But her lady’s maid remained in Mayfair.
In her father’s haste to visit Yorkshire, he’d not seen the necessity to bring Miss Quinn with them and had instead hired an inexperienced local girl to assist her in dressing. Papa valued saving money, and the cost of bringing three carriages had seemed too excessive for a short holiday.
Inky blackness covered the peaks outside the window. In the daytime the view was more than tolerable, not that Cordelia could ramble the wildflower-strewn hills. Young ladies weren’t supposed to be idle. Cordelia spent her time sewing and crocheting with her mother, though her comfort with sharp metal needles seemed only to amuse her suitors.
When she’d had them.
She tried to tell herself that she’d been right to decline Lord Rockport’s proposal.
But when she’d rejected him, he’d seemed more distressed than she would have believed. Perhaps the proposal had not been in jest.
She undid the latch to her balcony and stepped outside.
Cold wind brushed against her face, and she rested her hands against the railing. She gazed at the Dales, silhouetted in the darkness, and tried to imagine the wildflowers, the mossy rocks, and the green and purple ferns.
Nature seemed to make a great deal more sense than men did. Particularly when compared to men of the tall, charming, Scottish-accented variety.
Perhaps she should have accepted. She just—she just couldn’t trust that he’d really meant it, and she couldn’t afford any more scandal attached to her name. Her poor parents had already been through so much. She’d lost a brother, but they—they’d lost their only son, their heir, the man who was supposed to fulfil all their dreams and who now was relegated to some watery grave.
Her chest tightened. They never even desired to discuss Rupert. She couldn’t imagine their grief.
All they’d ever asked was that she make a good match. And now her name generated chortles.
She sighed and pulled the pins from her chignon, laying them on the railing. Perhaps one day she would find someone who would make her parents content.
A horse trotted toward the cottage, and a cloaked figure descended. The man had a stocky figure, and a loud thump sounded as his boots hit the gravel.
Cordelia pressed her lips into a firm line as if the action might halt her heartbeat from escalating in an inappropriate manner. She inhaled the frigid Yorkshire air and peered down at the man.
It must be a servant.
The stranger scanned the surrounding area as if to ascertain he was not being followed.
No servant would do that.
She shivered and stepped behind a pillar.
Something about that profile…
It couldn’t be.
Her father was a duke. He couldn’t be doing business with a man she’d last seen trying to kill a marquess?
But the man bore a startling resemblance. An exact resemblance in fact. Cordelia prided herself on her powers of observation.
A stone formed in her stomach. Of course the man wouldn’t have business with her father. He must be here to inform her father that she’d pointed a pistol at him. She’d done it for the marquess, not that Lord Rockport had been grateful, but this was just the sort of thing that could easily be misinterpreted.
Papa would not be happy.
A knock sounded in the corridor, and Cordelia jumped. She stepped toward the door, listening as the butler informed her father that a Mr. Huxby Oggleton had come to call and was waiting in the library.
She waited for her father to say something dismissive about late night visitors. She waited for him to condemn the butler for informing him at all.
Instead he thanked the man, and the noisy footsteps in the hallway told her he’d followed the butler down the stairs.
Cordelia’s heartbeat raced.
She couldn’t just wait here. Who knew what fabricated story this Oggleton person would say?
She swung open the door to the hallway.
She’d just call after him and warn him of whom exactly the visitor was. He was her father. Obviously he would believe her. And with any luck he’d be threatening this Oggleton person.
Simple.
But something made her hesitate. Her father hadn’t even asked the identity of the visitor. Almost as if he’d been expecting him. Comments about her father flooded toward her. What was it Rockport had said? That her handiness with a gun was to be expected as her father’s daughter? She needed to hear what they were speaking about without the servants pondering why she was walking about in evening clothes, with the pins from her hair pulled out.
If she could only get outside. Then she could observe the meeting from one of the windows.
She closed the door and marched to the balcony. She stared at the ground. Oggleton’s horse stomped its hooves, tied to the tree underneath the balcony.
She smiled.
The idea was ridiculous. Ladies didn’t clamber down trees.
Ladies were also supposed to dance at balls and not point pistols at nefarious people.
Cordelia had followed the rules better than anyone else, and they hadn’t gotten her anywhere.
She was not going to wait around inside to see what story Oggleton concocted. Perhaps he would report her behavior to her father. Or perhaps he would threaten her father.
She swallowed hard and rested her hand against the tree. The bark was rough beneath her touch. If only she were wearing something a bit more practical, something devoid of lace and silk.
No matter. Cordelia swung herself over the ledge and peered at the ground.
Thick branches jutted near her, and below lay the grass, carefully maintained by a herd of sheep. A twelve feet drop wouldn’t hurt, would it?
She had no intention of finding out.
The drizzle thickened and quickened into regular rain, but Cordelia pulled herself along the ledge. She grasped onto the now slippery stone railing. Wind pummeled against her as she inched along, conscious of the ridiculousness of her actions. The sky had darkened, the moon and stars covered by an onslaught of clouds that seemed to favor this section of the country.
The dark silhouette of the tree remained visible, and she stretched her hands toward a thick branch near her. The bark was soft beneath her touch. She leaned against the tree and wound her arms around a branch. Slimy leaves brushed against her face, and she swallowed a shriek.
Goodness gracious.
She’d seen servants climb trees before to pick apples or rescue her kite. It hadn’t seemed terrifying then. At least the servants hadn’t appeared terrified. They’d actually smiled. And laughed.
Cordelia would be doing no laughing now.
More like screaming.
She tightened her grip around the tree bough. Another branch was below. If she rested her feet there—
She swung her legs through the air, removing herself from all propriety. Women weren’t supposed to climb trees. She was sure of it.
And yet—
Her feet found the lower branch, and she managed to retain her grip of the higher branch. Slowly she inched toward the trunk, wincing as smaller branches, heavy with leaves, snapped. The sound seemed to fill the sky, and the horse stomped its hooves beneath her, likely annoyed at having been left in the rain and had its peace disturbed.
She stilled, but no servant stepped outside. Her father and the stranger did not rush from the library, and her mother did not call from her bedroom.
Cordelia slowly lowered herself onto the low branch and sat on the wet bark. It was best not to ponder the effects of soggy leaves and bark on her gown, and she jumped down. Her hands hit the ground, but she was fine. She’d made it, and it didn’t matter if grass clung to her attire. All that mattered was determining the reason for the stranger’s visit.
The horse grunted, and she scrambled up and crept toward the library. Branches prickled her skin, and her silk shoes sank into the mud.
She crept toward the glass panes, and her father’s voice rumbled from the
window. It was clear and loud—the sound well-honed from all his days in the House of Lords, adamantly preserving the importance of tradition, no matter how many Whigs protested.
Her father was still attired in formal clothes, wearing a forest green tailcoat and a gray wig as if to emphasize his frequency at court and constant availability to chat with the king. His tailcoat rippled over his ever-widening body, and shiny brass buttons gleamed from the heavily embroidered fabric.
Her father’s desk remained bare, not cluttered with foreboding piles of documents as in their Hampshire estate or London townhouse. He tapped his fingers against the polished maple and puffed on a cigar.
The stranger reclined in a leather armchair, and a thick cigar was pushed between his stubby fingers.
Cordelia frowned. Her father must have offered the stranger one in a symbol of generosity he took pride in never showing.
“You shouldn’t have met me here,” her father said. “My family is upstairs.”
“I’ve already seen them.” The man stretched out his legs and his lips veered upward, even though Cordelia’s father hadn’t said anything in the least amusing.
Her father narrowed his eyes, and Cordelia pressed her hands against the cold, wet stone of the cottage wall.
Goodness. He was going to say something.
Cordelia refused to yield to the impulse to shut her eyes.
“At the ball,” the stranger said. He laughed again. “Technically outside the ball.”
“Right.” Her father’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I did permit them to attend that.”
“Shame,” the man muttered.
“I hope you weren’t interacting with them.” Her father gave the stranger a deep stare. “I doubt you received an invitation.”
Maybe this would be fine. Maybe her father would simply dismiss the man and forbid him from ever speaking with him again.
“I was mostly outside the ball,” the stranger said.
Her father waved his hand in the air. “I don’t have time to speak about your sightings of my family, Oggleton. I see them all the time. They are not that interesting.”
Cordelia blinked.
“I also saw Lord Rockport,” Oggleton said.
“Good.” Her father slid open a drawer and withdrew a key. “Let me have the money.”
“He ain’t got it,” Oggleton announced.
Her father’s face reddened. “It’s your job to get it. Are you telling me that you don’t know your job? For a man who boasts of an interest in knives, you seem to know remarkably little how to use one.”
Cordelia gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Her feet slid further into the mud.
“Rockport said he could pay you after harvest season. With interest too.”
“That’s nonsense and you know it. The debt is due now. I’m not paying you to pass on ridiculous statements.”
Cordelia didn’t know it was possible for Oggleton’s face to achieve such a white shade—even when she’d been pointing a pistol at him, he’d seemed more confident that this.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace,” Oggleton continued, and his brutish voice wobbled. “Told him I would take off one of his fingers if he didn’t pay.”
“Hmph. A man like that won’t mind missing a finger. He’ll only be proud of it. His father was Scottish. His main estate is still there. You should know that.” Her father’s voice was dismissive, and he rubbed a finger against his square jaw. Her father’s familiar ruby ring sparkled in its familiar manner, but Cordelia could scarcely recognize the man who wore it.
“Naturally. I-I told him, Your Grace, that I might just kill him.”
“I won’t get the money that way. Look what happened to Lord Templeton. Bloody waste of a debt.”
Lord Templeton? Cordelia widened her eyes. The man had been murdered, all the papers had reported on it. Papa was responsible?
“You could get the money quicker from his estate.”
Cordelia’s heart raced, and she resisted the urge to step away. If she stepped away, perhaps they might hear her. And lord, that couldn’t happen. Not after what she’d just heard.
She waited for her father to protest. To say that it was all a jest, to say that the magistrate was hiding behind the curtain, and he had no involvement at all behind a desire to catch Oggleton. But instead he merely puffed his cigar in a thoughtful manner.
She eyed the tree, hoping she’d be able to clamber up it quickly. The tree looked more intimidating from her position now.
“I don’t want to be known for making idle threats,” her father said. “You may kill the marquess. I want this matter finished.”
Wait.Kill the marquess? She must have misheard.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Oggleton hesitated. “Would now be a good time to discuss the other loans?”
Her father waved his hand in an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes. I don’t want you anywhere near me after the body is discovered.”
Tension shot through Cordelia’s body, and she shifted away from the window. Wind ruffled against her, flinging leaves about, but it couldn’t reshape what had just occurred.
Kill the marquess?
Her father had just ordered the man’s murder.
She’d never liked her father, had never experienced the same feelings toward him that other debutantes expressed toward the patriarchs in their families. And yet that he would order a man killed . . .
Was that what her father did?
The thought was beyond ridiculous. And yet he’d said it. She’d heard him.
She swallowed hard.
Perhaps—perhaps in some ridiculous manner it made sense. Her father was disliked in society.
No wonder Lord Rockport had refused to dance with her last season.
All this time she’d thought she was the reason for her wallflower status. Now she realized the truth might be much more complicated and much more horrible. Perhaps she’d been called the star debutante last season, but even as a young child, she’d never had friends. Perhaps the other members of the gentry did not want their daughters to associate with her.
She couldn’t just climb back up to her balcony and go to bed as if nothing had happened.
She had to warn Lord Rockport.
Now.
Who knew how long Oggleton would wait?
She doubted that storming in and pleading for the marquess’s life would help anything. A man who went around ordering people to their death was unlikely to be swayed by sentiment. A man who ordered a man’s death with such calm, had done so before, and was immune to the significance of the action.
Cordelia staggered toward the horse.
This was not the world she’d known.
Everything was different. Nothing could ever be the same.
Cordelia could have the butler wake up a groom to send a message to the marquess—but that thought was impossible.
If her father did not notice himself, the butler would inform him.
She sighed.
She’d need to do this herself.
Lord Rockport was visiting his brother, the Earl of Somerville. The earl had married a Yorkshire woman and spent much time in the northern wilderness with his new countess.
She’d had the large manor house pointed out to her. She could do this.
She couldn’t delay.
This was her chance. Her only one.
Oggleton’s horse was still there, snorting and stomping its hooves over the ground. Cordelia inhaled and approached the beast.
Some women enjoyed riding, but, as often as she had had to do it, she’d never thought riding on an animal’s back natural, and she’d never enjoyed the experience of being so high from the ground. Horse riding was an opportunity for all sorts of mishaps, and Cordelia did not like mishaps. And yet, horse riding seemed unavoidable on this occasion.
She unwound the knot that tied the animal to the tree and attempted to scramble up. The horse gave a startled snort, but she dug her fingers into its mane.
For starters, it was too tall. She sighed and dragged the bewildered horse to a rock. She felt bewildered herself as she gazed at the masculine saddle and pulled her dress up. Thank goodness for high waists and her dressmaker’s liberal measurements of fabric.
Cordelia mounted the stolen steed. The sky remained dark, and her father and Oggleton remained inside. If anyone saw her, they would likely think her some mad ghost. What sort of woman rode about in a thin gown in the rain? Mostly specters.
She pressed her thighs together and directed the horse toward the main road, away from her family and everything she knew.
Chapter Ten
Cordelia urged the horse from the cobblestone streets of Harrogate toward the manor homes that spread into the Dales. An almost full moon glowed over the landscape, despite its lumpen shape and the clouds that sailed over it with disturbing frequency.
Her heart thundered, and unease prickled her skin with a disconcerting intensity.
This was not a horse for trotting about the Serpentine. Its mane was not glossy, and its legs were thick and stocky as if accustomed to plowing on the days when it was not hauling a ruffian on its back. To maintain control of the animal, she tightened her fingers around its coarse mane, pushing away thoughts of when the horse had last been groomed.
She was riding astride on a stolen horse at a time when all respectable people were in bed. She firmed her gaze. If any stablehand could ride in this distasteful manner, so could she. A daughter of a duke did not fall from horses. No matter how much the horse veered.
She managed to hang on as they bounded over increasingly uneven terrain. She longed for the security of her sidesaddle. She missed having her legs strapped firmly, and she missed having a groom accompany her should any mishap occur.
The other questions that loomed into her mind were hardly comforting.
How long until Oggleton discovers someone has stolen his horse?
And goodness gracious—how long until somebody notices that she was missing?
A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 7