The Counterfeit Cavalier, Volumes One Through Four: The Complete Edition

by Lydia M Sheridan

“If you’re afraid to bring this Buskey Burpy--”

  “Berkly Busby!”

  “--home to meet your family, especially Aunt Alice, then he is certainly not the man for you.” Kate was, unfortunately, growing wider awake by the second. “And if you would please tell me why in heaven’s name every woman in this family wants to immolate herself on the altar of marriage with some jackanapes I would be eternally grateful.”

  Caro bounced angrily. Kate stifled a moan.

  “He’s not a jackanapes! And he’s not a pious prig like Adam Weilmunster, either. Besides, I don’t want to marry him.” Caro rolled her eyes at Kate’s obtuseness. “Mr. Busby knows someone who has a friend whose cousin manages an acting troupe. They travel all over the country, playing at all the best theatres, of course. He said they said they might have room for a new ingénue and he said he’d recommend me!”

  Kate opened one eye. Carolyn had both hands pressed to her heart. Her eyes were raised to the sunshine streaming in the window, the smile on her face lit from within. She would undoubtedly, Kate decided, make a very good actress indeed. A ray of sunlight stabbed her eye and she quickly buried her head in her pillow once more.

  “Alright.”

  Stunned at her sister’s acquiescence, Carolyn sat, mouth open in shock. “Really?” she whispered. In an excess of delighted zeal, she threw herself on Kate, hugging hard. “Oh, Katie! I never believed--oh, thank you. But--but, do you really mean I can? I never though you would allow--”

  In agony, Kate dragged herself up. “Yes! I mean it! If you leave right now, you may do anything you like!”

  In a split second, she realized her mistake. Caro’s look of horror told her that her face was just as battered as her poor body. Quickly, she turned away, but it was too late.

  “Mother of God,” Carolyn whispered. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” Kate began, then said sharply, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m sending for Dr. Dogget.”

  “No!” The word came out more sharply than she’d intended. “Don’t bother anyone. It’s just a few bruises. I’ll be fine after a day in bed.” But the look on Caro’s face was one of mulish determination, and it occurred to Kate that a project beyond that of running off to join a third rate traveling theatre would be an excellent thing for her sister, so she emitted an artistic groan. Then she fell back against the pillows, cracking her wrist against the bedside table, and let out a real groan which would have shamed Sarah Siddons herself.

  Without another word, Caro raced out the door. A few minutes later, just as Kate was drifting back into sleep, she returned with a fat leather valise spilling over with various herbs, salves, draughts, and powders. She was followed, Kate was grateful to see, by Cook and Curtis, each bearing large cans of steaming water which they dumped into the wooden tub in the dressing room, which was unfortunately not full of dresses or much of anything else.

  Cook came over and fussed about, feeling Kate’s brow, the whole time keeping up a running diatribe.

  “Well, Miss, are ye going to tell us what happened to ye?” Kate knew better than to try to answer as Cook rolled right along. It was the problem of having servants who had known one since babyhood.

  “And don’t ye be a’telling me any taradiddles, because I’ll not believe them. I’ve known ye all your life, and your father and his father before him. For all ye be a lady, there’s the wild blood of the Thoreaus running through your veins, Miss, and just like the two o’ them you are.” Kate unwisely tried to answer, but Cook cut her off. “Don’t ye be bothering to hide it, Miss, for haven’t I got eyes in me head?” She nodded briskly. “Now, then I’ll bring up a spot of pork jelly and ye’ll eat every spoonful, now, like a good girl. I’ll be cooking ye a nice bit of steak for your supper to build your strength up. And a little blancmange for dessert,” she said as one holding out the prospect of a great treat.

  Kate smiled weakly and Cook, satisfied, returned to the kitchen, there to pore over her collection of recipes for such delicacies as would tempt the invalid.

  Curtis, obviously stalling for time, pretended to fuss with the placement of the tub, then removed back to her bedchamber, where Kate watched him adjust the curtains at the precise angle at which the sun would not be allowed to penetrate the bed hangings. When Caro went into the dressing room to add a tincture of this and a handful of that to the hot water, Kate caught his eye. They exchanged a Significant Glance.

  “Curtsy,” she whispered, using the childhood nickname which had never yet failed to get her what she desired, “I need to know everything you can find out about that Mr. Dalrymple character. One moment he’s a dandy, the next he believes himself to be Ivanhoe or Robin Hood.” Kate paused for a moment. “He knows.”

  The butler allowed his eyes to open their very widest in shock. “Miss – milady -- but when? How?” He glared as only an old retainer could get away with. “Did you go out with informing me, your ladyship?” he ended stiffly.

  “Yes, but it happened the other night when I was on the bridle lay. I thought I could -- I thought everything would be fine,” she said lamely, then waited for the sermon on How The Late Lord Would Have Said The Same and Been Wrong. It was a lecture known by heart by all the siblings, due to the frequency it was uttered.

  “And he knows your secret, Miss Kate.” Curtis’ lips tightened, a martial look came over his shoulders. “I shall need the afternoon off, Miss.”

  “If the worst should happen, Curtsy,” she began seriously. The elderly man gave her a stern look. The Worst was something they had never allowed themselves to discuss. “If the worst should happen,” Kate continued firmly, “Save yourself. Don’t be feudal.”

  He opened his mouth to protest.

  “The children will need you and Cook. If Lucy marries, she might be able to fend off Uncle Richard, but still, they will need you. Especially Bertie.”

  Caro bustled back into the room. Curtis instantly assumed his best impassive butler expression and raised an eyebrow in a manner which exactly conveyed his understanding of her wishes. Unfortunately, whether or not he would comply was rather iffy. Lately, Kate acknowledged, her family was proving quite recalcitrant.

  “Certainly, milady.” The elderly butler cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, miladies?”

  Caro gave him a distracted smile. “No, thank, dear Curtis. Just show Dr. Dogget up as soon as he arrives, please?”

  “Of course, Miss.” He withdrew just as Meg and Simon skidded down the hallway. With the finesse of a butler long used to rambunctious children, he skillfully blocked their way into Kate’s room and herded them downstairs, instigating a debate on the various permutations of biscuits versus tarts.

  Caro helped her sister bathe, then cleaned her wounds. By the time Dr. Dogget arrived, Kate’s various contusions had been salved, powdered with basilicum, and bandaged to within an inch of their lives. The good doctor, long used to such medical calls on the Thoreaus, hid a smile, seconded Caro’s diagnosis of a slight concussion, and prescribed a saline drought and two days in bed.

  Caro countered. “I think a week in bed and cobweb tablets every four hours.”

  “I think a day in bed and no pork jelly and no cobwebs,” Kate bargained, but no one paid her a wit’s worth of attention.

  Dr. Dogget nodded thoughtfully, holding the packet up to the light. “Well, they certainly won’t hurt and might to her a world of good. But, mind you make her eat that pork jelly. T’will build up her strength.”

  “It will very likely kill me,” Kate put in, quite cross, as would anyone confronted with cobwebs and pork jelly.

  Dr. Dogget frowned at his patient. “Lady Katherine, you’ll do just as you’re told for once, unless you want to succumb to a brain fever.”

  Kate scowled, but she didn’t want a brain fever, so said nothing.

  Dr. Dogget pointed his finger. “Stay in bed. Let your sisters take care of you. No excitement. I assure you concussion is nothing to play with.” He tur
ned to Caro. “Now, missie, where did you purchase these tablets? I might want to get some for my patients.”

  Caro jumped up to lead him to the door. “At the Captain’s Chemist. They're quite new, but most effective I believe.”

  “Amazing,” the doctor murmured as went down the stairs. “What will modern science think of next?”

  Carolyn shut the door and came to sit gently on her sister’s bed. Kate tried to come up with an entertaining, yet believable fib, but the effort was too great.

  Carolyn just sat, holding her sister’s hand. Finally, she spoke. “What happened, Katie?”

  Kate looked firmly into her sister’s face. “I went for a walk last night and fell.”

  “You fell and managed to hit both the front and back of your head. And your arms and legs and jaw. And got scratched and muddy with – what in heaven’s name is that in your hair?” She carefully placed a tumbler of water with several drops of laudanum between Kate’s bandaged palms.

  Kate craned her neck to see her hair in the mirror. “Erm --”

  “Did he ravish you?”

  “What!” Kate did a double-take. “Who?” In her frazzled state, she wondered if Caro meant Mr. Dalrymple or the murderer. Or the murderee.

  “Mr. Dalrymple. It was he with whom you had the assignation last night, wasn’t it?”

  Kate choked, sending the bitter water up her nose. “No, my dear, I certainly did not have an assignation last night with Mr. Dalrymple.” She paused, adding wickedly, “It was Mr. Weilmunster.”

  Carolyn laughed, the worried pucker leaving her forehead for the first time since she’d seen Kate’s poor, battered face. Deciding that her sister was incorrigible, but unharmed, she conceded. “Dr. Dogget was right. You’ll live.” She got up, picked up the leather valise, and let herself out, closing the door softly behind her.

  Kate waited for a few moments before throwing back the bedcovers and hobbled to the window. The door flew open. Carolyn peered around.

  “And don’t let me catch you pouring that laudanum out the window.”

  With a guilty start, Kate crawled back in bed, scowled at her sister and drank her laudanum.

  ***

  The Marquis of Granville woke to a cacophonous symphony of hammers and saws just outside the barred window of his prison. Peering out, he watched as workmen began constructing the platform which would, he assumed, soon be covered with villagers acting out various aspects of the life of the Grey Cavalier.

  Early though it was, the village was hustle-bustle with activity. People were pausing in their daily chores to watch the men at work on the green before hurrying to do their errands. The shops were already doing a brisk business, as was Tipman’s Tours (“We’re Capital!”). While Edmund watched, a man herded a gaggle of tourists into his haywain. Once they climbed up, he heaved himself to the box and grabbed the ribbons, chirruping to his team. As he drove down the lane, a plump woman stood up carefully on the mound of hay, holding onto the railing for dear life as they rattled down the rocky road. Her voice was rich and carrying.

  “--and if you look to your left--”

  Everyone craned their necks to the left.

  “--you will see the roundhouse which at this very moment holds the man claiming to be the Grey Cavalier!” She pointed dramatically. Lady Katherine herself could have done no better. In a flash, Edmund ducked out of sight beneath the window.

  “Guilty or innocent? Noble gallant or bloodthirsty hellion? Now on your right--” Her voice faded as the lumbering wagon continued down the lane toward, Edmund was certain, the spot where the illustrious captain had been caught and hanged.

  He stood, damp and shivering, his right buttock on fire from the shot last night. Despite the luxuries of a musty horse blanket and a tiny wooden bench, Edmund was cold, miserable, and highly cantankerous. For some time, he had nothing to do but watch the antics of the village, until finally the sound of a key rattling in the lock caused him to whip around. The door opened, and there stood Constable Mackey, his expression that of a man who has just seen his career vanish before his eyes.

  “My lord,” he intoned, then bowed so low Edmund was afraid he’d turn a somersault.

  "Hush, man! Think what you’re about!” he hissed. Grabbing the constable by the arm, he dragged him inside the tiny gaol and slammed the door behind him.

  Constable Mackey tried again. “My lord--”

  “My name is Mr. Dalrymple,” Edmund told him, his voice laden with meaning.

  “Er, yes, sir.”

  “I am currently rusticating due to a loss on ‘Change.” He considered. "Hm. No, perhaps I was Disappointed in Love.”

  The constable drew himself up. “Yes, sir!” An ex-military man, he caught himself just before he saluted.

  “Thank you.” Edmund noted the man’s worried expression. “Your assistance will not go unnoticed, Mackey.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” This time the constable did salute.

  Edmund sighed.

  “Perhaps I should inform you, sir, that they’ve sent a squadron of dragoons to quarter here. I don’t believe them to be aware of your mission, sir.”

  Edmund sighed again, thought long and deeply about the entire situation, and decided to order luncheon.

  ***

  Oaksley village had not seen such excitement since the Roundheads defeated the Royalists in 1645, and this was a great deal more fun. And profitable.

  Not only were the plans for the pageant proceeding with dispatch, but a fine young buck, and an eligible parti to boot, was right in their midst. Luckily for mothers of marriageable daughters, this man of purported rank and fortune was now considered possessed of delightful eccentricities, rather than mad and bad habits.

  No one knew exactly who had told what to whom, but by the time he had completed his ablutions and consumed a fine luncheon, Mr. Dalrymple’s broken heart, the probable size of his fortune, and exactly what connection he might claim to the blue-blooded Dalrymples of Northumberland was being discussed over all the luncheon tables in the village and surrounding estates.

  Miss Radish even maintained that her parlor maid, who was walking out with the apothecary’s apprentice, had heard Constable Mackey address Mr. Dalrymple as “my lord,” but everyone knew how Barbara Radish gossiped and took her news with a sizable grain of salt.

  A highwayman, an eligible parti, a squadron of dragoons, and swarms of tourists who couldn’t fork over their shillings fast enough? Why, they were all going to be nabobs!

  ***

  It was while he was performing his ablutions, absent any helpful sibling to bandage his wounds and prescribe spider detritus, that Edmund first began to feel old.

  Certainly he was only twenty-five, a mere stripling in terms of, say, Methuselah, or any of the other blokes of antiquity, but it was while he was lowering himself, wincing, into his bath, that the thought occurred to him (and he did occasionally have one which wasn’t caused by Lady Hellion), that the war was in fact over. Napoleon might have escaped once to lead the ragtag dregs of an army of old men and young boys to his Waterloo, but it was highly improbable, Edmund admitted to himself, that such would happen again.

  So, while trying to balance in his bath on only one buttock, cataloging his bumps and bruises, Edmund grew up. It was time to face the realities of life, not to mention the title and duties of the head of the family.

  It was unlikely that these should ever have been his lot to begin. The previous marquis, Uncle Louis, had remained hale and hearty until taking a tumble at a hunt, breaking most of the bones in his body, including his neck. When the child his wife carried proved not to be the son everyone so desired, the title had passed unexpectedly to Edmund at the relatively tender age of twenty-three. In vain had he protested being sent from the front, but his superiors in England and on the Continent had added their voices to those of his family. If Edmund was inconsiderate enough to stay in battle and get himself killed for honor and glory, there was only Cousin Alphonse to inherit and ev
eryone agreed he was a bedlamite. Edmund was informed England needed men to serve on the homefront as well as the battlefield and sent grumbling home.

  But raising sheep and speaking occasionally in the House of Lords was not Edmund’s idea of serving his country. By dint of wearing down Lord Liverpool’s patience, he managed to wangle himself the job of tracking down the counterfeiters whose efforts could destroy England’s economy should they get out of hand.

  Edmund was no fool, however. If the War Office had any real fear of a couple of haypenny counterfeiters, they would never have given the assignment to someone with only a bit military experience and a ten-minute lecture from a seasoned campaigner in espionage. This was his chance to serve his country, to prove his worth off the battlefield. Unfortunately, while his natural bent for amateur theatricals and long observation of Cousin Alphonse helped enormously in his disguise, his soldier’s directness was conflicting awkwardly with the subtlety necessary for a spy.

  Then there was Kate, as he’d taken to calling the lady in his thoughts. Edmund couldn’t repress a smile, though the water had turned cool and his fingers pruney.

  Lady Katherine was a woman unlike any he’d ever met. Expecting propriety from her family, while she, wild to a fault, had all of England in an uproar with her highway shenanigans was rich, to say the least. Edmund hadn’t an idea in the world how to handle her, especially after the stunt she’d pulled last night, but what a heart she had, pluck to the backbone. Others might call the Grey Cavalier a common thief, but Katherine was anything but common.

  But Edmund had, however, had the wisdom to not let her know she was being handled. Enough that he knew what he was doing--more than she, anyway. He was a man, a soldier! who knew far more about life than a great ladder of a girl who had nothing on her mind but giving him sauce. Luckily, the dragoons were prowling the village, which should be enough to keep her at home and out of trouble, rather than prancing around robbing coaches or being daring and practically getting them both killed. Her tactics in the cavern, or lack thereof, still infuriated him, though whether at her gall or his own bungling, he wasn’t sure.