a deliberate plot against me!’ Lucinda shook off the last vestige of doubt. ‘I wonder if Mrs Tindall has been reading too many romances,’ she joked feebly.

  But Molly was in no mood for jokes, feeble or not. ‘That innkeeper has got a very big chip on his shoulder,’ she warned. ‘He hates the aristocracy. There’s a rumour he were valet once to a fine gentleman and got dismissed for stealing. He were made to leave without references and were never able to get another post in service. It were only marrying the old innkeeper’s widow that saved him from the poor house.’

  ‘That is all very interesting, but I doubt that a general dislike of the ton would encourage him to plot against small fry such as us.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong, miss. He hates this family in particular—he’s fallen foul of your uncle. It were several years ago so you might not remember, but Sir Francis laid charges against him for breaking the rules of his licence and the magistrate investigated.’

  ‘I do remember.’ Lucinda’s brow knit. ‘But such a small thing.’

  ‘It’s never a small thing to Partridge if it brings the authorities snooping around the Four Feathers.’

  Lucinda turned to face her maid, laying her hands squarely on the girl’s shoulders. ‘I cannot let any of this weigh with me, Molly. My brother is in the most extreme distress and I am his only hope.’ Her tone invited no further discussion.

  She slipped out of her dress and into her nightgown while her maid remained where she was, unwilling to move, her lips stubbornly pursed.

  ‘I must sleep now and you must go.’ Her mistress took her gently by the hand and led her to the door. ‘There is no question in my mind, Molly—tomorrow I ride.’

  * * *

  Jack had been forced to attend the assembly very much against his will, but he could never have guessed at the evening ahead. He might have guessed, of course, when he’d seen her coming towards him in that dress. It was so simple and yet so devastating. The pure blue of cornflower threw into relief her own wonderful colouring and the tight swathes of the gown enwrapped a figure so lithe and so curvaceous that he’d felt his hands itching to reach for her. A few hours earlier he had vowed to render her weak with desire, but he had not bargained on beginning the evening by being himself bewitched.

  Nor had he imagined that he could feel such temptation. The impulse to make love to her wasn’t new, of course. He recognised its force from their encounters on the church tower and by the river but there he could walk away; on the dance floor, it had been inescapable. A multitude of fair-haired, blue-eyed beauties had crossed his path, but this was different. Was it her frank manner, the gleam in her eye, the sheer energy which she gave to everything, including the cotillion they were dancing? He didn’t know. But he did know that he delighted in feeling close to her, feeling her body soft and light pressed against his and burying his face in the sweet smell of her hair.

  Kissing her seemed inevitable. From the moment she had followed him into the garden, he had known that he was going to kiss her, that he had to kiss her. What he hadn’t known was how much he would want to continue. In the moonlight they had been transformed almost into figures from fairy tale, figures that could kiss and live happily ever after. A likely fable! But for those moments when he had held her in his arms, when he had fixed his lips on hers and had kissed her long and deep, over and over again, it had seemed that happy endings were not so fanciful.

  It was as well that Sir Francis had appeared when he did. As well that he had been so offended by their waltz together that he had made it impossible for them even to speak. The waltz had set the seal on their desire; the dance had stripped from them any pretence and they could no longer conceal from each other the force that was driving them. Nor, he thought sardonically, from the interested audience that watched them locked in that shocking embrace. But that was last night. This morning heralded another day and though he had not felt so fiercely for a woman for a very long time, he did not doubt that the feeling would fade.

  He had fallen head over heels in love with Julia, had he not, yet love had died. As a twenty-year-old stripling, he had been so sure that he would be different from the rest of his family. He would wed for love and live out his life with the woman of his dreams. But the dreams had hurtled to the ground, shattering and splintering on the way. For years his sisters had searched for a woman who could make him forget the shame and humiliation that still lingered, until a stray remark from a dying aunt had them pondering the snippet of family history that led them to Lucinda Lacey. She must have appeared sent from heaven, an inexperienced country girl, who would be content with rural pleasures and delighted to welcome into her life a suitor of the first stare. How very wrong they had been on all counts. Lucinda had no more wish to marry than he. She was daring, audacious and passionate. She was exciting to be with and utterly desirable. But daring and passionate were also unpredictable and perilous. He would never marry to please his family, but neither would he allow himself to be drawn into another supposed love match, whatever the allure.

  Nevertheless this morning found him plagued with restlessness. He was surprised at how badly he wanted to see her again. He suspected that it was simply lust talking, but he hoped it was not. Somehow it felt important to smooth the jagged edges of their relationship before he left for good. He could reassure her of his intentions, make clear that though he had revelled in her kisses last night, she need have no fear that he would present himself anew as a potential suitor.

  Shortly after a solitary breakfast, he sauntered to the stables and asked Jem to saddle Sir Francis’s stolid mount. A ride on the Downs might clear his head and might, if he were lucky, lead to the meeting he desired. But it did not and though he rode for nigh on two hours, he met no one. Disconsolately he turned the horse and began to wander back towards the house, but found himself on a path he had not ridden before; it seemed that it would lead him to the village if he followed its circular route. Would he find Lucinda there, once again playing lady of the manor? The girl who had danced so shockingly with him last night could even now be at the bedside of a sick villager. The thought caused him a twisted smile.

  There were few people to be seen as he trotted up the village street and no sign of Lucinda. She seemed to have vanished from the world as though from the stroke of a magician’s wand. Perhaps it was as well. Before he saw her again, he must make certain that he was in command of himself. For the first time in years he was unsure that he could master the force of his desire. Just thinking about her aroused the most powerful emotions in him and the smallest flame, he knew, would set
them ablaze.

  He consulted his fob; he had managed to miss luncheon, but he knew that he would have to brave the evening meal and with it an unpleasant encounter with Sir Francis. To idle away more time he followed a lane running due east from the village; it snaked from left to right into the distance, but its general direction was towards the house. It would take longer for him to reach the Towers than if he travelled by the direct route, but the reprieve would be welcome.

  He rode on, seeing no one. The hedgerows on either side were now bare but for the fluffy seed heads of Old Man’s Beard and the splashes of red and orange rosehips, while further in the distance trees still carried their bright dress of autumn leaves. The peaceful scene was bathed in the glow of a misty sun sitting low on the horizon. He swung around one particularly wide bend and saw in front of him the shoulder of a hill; he guessed that he was approaching the house from an unfamiliar angle and that this must be the hill which sheltered the east side of the house. The hillside blazed with autumn colour, but it was the shape of the trees that he noticed, trees that appeared to be planted in a strange configuration, standing atop each other in a fashion which was unnatural. Intrigued, he turned off the lane to take a closer look and saw, at the bottom of the hill, a cluster of overhanging branches. They, too, looked strange as though they had been carefully trained in place rather than allowed to grow as nature intended. The gardens of Verney Towers had been planned, manicured and chivvied into ruthless order. But why should this wilderness on its perimeter have known a human hand? He was about to dismount and explore the mystery when he heard the faintest sound of a footstep behind him.

  Lucinda at last! He wheeled the horse around, but rather than the mistress, he faced the maid.

  ‘Molly! Good day to you.’ His greeting was coolly polite.

  ‘Good day, sir.’ The girl seemed apprehensive, hardly able to get the words from her mouth, and he wondered why. He wondered, too, what she was doing so far off the beaten track.

  ‘Are you returning from the village?’

  She seemed to hesitate. ‘I am, your lordship.’ Then as though to convince him, she added, ‘I have been to see my mother. She works at the Four Feathers.’

  He was unsure of what to make of the maid’s nervousness. Was she an innocent among a den of thieves or a woman complicit in their villainy? And was it usual in the countryside for a servant to be paying private calls in the middle of a working day?

  ‘Would it not be easier for you to take the lane which runs directly from the village to the Towers?’

  ‘Most times I do.’ Molly was growing more confident. ‘I walk back and forth to the village plenty and sometimes I like a change and follow a different track. The weather is that beautiful today and this path goes through some handsome countryside.’

  He could not argue with the sentiment, but he was still suspicious. The lane might eventually lead to the house, but it was a very long way round and its thick undergrowth which often narrowed the track in parts to no more than a foot made for difficult walking. Molly was here for something else, he would warrant, but he could not fathom what.

  ‘Can I perhaps give you a helping hand—take you home a little more quickly?’ He indicated the saddle of Sir Francis’s horse.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Lord Frensham, but, no.’ The maid seemed alarmed rather than embarrassed. ‘I shall walk. It ain’t far.’ And she stood back for him to regain the lane and continue on his way. He had little choice but to ride on, but he would have given much to double back and discover just why she was loitering in that lonely landscape.

  He walked the horse slowly back to the stables and handed him over to Jem. As the boy began fetching water and brushes, he strolled to the end of the stables. Lucinda’s horse was busily chewing its way through a small trough of rolled barley and did not respond to Jack’s salute. He walked on to the furthest stable, thinking to greet the splendid chestnut.

  The stable was empty. Someone was riding Red. Did he really need to ask who? For a split second he was about to challenge the stable lad, but thought better of it. If the boy knew anything, Jack could put him in danger of his job by insisting that he spill confidences. He bid him a brief goodbye and walked towards the house, his mind teeming.

  * * *

  ‘Your lordship has missed luncheon. Should I arrange for refreshments from the kitchen?’ Lynton asked deferentially as his master strode through the bedroom door.

  ‘No, I am not hungry, thank you.’

  He wasn’t hungry. He was beginning to feel decidedly uneasy. He strode to the window and stood for some time, looking blankly ahead, drumming a rapid tattoo on the sill with his fingertips. Lucinda was still nowhere to be seen and had evidently not been home for the midday meal. Her horse was stabled, she wasn’t in the village—and her maid was not with her. What the devil was she up to? Was this another trick she was about to play? Surely she would not dare contemplate a further hold up, not while he was still a guest in the house. He had allowed her to escape justice, imagining it had been a silly spree she had engaged in thoughtlessly. But now it appeared she might be playing him for a fool and he felt a gathering anger. It was Julia all over again—a different girl, a different context, but the same need to put herself in jeopardy, the same uncontrollable urge to risk hazard.

  Lucinda had ridden out on Red, that was certain, and why would she do so unless intent on mischief? But what did she hope to gain and why act now? Had last night’s unsatisfied lovemaking spurred her to this madness? He could have satisfied her, he thought savagely. He could have crept to her bed when the household slept and taken her. She would have been as eager as he to taste fulfilment. But he had played the honourable man and she had been left aflame and wanting. Was this then the result, that she sought excitement of her own making?

  And where was she? His fingers drummed ever more loudly as his thoughts roamed over the paths and byways of the district. In his mind he retraced his steps of the morning. And then it came to him. That unnatural-looking cluster of bushes and a maid where she was not expected. The place would host no ambush, but it had to be important. Clear as crystal, the thought arrived. It was where she would return and when she did, Molly would be waiting. He spun around from the window so suddenly that Lynton, who had been carefully brushing a coat of the finest kerseymere, dropped the brush in surprise.

  ‘Is everything all right, my lord?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he said shortly. ‘Lynton, I am going out, but I want you to stay close to the house. I may have need of you.’

  The valet looked bewildered, but bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Naturally, I shall remain here, sir.’ Before he could pick up the brush again, his master had strode to the door and was already clattering down the staircase to the front entrance.

  * * *

  It took much longer than Jack expected to return to the place he had seen earlier that afternoon. On foot it was far more difficult, the lane being rough and overgrown, and he wondered how long it had taken Molly to make it back to the Towers. More likely she had not continued on the path, for he was certain there must be another way into the house. He was out of breath and slightly dishevelled when once again he stood facing the cluster of overhanging bushes. He was about to get a great deal more dishevelled: something worth uncovering lay beyond the torrent of greenery. Hastily he began to pull back branches, trying to loop them one behind another, to make headway into the space they guarded.

  His anger at Lucinda’s foolhardin
ess had not abated, but alongside it there was a growing fear, a sick lurching to his stomach whenever he thought of the outcome. He had been a strong adversary and had overpowered her before much harm could be done. Only her wrist had suffered. But what if she met a very different coach, one whose inhabitant was nervous and armed? It did not take much for a cocked pistol to explode. What if the carriage horses took fright and bolted, trampling her under foot or Red, terrified by gunfire, threw her from the saddle? A dozen different possibilities haunted him as he worked his way through the branches until he bent back the last bough to reveal a wooden door, splintered in places and mildewed from the damp, but a door nevertheless.

  He had been right. This is where Molly had been headed; her mission had not been to walk a circuitous route to the Towers, but to find her way into the house through this entrance. He grasped the rusted iron ring and pushed the door ajar. Sure enough a long corridor stretched ahead, dividing at its furthermost point into two narrower passageways. They had been cut into the hillside and he guessed that the left-hand path led to the house and the right to the stables—in fact, to Red’s stable. That was the meaning of that odd circular door, the one that Jem swore had been locked since he started work at Verney Towers.

  Jack closed the door and settled himself on a tree stump, hoping its rough bark would not snag his knitted pantaloons so badly that Lynton would demand an explanation. Lighting a cigarillo, he drew deeply on it. He would wait for Lucinda’s return, wait for her and confront her. And this time there would be no mistaking his message: he would tell her uncle all he knew if she did not stop her outrageous activities. The threat of homelessness might deter her when the shadow of the gallows had not. But then she would not be thinking of the gallows; she would not imagine the law would punish her as harshly as any low thief. But it would and she could hang, whether she were gentry or not. The image of the Runner he had himself called in flitted across his mind and he felt even sicker. A note from Bow Street had arrived only yesterday to say that Didimus Black, one of their best men, was even now on his way to the Four Feathers.