by Joan Smith
“Oh, I wish I had been there!” she exclaimed. “It beats anything, even a novel by Walter Scott. How Boney will stare when he goes to Bayeux Cathedral and finds it gone. Someone ought to write a ballad about it.”
“I fear it will be hushed up—at least in England—if the Frenchies have recovered it. And, of course, if Louis is restored to the throne, no one will ever admit it was stolen. He might take it amiss.”
“So your glory will go unsung,” she said sadly. “What a pity. That is why you said you half hoped Boney did win, so that you would be a hero for having deprived him of the use of the tapestry.”
“I was thinking only of myself. It was extremely selfish of me. Naturally I do not want—or expect— Bonaparte to win.”
“We must recover it. It is vital,” After a pause, she said, “Is that why you were urging the comtesse to go to Vienna, Rotham? Did you want her to return it en route?”
“Yes, I did originally think she might be helpful. She has, or claims to have, many friends in France through her connection with the Valdors. I had hoped something might be arranged, but decided it was too hazardous an enterprise for a lady. I never actually intended to join her there, if that is what you thought.”
Miranda ignored his last speech and the implicit denial of any romantic entanglement with Louise. “Then she knows you have the tapestry,” she said, with a meaningful look.
“I did not tell her so. I merely sounded her out on delivering an important message to France. The reason we were discussing it in my room was merely for privacy’s sake. If I decided she would make a suitable agent, I would have showed it to her.”
“You could have discussed it elsewhere, however,” she said with a sharp look.
“I could, and should have done so. How was I to know you would come landing in on us? The important point is that someone discovered I had the tapestry. I wonder she did not take it when she had the opportunity.”
“As you said ‘she,’ you are referring to the night Slack was drugged?” she asked.
“Yes, I have wondered about that. The silk skirt I felt in the Green Room—it might have been Louise, just trying to discover what was in the mysterious trunk. It seems the trunk excited some curiosity in the household. I wonder if she would even have recognized the tapestry and its significance. You did not.”
“A real Frenchie would have recognized it, but Louise might not have. She would never have seen it, and she is not the bookish sort who might have chanced on that picture of it your papa and Berthier were looking at.”
Rotham’s lips quirked. “You did not miss much.”
“I could never get a look at the book. Your papa took it upstairs. I should like to get a better look at the tapestry, now that I know its importance. One hears of a thing like the Bayeux Tapestry without having a clear notion what it really is, or looks like.”
“When you spoke of a real Frenchie, you were referring to Laurent?”
“Or Madame Lafleur. And they are all three meeting in Brighton tomorrow. Perhaps you should go to Brighton.”
“Perhaps I shall have to, but first we will speak to Macpherson.”
On the outskirts of Hythe, Rotham stopped at a small whitewashed cottage on the sea. Macpherson’s boat was out. It was used for fishing by day to lessen the suspicions of the Preventive men. Macpherson was at home, however. It was his son who fished by day. They found him at the water’s edge, assessing the weather. Winds and tides and such things were of great interest to him in his profession. Macpherson was a stocky man with a red face and brindled hair.
“Ah, your lordship, you have come about your query,” he said, walking forward to meet them. “I know nothing of the matter myself. I have had Meg, my good wife, drop a gentle hint among the homes of my lads. They none of them have heard a whisper about anyone sending a parcel to France. I will let you know at once if any of us are asked to do it.”
“I would appreciate it.”
“Mind you,” Macpherson continued, tapping his nose, “it is possible the cargo will be shipped from farther along the coast. My territory runs from Folkestone to Rye. It would be up toward the South Foreland I am speaking of. Shall I put out the word?”
“If you would be so kind.”
“With a handsome reward riding on it, you may be sure the territory will be covered. I will take a run east myself this very minute and let you know at once if I hear anything. If you do not hear from me, you will know no one has been asked to carry the parcel.”
“Thank you, Macpherson,” Rotham said. A golden coin passed invisibly from hand to hand during the course of a handshake.
“Good day to you, sir. And to the young lady. Miss Miranda Vale, ain’t it?” he asked, with a sharp eye.
“Miss Miranda is spending a few days with Mama.”
They left.
“It seems the tapestry is still in England, at least,” Miranda said, to try to cheer Rotham.
“That still leaves a deal of ground to cover. We had best return.”
They drove back to Ashmead.
Chapter Fourteen
Rotham’s first concern upon reaching Ashmead was to go abovestairs to check on Berthier’s progress. He was still pale as paper and unconscious. He had not spoken, but his condition had not deteriorated. In fact, the servant tending him had managed to get a few spoonfuls of beef broth into him.
Miranda felt she had been neglecting her hostess and went to the Tapestry Room to work on the perishing Flemish tapestry, while Lady Hersham continued her work at the high-warp loom.
“Hersham tells me you were in on certain exciting activities last night, Sissie,” Lady Hersham said leadingly.
“Yes, Pavel awoke me when he found Berthier had been stabbed.”
“Shocking for you! I do not know what your mama will think. Naturally we are very happy to have you, but if you would feel safer at home while all this horrible business is going forth, you must feel free to leave. Measles are not so serious as a murderer in the house.”
“Oh, I could not leave now!” she exclaimed, with a thought to her evening plans with Rotham.
Lady Hersham studied her for a moment. “Just how much do you know about all this business, Sissie?”
“I know about the Bayeux Tapestry,” she said, feeling that said it all.
“Ah, so Rotham told you. It is a shabby thing. I was disappointed,” she said, looking into the mirror image of her own work in progress. She had achieved a very fine effect with the shading of the trees. She was less happy with the depiction of Hersham and herself. They looked like a dumpy squire and his lady, and they had been an elegant pair, at least in their youth. In the Gainsborough portrait they looked much better. She was toying with the notion of adding gold threads to her riding habit.
As Lady Hersham had mentioned the tapestry, Miranda took it as carte blanche to discuss the matter. “Who do you think took it?” she asked.
“I will be blessed if I know.”
“Do you think the comtesse or Laurent might be involved?”
“Not Louise Hartly. That was her name before she married her comte. She is not fool enough to jeopardize her reputation. She is petty-minded. She thinks only of Louise. It is shameless the way she dangles Laurent, waiting to see if he reclaims his family’s estate. Then she would accept an offer fast enough.”
“What of the comte?” Miranda asked.
“Laurent despises Bonaparte. One must not forget that he is a Frenchman, however. He might have been furious to think of the tapestry’s being removed and plan to return it somehow. His reputation would be enhanced if he handed it over to Louis. It is very vexing. Very vexing indeed, but that is Rotham all over again. He never thinks of the family when he is indulging in these escapades.”
Miranda felt a troublesome urge to defend Rotham. “He is very sorry, ma’am. I think he will be more careful in future. Do you not think it was a splendid gesture?”
A reluctant smile tugged at the mama’s lips. It had less to do with admira
tion of the gesture than Sissie’s defense of Rotham. Of all the ladies who had tossed their bonnets at her eldest son, Sissie Vale was the first one she actually liked. Perhaps it was because the girl had run tame at Ashmead forever, practically like a daughter.
Some of the fine ladies she could tolerate, but she truly liked Sissie, and more importantly, it was clear as glass that Rotham was smitten with her. Such a welcome change from his usual flirts. He actually cared about her. Half a dozen times that morning he had sent a footman upstairs on some unnecessary errand, asking him to “just have a look to see what Miss Miranda is about” while he was up there. It was the Congress in Vienna, she thought, that had sickened him of the more worldly ladies.
There were no airs or graces about Sissie, and no simpering like her sister Trudie. She was a fine needlewoman and would be better when she had settled down. Naturally a young lady on the lookout for a husband could not be happy at the loom for hours upon end.
“Rotham is indiscriminate in his choice of gestures,” she said. “This one would only be splendid if Bonaparte won and wanted to use the tapestry. I am of the opinion that he will not win, and England will find itself in the embarrassing position of having to explain why the thing was stolen. When Rotham chooses a wife, I trust she will be a lady who is not put off by his errant ways.”
“He is not really so bad,” Miranda said with a fond smile. “I expect Rotham will manage to smuggle it back into the cathedral. Returning it should be easier than stealing it, do you not think?”
“He is a clever enough rascal,” the mama agreed. “Pass that red silk, dear. I am going to give myself scarlet lips, like a hussy. I have made my whole face too pink. The lips require red, or they will not stand out.”
Miranda passed the red silk, and they continued chatting and working until it was time to change for dinner. Miranda wore the jonquil silk again. It was a quiet dinner, with no guests except Miranda, who was hardly considered company at all. After dinner the gentlemen remained behind to discuss the raid on Madame Lafleur’s house that night.
“I can see it must be done,” Hersham said reluctantly. “You see how these matters escalate, Rotham. What began as a boyish prank unsuitable to one of your years ends up with breaking into a private home like a common felon. I wish to God Berthier would recover, not only for his own sake—that goes without saying—but so that he might tell us who attacked him.”
“Makepiece was here just before dinner,” Rotham said. “He hopes for a recovery, but Berthier is too weak to question yet. Slack tells me Louise did not take madame’s trunk to Brighton. I must discover if Lafleur has the tapestry. Surely you agree?”
“Yes, yes, it must be done. There is no trusting Lafleur. What do we know of her, when all is said and done? It was the comtesse who introduced her, and Louise would take up with anyone who speaks French. Are you taking Pavel with you?”
“Try and keep me away!” Pavel said. He reached for the port bottle with a dégagé air and knocked over his papa’s glass.
“You have had quite enough, Pavel,” Hersham said, and removed the bottle from him. Turning to Rotham, he continued, “For God’s sake be careful. Lafleur may have someone guarding the thing, if she has it, which I sincerely doubt. With luck, it is on its way to France, and no one will ever know you took it. It is the best thing that could happen. We have only to deny we ever had it. They have no proof.”
“What time shall we go?” Pavel asked Rotham.
“Around midnight,” he replied.
That left a long evening to be got in somehow. It was spent in searching again those rooms already searched once, along with those rooms recently vacated by Laurent and Louise. It was not likely a tapestry over two hundred feet long and twenty inches wide was in the dustbin, but Pavel took a root through Laurent’s dustbin anyway, just because it was there.
He lifted out a piece of crumpled paper and frowned over it. “Now this is demmed odd,” he said. “It is a chit from the pawn shop in Rye. Laurent laid his diamond tie pin on the shelf.”
“Poor Laurent,” Miranda said. “He would want some cash for the holiday in Brighton.”
“He certainly got it,” Pavel said. “A hundred pounds.”
Rotham reached for the chit and scanned it. “It is dated yesterday,” he said. He knew his mama had given Louise a similar sum. Two hundred pounds was enough to get the tapestry to France.
Nothing else of interest was discovered. They returned belowstairs.
“Where shall I meet you, and at what hour?” Miranda asked Rotham as they went down the broad staircase.
“You ain’t coming. This is men’s work,” Pavel said.
“Rotham said I could be lookout while you and he go inside to search. If I hear gunshots, I shall run for help.”
“If you hear gunshots, it will be too late,” Pavel said.
“Then I shall rouse the constable and catch them before they leave with the tapestry.”
“What about us? Are you going to leave us to bleed to death?”
“Let me take a pistol, then, and I shall dart in and rescue you.”
Rotham just smiled. “You would do it, wouldn’t you?”
“I am an excellent shot. Pavel taught me with your dueling pistols.”
He directed a quelling look at Pavel. “Did he indeed?”
“She could not hit the broad side of a barn door,” Pavel said.
“I did so hit the barn door!”
“Yes, when you was aiming at the bluejay in a tree five yards away.”
They joined the Hershams in the Blue Saloon. At eleven-thirty the older couple retired.
Hersham said in a low voice to Rotham on his way out, “Your mama does not know what you have planned. Come to my room and tell me what happened as soon as you return. I shall have a look in on Berthier before retiring. Good luck, son.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Hersham gave Rotham’s shoulder a paternal pat to show his trust, or love. With an image of Berthier stretched out on the bed above, he was seized with a fear that he would not see Rotham alive again. He could not understand this wild streak in his son, but he had come by it honestly. Hersham’s younger brother Horatio was the same. Hersham could not comprehend, but he could love. He was not a demonstrative father. He just looked at his son, trying to convey thirty years’ devotion in one look. Then he left.
Rotham had never seen just that sad look on his papa before. It made him feel a monster. What a wretched son he was. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Will you tell Boxer to have the mounts brought around, Pavel? I have concealed the pistols in a drawer here. Miranda, you should wear something dark.”
Excitement glowed in her gray eyes. “Is it time to change?” He nodded. “I shan’t be a moment,” she said, and darted upstairs.
A soft smile curved Rotham’s lips as he retrieved the pistols from the drawer of a bombe chest. Here was a lady after his own heart. His family, and indeed most of his friends, could not understand him. But Miranda Vale—she felt as he did. She did not rip up at him for one stolen kiss. She did not call him irresponsible for taking the tapestry. She realized that life was a game to be played to the fullest. With time he would grow sober like Papa. Having a son of his own, he felt, would settle him down. But not yet. There was still this last rig to be run, and he was happy that Miranda was to be a part of it.
She was soon back. “I know I look perfectly horrid,” she said, when he turned at the sound of her approach. “I found this old round bonnet and dark pelisse in one of the spare rooms today. I cannot risk destroying Trudie’s good jonquil crape.”
“Miss Vale, you look a perfect quiz,” he said, but his smile softened the insult. She looked a perfectly adorable quiz. He wanted to take her in his arms on the spot and kiss her.
“I have already said so—and if you were a gentleman, you would disagree with me.”
“Not if I were a truthful gentleman.”
Pavel returned. “I told Boxer we were going out to show S
issie the badger sett. We had best hide the pistols.”
Rotham handed him one of the lethal-looking weapons. They both concealed a pistol beneath their jackets and went out, with Boxer holding the door.
“Where, exactly, is the badger sett, Pavel?” Miranda asked in a loud voice for Boxer’s benefit.
“Where it always is,” Pavel replied. “In that spinney out back of the home garden. You must be quiet or you’ll frighten them.”
Rotham exchanged a wink with Boxer, who was not so blind or stupid as the youngsters imagined. He knew his lordship was running some rig. The main detail missing in his knowledge was the nature of the contents of the black trunk his lordship had brought back from Vienna.
“Any instructions during your absence, milord?” he asked.
“I do not expect any callers. If Lady Hersham should, by any chance, inquire for Miss Miranda, you know where we are.”
“Yes, sir. The badger sett. Just so. I shall wait up.”
“That is not necessary, Boxer.” They both knew this was mere chatter. Boxer would remain up and alert, until dawn if necessary.
The butler closed the door quietly behind them. With the house to himself, he went into the Blue Saloon and enjoyed a glass of Lord Hersham’s excellent brandy. Just one. He knew how far he could go. Then he returned to his own room to await his lordship’s return.
Rotham meant to help Miranda onto her mount, but she was too fast for him. She was in the saddle before he could reach her. He had looked forward to an excuse to have her in his arms.
They headed down the graveled drive to the main road, three abreast, silent but for the clatter of hooves and the whisper of leaves. The tree-lined drive robbed them of seeing the night sky. It was not until they reached the main road that the moon came into view. It looked small and white and cold in the black heavens above, but it gave a good enough light.
There was no one else on the road, nor any ships visible on the sea beyond. The water rippled in the gentle breeze without forming white caps or waves.