She was glad Mr. Gordon had no choice but to stay in her house. While her stepmother would go off in a fit of the vapors and her father would rant, she could not refuse to harbor him—even if she had wanted to do so. He had assured her she was in no danger even before she had found she was suspected of murdering her uncle. He had been more reassuring than her own family, who might at least have shown they believed in her innocence.
He had even tried to extricate Rupert from the consequences of his stupidity and lack of character and had endangered himself in doing it. And she suspected there had been somewhat more to Mr. Gordon’s adventures than he had revealed.
And he was extremely attractive. He could not be called handsome, though there was nothing wrong with his face, but its kindliness and humor had drawn her from the first. He was quick-witted, and his conversation was lively. There was no fault to be found in his body, either, which was lean and gave an appearance of strength and whip-like energy. The men she met at the parties and assemblies her family attended seemed flat by comparison. Their humor, if they had it, was too often shallow. If they were serious and worthy, they were boring. There might have been charming, interesting men at those entertainments. They would not be drawn to her. She had never been vivacious. Her stepmother claimed she was too plain, too like a governess, too conceited to pander to the conceit of gentlemen—not that Elvira had phrased it in those words. If she were like a governess, it was perhaps because she had taken responsibility for the household when she was too young. Someone had to do it, after all! Stepmama claimed that any young lady who was not ugly could make an eligible match if only she would make the effort to flatter gentlemen, smile at them, laugh at their jokes, and practice some wiles. Yet if she did so, someone for whom she felt no respect or partiality might make her an offer, and then what would she do?
“Though I believe you would do best to secure a widower, Jane, some older man, more interested in a lady who will manage his house and rear his children than in romance. I must think who in our circle might suit.” But that had been several years ago, and she had heard no more on the subject. Perhaps it had occurred to Elvira what it would mean if she did marry. Or because soon after, Uncle Markham had let it be known Jane was his heir. Could her stepmother be so calculating? Very likely! While Elvira could not—or would not—add a column of figures, she had managed to marry Jane’s father, when she was only the daughter of the third son of a purse-pinched baronet. Papa’s small fortune would have been adequate, had it not been for the expenses of rearing three sons and clothing a fashion-conscious wife.
Would Mr. Gordon feel he had to offer for her? Like her, he had a practical turn. He was also either a gentleman or mimicked one convincingly. If he were not a gentleman born, would she consider marrying him? Perhaps she would have no choice. If his presence here came to her father’s attention, he would bellow and reproach her for loose conduct, then sigh heavily and say Mr. Gordon must marry her or she would be ruined. It would not be a disaster, she thought, not for her. Having made her bed, she would lie in it willingly. Oh, yes. Even if she did not love him (but she thought perhaps she did), she liked him very well, and that might be enough. Or would it? They could be comfortable together. Only, she did not want him to be forced to marry her when perhaps he would have preferred some other lady.
Would she have to marry him? Unlike some girl fresh out of the schoolroom, who would have no recourse but to run away to a very uncertain future in order to avoid an unwelcome marriage, she was of age. She owned a house and she had a fortune, all her own, on which she could live comfortably. It would also make her a target for fortune hunters if it became known.
If Mr. Gordon were clever enough to counterfeit the manner of a gentleman as easily as he did that of a footman, could he also be only pretending to admire her? While he did not display the conventional signs of interest like fulsome compliments and languishing glances, she had no doubt at all that he was flirting with her. But was he attracted to her or was it only playacting? She knew nothing of his background. He might be the son of a tradesman or even a criminal. He claimed his father could have bought him a commission, which might be true—or not. He made a very convincing footman, all his whimsical humor gone, his face impassive. He was a skilled actor, then. And how had he become involved in the mystery of her uncle’s murder? He said he had been asked to look into it by Mr. Lattimer. Then she had pulled him into her brother’s and Charles Pleasaunce’s plot. He said Mr. Lattimer had contacts in the War Office and other government departments and implied that Lattimer was his superior. Alex had been able by some sleight of hand to produce a great deal of money and passage on a ship at short notice. That fact might support his claim. He had useful connections of some sort, at least. But really, she had no proof that any part of his story was true. He might be a criminal who had intended to divert those muskets in order to sell them to someone else. The thought congealed into a lump in her chest.
But he had been right that she had not been charged in her uncle’s death in spite of testimony that she had sent the shrimps. Colonel Sir Thomas de Veil had prevented it twice. According to him, the instruction to do so came from the government. And Uncle Markham’s attorney had obviously suspected her, when he came to inform them of Uncle Markham’s death, though she only realized it after learning that he had been poisoned. Yet Harris had changed his mind and begun the process of transferring the house and fortune to her. So she thought she could assume the government was concerned in the matter and that Alex was not merely a criminal.
Supporting this theory was Mr. Lattimer’s evident respectability, and his connection to her uncle, which she considered proven by the note in Uncle Markham’s commonplace book: “Write A.L. again.”
If Alex Gordon were an agent of one of those unnamed divisions of the War Office, an intelligencer, he must be lowborn. Gentlemen did not spy for a living. If a man serving in such a capacity were able to marry an heiress, he could give up a job that must be dangerous and set up as a gentleman. He might not be able to travel in the best society, for with no social connections, he would be frozen out as a social climber. But her own family did not mingle with the beau monde, as one needed both birth and fortune to do so. Her uncle had not done so, either, although he was a gentleman and rich, because he had been in business.
Would she be willing to ally herself with a man of low origins who was a spy?
Yes, if he loved her. The difficulty was, how would she know, when he was such a good mimic?
Then she found herself remembering a phrase from Mrs. Lattimer’s letter: If you should hear from A., pray tell him…How did she know about Alex? Or, if she were so deeply in her husband’s confidence, was it not strange that she referred to him by his first initial, with a personal message? Unless it were some sort of code, of course. Alex Gordon had laughed after she read that line.
Chapter 28
Doing a footman’s duty, without the advantage of having any actual work, was a little frustrating. Alex was not accustomed to idleness. At least he did not have to stand motionless but ready in the front hall. Markham had kept a man on duty in the front parlor during the hours when Markham’s office was closed. “The shipping business being one in which difficulties sometimes arose outside the business day,” Jessup explained. Alex gathered the footman had been permitted to sit during his watch. Clearly, Markham had been an indulgent employer. Jessup seemed to feel this called for an explanation.
“There were many nights when no messages came, and there were no other callers, of course, Mr. Markham not being a member of the fashionable set.”
Alex turned his attention back to the book he was reading, Drury’s account of his captivity in Madagascar. Jessup, who had the makings of a first-class schemer, had pointed out that if he stayed in the kitchen, there was the danger of his being noticed by the butcher’s or greengrocer’s lad. “The boy would mention it to someone, and everyone would wonder what we needed with a footman, the master being dead, and none b
ut us servants here,” the butler said.
If someone did come to the door, he need only put down his book and go into the reception parlor, not that any caller was likely. Though there had been that messenger, of course. His post here did not actually limit his access to the rest of the house (and Jane). He could go up the stairs a few feet away to the family living areas and up another flight to the family bedchambers. Jane, however, was spending most of her time in the housekeeper’s room near the butler’s pantry and kitchen. The staff clearly meant to preserve the decencies as much as they could even if some unconventionalities were unavoidable.
He alternated between reading, thinking, walking back and forth, and practicing fencing positions. To be immured in a house with a pretty girl and only a handful of servants (not that they were lax in their chaperonage) and a devilish plot for seasoning was a foolish lad’s daydream. Jane in a topaz silk gown, with emeralds at her throat and ears, looked on, smiling, while their grateful sovereign proclaimed, “Arise, Sir Alexander…”
A pounding at the door jolted him out of his reverie. He answered the summons wearing his bland servant’s demeanor.
A pale, distraught face thrust into his as the caller tried to force his way past.
“M’ sister owns this house. Let me in—quick, damn you!”
Alex reached out, grabbed Stowe’s neckcloth, and hauled him inside, shutting the door so fast an edge of Stowe’s coat caught in it.
“Awwwk!”
Gordon reopened the door, freeing the coat, slammed it shut, and planted his fist in Stowe’s chin.
Stowe staggered, caught his balance, and felt his jaw gingerly. “What the devil—? What’s the meaning of this, you scoundrel? I’ll have you taken up for…” The threat trailed off weakly as Stowe must have realized he could not act on it, if he meant to hide in Jane’s house. Gordon hit him again, and this time Stowe folded slowly to the floor. As he stripped him of his neckcloth and looted his pockets for his handkerchief, Alex reflected that he had learned a great deal from his visit to Scotland. He now knew how useful such accessories were for binding and gagging a captive.
Then he bolted the door and went to find Jessup.
****
“It’s dry enough, and there’s no rats, I don’t think,” the butler said. “Tib’s a terror for the rats and mice. The master had it built to hold valuable cargo, if ever he should have small goods of great value in the house. He wouldn’t trust those to a warehouse.”
The little brick-walled room in the cellar was not a place Alex would have cared to spend much time, but the heavy oaken door with its padlock should certainly keep Stowe safely. Their prisoner was sitting on the straight chair Jessup had brought down, mumbling curses and holding his jaw.
“You’ll be comfortable enough, sir. The bucket’s in the far corner, there’s a good pile of blankets, and you’ve got tallow dips and a tinder box on the table, when you need another light. And here’s Mistress Jane with your supper.”
“Jane! You can’t mean to keep me in this dungeon! I’m your brother!”
“Half brother.” She set the tray on the side table, carefully edging the candle holder and tinderbox aside.
“It’s more comfortable than lodgings in the Tower,” Alex said.
Stowe stared at him. “Gordon?”
Stowe had not recognized him until now. “Ay, Stowe, the man you—abandoned.” He had intended to say “implicated in the smuggling of the muskets, then struck down and robbed,” but remembered in time that Jane was present. Jessup need not know the whole truth, either.
“I had to borrow your money to get away! You’d just fired a barn! I couldn’t be caught with you. Sorry I had to knock you out, but I knew you wouldn’t give me any, and…” He seemed to become aware that his half sister and her butler were staring at him. He went on in scrambling haste. “Jane, my dear, your Mr. Gordon is a d-desperate rogue. He’s a—a Jacobite plotter. I discovered it in Scotland. He attacked me when I came to your door to w-warn you about him, not that I expected he’d come back h-here, as the authorities were searching for him when I left him, but I thought you should know. You must send to a m-magistrate to have him taken up. Of course, there’s nothing we can do to prevent him from f-fleeing before the bailiffs arrive—”
“I know all about the smuggled muskets and for what they were intended and the money you lost at cards and why you wanted to hide here, Rupert.” The words fell like icicles. “If I send for the bailiffs, it will be for you.”
Gordon moved out of Stowe’s line of sight and gave a slight head shake.
Jane continued after a barely perceptible pause, “…but it would grieve my father to have you sent to the Tower.”
“You can’t trust him, Jane! He’s a Scot, for God’s sake. I suppose he’s lied to you and wheedled you. Those tricks always soften old maids. Let me go, and I’ll lie low somewhere until this is all over. I’ll need some money to find a safe place for a few weeks—it’s why I came; I ran out of money, and the innkeeper tossed me out and kept the clothing I’d bought—but you can give me some, can’t you? Then—”
“I think you will be most safe here, if Mistress Jane decides to keep you.”
“Yes, Mr. Gordon, I agree. My half brother may come to harm if he is allowed to wander London on his own.”
Stowe looked from one to the other and to Jessup in the background and buried his head in his hands.
Jane said, “You have everything you need until morning. You might spend some time reflecting upon your errors.”
“Jane! Please let Father know. He’ll help me.”
“I do not wish to see Father implicated in your and Charles Pleasaunce’s schemes. Mr. Gordon and I will consider what other steps we might take. Good evening, Rupert.”
Upstairs, Gordon said, “You are very frightening when you are ice-cold with rage. I sincerely hope you never have cause to be so angry with me.”
She pursed her lips before replying, “I hope so, too.” Which was not totally reassuring.
In the housekeeper’s room with the door left open for propriety, she asked, “What are we to do with Rupert, Mr. Gordon? How long can we keep him confined?”
Alex’s forehead creased. “I have been wondering that very thing. If I could contact Mr. Lattimer, we could refer the matter to him, but he might feel obligated to hand your brother over to the Crown. Although if your brother—half brother—agreed to bear witness against Pleasaunce and any other plotter he knew of, he might even now escape—”
“Hanging? Imprisonment? Transportation to the Colonies?”
“Jane, I am not an authority on the law. I don’t know. He might be pardoned, if he were even charged.”
He had called her Jane. She liked the sound of her name in his voice. It was almost enough to distract her from her worry.
“I beg your pardon. I should not have addressed you in so familiar a manner.”
“I took no offense, Mr. Gordon. I liked it.”
“Oh.” His smile was glorious, like the sun rising. Her heart rose with it. They gazed at each other for a warm moment, before Alex gave a little shake of his head. “If we could find someone in authority, it might go well or ill for Stowe. I don’t know who we could trust, apart from Mr. Lattimer.”
Jane said, “I think I know someone who might be able to help. Cheddle, the butler at Hawthorn Cottage, was obviously in Mr. Lattimer’s confidence. It seemed to me that Cheddle, and indeed the whole staff, were accustomed to serving guests who were there under assumed names or who were in hiding. It seemed a very practiced household, if you take my meaning.”
“I do. Should we send a message to Cheddle explaining as much as we can of our difficulty, and requesting that he advise us of someone with sufficient authority either to send to Mr. Lattimer or to deal with the matter himself?”
“Yes, I think we must. But it might be days before we received a reply. It takes two days to send to Bath, for my stepmother regularly communicates with a friend there. Mail t
o villages that are not directly on a post road often takes much longer.”
“It does. That is why I will send a messenger.”
“Can you find one who is trustworthy, Mr. Gordon?”
“Yes. I will have to go out tonight, and I may be gone for several hours. But a reliable man will be on the road with it in the morning, and he will return with a reply.”
“Please do not take chances, sir,” she said, remembering what he’d said about necessary chances before visiting the Cocoa Tree.
The staff retired to bed early as they usually did when there was no master or mistress for whom to wait up, either to admit them on their return or to serve if they chanced to be at home. Jane and Alex composed a letter to Cheddle as they waited until the house had been silent and dark long enough to deceive anyone who might be watching. She intended to wait for his return. He had changed into the poor, travel-stained clothing in which he had arrived from Scotland, though the coarse linen shirt had been washed.
“I may not be back until shortly before dawn. Jessup or Mrs. Harrow can let me in when they come down in the morning. You should go to bed.”
“I can sleep during the day. I have nothing better to do with my time.”
“I will not argue with you. Do not open the door unless I tap three times, then three times again.”
She had to smile at the theatricality of it, in spite of recognizing it as a sensible precaution. She could not forget Charles Pleasaunce’s cold eyes or the attempt to abduct her from Hawthorn Cottage. They were dealing with desperate men. She shivered, though the kitchen was pleasantly warm. Alex took her hands, which were folded at her waist, and lifted them to his lips, one at a time. Oh!
Gentlemen had occasionally kissed her hand at balls or assemblies. That had been mere elaborate courtesy, meaningless. This was something more. She gazed into his eyes and found herself hoping he would kiss her lips, too.
He flashed her a reassuring smile. “I’m only going half a mile or a little more. Most of the time I’m gone, I’ll be making the arrangements with the messenger and others.”
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