MacDougall said pleadingly, “Ye’re never after deserrrting him the noo? Mon, he needs ye!”
Vaughan closed the door. “No, I’m not leaving.” He straddled the chair Diccon had left and asked, “What is it, Mac? Has something happened that I don’t know about?”
“If it has, I dinna ken what it is. A letter came, is all.”
“We’ve been in some pretty tight corners and he’s always been a step ahead of everyone else in knowing what to do next. I thought we were friends, Mac, but sometimes I feel that I really don’t know him at all.”
“He has precious few friends. Since the lassie died.” The Scot shrugged. “He lost his family, his music, and then his love. And he but eighteen summers! He put up a wall, y’ken, and let very few come close again till Miss Marietta levelled his wall wi’ one glance o’ her bonnie eyes. He lost once, and blamed himself—which was fustian, y’ken! But I think—” MacDougall hesitated, embarrassed by such a speech, then finished gruffly, “I think he dared not love again through all these yearrrs. If he loses Miss Marietta…”
“He’ll build another wall,” said Vaughan.
“Aye. And I’m thinking it’ll nae come doon this time. It’s a lonely life he’ll lead behind that wall, Misterrr Vaughan. Nae life at all for a mon wi’ sae generous a hearrt and sae deep a love for wee bairns.”
“No.” Vaughan was quiet for a while, then he stood and said, “I’ll have to help him, Mac. Whether he wants it or not, I’ll have to stop him retreating behind his blasted wall!”
CHAPTER XIII
With typical autumnal inconstancy the morning dawned sunny and bright, the skies blue and innocent of anything more menacing than fluffy white clouds. For Mr. Blake Coville however, reading the letter that had been placed on his breakfast tray, the clouds might have been as dark as those that had carried yesterday’s storm. His appetite ruined, he stared, haggard-eyed, at those few deadly lines:
Blake Coville, Esq.,
Care of Lord Dale
Downsdale Park
Near Seaford
Sussex
Sir:
The extension on your loan expired at the end of August. The collateral you put up has now been forfeited, and if the balance is not paid in full by October 15th, we shall have no recourse but to apply to Sir Gavin Coville for redress.
We regret the necessity for such a procedure but it is our belief that we have been more than patient in this matter.
We expect to hear from you by return post.
Yrs. etc.,
Benjamin Kagel
The signature was one to strike terror into the hearts of countless London beaux who had lived too high and resorted to a moneylender in the belief that just a small loan could be easily repaid next quarter-day. For Coville, crippling rates of interest, plus the conviction that one good win at turf or tables would rescue him, had brought him to within a hairsbreadth of ruin. If Sir Gavin discovered that not only was his entire allowance encumbered, but that Lady Pamela’s famous Paisley Emeralds were paste, he would be disowned. Not for an instant, knowing his father’s unforgiving nature, did he doubt this terrible consequence of his folly. Indeed, it was quite possible that his sire would stand by, unmoved, while he was cast into Newgate Prison.
Fighting the panic that made him break out in a cold sweat, he bit at one fingernail and stared at the toast on his tray. If only Papa had moved faster in the matter of that arrogant heathen sheikh and The Sigh of Saladin! If only he himself had been able to locate the confounded article! But there was nought to be served by lying here fretting. He’d go over to the Lanterns dower house. The Warrington chit knew more than she’d admitted, he was sure. Lord knows, she should. She seemed to spend most of her waking moments hanging about his curst step-brother. Perhaps she counted on his finding the treasure. Perhaps he already had!
Swearing, Coville snatched at the bell-rope and tugged it imperatively.
* * *
Marietta had expected to be in the village for a very short time, but after delivering the flowers to the small and ancient church she stopped at Mrs. South’s shop to pick up the mail. It appeared that half the village population was gathered around outside, or had squeezed inside, full of excitement because young Samuel South had returned “from the dead.”
It was as much as Marietta could do to get through the door, but once inside there was no getting out again until she’d been regaled with the story that she’d already heard three times, at least. Samuel, it seemed, had been captured by a press gang and delivered to a merchant ship. After some adventures “on the High Seas” which became more hair-raising with each retelling, the vessel had returned to the Pool of London. He’d managed to escape and had at last made his way home. Sam was in the shop, grinning from ear to ear, thoroughly enjoying his notoriety. He looked bronzed and the picture of health, far from the ill-used and starving victim of a brutal ship’s captain. Marietta was reminded that when the tale had reached Sir Lionel’s ears he’d dismissed it as poppycock, saying that if the boy had been aboard ship at all it was likely a free-trader’s ketch, and that he’d gone willingly, in search of adventure. Whereupon, of course, she had seized the opportunity to remark that another of the crimes laid at Diccon’s door could be dismissed.
Having exclaimed properly and congratulated Samuel’s proud parent on his safe return, Marietta succeeded at last in claiming her letters. She went outside to find Bridger looking irritated because he’d been obliged to walk the team several times around the village while waiting for her. She wouldn’t have taken the carriage at all save that there had been such a great armful of flowers to be delivered, but the wind was rising now and she was glad enough to climb inside and settle back against the worn squabs.
One of Aunty Dova’s spangles sparkled on the seat beside her. She took it up absently, thinking of the little lady and of the terrible warning she claimed to have seen in her Mystical Window Through Time. The picture of Eric flying for his life with dragoons close on his heels was frightening indeed. It was also nonsensical.
Eric had always been the soul of honour. Some years ago when one of his school friends had been caught cheating, he’d been horrified and quite cast down because someone he liked had done so shocking a thing. Even as a very small boy he’d always played fair—when he played. She smiled faintly. Actually, he’d not much cared for competitive sports, his interest tending to wane so that he would soon wander off and find some less taxing activity. He’d once engaged in a fiery discussion with Papa on the subject of politics and it had become clear that he had only scorn for the present government. But that was not alarming, for most young men seemed to enjoy railing against established order. The memory of his sudden affluence brought a worried frown. But although she could not like his leaving the university and venturing into the risky world of finance, it would scarcely bring the military after him.
Impatient with her worries, she picked up the mail and glanced through it. A bill from the haberdashers in Eastbourne. Another from The Times—a luxury Papa refused to forego. A letter— She stared with a qualm of unease at her own name inscribed in Eric’s familiar scrawl. She had supposed him to be on his way home. If he was writing, it must mean that he was delayed. She broke the seal hurriedly.
My dearest Etta:
This will come as a shock, but I cannot spare the time to be tactful.
I sensed that you doubted my tale of handling the investments of wealthy gentlemen. You were right, love. Have you heard the term “industrial espionage”? That is what I am doing, Etta. I am at present entrusted with the details of a new kind of fuel for lamps. It’s in the experimental stage, and, as you may guess, is guarded jealously. I am to deliver a copy of the formula to a German competitor. Are you much shocked? I hope not.
However, it is against the law. And I have been found out. I don’t think they know my identity, as yet, but although I dodge about Town there are Runners hard after me.
I must get out of the country, and thanks to
you I think I know how to manage this. I write to warn you to be on your guard if any Runner or Constable should come poking around.
Don’t despise me, dearest and best beloved of sisters. I have done what seemed best for us. I can but pray I have not disgraced you. If things go well I will escape this beastly net and come to you with all speed. Meanwhile, be careful, and try to think lovingly of
Yr. ever devoted brother,
Eric
* * *
Ignatius, Lord Dale, ate alone in the Downsdale Park breakfast parlour, which was just as well, for despite the pale sunlight that beamed in through the windows he was not in the best of humours. The information that Mr. Blake Coville had taken himself off for an early ride did not distress him. One would be as well pleased, he thought, if that young pest would take himself back to Town and remain there. His sire had been a tiresome enough guest, with his studied elegance and grave know-it-all demeanour, but at least Sir Gavin hadn’t set the maids in an uproar and caused the usually placid housekeeper to fly into the boughs and carry tales to Lady Dale.
Leaving the breakfast parlour, his lordship wandered down the corridor, frowning because the expected packet had still not arrived. It was an ugly business that should have been nipped in the bud long ago. Not a bit of use old Smollet holding him to blame because that damned ass had eaten the original report. If the London people were so anxious, they should have sent a rider down here at the gallop with the replacement pages.
He opened the door to his study. This room was inviolate, even to his own family, for although it was not generally known, the stout, snobbish, and far from impressive baron also possessed a keen diplomatic sense and often dealt with matters vital to the security of the nation. Lost in thought, he stepped onto the thick rug, looked up, and stiffened in outraged astonishment. He could move fast at need, and his hand flashed to a cabinet drawer and emerged gripping a small pistol. Aiming it steadily at the tall man who was engrossed in the papers on his big desk, he said, “How the devil you broke in here, sir, I don’t know. But—” He broke off, glowering as the intruder turned to face him. “You! Gathering more snacks for your confounded donkey, perchance? I caught you fairly this time, you treacherous scoundrel! You may consider yourself under arrest!”
* * *
“More flour! More flour!” said Fanny, glancing up from shelling peas to check on her unlikely assistant baker.
Swathed in a large white apron, with a dab of flour on the end of his nose, Vaughan raised two hands covered in sticky dough and surveyed them with revulsion. It had looked so easy when he’d arrived and found Miss Fanny kneading her bread. She’d dismissed his pleas to go for a walk on this beautiful morning, saying the bread must be “set to rise” before she could leave. Watching her in fascination, he’d begged to be allowed to “have a turn,” and she’d agreed, saying with amusement what fun it would be to have “a dashing aristocrat” toiling in her kitchen.
Now, he spread his doughy fingers and reached for the flour bin, only to have her jump up and run to use a scoop to sprinkle the board.
“You can go on, now,” she advised, returning to her chair.
“How much longer?”
“Until it’s smooth, of course,” she said, dimples flashing.
“But every time it’s smooth, you say it’s got to have blisters.”
“So it does. I’ll tell you when it’s ready.” She glanced at him from under her lashes and said, “Perhaps my sister will come back by then, and you’ll be able to have your chat without bothering to take me for a walk first.”
“Jove,” he exclaimed, glancing to the windows apprehensively. “If Miss Marietta’s coming back I’d best get cleaned up.”
A tiny frown wrinkled Fanny’s brow. Lost in love, she had been counting the minutes till he arrived, and it had been a little hurtful when his first request had been to see Marietta. He had asked twice how long it would be before Bridger drove her home from Cloud Village, and while kneading the dough he had lapsed into profound silences as though considering some weighty problem.
She said, “If you are so anxious to be ready for Marietta, by all means leave that, Mr. Vaughan. I had not meant to delay you, and I can finish the kneading while you wash your hands.” She was sure he would realize she was quizzing him and would respond with some of the light-hearted banter that sprang up so comfortably between them. Vaughan, however, was preoccupied, and without comment began to take off his apron.
There had been only one adoring look from him today, and that very brief. Perhaps his affections were not as deeply engaged as she’d dared to dream. He was, after all, a brilliant prize on the Marriage Mart, who could walk into Almack’s and take his pick from the cream of the current crop of highly born damsels. What a contrast was Miss Fanny Warrington, who never had been and probably never would be presented to Society. Marietta, on the other hand, had been presented, was beautiful, and didn’t make gauche remarks or become impatient with the perplexing creatures called gentlemen. It was not remarkable that once having met her, Blake Coville had never even noticed her little sister. Now it would seem that Jocelyn Vaughan, who had noticed and had stolen her heart away, was also turning his beloved but fickle eyes towards Marietta.
She said rather tartly, “I collect your thoughts are far from bread dough, Mr. Vaughan.” And with sad double entendre, “Or did the game lose its appeal once you’d tried it?”
He smiled absently, wondering just how to ease into the subject with Miss Marietta. “I fancy I’m just unskilled is all. You ladies are far better at such tasks.”
“Is your cook at Greenwings a female, sir?”
“Good heavens, no! My uncle would faint at the very thought! Our chef is a Frenchman. Quite a famous fellow, in fact.”
“Really? Had I known I would have been quite in a quake when setting my poor culinary efforts before you.”
The curl of her lip escaped him. He was, he knew, ill-equipped for the role of deus ex machina; God forbid he should worsen a tricky situation. Diccon was such a confoundedly private sort of man; not the type to take kindly to interference, however well-meant. Him and his confounded walls! Why was Fanny looking so put about? Whoops! He must not have answered her! He said quickly, “Oh no. I think it is remarkable how well you do; all things considered. Diccon told me, in fact, that he enjoyed some jolly good meals whilst he stayed here.”
‘All—things—considered?’ Love or no love, at this her little chin lifted dangerously. “Is that so?”
“I promise you. He likes plain cooking. Which is surprising when you think that he’s travelled about the world a great deal.”
Fanny drew a deep breath, then purred, “Indeed? Then, as a ‘plain cook’ I may consider myself flattered, is that what you say, Mr. Vaughan?”
“Oh, absolutely. Ah, here comes Bridger with the carriage. At last!” All unaware of the daggers that were being hurled his way from a very pretty pair of hazel eyes, Vaughan dried his hands and shrugged into his coat.
“Good morning, Miss Marietta! I’ve been waiting for you—”
“With the greatest impatience, dearest,” put in Fanny, smiling so broadly that all her little teeth were on view. She hurled a damp piece of linen at the much abused dough and, ignoring the fact that it missed and flew into the flour bin, said to her bewildered sister, “Thank goodness you are come to rescue the poor man. He has been bored to distraction in my company. I shall go down and help Papa and leave you in peace. Together. Good day, sir.”
* * *
“I fear I annoyed her.” Vaughan sighed and held the back gate open.
Hiding her frustration, Marietta walked through. Eric’s letter had left her emotions in a turmoil and she’d intended to at once seek out Aunty Dova, but Vaughan had clearly been waiting for some time and she could scarcely refuse to talk to him. She liked Jocelyn Vaughan. His admiration of Fanny had been apparent from the start, and she had begun to entertain great hopes, for she thought he would be a devoted and responsible husb
and. She said gravely, “Why, my sister did seem a trifle put about, and she usually has the most sunny disposition.”
“With an occasional storm,” he said ruefully.
“Do you not care for a lady with spirit? Fanny can fire up, I’ll admit, and she can be rather blunt, at times. But her bad humours are very brief and she is always contrite afterwards.”
He smiled. “It is what one most likes about her. There’s no posturing and fluttering with Miss Fanny. She’s the most lovely, feminine little thing, but it’s straight from the shoulder with her. The man to win her will have to be prepared to defend his opinions, but he’ll know few dull moments, I think.”
“You like my little sister very well, I see. In which case I cannot but wonder what you found to quarrel about.”
“To say truth, I don’t really know, ma’am. I was helping—that is to say, she let me have a shot at kneading the dough, and—”
“I thought so.” Smiling, she drew him to a halt and faced him, using her handkerchief to remove the flour from his straight nose and not dreaming that from a distance this innocent task could look like an embrace. “Did you drop the dough, or do something dreadful? She is very proud of her cookery.”
They walked on through the meadow towards the little hump-backed bridge that crossed the stream, and he said laughingly, “No, no! Acquit me of such a crime! We got along famously on the cooking front. Then, we were talking about Diccon, and—”
“Ah,” said Marietta.
Vaughan glanced at her sharply. “She don’t like him. Dare I ask why?”
Marietta hesitated and chose her words with care. “During this past week you’ve had some chats with my aunt, Mr. Vaughan. Perhaps Diccon has told you of Madame Olympias?”
“No. But I heard talk of her in the village. They say she’s very mysterious. I’d like to try for an appointment with the lady. Since she keeps her caravan on your land, I thought you might…” His honest eyes widened. “Oh, egad! Never say Mrs. Cordova is…?”
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